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GJiFT  ©IP 
Mrs  •   !£ildred  Clemens  Leivis 


CENTURY   READINGS 

FOR  A  COURSE  IN 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


■Glnfform  mitb  Cbis 

CENTURY    OUTLINf:S 

FOR  A  COURSE   IN 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


J.  F.  A.  PYRE,  Ph  D. 

THOMAS  H.  DICKINSON,  Ph.D. 

KARL  YOUNG,  Ph.D. 

OF   THE   UNIVERSITY  OF   WISCONSIN 

PRICE    75   CENTS 


CENTURY     READINGS 

FOR  A  COURSE   IN 

ENGLISH     LITERATURE 


EDITED  AND  ANNOTATED  BY 

J.  W.  CUNLIFFE,  D.LiT. 
J.  F.  A.  PYRE,  Ph.D. 
KARL  YOUNG,  Ph.D. 

OF   THE  UNIVERSITY   OF  WISCONSIN 


NEW   YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1911 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published,   August,   igio 

ri_«-^^  i  A  s  "S  '^  4  4-  b 


GIFT 


917 
C97£ 

13IO 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  undertaking  had  its  origin  in  connection  with  the  (jenerai  Survey  of 
Enghsh  Literature  at  the  University  of  Wisconsin  —  a  course  which  the  editors 
have  been  engaged  in  conducting  for  some  years  past.  The  successful  reorgan- 
ization of  this  course  in  1907-8  led  them  to  offer  the  results  of  their  experience 
to  a  wider  public.  The  selections  are  primarily  intended  for  college  under- 
graduates above  the  freshman  grade,  though  they  will  no  doubt  be  found  suitable 
for  both  younger  and  older  students.  Plays  and  novels  are  omitted,  as  it  is 
thought  that  these  can  only  be  effectively  studied  as  wholes,  and  to  include  them 
would  have  extended  the  book  beyond  the  one  volume  the  editors  had  in  view. 
It  is  intended  that  the  readings  here  given  should  be  supplemented  by  the  study 
of  representative  plays  and  novels  and  by  a  course  of  lectures,  for  which  a  basis 
is  given  in  the  Century  Outlines  for  a  Course  in  English  Literature,  issued  by 
the  same  publishers. 

Xo  effort  has  been  spared  to  secure  the  accuracy  of  the  texts  presented.  Un- 
less there  were  cogent  reasons  for  following  the  original  spelling  and  punctuation, 
modern  usage  has  been  followed.  Omissions  are  indicated  by  asterisks ;  changes 
or  insertions  by  square  brackets.  Only  the  author's  original  notes  are  given  at 
the  foot  of  the  page. 

The  editors  are  indebted  to  numerous  predecessors  for  help  both  in  determin- 
ing the  various  texts  and  in  elucidating  them ;  they  wish  particularly  to  ac- 
knowledge their  obligations  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  IMifflin  &  Co.  and  Professor 
R.  E.  N.  Dodge  for  permission  to  use  the  latter's  Cambridge  edition  of  Spenser: 
and  thanks  are  offered  to  other  colleagues  for  kindly  interest  in  the  undertaking 
and  assistance  in  proof  reading. 


M72Ji5^?7 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

GEOFFREY    CHAUCER    (c.    I34O-I4OO) 3 

The  Canterbury  Tales :     The   Prologue 4 

The  Nun's  Priest's  Tale 12 

^   SIR    THOMAS    MALORY     (c.    I4OO-I471) IQ 

s  Le   Morte  D'Arthur ig 

■^  The  Nut-Brown  Maid   (c.  1500) 34 

^  English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads 38 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 38 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 41 

The  Battle  of  Otterburn 42 

Captain  Car  or  Edom  o  Gordon 45 

The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well 47 

Kemp   Owyne 47 

The  Djenion  Lover .      .  48 

Lord   Randal 49 

Sir   Patrick   Spens 49 

Thomas   Rymer 50 

Bonny  Barbara  Allan 51 

The  Twa  Sisters 51 

The  Cruel  Brother 52 

Edward 53 

SIR   THOMAS    WYATT     (l503?-I542) 54 

The  Lover  for  Shame-Fastness,  etc 54 

The  Lover  Compareth  his  State  to  a  Ship 54 

The  Lover  having  dreamed  of  Enjoying  of  his  Love 54 

A  Renouncing  of  Love 55 

The  Lover  Beseecheth  his  Mistress  not  to  Forget 55 

An  Earnest  Suit  to  his  Unkind  Mistress 55 

The  Lover  Complaineth  the  Unkindness  of  his  Love 55 

Of  the  Mean  and  Sure  Estate 56 

HENRY   HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY    (l5l7?-I574) SS 

Description  of   Spring 58 

Complaint  of  a  Lover  Rebuked 58 

Description  and  Praise  of  his  Love  Geraldine 58 

Complaint  of  the  Lover  Disdained 59 

A  Complaint  by  Night  of  the  Lover  not  Beloved 59 

Vow  to  Love  Faithfully .  59 

Complaint  of  the  Absence  of  Her  Lover 59 

A  Praise  of  his  Love 60 

Description  of  the  Restless  State  of  a  Lover 65 

The  Means  to  Attain  Happy  Life 61 

Of  the  Death  of  Sir  T[homas]   W[yatt] 61 

Virgil's  ^neid,  Book  H _6i 

THOMAS   SACKVILLE,   LORD   BUCKHURST    (1536-1608)           63 

The  Induction 63 

ROGER    ASCHAM     (1515-I568)           7I 

The   Schoolmaster,   Book  I .      .  71 

JOHN    LYLY     (lS54?-l6o6) 76 

Euphues  and  his  England -5 

Apelles'   Song So 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Spring's  Welcome 80 

Sappho's  Song 80 

Song  (From  Gallathoa) 80 

SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY    (1554-T586) 81 

An  Apology  for  i'ootry 81 

Astrophel  and  Stella 87 

Song:     The  Nightingale 90 

Love  is  Dead 90 

Dorus  to  Pamela 90 

A  Ditty 90 

Hakluyt's  Voyages 91 

Dedicatory   Epistle 91 

The  Last  Fight  of  the  Revenge 92 

Linchoten's  Testimony 95 

The  Loss  of  Sir  Hnmprey  Gilbert 95 

A  Report  of  Virginia 98 

Raleigh's  Discovery  of  Guiana 98 

Sir  Francis  Drake  at  San  Domingo 100 

Drake  in  California loi 

EDMUND   SPENSER    (IS52-I599) IO4 

The  Shepheardes  Calendar.     Februarie 104 

October 107 

The  Faerie  Queene,  Canto  I         109 

Canto  II 117 

Amoretti 123 

Epithalamion 125 

Prothalamion 130 

Elizabethan   Lyrics I33 

GEORGE  GASCOIGNE    (l52S?-I577l 

A  Strange  Passion  of  a  Lover 133 

SIR  EDWARD  DYER   (lSSO?-l6o7) 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is  .     . I34 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH    (l552?-l6l8) 

The  Silent  Lover 134 

His  Pilgrimage 134 

A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  the  Faery  Queen 135 

The  Conclusion I35 

GEORGE  PEELE  (iSSS ?-I597 ?) 

Song  from  The  Arraignment  of  Paris 135 

Harvestmen  A-Singing 136 

ROBERT  GREENE    (lS6o?-I592) 

Song  from  The  Farewell  to  Folly 136 

Philomela's   Ode 136 

Song  from  Menaphon 136 

Song  from  Menaphon 137 

The  Shepherd's  Wife's  Song I37 

ROBERT    SOUTHWELL    (l56l?-I595) 

The  Burning  Babe 138 

SAMUEL  DANIEL    (1562-1619) 

Sonnets  from  Delia 138 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON    (1563-1631) 

Sonnets   from   Idea ^39 

To  the  Virginian  Voyage 140 

To  the  Cambro-Britons  and  their  Harp 141 

CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE    (1564-I593) 

Hero  and  Leander,  The  First  Sestiad 14- 

WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE    (1564-1616) 

Venus  and  Adonis 145 

Sonnets 150 

Songs  from  the  Plays 155 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

England's  Helicon   (i6ooj 

Phyllida  and  Corydon 157 

As  It  Fell  upon  a  Day 157 

To  Colin  Clout 157 

Happy  Shepherds,  Sit  and  See 158 

The  Shepherd's  Commendation  of  his  Nymph .  158 

The  Herdman's  Happy  Life 159 

A  Nymph's  Disdain  of  Love 159 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 159 

Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics 160 

THOMAS  CAMPION    (d.   1619) 

Chance  and  Change i6o 

Basia i6o 

A  Renunciation i6o 

Sic  Transit i6i 

BEN  jONSON   (i573?-i637) 

Song  to  Celia i6i 

Song:     To  Celia i6i 

To  Heaven i6i 

The  Triumph  of  Charis 162 

An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy 162 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H 162 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved,  Master  William  Shakspere 162 

A  Pindaric  Ode 163 

JOHN   DONNE    (lS73-l63l) 

Song   (■  Go  and  catch  a  falling  star,') 165 

The  Indifferent 165 

The  Canonization 166 

The  Dream 166 

Love's  Deity 166 

The  Funeral        167 

The  Computation 167 

Forget        167 

Death 167 

A  Hymn  to  God  the  Father 168 

JOHN    FLETCHER    (1579-1625) 

Love's  Emblems i68 

Melancholy i68 

Song  to  Bacchus i68 

Beauty  Clear  and  Fair i6g 

Weep   No   More 169 

Aspatia's  Song 169 

FRANCIS   BEAUMONT    (IS84-1616) 

On  the  Life  of  Man 169 

Lines  on  the  Tombs  in  Westminster 169 

GEORGE   WITHER    (1588-I667) 

The  Lover's  Resolution 169 

When  We  are  upon  the   Seas 170 

The  Prayer  of  Old  Age 170 

WILLIAM   BROWNE    (159I-1643) 

Britannia's  Pastorals,  Book  II,  Song  I 170 

Book  II,  Song  V 171 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke 172 

ROBERT    HERRICK    (159I-1674) 

Corinna's  Going  A-AIaying 172 

Upon  Julia's   Clothes 173 

To  the  Virgins 173 


To  Daffodils 


173 


To  Music        173 

An  Ode  for  Ben  Jonson 174 

A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  his  House 174 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Grace  for  a  Child i74 

His  Prayer  for  Absolution 175 

GEORGE  HERBERT    ( I 503" I 633) 

Virtue        i75 

Love 175 

The  Collar - 175 

The  Quip        17s 

The  World 176 

The  Pulley 176 

THOMAS  CAREW    (  I598  ?-l63g  ?) 

Song  ('Ask  me  no  more') 176 

Song    ('Would  you  know  what's  soft?') 177 

The    Protestation 177 

Persuasions  to  Joy:     A   Song 177 

Ingrateful   Beauty  Threatened 177 

An  Epitaph I77 

SIR   WILLIAM   DAVENANT    (1606-1668) 

Song   ('The  lark  now  leaves  his  wat'ry  nest,") 178 

Praise  and  Prayer 178 

EDMUND   WALLER    (1606-1687) 

The  Story  of  Phoebus  and  Daphne  Applied 178 

To  Phyllis 178 

On  a  Girdle 178 

Go,  Lovely  Rose ! 179 

SIR   JOHN   SUCKLING    (l6og-l622) 

A  Doubt  of  Martyrdom 179 

The"  Constant  Lover 179 

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan? 179 

RICHARD   CRASH  AW    (l6l3?-l649) 

In  the  Holy  Nativity  of  our  Lord  God 180 

SIR   JOHN    DENHAM     (161S-1669)  ... 

Cooper's   Hill ' 181 

On  Mr.  Abraham  Cowley's  Death  and  Burial ,  182 

EICHARD    LOVELACE    (1618-1658) 

To  Lucasta,  Going  to  the  Wars 182 

To  Althea,  From  Prison 182 

The   Rose 183 

To  Lucasta 183 

ABRAHAM    COWLEY    (1618-1677) 

The  Swallow 183 

The  Wish 183 

ANDREW    MARVEL    (162I-1678) 

The  Garden 184 

To  his  Coy  Mistress 1S5 

HENRY  VAUGHAN    (1622-1695) 

The  Retreat 185 

The  World    _ 185 

Departed  Friends 186 

FRANCIS   BACON    (1561-1626) 187 

Essays:    I  — Of  Truth 187 

V  — Of  Adversity 188 

VH  — Of  Parents  and   Children 189 

VHI  — Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life 189 

X  —  Of  Love 190 

XH  — Of  Boldness 191 

XVH  —  Of  Superstition 192 

XXni  — Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 192 

XXV  — Of  Dispatch 193 

XXVI  —  Of  Seeming  Wise 194 

XXVIII  — Of  Expense        194 

XXXII  — Of  Discourse 195 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XXXIV  — Of  Riches        196 

XLII  — Of  Youth  and  Age 197 

XLVII  — Of  Negotiating 198 

L  —  Of  Studies 199 

SIR   THOMAS    BROWNE    (1605-1682) 200 

Religio   Medici 200 

Hydriotaphia,   Urnburial 209 

ISAAK   WALTON    (1593-1683) 212 

The   Complete   Angler 212 

THOMAS    FULLER    (1608-1661) 21/ 

The  Life  of  Sir  Francis  Drake 217 

JEREMY   TAYLOR    (1613-1667) 221 

The  Faith  and  Patience  of  the  Saints  .      .    ' 221 

JOHN   BUNYAN    (1628-1688) 225 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress 225 

JOHN    MHTON    (1608-1674) 236 

On  Shakspere 236 

L'Allegro 217 

11   Penseroso 238 

Lycidas         240 

Sonnets  :    When  the  Assault  Was  Intended  to  the  City 242 

To  a  Virtuous   Young  Lady 242 

On  the  Detraction  which  followed  upon  my  Writing  Certain  Treatises   .  242 

On  the  Same 243 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell,  May,  1652 243 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 243 

On  his  Blindness 243 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 244 

On  his  Deceased  Wife 244 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  I 244 

Book  II 254 

Areopagitica 260 

JOHN    DRYPEN     (163I-I7OO) 266 

Heroic   Stanzas 266 

Astriea   Redux 267 

Absalom  and  Achitophel 268 

The  Hind  and  the  Panther 270 

Alexander's  Feast,  or  The  Power  of  Music 274 

An   Essay   of    Dramatic    Poesy 276 

DANIEL   DEFOE    (1661-I731)        286 

The  True  Born   Englishman 286 

The  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters 287 

Preface  to  the  Review 294 

The  Education  of  Women 297  . 

JONATHAN    SWIFT    (1667-I745) 299 

A  Tale  of  a  Tub 299 

A  Meditation  upon  a  Broomstick 318 

A  Modest  Proposal 319 

SIR   RICHARD    STEELE    (1672-I729) 324 

The    Tatler :     The  Advertisement 324 

A  Recollection 325 

The  Spectator:     The  Club 326 

Sir  Roger  on  Men  of  Parts 328 

Sir  Roger  in  Love 330 

A  Day  in  London 2,zz 

JOSEPH    ADDISON    (1672-I719) 335 

The  Spectator:     The  Spectator  Introduces  Himself 335 

A  Country  Sunday iZl 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Assizes 339 

Town  and  Country 340 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Play 342 

The  Death  of  Sir  Roger 343 


xii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Party  Patches    ...  3_I5 

Detraction  Among  Poets 346 

Westminster  Abbey ^.g 

ALEXANDER    POPE     (1688-I744) 350 


An  Essay  on  Critici 


3SO 


The  Rape  of  the  Lock 358 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 368 

JAMES   THOMSON    (170O-I748) 369 

Summer 369 

.Autumn 370 


Winter 


371 


A  Hymn 372 

The   Castle   of   Indolence i^j;^ 

Minor  Poets  —  Young  to  Chatterton 376 

EDWARD    YOUNG    (1681-I765) 

Night  Thoughts        377 

JOHN   GAY    (1685-I732) 

The   Shepherd's   Week 378 

ROBERT  BLAIR    (1699-I746) 

The  Grave 380 

JOHN    DYER    (17OO-I758) 

Grongar  Hill 381 

WILLIAM    SHENSTONE    (1714-I763) 

The    Schoolmistress 382 

MARK   AKENSIDE    (172I-I770) 

Pleasures  of  the  Imagination 385 

WILLIAM   COLLINS    (172I-I759) 

Ode  ('How  sleep  the  brave') 386 

Ode  to  Evening 386 

Ode  to  Simplicity 387 

The  Passions 387 

A  Song  from  Shakspere's  Cymbeline 389 

THOMAS   WARTON    (1728-I790) 

The  Grave  of  King  Arthur 389 

Sonnets :     Dugdale's  Monasticon 390 

At  Stonehenge 390 

THOMAS    CHATTERTON    (1752-I770) 

Bristowe  Tragedie 390 

Mynstrelles  Songe 395 

THOMAS    GRAY     (1716-I771) 396 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Richard  West 396 

On  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 396 

Hymn  to  Adversity 397 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 398 

The  Progress  of  Poesy 400 

The   Bard 402 

The  Fatal  Sisters 403 

SAMUEL    JOHNSON     (1709-I784)  405 

The  Life  of  Addison 405 

Letters :     To  the  Earl  of  Chestertield 420 

To  James  Macpherson        420 

To  the  Reverend   Dr.   Taylor 420 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 421 

JAMES  BOSWELL    (174O-I795) 4^3 

The  Life  of  Johnson 423 

EDMUND   BURKE    (1729-1797) 443 

The  Speech  for  Conciliation  with  the  Colonies 443 

EDWARD  GIBBON    (i737-i794) 453 

The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire 453 


CONTENTS  xiii 


PAGE 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH    (1728-I774) 463 

Song   ('When   lovely  woman') 463 

The  Deserted  Village 463 

The    Retaliation 469 

WILLIAM    COWPER    (173I-1800) 470 

Walking  with  God 470 

Table    Talk 471 

The  Task.   Book  TV 471 

On  the   Receipt  of  my  Mother's   Picture 477 

Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin 479 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 479 

t:EORGE   CRABBE    (1754-1832) 480 

The  Village,  Book   I 480 

WILLIAM   BLAKE    (17S7-1827) 485 

To  Spring         485 

To  the  Muses 486 

Mad  Song        486 

The  Piper         486 

The  Shepherd 486 

The  Little    Black   Boy 486 

Cradle  Song  from  Songs  of  Innocence 487 

Cradle  Song  from  Songs  of  Experience 487 

A  Dream 487 

The  Divine  Image 488 

The  Chimney  Sweeper 488 

The  Clod  and  the  Pebble 488 

The  Tiger 488 

Ah   Sunflower 489 

Nurse's  Song 489 

A  Little  Boy  Lost 489 

From  Milton   ('And  did  those  feet  m  ancient  time') 489 

ROBERT  RURNS    (i759-i796) 490 

Song :     Mary  Morison 490 

Song:     My   Nanie,   O 491 

Song :     Green  Grow  the  Rashes 491 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 491 

To  a  Mouse 492 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 492 

Address  to  the  Deil 495 

A  Bard's  Epitaph 496 

Of  A'  The  Airts  the  Wind  Can  Blow 497 

Go  Fetch  to  Me  a  Pint  o'  Wine 497 

Auld  Lang  Syne 497 

John  Anderson  My  Jo 497 

Tarn  Glen 497 

To   Mary   in   Heaven 498 

Tam  O'Shanter 498 

Willie  Brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maut • 500 

A  Winter  Night 500 

Highland  Mary 501 

Bonie   Doon 501 

Duncan  Gray 501 

Scots  Wha  Hae 502 

A  Man  's  A  Man  for  A'  That 502 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH     (1770-1850) 5O3 

Preface  to  Lyrical   Ballads C04 

The  Prelude,  Book  I 516 

Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tintern  Abbey 518 

Strange  Fits  of   Passion  Have  I   Known 520 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Lhitrodden   Ways 520 

I  Traveled  among  Unknown   Men ^20 

Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower ,  520 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  Slumber  Did  My  Spirit  Seal 521 

Michael        521 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up  When  I   Behold 527 

The  Sparrow's  Nest 527 

To  the  Cuckoo 527 

Resolution  and   Independence 528 

To  a   Young   Lady 530 

The  Solitary  Reaper 530 

Yarrow  L'nvisited 530 

She  Was  a   Phantom  of  Delight 531 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 531 

To  a  Skylark 531 

Elegiac  Stanzas 532 

Ode  to  Duty 533 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 533 

Ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood   ....  534 

Sonnets:     Nuns  Fret  Not 537 

Personal    Talk 537 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 538 

Composed  by  the  Seaside  Near  Calais 538 

It  Is  a  Beauteous   Evening 538 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic 538 

To  Toussaint   L'Ouverture 538 

September,  1802,  Near  Dover 539 

London,  1802 539 

It  Is  Not  To  Be  Thought  Of 539 

When  I  Have  Borne  in  Memory 539 

To  the  Men  of  Kent 539 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland 540 

The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us 540 

Afterthought  to  the  River  Duddon 540 

Inside  of  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge 540 

Continued 541 

On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 541 

'There'  Said  a  Stripling 541 

Conclusion 541 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIIK.I':    (1772-1834) 542 

Biographia   Literaria 543 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 553 

Christabel 560 

Kubia  Khan 565 

Frost  at  Midnight 565 

Humility  The  Mother  of  Charity 566 

Epitaph        566 

CHARLES    LAMB    (1775-1834) 567 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 567 

Mackery  End  in  Hertfordshire 568 

Dream-Children :     A  Reverie 570 

A  Chapter  on  Ears • '    .     .     .     .  572 

A  Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig 574 

SIR  WALTER   SCOTT    (177I-1832)     579 

Marmion.  Canto  VI 579 

Soldier,  Rest ! 585 

GEORGE    NOEL   GORDON,    LORD   BYRON     (1788-1824) 5^6 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 5^6 

Childe  Harold,  Canto  III 587 

Childe  Harold,  Canto  IV 593 

The  Vision  of  Judgment 600 

Don  Juan,  Canto  III 605 

Don  Juan.  Canto  IV 608 

PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY    (1792-1822) 614 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 615 

Ozymandias 616 


CONTENTS  XV 


PAGE 

Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection,  Near  Naples 6i6 

Prometheus  Unbound,  Act  IV 6i6 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 625 

The  Indian  Serenade 626 

The  Cloud 626 

To  a  Skylark 627 

A  Lament 628 

To —  ('Music,  when  soft  voices  die,") 629 

Adonais 629 

Final  Chorus  from  Hellas 636 

To  Night 637 

To  —  ('One  word  is  too  often  profaned') 637 

With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane 637 

Lines :     When   the  Lamp   is   Shattered 638 

A  Dirge 638 

JOHN    KEATS    (1795-1821) 639 

Keen,  Fitful  Gusts  Are  Whispering  Here  and  There 639 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 639 

Endymion,  Book  I,   Proem 640 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 640 

Ode   ('  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth  ') 645 

Robin  Hood 646 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 646 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 647 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 647 

Ode  on  Melancholy 648 

To  Autumn 649 

Hyperion,  Book  I 649 

In  a  Drear-Nighted  December 654 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 654 

On  Seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles 655 

On  the  Sea 655 

When  I  Have  Fears  That  I  May  Cease  To  Be 655 

Bright  Star!     Would  I  Were  Steadfast  As  Thou  Art 655 

Nineteenth  Century  Lyrics 656 

ROBERT   SOUTHEY    (1774-1843) 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim ' 656 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR   (1775-1864) 

Rose  Aylmer 657 

Mild  is  the  Parting  Year 657 

Past  Ruined  IHon 657 

The  Death  of  Artemidora 657 

Dirce e^S 

On  Lucretia  Borgia's  Hair 658 

Memory  and  Pride 658 

The  Love  of  Other  Years 658 

To  Robert  Browning 658 

On  Timely  Death 658 

To  Age 658 

On  his  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday 659 

THOMAS   CAMPBELL    ( 1 777-1 844) 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 659 

THOMAS   MOORE    (1779-1852) 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night 659 

The  Harp  That  Once  Through  Tara's  Halls 660 

LEIGH    HUNT    (1784-1859) 

Rondeau 660 

THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK    (1785-1866) 

The  Men  of  Gotham 660 

The  War-Song  of  Dinas  Vawr 660 

The  Friar's  Song 5^1 


CONTENTS 


chari.es  woi.ke  (i79i-i8_'3)  i>age 

The  Burial  of  Sir  Joliii  Moore 66i 

JOHN   KEBI.E    (1792-1866) 

United  States 661 

THOMAS   HOOD    (1798-1845) 

Fair  Ines 662 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 662 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 663 

WINTHROP    MACKWOKTH    PRAED    (1802-1839) 

The  Belle  of  the  Bail-Room 664 


A  Letter  of  Advice 66, 

WILLIAM    BARNES     (180I-I886) 

Blackmvvore   Maidens 667 

The  Surprise 667 

THOMAS   LOVELL   BEDDOES    (1803-1849) 

Dream-Pedlary 667 

Ballad  of  Human  Life 668 

To  Sea,  To  Sea !...... 668 

Dirge   ('  If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart  ') 668 

Song  ('  Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow,') 669 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD    (1809-1883) 

The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam 669 

ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING    (1809-1861) 

A  Musical  Instrument 670 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 670 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY     (181I-1863) 

At  the  Church  Gate (iy2 

The  End  of  the  Play 672 

ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH    (1819-1861) 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 673 

Whither  Depart  the  Brave 673 

Where  Lies  the  Land 674 

Ah !     Yet  Consider  it  Again ! 674 

In  the  Depths 674 

The  Latest  Decalogue 674 

Say  not  the  Struggle  Nought  Availeth 674 

Life  is  Struggle .675 

FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON    (182I-1895) 

To  My  Grandmother 675 

My  Mistress's  Boots 676 

COVENTRY   PATMORE    (1823-1896) 

The  Spirit's  Epochs 676 

The  Married  Lover 676 

If  I  Were  Dead 677 

SIDNEY   DOBELL    (1824-1874) 

America 677 

CHRISTINA   ROSSETTI    (183O-1894) 

Song  ('  When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest ') 677 

Remember 678 

Abnegation 678 

Trust 678 

Up-Hill      . 678 

CHARLES    STUART  CALVERLEY    (183I-1884) 

Companions 678 

AUSTIN   DOBSON    (184O — ) 

A  Dead  Letter 679 

JAMES    THOMSON    (  1 834- 1 882) 

Melencolia 68i 

ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY    (1844-1881) 

Has  Summer  Come  without  the  Rose 682 

Ode  ('  We  are  the  music-makers  ') 682 


CONTENTS 


THOMAS   DEQUINCEY    (1785-1859)  PAGE 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater 683 

THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY     (180O-1859) 69I 

The  Romance  of  History 691 

The  History  of  England,  Vol.  I,  Chapter  HI 697 

JOHN    HENRY,   CARDINAL   NEWMAN    (180I-1890) 702 

The  Idea  of  a  University,  Discourse  VI 703 

THOMAS    CARLYLE    (1795-1881) 714 

Past  and  Present,  Book  III 714 

Book  IV 730 

JOHN  RUSKiN    (1819-1900) 733 

Traffic 7ii 

ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON    (1809-1892) 745 

Mariana 745 

Song  ('A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours') 746 

The  Poet 746 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 747 

The  Palace  of  Art 749 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 753 

Saint  Agnes'  Eve 757 

You  Ask  Me  Why,  Though  111  at  Ease 757 

Of  Old  Sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights 757 

Sir  Galahad 758 

A  Farewell 759 

Morte  D'Arthur 759 

Ulysses        ,     .  762 

Locksley  Hall 763 

Break,  Break,  Break 767 

The  Poet's  Song 767 

Songs  from  The  Princess 768 

In  Mcmoriam  A.  H.  H 769 

Maud;   A   Melodrama 771 

Song:  from  Guinevere 778 

Tithonus 778 

Milton 779 

Northern  Farmer,  Old  Style 779 

The  Revenge 781 

To  Virgil 783 

'  Frater  Ave  Atque  Vale  ' 783 

Vastness 783 

Crossing  the  Bar 784 

ROBERT   BROWNING    (  1812-1889) 785 

Songs  from  '  Pippa  Passes  ' 

All  Service  Ranks  the  Same  with  God 786 

The  Year  's  at  the  Spring 786 

Give  Her  but  a  Least  Excuse 786 

My  Last  Duchess 786 

Count  Gismond 787 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 788 

The  Italian  in  England 789 

The  Lost  Leader 790 

Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad 791 

Home-Thoughts  from  the  Sea 791 

Saul 791 

Love  Among  the  Ruins 797 

A  Woman's  Last  Word 799 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's 799 

My  Star 800 

The  Last  Ride  Together 800 

Memorabilia 802 

'  De  Gustibus  ' 802 

Andrea  Del  Sarto 802 

The   Guardian-Angel ;"'i-  '■'.  J  .      .  806 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral ■"I'-j.  n.     .  807 


xviii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

One  Word  More 808 

Abt  Vogler 811 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 813 

Prospice 816 

Herve'  Riel 816 

The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic :     Prologue 818 

Epilogue 818 

Pheidippides 820 

Asolando :     Epilogue 822 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD    (1822-1888) 823 

The  Study  of  Poetry 823 

Shakspere 837 

The  Forsaken   Merman 837 

The  Buried  Life 838 

Self-Dependence 840 

Morality 840 

Sohrab  and  Rustuni 840 

The  Scholar  Gipsy 852 

Requiescat         856 

Rugby  Chapel 857 

DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI    (1828-1882) 859 

My   Sister 's   Sleep 859 

The  Blessed  Damozel 860 

Francesca  Da  Rimini 861 

Love's   Nocturn 862 

The  Cloud  Confines 863 

Three  Shadows 864 

The  King's  Tragedy 864 

Sonnets  from  The  House  of  Life 

A  Sonnet  is  a  Moment's  Monument 873 

Love-Sight 874 

Silent  Noon 874 

Love-Sweetness 874 

Mid-Rapture        874 

Stillborn  Love 874 

Inclusiveness        875 

Known  in  Vain 875 

The  Choice,  I 875 

II 875 

III        875 

Lost  Days 876 

A   Superscription 876 

The  One  Hope 876 

WILLIAM    MORRIS    (1834-1896) 877 

The  Earthly  Paradise 877 

Atalanta's  Race 878 

The  Lady  of  the  Land 887 

ALGERNON    CHARLES   SWINBURNE    (1837-I9O9) 895 

Choruses  from  Atlanta  in  Calydon 

'When  the  hounds  of   Spring!' 895 

'Before  the  beginning  of  years' 896 

'  We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love ' 896 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine 898 

Hertha         899 

A  Forsaken  Garden 901 

Thalassius 903 

Etude  Realiste ' 9o6 

The  Roundel 906 

On  a  Country  Road 907 

The  Armada,   1588-1888 907 

Cor  Cordium 9I5 

'  Non  Dolet' 9i5 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  George  Eliot 915 

Christopher  Marlowe 915 

WALTER    HORATIO    PATER     (1839-1894) 916 

Style 916 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  (1850-1894) 928 

The   Foreigner   at    Home 929 

Frangois  Villon,  Student,  Poet,  and  Housebreaker 934 

A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses 

Whole  Duty  of  Children 947 

Bed  in  Summer 947 

System 947 

Happy   Thought 947 

To  Auntie ^7 

In  the  States 947 

Heather  Ale 948 

GEORGE    MEREDITH     (1828-I909) 949 

Love  in  the  Valley 949 

The  Last  Words  of  Juggling  Jerry 953 

The  Old  Chartist 954 

France,  1870 956 

The  Lark  Ascending 960 

The  Woods  of  W^estermain 961 

Modern  Love        966 

APPENDIX 

Beowulf         967 

Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight looo 

Notes 1023 

Index  of   Authors , 1135 

Index  of  First  Lines 1137 


CENTURY  READINGS  FOR  A  COURSE  IN 
ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


CENTURY   READINGS   FOR  A  COURSE 
IN   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  (c.  1340-1400) 

Since  Chaucer's  father,  John  Chaucer,  was  not  only  a  successful  London  vintner,  but  also, 
probably,  an  occasional  servant  of  the  king,  it  is  not  surprising  that  at  an  early  age  our  poet 
himself  entered  the  service  of  royalty.  Our  earliest  records  concerning  him  show  that  in  April, 
1357,  he  was  occupied,  perhaps  as  page,  in  the  household  of  Elizabeth,  wife  of  Prince  Lionel, 
son  of  Edward  III,  where  he  continued  to  serve  throughout  that  year  and  probably  into  the 
next.  During  this  service,  Chaucer  accompanied  the  princess  to  Hatfield,  in  Yorkshire,  to 
London,  and  probably  to  other  parts  of  England.  We  surmise  that  he  witnessed  more  than 
one  brilliant  chivalric  entertainment,  and  that  at  Hatfield,  during  Christmastide  of  1357,  he 
met  his  future  friend  and  patron,  John  of  Gaunt.  During  the  year  1359,  Chaucer  served  as 
a  soldier  in  the  army  of  Edward  III,  in  France.  Having  been  taken  prisoner,  not  far  from 
Reims,  he  was  released  through  a  ransom  to  which  the  king  himself  contributed  the  substantial 
sum  of  sixteen  pounds.  After  the  conclusion  of  this  expedition,  with  the  Peace  of  Br^tigny, 
May  8,  13G0,  Chaucer  returned  to  England,  where  he  seems  to  have  increased  in  favor  at 
court,  for  in  1367  he  was  granted  a  life  pension  of  twenty  marks  as  a  valet  of  the  king.  Dur- 
ing the  next  ten  or  fifteen  years,  Chaucer  took  part  in  a  considerable  number  of  diplomatic 
missions  to  the  Continent,  of  which  the  most  important,  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  are 
a  secret  embassy  to  Genoa  and  Florence  (Dec,  1372,  to  April,  1373),  and  a  mission  to  INIjlan 
(May  to  September,  1378).  Although  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  were  both  living  at  the  time 
of  Chaucer's  first  visit  to  Italy,  we  have  no  evidence  that  the  English  poet  met  either  of  them. 
To  these  Italian  journeys,  however,  may  be  due  Chaucer's  subsequent  devotion  to  Italian 
literature.  Aside  from  his  diplomatic  employment,  the  poet  had  official  duties  at  home  in 
connection  with  the  customs  of  the  port  of  London.  In  1374  he  was  appointed  comptroller 
of  the  customs  and  subsidy  of  wools,  skins,  and  tanned  hides,  and  in  1382  he  received  the 
additional  appointment  of  comptroller  of  the  petty  customs.  In  the  autumn  of  1386,  Chaucer 
sat  for  a  short  time  in  parliament  as  a  knight  of  the  shire  for  Kent.  In  the  political  eclipse 
of  Richard,  from  the  latter  part  of  1386  to  1389,  Chaucer  lost  his  offices,  a  loss  that  left  him, 
presumably,  much  leisure  for  writing.  During  this  period  he  may  have  written  a  considerable 
part  of  The  Canterbury  Tales.  In  1389,  Chaucer  was  again  in  the  service  of  the  government 
as  clerk  of  the  king's  works,  and  although  the  loss  of  this  appointment,  in  1391,  left  him  in 
straitened  circumstances,  a  royal  pension  of  twenty  pounds,  in  1394,  and  a  yearly  gift  of  a  tun 
of  wine,  in  1398,  contributed  somewhat  toward  his  comfort.  When  Henry  IV,  son  of  Chaucer's 
old  patron.  John  of  Gaunt,  came  to  the  throne  in  1399,  the  poet  promptly  addressed  to  him  a 
ballade  entitled  The  Compleynt  of  Chaucer  to  his  Empty  Purse.  To  this  pleasant  bit  of  beg- 
ging the  king  responded  readily  with  a  pension  of  forty  marks,  in  addition  to  the  annuity  of 
twenty  pounds  that  had  been  granted  in  1394.  Chaucer  spent  his  last  days,  then,  in  compara- 
tive comfort,  and  on  his  death,  October  25,  1400,  he  was  buried  in  the  south  transept  of  West- 
minster Abbey,  which  has  since  become  the  '  Poets'  Corner.' 

Although  the  exact  chronology  of  Chaucer's  works  is  far  from  certain,  the  literary  influences 
under  which  he  wrote  are  clearly  defined.  As  a  courtier,  diplomat,  and  man  of  the  world,  he 
was  familiar  with  literary  fashions  at  home  and  abroad, —  literary  fashions  definitely  embodied 
in  his  works.  His  first  poems  are  imitations  or  translations  of  French  poems  popular  at  court 
both  in  France  and  in  England.  To  an  early  stage  of  his  career  is  assigned  his  translation 
of  at  least  part  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  a  French  poem  composed  during  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury and  popular  in  the  fourteenth.  French  in  style  is  The  Book  of  the  Duchess,  written  in 
1369  as  a  lament  for  the  death  of  Blanche,  wife  of  John  of  Gaunt.  Upon  French  models 
Chaucer  composed  his  early  poem.  A.  B.  C,  and  numerous  shorter  poems  '  that  highten  balades, 
roundels,   virelayes.'     The   Parliament  of  Fowls,   written,  probably,   in   1382,   in  Uonor  of   the 

3 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


marriage  of  Richard  11  and  Anue  of  Bohemia,  is  conspicuously' intiueuced  by  French  poetical 
taste.  During  his  journeys  to  Italy,  or  before,  Chaucer  acquired  a  new  source  of  literary 
inspiration  in  the  worlcs  of  Dante.  Petrarch,  and  Boccaccio.  Although  from  Dante  and  Petrarch 
his  literal  borrowings  arc  few,  his  extensive  verbal  obligations  to  Boccaccio  are  shown  in  Troilus 
and  Vrixiyde,  written  about  1383,  and  in  the  Knighfti  Tale.  The  House  of  Fame,  written, 
perhaps,  about  137J),  clearly  shows  the  influence  of  Dante,  as  well  as  of  French  allegorical 
poetry.  To  the  last  fifteen  years  or  so  of  Chaucer's  life,  without  specification,  may  be  assigned 
the  Legend  of  Good  Women  and  tlie  Canterbury  Tales.  Although  in  these  works  Chaucer 
used  a  multiplicity  of  sources,  the  poems  themselves  show  vigorous  increase  in  English  spirit 
and  in  literary  originality. 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


THE  PROLOGUE 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the 

roote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth      5 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 
And   smale   fowles  maken  melodye, 
That  slepen  a!  the  night  with  open  ye,        ^° 
(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages)  : 
Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmers  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes. 
To  feme  halwes,  couthe  in  sondry  londes ; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende  i5 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were 
seke. 

Bifel  that,  in  that  sesoun  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay  2° 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 
At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  compaignye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  y-falle  25 

In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde; 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde. 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 
And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,  3° 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everichon, 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 
And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse. 
To  take  our  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  natheles,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace,  36 

Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me,  39 

And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree; 
And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  innc: 


And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  biginne. 
A    Knight  ther   was,   and  that  a   worthy 

man. 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  ryden  out,  he  loved  chivalrye,  45 

Trouthe  and  honour,  frcdom  and  curteisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  thereto  hadde  he  riden  (no  man  ferre) 
As  wel  in  cristendom  as  hethenesse. 
And  evere  honoured  for  his  worthinesse.  50 
At  Alisaundre  he  was,  whan  it  was  wonne; 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonnc 
Aboven  alle  naciouns  in  Fruce. 
In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed  and  in  Ruce, 
No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.  S5 

In  Gernade  at  the  sege  eek  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algezir,  and   riden  in  Belmarye. 
At  Lyeys   was  he,   and  at   Satalye, 
Whan  they  were  wonne ;   and  in  the   Crete 

See 
At  many  a  noble  aryve  hadde  he  be.  60 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  our  feith  at  Tramissene 
In  listes  thryes,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke  worthy  knight  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye,  65 

Ageyn  another  hethen  in  Turkye : 
And  everemore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys. 
And   though  that  he  were   worthy,   he   was 

wys, 
And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  nevere  yet  no  vileinye  ne  sayde  7° 

In  al  his  lyf,  un-to  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray  parfit  gentil  knight. 
But   for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array. 
His  hors  were  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipoun  75 

Al  bismotered  with  his  habergeoun. 
For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimage. 
With    him    ther    was    his    sone,    a    yong 

Squyer, 
A  lovyer,  and  a  lusty  bacheler,  80 

With    lokkes    crulle,    as    they    were    leyd    in 

prcsse. 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe. 
And     wonderly     delivere,     and     greet     of 

strengthe. 
And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  chivachye,  §5 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys,  and  Picardye, 
And  born  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 
Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  whyte  and  rede.  9° 
Singinge  he  was,  or  floytinge,  al  the  day ; 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  longe  and 

wyde. 
Wel  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 
He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endyte,        95 
luste  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye  and 

wryte. 
So  bote  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale 
He  sleep  namore  than  doth  a  nightingale. 
Curteys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 
And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.        loo 

A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servaunts  namo 
At  that  tyme,  for  him  liste  ryde  so ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene; 
A  sheef  of  pecok  arwes  brighte  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily,  los 

(Wel  coude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly: 
His    arwes     drouped    noght    with     fetheres 

lowe), 
And  in  his  hand  he  bar  a  mighty  bowe. 
A  not-heed  hadde  he,  with  a  broun  visage. 
Of  wode-craft  wel  coude  he  al  the  usage,  "o 
Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracer. 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler. 
And  on  that  other  syde  a  gay  daggere, 
Harneised  wel,  and  sharp  as  point  of  spere; 
A  Cristofre  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene.  us 
An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdrik  was  of  grene ; 
A  forster  was  he,  soothly,  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  ful  simple  and  coy; 
Hir  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seynt  Loy ;  120 
And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne, 
Entuned   in   hir   nose   ful   semely ; 
And  Frensh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly. 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe,      125 
For  Frensh  of  Paris  was  to  hir  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle ; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fingres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
That  no  drope  ne  fille  up-on  hir  brest.        131 
In  curtcisye  was  set  ful  moche  hir  lest. 
Hir  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene. 
That  in  hir  coppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 


5 


Of    grece,    whan    she    dronken    hadde    hir 
draughte.  135 

Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte. 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  disport, ' 
And   ful  plesaunt,  and  amiable  of  port, 
And  peyned  hir  to  countrefete  chere 
Of  court,  and  been  estatlich  of  manere,      140 
And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 
But,  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous. 
She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde  146 
With  rosted  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed 
But  sore  weep  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed. 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte: 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.     150 
Ful    semely  hir   wimpel    pinched   was ; 
Hir  nose  tretys;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas ; 
Hfr  mouth   ful  smal,  and  ther-to  softe  and 

reed; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe;     iS5 
For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 
Ful  fetis  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 
Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 
A  peire  of  bedes,  gauded  al  with  grene; 
And  ther-on  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 
On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A,' 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia.  162 

Another  Nonne  with  hir  hadde  she, 
That  was  hir  chapeleyne,  and  Preeste's  thre. 
A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrye, 
An  out-rydere,  that  lovede  venerye;  166 

A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  hors  hadde  he  in  stable : 
And,  whan  he  rood,  men  mighte  his  brydel 

here 
Ginglen  in  a  whistling  wynd  as  clere,         170 
And  eek  as  loude  as  doth  the  chapel-'belle, 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  celle. 
The  reule  of  seint  Maure  or  of  seint  Beneit, 
By-cause  that  it  was  old  and  som-del  streit. 
This  ilke  monk  leet  olde  thinges  pace,        175 
And  held  after  the  newe  world  the  space. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen. 
That  seith,  that  hunters  been  nat  holy  men  ; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  cloisterlees. 
Is  likned  til  a  fish  that  is  waterlees ;  180 

This  is  to  seyn,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre. 
But  thilke  te.xt  held  he  nat  worth  an  oistre. 
And  I  seyde  his  opinioun  was  good. 
What  sholde  he  studie,  and  make  him-selven 

wood. 
Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alwey  to  poure,      185 
Or  swinken  with  his  handes,  and  laboure. 
As    Austin    bit?     How    shal    the    world    be 
served  ? 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


Lat  Austin  have  his  swink  to  him  reserved. 
Therfor  he  was  a  pricasour  aright ; 
Grehoundes  he  hadde,  as  swifte  as  fowel  in 

flight; 
Of  priking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare      i9' 
Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I   seigh  his  sieves  purfiled  at  the  hond 
With  grys,  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lend; 
And,   for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chin, 
He  hadde  of  gold  y-wroght  a  curious  pin : 
A  love-knot  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was.  >97 
His  heed  was  balled,  that  shoon  as  any  glas. 
And  eek  his  face,  as  he  hadde  been  anoint. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  point ;  200 
His  eyen  stepe,  and  rollinge  in  his  heed, 
That  stemed  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed ; 
His  botes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estat. 
Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelat ; 
He  was  nat  pale  as  a  for-pyned  goost.      205 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost. 
His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wantown  and  a  merye. 
A  limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man. 
In  alle  the  ordres  foure  is  noon  that  can  210 
So  moche  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage. 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen,  at  his  owne  cost. 
Un-to  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he  215 

With  frankeleyns  over-al  in  his  contree, 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun : 
For  he  had  power  of  confessioun, 
As  seyde  him-self,  more  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat.  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 
And   plesaunt   was   his   absoluciouh ; 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  penaunce 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitaunce ; 
For  unto  a  povre  ordre  for  to  yive  225 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shrive. 
For  if  he  yaf,  he  dorste  make  avaunt. 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte. 
He  may  nat  wepe  al-thogh  him  sore  smerte. 
Therfore,  in   stede  of  weping  and  preyeres. 
Men  moot  yeve  silver  to  the  povre  freres.  232 
His  tipet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  knyves 
And  pinnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wyves. 
And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  mery  note;        235 
Wel  coude  he  singe  and  pleyen  on  a  rote. 
Of  yeddinges  he  bar  utterly  the  prys. 
His  nekke  whyt  was  as  the  flour-de-lys. 
There-to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
He  knew  the  tavernes  wel  in  every  toun,  240 
And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere 
Bet  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggestere ; 
For  un-to  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Acorded  nat,  as  by  his   facultee. 


To  have  with  seke  lazars  aqueyntaunce.      245 
It  is  nat  honest,  it  may  nat  avaunce 
For  to  delen   with  no  swich  poraille, 
But  al  with  riche  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 
And  over-al,  ther  as  profit  sholde  aryse, 
Curteys  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servyse.        *so 
Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous. 
He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous ; 
For  thogh  a  widwe  hadde  noght  a  sho. 
So  plesaunt  was  his  In  principio, 
Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthing,  er  he  wente 
His  purchas  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rente.  256 
And  rage  he  coude  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe. 
In  love-dayes  ther  coude  he  mochel  helpe. 
For  ther  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloisterer. 
With  a  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  povre  scoler. 
But  he  was  lyk  a  maister  or  a  pope.  261 

Of  double  worsted  was  his  semi-cope. 
That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lipsed,  for  his  wantownesse, 
To  make  his  English  swete  up-on  his  tonge ; 
And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  had  songe. 
His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  heed  aright,        ^^7 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  herd, 
In  mottelee,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat,     271 
Upon  his  heed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat ; 
His  botes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly. 
His  resons  he  spak  ful  solempnely, 
Sowninge  alway  thencrees  of  his  winning.  275 
He  wolde  the  see  were  kept  for  any  thing 
Bitwixe  Middelburgh  and  Orewelle. 
Wel  coude  he  in  eschaunge  sheeldes  selle. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette; 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette,  280 
So  estatly  was  he  of  his  governaunce, 
With  his  bargaynes,  and  with  his  chevisaunce. 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  with-alle. 
But  sooth  to  seyn,  I  noot  how  men  him  calle. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also,      285 
That  un-to  logik  hadde  longe  y-go. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake; 
But  loked  holwe,  and  ther-to  soberly. 
Ful  thredbar  was  his  overest  courtepy;     290 
For  he  had  geten  him  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office. 
For  him  was  levere  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bokes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye,  295 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,  or  gay  sautrye. 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre; 
But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  frendes  hente, 
On  bokes  and  on  lerninge  he  it  spente,     300 
And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wher-with  to  scoleye. 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


^ 


Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most  hede. 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nede, 
And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reverence, 
And  short  and  quik,  and  ful  of  hy  sentence. 
Sowninge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche,  307 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  parvys,        310 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence: 
He  semed  swich,  his  wordes  weren  so  wyse, 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  assyse, 
By  patente,  and  by  pleyn  commissioun;      31S 
For  his  science,  and  for  his  heigh  renoun 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon. 
So  greet  a  purchasour  was  nowher  noon. 
AI  wasfeesim£le  to  him  in  effect,  ^^^..^^ 
His  'purcti^nTg^ighte  nat  been  inTect.  320 
Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas, 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  domes  alle, 
That  from  the  tyme  of  king  William  were 

Thereto  he  coudee^^p.^gd  maKelia  thing, 
Ther  coude  no^wigjupfnche  at  his  wryting ; 
And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote. 
He  rood  but.hgpmly  in  a  medleecot^ 
Girt  with  ^/ceint  of  silk,  with  barres  smale; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

A  Frankeleyn  was  in  his  compaignye; 
Whyt  was  his  herd,  as  is  the  dayesye. 
Of  his  complexioun  he  was  sangwyn. 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sopiQ_wyn. 
To  liverV  in^a^TyTwas  evere  his  wone,        335 
For  he  was  Epicurus  ovvne  sone. 
That  heeld  opinioun  that  p^eyn  delyt 
Was  verraily  felicitee  parfyt. 
An  housholdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he; 
Seynt  lulian  he  was  in  his  contrQe^^jj^_^^34o 
His  breed  his  ale,,  was  alwey  affer  oonf^X 
A  bettre'^^xieSman  was  nevere  noon. 
With-oute  bake  mete  was  nevere  his  hous, 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plentevous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke. 
Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  coude  thinke.    346 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer. 
So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  s^6^r. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  i^^'^ej 
And  many  a  breem  and  many  a  ^uce  in  stew( 
Wo  was  his  cook,  buTu  his  sauce  were  -2s^ 
Poynaunt  and  sharp,  and  redy  al  his  jgefeT 
His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 
Stood   redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 
At  sessiouns  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire.     355 
^"'  -fel^  tyme  hewas  knight  of  the  shire. 
An  ^iras  and  a(/gipser  al  of  silk 
Heng  at  Jiis  girdel,  whyt  as  morne  miljvi^^ 
A  shirreve  hadde  he  been,  and  a  ?6mitour; 


Was  nowher  such  a  worthy  vavasour        3?°' 

An  Haberdassher  and  a  Carpbnter, 
A  Webbe,  a  DvERE,  and  a  TapIotIJ™'^^-*^' 
And  thej^^wefe  clothed  alle  in  oljveree, 
Of  a  soleS^p^elnd  ^eet  fw^^^t^S— -( 
Ful  fresh  and  newe  hir  gei^apyKedwas ;  365 
Hir  knyves  were  y-chaped  noght  with  bras, 
But  al  with  silver  wroght  ful  clene  and^weel, 
Hir  girdles  and  hir  pouches  every^eU 
Wei  semed  ech  of  hem  a  fair  bur^y?^ 
To  skten  in  a  yeldhalle  on  a  ^^W-i^^      37o 
Everich,  for  the  wisdom  that  he  ?ar^ 
Was  shapjy  for  to  beenaiiLalderman.^^^^^ 
For  ^^^fTiadde  they  yiiolh  and  TehlEeT"^ 
And  eek  hir  wyves  wolde  it  wel  assente ; 
And  elles  certein  were  they  to  blame.     375 
It  is  ful  fair  to  been  y-clept»ta  dame,  ^^^^u^ 
And  goon  to  vigilyes  al  bijftf^ ''^^ '*^^ 
And  have  a  mantel  roiajficne  y-bore. 

A  Cook  they  hadde  witn  hem  for  the  nones. 
To  boille  chiknes  with  the  mary-bones,      380 
And  poudre-marchant  tart,  and  galingale. 
Wel  coude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  London 

ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,  and  broille,  and 

frye, 
Maken  mortreux,  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me,  38s 
That  on  his  shine  a  mormal  hadde  he ; 
For    blankmanger,    that    made    he    with    the 

beste. 
A    Shipman    was    ther,    woning    fer    by 

weste : 
For  aught  I  woot,  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  up-on  a  rouncy,  as  he  couthe,        390 
In  a  gowne  of  falding  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hanging  on  a  laas  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The    hote    somer    had    maad    his  hewe    al 

broun ; 
And,  certeinly,  he  was  a  good  felawe.        395 
Ful  many  a  draughte  of  wyn  had  he  y-drawe 
From  Burdeux-ward,  whyl  that  the  chapman 

sleep, 
pf  nyce  conscience  took  he  no  keep. 

f  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  hyer  hond. 
By  water  he  sente  hem  hoom  to  every  lond. 
But  of  his  craft  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes,  401 
His  stremes  and  his  daungers  him  bisydes, 
His  herberwe  and  his  mone,  his  lodemenage, 
Ther  nas  noon  swich  from  Hulle  to  Cartage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake;  405 
With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  herd  been 

shake. 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havenes,  as  they  were, 
From  Gootlond  to  the  cape  of  Finistere, 
And  every  cryke  in  Britayne  and  in  Spayne ; 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne.  410 


8 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisyk, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  him  lyk 
To  speke  of  phisik  and  of  surgerye; 
For  he  was  grounded   in  astronomye. 
lie  kepte  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  del  4iS 

In  houres,  by  his  magik  naturel. 
Wei  coude  he  fortunen  the  ascendent 
Of  his  images  for  his  pacient. 
He  knew  the  cause  of  everich  maladye, 
Were  it  of  hoot  or  cold,  or  moiste,  or  drye, 
And  where  engendred,  and  of  what  humour; 
He  was  a  verrey  parfit  practisour.  4-22 

The  cause  y-knowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote, 
Anon  he  yaf  the  seke  man  his  bote. 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries,  42s 

To  sende  him  drogges,  and  his  letuaries, 
For  ech  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne; 
Hir  frendschipe  nas  nat  newe  to  biginne. 
Wei  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius, 
And  Deiscorides,  and  eek  Rufus;  43o 

Old  Ypocras,  Haly,  and  Galien; 
Serapion,  Razis,  and  Avicen ; 
Averrois,  Damascien,  and  Constantyn; 
Bernard,  and  Gatesden,  and  Gilbertyn. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he,  435 

For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee, 
But  of  greet  norissing  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 
In  sangwin  and  in  pers  he  clad  was  al, 
Lyned  with  taffata  and  witli  sendal;         44o 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence; 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence. 
For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial, 
Therfor  he  lovede  gold  in  special.  444 

A  good  Wyf  was  ther  of  bisyde  Bathe, 
But    she    was    som-del    deef,    and    that    was 

scathe. 
Of  cloth-making  she  hadde  swiche  an  haunt. 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wyf  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  offring  bifore  hir  sholde  goon; 
And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn,  so  wrooth  was  she. 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee.  452 

Hir  coverchief s  ful  fyne  were  of  ground ; 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound 
That  on  a  Sonday  were  upon  hir  heed.      455 
Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 
Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoos  ful  moiste  and 

newe. 
Bold   was  hir   face,  and   fair,  and   reed  of 

hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  lyve, 
Housbondes  at  chirche-dore  she  hadde  fyve, 
Withouten  other  compaignye  in  youthe  ;     461 
But  thereof  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nouthe. 
And  thryes  hadde  she  been  at  Jerusalem ; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  streem  ; 
At  Rome  she  hadde  been,  and  at  Boloigne, 


In  Galice  at  scint  lame,  and  at  Coloigne.  466 
She  coude  moche  of  wandring  by  the  weye. 
Gat-tothed  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 
Up-on  an  amblcre  esily  she  sat, 
Y-wimpled  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat      470 
As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe; 
A  foot-mantel  aboute  hir  hipes  large, 
And  on  hir  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 
In    felaweschip    wel    coude    she    laughe    and 

carpe.  474 

Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  per-chauncc. 
For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  povre  Persoun  of  a  toun ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thoght  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche; 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient; 
And  swich  he  was  y-preved  ofte  sythes.    485 
Ful  looth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tythes. 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Un-to  his  povre  parisshens  aboute 
Of  his  offring,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce.      490 
Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  a-son- 

der, 
But  he  ne  lafte  nat,  for  reyn  ne  thonder. 
In  siknes  nor  in  meschief  to  visyte 
The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  moche  and  lyte, 
Up-on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf.      495 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf. 
That    first    he    wroghte,    and    afterward    he 

taughte ; 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte; 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther-to. 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  yren  do?      soo 
For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste. 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste ; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  a  preest  take  keep, 
A    [dirty]    shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 
Wel  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive,  505 
By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheep  shold 

live. 
He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre, 
And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  the  myre. 
And  ran  to  London,  un-to  seynt  Poules, 
To  seken  him  a  chaunterie  for  soules,       510 
Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde ; 
But  dwelte  at  boom,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde. 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  miscarie; 
He  was  a  shepherde  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous,  515 
He  was  to  sinful  man  nat  despitous, 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne, 
But  in  his  teching  discreet  and  benigne. 
To  drawen  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


By  good  ensample,   this  was  his  bisynesse : 
But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat,  S21 

What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snibben  sharply  for  the  nones. 
A  bettre  preest,  I  trowe  that  nowher  non  is. 
He  wayted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  a  spyced  conscience,  S26 

But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  him-selve. 
With  him  ther  was  a   Plowman,  was  his 
brother. 
That  hadde  y-Iad  of  dong  ful  many  a  fother, 
I  A  trewe  swinkere  and  a  good  was  he,        S3i 
Livinge  in  pees  and  parfit  charitee. 
God  loved  he  best  with  al  his  hole  herte 
At  alle  tymes,  thogh  him  gamed  or  smerte, 
And    thanne    his    neighebour    right    as    him- 
selve.  535 
He   wolde   thresshe,   and   ther-ta  dyke   and 

delve, 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  povre  wight, 
Withouten  hyre,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 
His  tythes  payed  he  ful  faire  and  wel, 
Bothe  of  his  propre  swink  and  his  catel.    54° 
In  a  tabard  he  rood  upon  a  mere. 

Ther  was  also  a  Reve  and  a  Millere, 
A  Somnour  and  a  Pardoner  also, 
A  Maunciple,  and  my-self ;  ther  were  namo. 
The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl,  for  the  nones, 
Ful  big  he  was  of  braun,  and  eek  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ther  he  cam,  547 
At  wrastling  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram. 
He     was     short-sholdred,    brood,    a    thikke 

knarre, 
Ther   nas   no   dore   that  he  nolde   heve   of 
harre,  55o 

Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed. 
His  herd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  reed, 
And  ther-to  brood,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Up-on  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  werte,  and  ther-on  stood  a  tuft  of  heres, 
Reed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres;  556 

His  nose-thirles  blake  were  and  wyde. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde; 
His  mouth  as  greet  was  as  a  greet  forneys. 
He  was  a  langlere  and  a  goliardeys,  560 

And  that  was  most  of  sinne  and  harlotryes. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  corn,  and  tollen  thryes ; 
And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  gold,  pardee. 
A  whyt  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he. 
A  baggepype  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sowne, 
And  therwithal  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne. 
A  gentil  Maunciple  was  ther  of  a  temple. 
Of  which  achatours  mighte  take  exemple  568 
For  to  be  wyse  in  bying  of  vitaille. 
For  whether  that  he  payde,  or  took  by  taille, 
Algate  he  wayted  so  in  his  achat.  571 

That  he  was  ay  biforn  and  in  good  stat. 


Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  ful  fair  grace. 
That  swich  a  lewed  mannes  wit  shal  pace 
The  wisdom  of  an  heep  of  lerned  men?     575 
Of  maistres  hadde  he  mo  than  thryes  ten, 
That  were  of  lawe  expert  and  curious ; 
Of  which  ther  were  a  doseyn  in  that  hous, 
Worthy  to  been  stiwardes  of  rente  and  lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Engelond,  s8o 

To  make  him  live  by  his  propre  good. 
In  honour  dettelees,  but  he  were  wood, 
Or  live  as  scarsly  as  him  list  desire; 
And  able  for  to  helpen  al  a  shire 
In  any  cas  that  mighte  falle  or  happe;     585 
And  yit  this  maunciple  sette  hir  aller  cappe. 

The  Reve  was  a  sclendre  colerik  man. 
His  herd  was  shave  as  ny  as  ever  he  can. 
His  heer  was  by  his  eres  round  y-shorn. 
His  top  was  dokked  lyk  a  preest  biforn.     590 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene, 
Y-lyk  a  staf,  ther  was  no  calf  y-sene. 
Wel  coude  he  kepe  a  gerner  and  a  binne ; 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  coude  on  him  winne. 
Wel   wiste  he,  by  the  droghte,  and  by  the 

reyn,  595 

The  yeldyng  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  greyn. 
His  lordes  sheep,  his  neet,  his  dayerye. 
His  swyn,  his  hors,  his  stoor,  and  his  pultrye, 
Was  hoolly  in  this  reves  governing, 
And  by  his  covenaunt  yaf  the  rekening,      600 
Sin  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yeer  of  age; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bringe  him  in  arrerage. 
Ther  nas   baillif,   ne   herde,   ne   other   hyne, 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleighte  and  his  covyne ; 
They  were  adrad  of  him,  as  of  the  deeth.  605 
His  woning  was  ful  fair  up-on  an  heeth, 
With  grene  trees  shadwed  was  his  place. 
He  coude  bettre  than  his  lord  purchace. 
Ful  riche  he  was  astored  prively. 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly,       610 
To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owne  good. 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote,  and  hood. 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  mister ; 
He  was  a  wel  good  wrighte,  a  carpenter. 
This  reve  sat  up-on  a  ful  good  stot,  615 

That  was  al  pomely  grey,  and  highte   Scot. 
A  long  surcote  of  pers  up-on  he  hade, 
And  by  his  syde  he  bar  a  rusty  blade. 
Of  Northfolk  was  this  reve,  of  which  I  telle, 
Bisyde  a  toun  men  clepen  Baldeswelle.      620 
Tukked  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute, 
And    evere    he    rood    the    hindreste    of    our 

route. 
A  Somnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place. 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  cherubinnes  face. 
For  sawceflem  he  was.  with  eyen  narwe.  625 
As  hoot  he  was,  and  lecherous  as  a  sparwe. 
With  scalled  browes  blake,  and  piled  herd; 
Of  his  visage  children  were  aferd. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


Ther  nas  quik-silvcr,  litargc,  ne  brinistoon, 
Boras,  ceruce,  ne  oillc  of  tartre  noon,        630 
Ne  oynenient  that  woldc  dense  and  byte, 
That    him    niighte    helpen    of    his    whelkes 

vvhyte, 
Ne  of  the  knobbcs  sittinge  on  his  chekcs. 
Wei  loved  he  garleek,  oynons,  and  eek  Ickcs, 
And    for   to    drinkcn    strong    wyn,    reed    as 

blood.  63s 

Thanne  wolde  he  speke,  and  crye  as  he  were 

wood. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  hadde  the 

wyn. 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
A  fewe  termes  hadde  he,  two  or  thre, 
That  he  had  lerncd  out  of  soni  decree;     640 
No  wonder  is,  he  herde  it  al  the  day; 
And  eek  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  lay 
Can  clepen  '  Watte,'  as  well  as  can  the  pope. 
But  who-so  coude  in  other  thing  him  grope, 
Thanne  hadde  he  spent  al  his  philosophye ; 
Ay  '  Questio  quid  iuris'  wolde  he  crye.      646 
He  was  a  gentil  harlot  and  a  kynde ; 
A  bettre  felawe  sholde  men  noght  fynde. 
He  wolde  suffre  for  a  quart  of  wyn 
A  good  felawe  to  have  his  concubyn         650 
A  twelf-month,  and  excuse  him  atte  fulle : 
And  prively  a  finch  eek  coude  he  puUe. 
And  if  he  fond  owher  a  good  felawe. 
He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe, 
In  swich  cas,  of  the  erchedeknes  curs,      655 
But-if  a  mannes  soule  were  in  his  purs ; 
For  in  his  purs  he  sholde  y-punisshed  be. 
'  Purs  is  the  erchedeknes  helle,'  seyde  he. 
But  wel  I  woot  he  lyed  right  in  dede; 
Of  cursing  oghte  ech  gulty  man  him  drede  — 
For  curs    wol    slee    right   as   assoilling   sav- 

eth  —  661 

And  also  war  him  of  a  significavit. 
In  daunger  hadde  he  at  his  owne  gyse 
The  yonge  girles  of  the  diocyse. 
And  knew  hir  counseil,  and  was  al  hir  reed. 
A  gerland  hadde  he  set  up-on  his  heed,    666 
As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale-stake ; 
A  bokeler  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake. 
With  him  ther  rood  a  gentil  Pardoner 
Of  Rouncivale,  his  frend  and  his  compeer. 
That   streight  was  comen   fro   the  court  of 

Rome.  671 

Ful   loude   he   song,   *  Come   hider,   love,   to 

me.' 
This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun, 
Was  nevere  trompe  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  hadde  hcer  as  yclow  as  wex, 
But  smothe  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike  of  flex ; 
By  ounces  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 
And  there-with  he  his  shuldres  overspradde; 
But  thinne  it  lay,  by  colpons  oon  and  oon ; 


But  hood,  for  lolitee,  ne  wered  he  noon,  680 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Him  thoughte  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  let; 
Dischcvelc,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
Swichc  giaringc  cyen   hadde  he   as  an   hare. 
A  vernicle  hadde  he  sowed  on  his  cappe.  685 
His  walet  lay  biforn  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful    of    pardoun    come    from    Rome    al 

hoot. 
A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  hath  a  goot. 
No  herd  hadde  he,  ne  nevere   sholde  have. 
As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  late  y-shave;  690 
*  *  * 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwik  into  Ware, 
Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 
For  in  his  male  he  hadde  a  pilwe-beer, 
Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  our  lady  veyl :  695 
He  seyde  he  hadde  a  goblet  of  the  seyl 
That  seynt  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he  wente 
Up-on  the  see,  til  lesu  Crist  him  hente. 
He  hadde  a  croys  of  latoun,  ful  of  stones, 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones.        700 
But  with  thise  relikes,  whan  that  he  fond 
A  povre  person  dwelling  up-on  lond, 
Up-on  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneye 
Than  that  the  person  gat  in  monthes  tweye. 
And  thus  with  feyned  flaterye  and  Japes,  705 
He  made  the  person  and  the  peple  his  apes. 
But  trewely  to  tellen,  atte  laste. 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste. 
Wel  coude  he  rede  a  lessoun  or  a  storie. 
But  alderbest  he  song  an  offertorie;  7'° 

For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe. 
He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affyle  his  tonge. 
To  wir.ne  silver,  as  he  ful  wel  coude ; 
Therefore  he  song  so  meriely  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  clause, 
Thestat,    tharray,   the   nombre,   and   eek   the 
cause  716 

Why  that  assembled  was  this  compaignye 
In  Southwerk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye. 
That  highte  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  Belle. 
But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle  720 

How  that  we  barcn  us  that  ilke  night, 
Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrye  alight. 
And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage. 
And  al  the  remenaunt  of  our  pilgrimage. 
But  first  I  pray  yow  of  your  curteisye,      725 
That  ye  narette  it  nat  my  vileinye, 
Thogh  that  I  pleynly  speke  in  this  matere. 
To  telle  yow  hir  wordes  and  hir  chere; 
Ne  thogh  I  speke  hir  wordes  proprely. 
For  this  ye  knowen  al-so  wel  as  I,  73° 

Who-so  shal  telle  a  tale  after  a  man. 
He  moot  reherce,  as  ny  as  evere  he  can, 
Everich  a  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charge, 
Al  speke  he  never  so  rudeliche  and  large ; 
Or  elles  he  moot  telle  his  tale  untrewe,      735 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


II 


Or  feyne  thing,  or  fynde  words  newe. 

He    may   nat    spare,    al-thogh    he    were   his 

brother ; 
He  moot  as  wel  seye  o  word  as  another. 
Crist  spak  him-self  ful  brode  in  holy  writ, 
And  wel  ye  woot,  no  vileinye  is  it.  740 

Eek  Plato  seith,  who-so  that  can  him  rede. 
The  wordes  mote  be  cosin  to  the  dede. 
Also  I  prey  yow  to  foryeve  it  me, 
Al  have  I  nat  set  folk  in  hir  degree 
Here  in  this  tale,  as  that  they  sholde  stonde ; 
My  wit  is  short,  ye  may  wel  understonde.  746 

Greet  chere  made  our  hoste  us  everichon. 
And  to  the  soper  sette  he  us  anon ; 
And  served  us  with  vitaille  at  the  beste. 
Strong  was  the  wyn,  and  wel  to  drinke  us 
leste.  750 

A  semely  man  our  hoste  was  with-alle 
For  to  han  been  a  marshal  in  an  halle; 
A  large  man  he  was  with  eyen  stepe, 
A  fairer  burgeys  was  ther  noon  in  Chepe: 
Bold    of    his    speche,    and    wys,    and    wel 
y-taught,  755 

And  of  manhood  him  lakkede  right  naught. 
Eek  thereto  he  was  right  a  mery  man. 
And  after  soper  pleyen  he  bigan, 
And  spak  of  mirthe  amonges  othere  thinges. 
Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekeninges ; 
And  seyde  thus :     '  Now,  lordinges,  trewely 
Ye  ben  to  me  right  welcome  hertely:        762 
For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
I  ne  saugh  this  yeer  so  mery  a  compaignye 
At  ones  in  this  herberwe  as  is  now.  76s 

Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  mirthe,  wiste  I  how. 
And  of  a  mirthe  I  am  right  now  bithoght. 
To  doon  yow  ese,  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 

Ye  goon  to  Caunterbury;  God  yow  spede. 
The  blisful  martir  quyte  yow  your  mede.  77o 
And  wel  I  woot,  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye, 
Ye  shapen  yow  to  talen  and  to  pleye; 
For  trewely,  con  fort  ne  mirthe  is  noon 
To  ryde  by  the  weye  doumb  as  a  stoon ; 
And  therfore  wol  I  maken  yow  disport,  775 
As  I  seyde  erst,  and  doon  yow  som  confort. 
And  if  yow  lyketh  alle,  by  oon  assent, 
Now  for  to  stonden  at  my  lugement. 
And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 
To-morwe,  whan  ye  ryden  by  the  weye,    780 
Now,  by  my  fader  soule,  that  is  deed, 
But  ye  be  merye,  I  wol  yeve  yow  myn  heed. 
Hold  up  your  bond,  withoute  more  speche.' 
Our  counseil  was  nat  longe  for  to  seche; 
Us  thoughte  it  was  noght  worth  to  make  it 
wys,  785 

And  graunted  him  with-outen  more  avys, 
And  bad  him  seye  his  verdit,  as  him  leste. 

'  Lordinges,'  quod  he,   '  now  herkneth   for 
the  beste ; 


But  tak  it  not,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn ; 
This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and  pleyn, 
That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  our  weye,  79" 
In  this  viage,  shal  telle  tales  tweye, 
To  Caunterbury-ward,  I  mene  it  so, 
And  hom-ward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two, 
Of  aventures  that  whylom  han  bifalle.        795 
And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  him  best  of 

alle. 
That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  cas 
Tales  of  best  sentence  and  most  solas, 
Shal  han  a  soper  at  our  aller  cost 
Here  in  this  place,  sitting  by  this  post,     800 
Whan  that  we  come  agayn  fro  Caunterbury. 
And  for  to  make  yow  the  more  mery, 
I  wol  my-selven  gladly  with  yow  ryde. 
Right  at  myn  owne  cost,  and  be  your  gyde. 
And  who-so  wol  my  lugement  withseye    805 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 
And  if  ye  vouche-sauf  that  it  be  so, 
Tel  me  anon,  with-outen  wordes  mo. 
And  I  wol  erly  shape  me  therfore.' 
This   thing  was   graunted,   and  our  othes 
swore  810 

With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  him  also 
That  he  wold  vouche-sauf  for  to  do  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  been  our  governour, 
And  of  our  tales  luge  and  reportour, 
And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  prys;  815 

And  we  wold   reuled  been  at  his  devys. 
In  heigh  and  lowe ;  and  thus,  by  oon  assent, 
We  been  acorded  to  his  lugement. 
And  ther-up-on  the  wyn  was  fet  anoon ; 
We  dronken,  and  to  reste  wente  echoon,  820 
With-outen  any  lenger  taryinge. 
A-morvve,  whan  that  day  bigan  to  springe, 
Up  roos  our  host,  and  was  our  aller  cok. 
And  gadrede  us  togidre,  alle  in  a  flok. 
And   forth  we  riden,  a  litel  more  than  pas, 
Un-to  the  watering  of  seint  Thomas.        826 
And  there  our  host  bigan  his  hors  areste. 
And    seyde ;    '  Lordinges,    herkneth    if    yow 

leste. 
Ye  woot  your  forward,  and  I  it  yow  recorde. 
If  even-song  and  morwe-song  acorde,       830 
Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
As  evere  mote  I  drinke  wyn  or  ale, 
Who-so  be  rebel  to  my  lugement 
Shal  paye  for  al  that  by  the  weye  is  spent. 
Now  draweth  cut,  er  that  we  ferrer  twinne; 
He    which   that    hath   the   shortest    shal   be- 
gin ne.' 
'  Sire  knight,'  quod  he,  *  my  maister  and  my 
lord,  837 

Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  acord. 
Cometh  neer,'  quod  he,  'my  lady  prioresse; 
And  ye,  sir  clerk,  lat  be  your  shamfastnesse, 
Ne  studieth  noght;  ley  bond  to,  every  man.' 


12 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


Anon   lo  drawen  every  wight  bigan,       842 
And  shortly  for  to  tellen,  as  it  was, 
Were  it  by  aventure,  or  sort,  or  cas, 
The  sothe  is  this,  the  cut  fil  to  the  knight,  84s 
Of    which    fill    blythe    and    glad    was    every 

wight ; 
And  telle  he  mostc  his  tale,  as  was  resoun. 
By  forward  and  by  composicioun. 
As  ye  han  herd;  what  nedcth  wordes  mo? 
And  whan  this  goode  man  saugh  it  was  so. 
As  he  that  wys  was  and  obedient  851 

To  kepe  his  forward  by  his  free  assent, 
He  seyde :     '  Sin  I  shal  beginne  the  game, 
What,  welcome  be  the  cut,  a  Goddes  name! 
Now  lat  us  ryde,  and  herkneth  what  I  seye.' 

And  with  that  word  we   riden   forth  our 
weye ;  856 

And  he  bigan  with  right  a  mery  chere 
His  tale  anon,  and  seyde  in  this  mannere. 


THE   NUN'S    PRIEST'S   TALE 

A  povre  widwe  somdel  stope  in  age. 

Was  whylom  dwelling  in  a  narwe  cotage, 

Bisyde  a  grove,  stondyng  in  a  dale. 

This  widwe,  of  which  I  telle  yow  my  tale, 

Sin  thilke  day  that  she  was  last  a  wyf,  5 

In  pacience  ladde  a  ful  simple  lyf. 

For  litel  was  hir  catel  and  hir  rente; 

By  housbondrye,  of  such  as  God  hir  sente. 

She  fond  hir-self,  and  eek  hir  doghtren  two. 

Three  large  sowes  hadde  she,  and  namo,     1° 

Three  kyn,  and  eek  a  sheep  that  highte  Malle. 

Ful  sooty  was  hir  hour,  and  eek  hir  halle, 

In  which  she  eet  ful  many  a  sclendre  meel. 

Of  poynaunt  sauce  hir  neded  never  a  deel. 

No  deyntee  morsel  passed  thrugh  hir  throte ; 

Hir  dyete  was  accordant  to  hir  cote.  '6 

Repleccioun  ne  made  hir  nevere  syk; 

Attempree  dyete  was  al  hir  phisyk. 

And  exercyse,  and  hertes  suffisaunce. 

The  goute  lette  hir  no-thing  for  to  daunce,  -o 

Ne  poplexye   shente  nat  hir  heed; 

No  wyn  ne  drank  she,  neither  whyt  ne  reed ; 

Hir  bord  was   served  most  with  whyt  and 

blak. 
Milk  and  broun  breed,  in  which  she  fond  no 

lak, 
Seynd  bacoun,  and  somtyme  an  ey  or  tweye. 
For  she  was  as  it  were  a  maner  deye.        -6 

A  yerd  she  hadde,  enclosed  al  aboute 
With  stikkes,  and  a  drye  dich  with-oute, 
In   which   she   hadde   a   cok,   bight   Chaunte- 

cleer, 
In  al  the  land  of  crowing  nas  his  peer.        30 
His  vois  was  merier  than  the  merye  orgon 
On  messe-dayes  that  in  the  chirche  gon ; 


Wei  sikerer  was  his  crowing  in  his  logge, 

Than  is  a  clokke,  or  an  abbey  orlogge. 

By  nature  knew  he  ech  asccncioun  35 

Of  equino.xial   in  thilke  toun  ; 

For    whan    degrees    fiftene    were    ascended, 

Thanne    crew    he,    that    it    mighte    nat    ben 

amended. 
His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fyn  coral. 
And  batailed,  as  it  were  a  castel-wal.         40 
His  bile  was  blak,  and  as  the  leet  it  shoon ; 
Lyk  asur  were  his  legges,  and  his  toon ; 
His  nayles  whytter  than  the  .lilie  flour, 
And  lyk  the  burned  gold  was  his  colour. 
This  gentil  cok  hadde  in  his  governaunce    45 
Sevene  hennes,  for  to  doon  al  his  plcasaunce, 
Whiche  were  his  sustres  and  his  paramours, 
And  wonder  lyk  to  him,  as  of  colours. 
Of  whiche  the  faircste  hewed  on  hir  throte 
Was  cleped   faire  damoysele   Pertelote.       50 
Curteys  she  was,  discreet,  and  dcbonaire. 
And  compaignable,  and  bar  hir-self  so  faire, 
Sin  thilke  day  that  she  was  seven  night  old, 
That  trewely  she  hath  the  herte  in  hold 
Of  Chauntecleer  loken  in  every  lith ;  55 

He  loved  hir  so,  that  wel  him  was  therwith. 
But  such  a  loye  was  it  to  here  hem  singe, 
Whan  that  the  brighte  sonne  gan  to  springe, 
In  swete  accord,  'my  lief  is  faren  in  londe.' 
For  thilke  tyme,  as  I  have  understonde,  60 
Bestes  and  briddes  coude  speke  and  singe. 

And  so  bifel,  that  in  a  dawenynge. 
As  Chauntecleer  among  his  wyvcs  alle 
Sat  on  his  perche,  that  was  in  the  halle. 
And  next  him  sat  this  faire  Pertelote,        65 
This  Chauntecleer  gan  gronen  in  his  throte. 
As  man  that  in  his  dreem  is  drecched  sore. 
And    whan    that    Pertelote   thus    herde   him 

rore. 
She  was  agast,  and  seyde,  '  O  herte  deere. 
What  eyleth  yow,  to  grone  in  this  manere? 
Ye  ben  a  verray  sleper,  fy  for  shame!'  7i 
And  he  answerde  and  seyde  thus,  '  Madame, 
I  pray  yow,  that  ye  take  it  nat  agrief: 
By  God,  me  mette  I  was  in  swich  meschief 
Right  now,  that  yet  myn  herte  is  sore  afright. 
Now    God,'    quod    he,    'my    swevene    rede 

aright,  7^ 

And  keep  my  body  out  of  foul  prisoun ! 
Me  mette,  how  that  I  romed  up  and  doun 
Withinne  our  yerde,  wher  as  I  saugh  a  beste. 
Was    lyk   an    hound,   and   wolde   han    maad 

areste  80 

Upon  my  body,  and  wolde  han  had  me  deed. 
His  colour  was  bitwixe  yelvve  and  reed  ; 
And  tipped  was  his  tail,  and  bothe  his  eres 
With  blak,  unlyk  the  remenant  of  his  heres ; 
His  snowte  smal,  with  glowingc  eyen  tweye. 
Yet  of  his  look  for  fere  almost  I  deye;        86 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


13 


This  caused  me  my  groning,  douteles.' 

'  Avoy !  '  quod  she,  '  fy  on  yow,  herteles ! 
Alias !  '  quod  she,  '  for,  by  that  God  above, 
Now  han  ye  lost  myn  herte  and  al  my  love ; 
I  can  nat  love  a  coward,  by  my  feith.         91 
For  certes,  what  so  any  womman  seith, 
We  alle  desyren,  if  it  mighte  be. 
To  han  housbondes  hardy,  wyse,  and  free, 
And  secree,  and  no  nigard,  ne  no  fool,        95 
Ne  him  that  is  agast  of  every  tool, 
Ne  noon  avauntour,  by  that  God  above! 
How  dorste  ye  sayn  for  shame  unto  youre 

love. 
That  any  thing  mighte  make  yow  aferd? 
Have  ye  no  mannes  herte,  and  han  a  herd? 
Alias!  and  conne  ye  been  agast  of  swevenis? 
No-thing,  God  wot,  but  vanitce,  in  sweven  is. 
Swevenes  engendren  of  replecciouns,  ^°3 

And  ofte  of  fume,  and  of  complecciouns. 
Whan    humours    been    to    habundant    in    a 
wight.  los 

Certes    this    dreem,   w^hich   ye   han   met    to- 
night, 
Cometh  of  the  grete  superfluitee 
Of  youre  rede  colera,  pardee, 
Which    causeth     folk    to    dremen    in    here 

dremes 
Of  arwes,  and  of  fyr  with  rede  lemes,       no 
Of  grete  bestes,  that  they  wol  hem  byte, 
Of  contek,  and  of  whelpes  grete  and  lyte ; 
Right  as  the  humour  of  malencolye 
Causeth  ful  many  a  man,  in  sleep,  to  crye, 
For  fere  of  blake  beres,  or  boles  blake,   "o 
Or  elles,  blake  develes  wole  him  take. 
Of  othere  humours  coudc  I  telle  also. 
That  werken  many  a  man  in  sleep  ful  wo ; 
But  I  wol  passe  as  lightly  as  I  can.  119 

Lo  Catoun,  which  that  was  so  wys  a  man, 
Seyde  he  nat  thus,  ne  do  no  fors  of  dremes? 
Now,  sire,'  quod  she,  '  whan  we  flee  fro  the 

hemes. 
For  Goddes  love,  as  tak  som  laxatyf; 
Up  peril  of  my  soule,  and  of  my  lyf, 
I  counseille  yow  the  beste,  I  wol  nat  lye,  i^S 
That  both  of  colere,  and  of  malencolye 
Ye  purge  yow ;  and  for  ye  shul  nat  tarie, 
Though  in  this  toun  is  noon  apotecarie, 
I  shal  my-self  to  herbes  techen  yow, 
That  shul  ben  for  your  hele,  and  for  your 
prow;  130 

And  in  our  yerd  tho  herbes  shal  I  fynde. 
The  whiche  han  of  here  propretee,  by  kynde, 
To  purgen  yow  binethe,  and  eek  above. 
Forget  not  this,  for  Goddes  owene  love! 
Ve  been  ful  colerik  of  compleccioun.  135 

Ware  the  sonne  in  his  ascencioun 
Ne  fynde  yow  nat  repleet  of  humours  bote ; 
And  if  it  do,  I  dar.wel  leye  a  grote. 


That  ye  shul  have  a  fevere  terciane, 

Or  an  agu,  that  may  be  youre  bane.  140 

A  day  or  two  ye  shul  have  digestyves 

Of  wormes,  er  ye  take  your  laxatyves, 

Of  lauriol,  centaure,  and   fumetere, 

Or  elles  of  ellebor,  that  groweth  there, 

Of  catapuce,  or  of  gaytres  beryis,  14s 

Of  erbe  yve,  growing  in  our  yerd,  that  mery 

is; 
Pekke    hem    up    right    as    they   growe,    and 

ete  hem  in. 
Be  mery,  housbond,  for  your  fader  kyn ! 
Dredeth  no  dreem  ;   I  can  say  yow  namore.' 
'  Madame,'  quod  he,  '  graunt  mercy  of  your 

lore.  150 

But  natheles,  as  touching  daun  Catoun, 
That  hath  of  wisdom  such  a  gret  renoun, 
Though  that  he  bad  no  dremes  for  to  drede, 
By  God,  men  may  in  olde  bokes  rede 
Of  many  a  man,  more  of  auctoritee  '55 

Than  evere  Catoun  was,  so  moot  I  thee, 
That  al  the  revers  seyn  of  this  sentence. 
And  han  wel  founden  by  experience, 
That  dremes  ben  significaciouns. 
As  wel  of  loye  as  tribulaciouns  160 

That  folk  enduren  in  this  lyf  present. 
Ther  ncdeth  make  of  this  noon  argument ; 
The  verray  preve  sheweth  it  in  dede. 
Oon  of  the  gretteste  auctours  that  men  rede 
Seith  thus,  that  whylom  two  felawes  wente 
On  pilgrimage,  in  a  ful  good  entente;  166 

And  happed  so,  they  come  into  a  toun, 
Wher  as  ther  was  swich  congregacioun 
Of  peple,  and  eek  so  streit  of  herbergage, 
That  they  ne  founde  as  muche  as  o  cotage, 
In  which  they  bothe  mighte  y-logged  be.  171 
Wherfor  thay  mosten,  of  necessitee, 
As  for  that  night,  departen  compaignye ; 
And  ech  of  hem  goth  to  his  hostelrye. 
And  took  his  logging  as  it  wolde  falle.       i/; 
That  oon  of  hem  was  logged  in  a  stalle, 
Fer  in  a  yerd,  with  oxen  of  the  plough ; 
That  other  man  was  logged  wel  y-nough. 
As  was  his  aventure,  or  his  fortune. 
That  us  governeth  alle  as  in  commune.     'So 
And  so  bifel,  that,  long  er  it  were  day. 
This  man  mette  in  his  bed,  ther  as  he  lay. 
How  that  his  felawe  gan  up-on  him  calle, 
And  seyde,  "  Alias !   for  in  an  oxes  stalle 
This  night  I  shal  be  mordred  ther  I  lye.  185 
Now  help  me,  dere  brother,  or  I  dye; 
In  alle  haste  com  to  me,"  he  sayde. 
This  man  out  of  his  sleep  for  fere  abrayde ; 
But  whan  that  he  was  wakned  of  his  sleep, 
He  turned  him,  and  took  of  this  no  keep; 
Him  thoughte  his  dreem  nas  but  a  vanitee. 
Thus  twyes  in  his  sleping  dremed  he.       19- 
And  atte  thridde  tyme  yet  his  felawe 


14 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


Com,  as  him  thoughte,  and  seide,  "  I  am  now 

slawe; 
Bihold  my  bloody  woundes,  depe  and  wyde! 
Arys  up  erly  in  the  niorwe-tyde,  '96 

And  at  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,"  quod  he, 
'■  A  carte   ful  of  donge  ther   shaltow   see, 
In  which  my  body  is  hid  ful  prively; 
Do  thilke  carte  arresten  boldely.  200 

My  gold  caused  my  mordre,  sooth  to  sayn ;  " 
And  tolde  him  every  poynt  how  he  was  slayn, 
With  a  ful  pitous  face,  pale  of  hewe. 
And  truste  wel,  his  drecm  he  fond  ful  trewe ; 
For  on  the  morwe,  as  sone  as  it  was  day,  205 
To  his  felawes  in  he  took  the  way; 
And  whan  that  he  cam  to  this  oxes  stalle, 
After  his  felawe  he  bigan  to  calle. 
The  hostiler  answerde  him  anon. 
And  seyde,  "  Sire,  your  felawe  is  agon,     210 
As  sone  as  day  he  wente  out  of  the  toun." 
This  man  gan  fallen  in  suspecioun, 
Remembring  on  his  dremes  that  he  mette. 
And  forth  he  goth,  no  lenger  wolde  he  lette, 
Unto   the  west  gate   of   the  toun,   and    fond 
A  dong-carte,  as  it  were  to  donge  lond,  216 
That  was  arrayed  in  that  same  wyse 
As  ye  han  herd  the  dede  man  devyse; 
And  with  an  hardy  herte  he  gan  to  crye 
Vengeaunce  and   Justice  of  this    felonye :  — 
"  My  felawe  mordred  is  this  same  night,  221 
And  in  this  carte  he  lyth  gapinge  upright. 
I  crye  out  on  the  ministres,"  quod  he, 
"  That  sholden  kepe  and  reulen  this  citee ; 
Harrow !  alias !  her  lyth  my  felawe  slayn !  " 
What  sholde  I  more  un-to  this  tale  sayn?  226 
The  peple   out-sterte,  and  caste  the  cart  to 

grounde. 
And  in  the  middel  of  the  dong  they  founde 
The  dede  man,  that  mordred  was  al  newe. 

'  O  blisful  God,  that  art  so  lust  and  trewe ! 
Lo,  how  that  thou  biwreyest  mordre  alway ! 
Mordre  wol  out,  that  se  we  day  by  day.      ^i^ 
Mordre  is  so  wlatsom  and  abhominable 
To  God,  that  is  so  lust  and  resonable, 
That  he  ne  wol  nat  suffre  it  heled  be ;     235 
Though  it  abyde  a  yeer,  or  two,  or  three, 
Mordre  wol  out,  this  my  conclusioun. 
And  right  anoon,  ministres  of  that  toun 
Han  hent  the  carter,  and  so  sore  him  pyned, 
And  eek  the  hostiler  so  sore  engyned,        240 
That   thay   biknewe   hir   wikkednesse   anoon. 
And  were  an-hanged  by  the  nekke-boon. 

'  Here    may    men    seen    that    dremes    been 
to  drede. 
And  certes,  in  the  same  book  I  rede. 
Right  in  the  nexte  chapitre  after  this,        245 
(I  gabbe  nat,  so  have  I  loye  or  blis,) 
Two  men  that  wolde  han  passed  over  see, 
For  certeyn  cause^  in-to  a  fer  contree, 


If  that  the  wind  ne  hadde  been  contrarie, 
That  made  hem  in  a  citee  for  to  tarie,      250 
That  stood  ful  mery  upon  an  haven-syde. 
But  on  a  day,  agayn  (he  evcn-tyde, 
The   wind  gan  chaungc,   and   blew   right  as 

hem  leste. 
lolif  and  glad  they  wente  un-to  hir  reste, 
And  casten  hem  ful  erly  for  to  saille ;        255 
Rut  to  that  00  man  fel  a  greet  mervaille. 
That  oon  of  hem,  in  sleping  as  he  lay, 
Him  mette  a  wonder  dreem,  agayn  the  day; 
Him  thoughte  a  man   stood   by  his   beddes 

syde, 
And  him  comaunded,  that  he  sholde  abyde, 
And    seyde    him    thus,    "If    thou    to-morwe 

wendc,  261 

Thou    shalt    be    dreynt;    my    tale    is    at    an 

ende." 
He    wook,    and    tolde    his    felawe    what    he 

mette. 
And  preyde  him  his  viage  for  to  lette; 
As  for  that  day,  he  preyde  him  to  abyde.  265 
His  felawe,  that  lay  by  his  beddes  syde, 
Gan  for  to  laughe,  and  scorned  him  ful  faste. 
"  No  dreem,"  quod  he,  "  may  so  myn  herte 

agaste. 
That  I  wol  lette  for  to  do  my  thinges. 
I  sette  not  a  straw  by  thy  dreminges,        270 
For   swevenes  been  but  vanitees  and  lapes. 
Men  dreme  al-day  of  owles  or  of  apes, 
And  eek  of  many  a  mase  therwithal ; 
Men  dreme  of  thing  that  nevere  was  ne  shal. 
But  sith  I  see  that  thou  wolt  heer  abyde,  27s 
And  thus  for-sleuthen  wilfully  thy  tyde, 
God  wot  it  reweth  me ;  and  have  good  day." 
And  thus  he  took  his  leve,  and  wente  his  way. 
But  er  that  he  hadde  halfe  his  cours  y-seyled, 
Noot    I    nat    why,    ne    what    mischaunce    it 

eyled,  280 

But  casuelly  the  shippes  botme  rente. 
And  ship  and  man  under  the  water  wente 
In  sighte  of  othere  shippes  it  byside. 
That  with  hem  seyled  at  the  same  tyde. 
And  therfor,  faire  Pertelote  so  dere,         285 
By  swiche  ensamples  olde  maistow  lere. 
That  no  man  sholde  been  to  recchelees 
Of  dremes,  for  I  sey  thee,  doutelees, 
That  many  a  dreem  ful  sore  is  for  to  drede. 
'  Lo,  in  the  lyf  of  seint  Kenelm,  I  rede,  290 
That  was  Kenulphus  sone,  the  noble  king 
Of  Mercenrike,  how  Kenelm  mette  a  thing; 
A  lyte  er  he  was  mordred,  on  a  day. 
His  mordre  in  his  avisioun  he  say. 
His  norice  him  expouned  every  del  295 

His  swevene,  and  bad  him  for  to  kepe  him 

wel 
For  traisoun ;  but  he  nas  but  seven  yeer  old, 
And   therefore  litel  tale  hath  he  told 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


15 


Of  any  dreem,  so  holy  was  his  herte. 

By  God,  I  hadde  levere  than  my  sherte    300 

That  ye  had  rad  his  legende,  as  have  I. 

Dame  Pertelote,  I  sey  yow  trewely, 

Macrobeus,  that   writ   the  avisioun 

In  Affrike  of  the  worthy  Cipioun, 

Affermeth  dremes,  and  seith  that  they  been 

Warning  of  thinges  that  men  after  seen.  306 

And  forther-more,  I  pray  yow  loketh  wel 

In  the  olde  testament,  of  Daniel, 

If  he  held  dremes  any  vanitee. 

Reed  eek  of  loseph,  and  ther  shul  ye  see  310 

Wher  dremes  ben  somtyme  (I  sey  nat  alle) 

Warning  of  thinges  that  shul  after  falle. 

Loke  of  Egipt  the  king,  daun   Pharao, 

His  bakere  and  his  boteler  also, 

Wher  they  ne   felte  noon  effect  in  dremes. 

Who  so  wol  seken  actes  of  sondry  remes,  3"6 

May  rede  of  dremes  many  a  wonder  thing. 

'  Lo  Cresus,  which  that  was  of  Lyde  king, 
Mette  he  nat  that  he  sat  upon  a  tree. 
Which  signified  he  sholde  anhanged  be?  320 
Lo  heer  Andromacha,  Ectores  wyf, 
That  day  that  Ector  sholde  lese  his  lyf, 
She  dremed  on  the  same  night  biforn, 
How  that  the  lyf  of  Ector  sholde  be  lorn, 
If  thilke  day  he  wente  in-to  bataille ;         325 
She  warned  him,  but  it  mighte  nat  availle ; 
He  wente  for  to  fighte  natheles. 
But  he  was  slayn  anoon  of  Achilles. 
But  thilke  tale  is  al  to  long  to  telle, 
And  eek  it  is  ny  day,  I  may  nat  dwelle.     330 
Shortly  I  seye,  as  for  conclusioun. 
That  I  shal  han  of  this  avisoun 
Adversitee;    and    I    seye    forther-more, 
That  I  ne  telle  of  laxatyves  no  store. 
For  they  ben  venimous,  I  woot  it  wel ;       335 
I  hem  defye,  I  love  hem  nevere  a  del. 

'  Now  let  us  speke  of  mirthe,  and  stinte  al 
this ; 
Madame  Pertelote,  so  have  I  blis. 
Of  o  thing  God  hath  sent  me  large  grace ; 
For  whan  I  see  the  beautee  of  your  face,  340 
Ye  ben  so  scarlet-reed  about  youre  yen, 
It  maketh  al  my  drede  for  to  dyen ; 
For,  also  siker  as  In  principio, 
Mulicr  est  hominis  confusio ; 
Madame,  the  sentence  of  this  Latin  is —  345 
Womman  is  mannes  loye  and  al  his  blis. 
*  *  * 

I  am  so  ful  of  loye  and  of  solas  350 

That  I  defye  bothe  sweven  and  dreem.' 
And  with   that   word  he  fley  doun    fro   the 

beem. 
For  it  was  day,  and  eek  his  hennes  alle; 
And  with  a  chuk  he  gan  hem  for  to  calle. 
For  he  had  founde  a  corn,  lay  in  the  yerd. 
Roial  he  was,  he  was  namore  aferd ;  356 


He  loketh  as  it  were  a  grim  leoun ; 
And  on  his  toos  he  rometh  up  and  doun,  360 
Him  deyned  not  to  sette  his  foot  to  grounde. 
He  chukketh,  whan  he  hath  a  corn  y-founde. 
And  to  him  rennen  thanne  his  wyves  alle. 
Thus  roial,  as  a  prince  is  in  his  halle, 
Leve  I  this  Chauntecleer  in  his  pasture;  365 
And  after  wol  I  telle  his  aventure. 

Whan  that  the  month  in  which  the  world 

bigan, 
That  highte   March,  whan   God   first  maked 

man. 
Was  complet,   and  y-passed   were   also, 
Sin  March  bigan,  thritty  dayes  and  two,  37° 
Bifel  that  Chauntecleer,  in  al  his  pryde, 
His  seven  wyves  walking  by  his  syde, 
Caste  up  his  eyen  to  the  brighte  sonne. 
That  in  the  signe  of  Taurus  hadde  y-ronne 
Twenty    degrees    and    oon,     and     somwhat 

more ;  375 

And  knew  by  kynde,  and  by  noon  other  lore. 
That   it   was   pryme,   and   crew   with   blisful 

stevene. 
'  The   Sonne,'   he   sayde,   '  is   clomben   up   on 

hevene 
Fourty  degrees  and  oon,  and  more,  y-wis. 
Madame  Pertelote,  my  worldes  blis,  380 

Herkneth    thise    blisful    briddes    how    they 

singe. 
And     see     the     fresshe     floures     how     thoy 

springe ; 
Ful  is  myn  hert  of  revel  and  solas.' 
But  sodeinly  him  fil  a  sorweful  cas ; 
For  evere  the  latter  ende  of  loye  is  wo.  385 
Got  woot  that  worldly  loye  is  sone  ago; 
And  if  a  rethor  coude  faire  endyte. 
He  in  a  chronique  saufly  mighte  it  write. 
As  for  a  sovereyn  notabilitee. 
Now  every  wys  man,  lat  him  herkne  me ;  390 
This  storie  is  al-so  trewe,  I  undertake. 
As  is  the  book  of  Launcelot  de  Lake, 
That  wommen  holde  in   ful  gret  reverence. 
Now  wol  I  torne  agayn  to  my  sentence. 

A  col-fox,  ful  of  sly  iniquitee,  395 

That  in  the  grove  hadde  woned  yeres  three. 
By  heigh  imaginacioun  forn-cast, 
The  same  night  thurgh-out  the  hegges  brast 
Into  the  yerd,  ther  Chauntecleer  the  faire 
Was  wont,  and  eek  his  wyves,  to  repaire ;  400 
And  in  a  bed  of  wortes  stille  he  lay, 
Til  it  was  passed  undern  of  the  day, 
Wayting  his  tyme  on  Chauntecleer  to  falle 
As  gladly  doon  thise  homicydes  alle. 
That  in  awayt  liggen  to  mordre  men.        405 
O  false  mordrer,  lurking  in  thy  den  ! 
O  newe  Scariot,  newe  Genilon  ! 
False  dissimilour,  O  Greek  Sinon, 
That  broghtest  Troye  al   outrely  to  sorwe ! 
O  Chauntecleer,  acursed  be  that  morwe.  410 


i6 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


That    thou    into    that    yerd    Hough    fro    the 

hemes ! 
Thou  were  ful  wel  y-warned  by  thy  dremes, 
Tliat  thilke  day  was  perilous  to  thee. 
But  what  that  God  forwot  mot  nedes  be, 
After  the  opinioun  of  certeyn  clerkis.        4'S 
Witnesse  on  him,  that  any  perfit  clerk  is, 
That  in  scole  is  gret  altercacioun 
In  this  matere,  and  greet  disputisoun, 
And  hath  ben  of  an  hundred  thousand  men. 
But  I  ne  can  not  bulte  it  to  the  bren,        420 
As  can  the  holy  doctour  Augustyn, 
Or  Boece,  or  the  bishop  Bradwardyn, 
Whether  that  Goddcs  worthy  forwiting 
Streyneth  me  nedely  for  to  doon  a  thing, 
(Nedely  clepe  I  simple  necessitee)  ;  42s 

Or  elles,  if  free  choys  be  graunted  me 
To  do  that  same  thing,  or  do  it  noght, 
Though     God     forwot    it,    er    that    it    was 

wroght ; 
Or  if  his  witing  streyneth  nevere  a  del 
But  by  necessitee  condicionel.  430 

I  wol  not  han  to  do  of  swich  matere ; 
My  tale  is  of  a  cok,  as  ye  may  here, 
That    took    his    counseil    of    his    wyf,    with 

sorwe, 
To  walken  in  the  yerd  upon  that  morwe  434 
That  he  had  met  the  dreem,  that  I  of  tolde. 
Wommennes  counseils   been    ful   ofte  colde ; 
Wommannes  counseil  broghte  us  first  to  wo. 
And  made  Adam  fro  paradys  to  go, 
Ther  as  he  was  ful  mery,  and  wel  at  ese. 
But  for  I  noot,  to  whom  it  mighte  displese, 
If  I  counseil  of  wommen  wolde  blame,      441 
Passe  over,  for  I  seyde  it  in  my  game. 
Rede    auctours,    wher    they    trete    of    swich 

matere. 
And    what   thay   seyn   of    wommen   ye   may 

here. 
Thise  been  the  cokkes  wordes,  and  nat  myne ; 
I  can  noon  harme  of  no  womman  divyne. 
Faire  in  the  sond,  to  bathe  hire  merily,  447 
Lyth  Pertelote,  and  alle  hir  sustres  by, 
Agayn  the  sonne ;  and  Chauntecleer  so  free 
Song  merier  than  the  mermayde  in  the  see ; 
For  Phisiologus  seith  sikerly,  451 

How  that  they  singen  wel  and  merily. 
And  so  bifel,  that  as  he  caste  his  ye, 
Among  the  wortes,  on  a  boterflye. 
He  was  war  of  this  fox  that  lay  ful  lowe.  4SS 
No-thing  ne  liste  him  thanne  for  to  crowe. 
But  cryde  anon,  '  cok.  cok,'  and  up  he  sterte, 
As  man  that  was  afifrayed  in  his  herte. 
For  naturelly  a  bccst  desyreth  flee 
Fro  his  contrarie,  if  he  may  it  see,  460 

Though  he  never  erst  had  seyn  it  with  his 

ye. 


This  Chauntecleer,  whan  he  gan  him  espye. 
He  wolde  Itan  fled,  but  that  the  fox  anon 
Seyde,  '  Gentil  sire,  alias!  whcr  wol  ye  gon  ? 
Be  ye  affraycd  of  me  that  am  your  f reend  ? 
Now  certes,  I  were  worse  than  a  fcend,    4('(' 
If  I  to  yow  wolde  harm  or  vilcinye. 
I  am  nat  come  your  counseil  for  tespye ; 
But  trewcly,  the  cause  of  my  cominge 
Was  only  for  to  hcrkne  how  that  ye  singe. 
For  trcwely  ye  have  as  mery  a  stevene,    47' 
As  eny  aungel  hath,  that  is  in  hevene; 
Therwith  ye  han  in  musik  more  felinge 
Than  hadde  Boece,  or  any  that  can  singe. 
My  lord  your  fader  (God  his  soule  blesse!) 
And  eek  your  moder,  of  hir  gentilesse,     476 
Han  in  myn  hous  y-been,  to  my  gret  ese ; 
And  certes,  sire,  ful  fayn  wolde  I  yow  plese. 
But  for  men  speke  of  singing,  I  wol  saye. 
So  mote  I  brouke  wel  myn  eyen  tweye,      480 
Save  yow,  I  herde  nevere  man  so  singe. 
As  dide  your  fader  in  the  morweninge ; 
Certes,  it  was  of  herte,  al  that  he  song. 
And  for  to  make  his  voys  the  more  strong. 
He  wolde  so  peyne  him,  that  with  both  his 
yen  485 

He  moste  winke,  so  loude  he  wolde  cryen, 
And  stonden  on  his  tiptoon  thcrwithal. 
And  strecche  forth  his  nekke  long  and  smal. 
And  eek  he  was  of  swich  discrecioun, 
That  ther  nas  no  man  in  no  regioun        49° 
That  him  in  song 'or  wisdom  mighte  passe. 
I  have  weel  rad  in  daun  Burnel  the  Asse, 
Among  his  vers,  how  that  ther  was  a  cok, 
For  that  a  prestes  sone  yaf  him  a  knok 
Upon  his  leg,  whyl  he  was  yong  and  nyce, 
He  made  him  for  to  lese  his  benefyce.      496 
But  certeyn,  ther  nis  no  comparisoun 
Bitwix  the  wisdom  and  discrecioun 
Of  your  fader,  and  of  his  subtiltee. 
Now  singcth,  sire,  for  seinte  charitee,        5oo 
Let  se,  conne  ye  your  fader  countrefete  ? ' 
This  Chauntecleer  his  winges  gan  to  bete. 
As  man  that  coude  his  tresoun  nat  espye. 
So  was  he  ravisshed  with  his  flaterye. 

Alias !  ye  lordes,  many  a  fals  flatour      505 
Is  in  your  courtes,  and  many  a  losengeour, 
That  plesen  yow  wel  more,  by  my  feith, 
Than  he  that  soothfastnesse  unto  yow  seith. 
Redeth  Ecclesiaste  of  flaterye ; 
Beth  war,  ye  lordes,  of  hir  trecherye.        Sio 

This  Chauntecleer  stood  hye  up-on  his 
toos, 
Strecching  his  nekke,  and  held  his  eyen  cloos, 
And  gan  to  crowe  loude  for  the  nones ; 
And  daun  Russel  the  fox  sterte  up  at  ones, 
And  by  the  gargat  hente  Chauntecleer,  515 
And  on  his  bak  toward  the  wode  him  beer, 


THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 


17 


For  yet  ne  was  ther  no  man  that  him  sewed. 
O  destinee,  that  mayst  nat  ben  eschewed  ! 
Alias,     that     Chaunteclecr     fleigh     fro     the 

hemes  ! 
Alias,  his  wyf  ne  roghte  nat  of  dremes !  s^o 
And  on  a  Friday  fil  al  this  meschaiince. 
O  Venus,  that  art  goddesse  of  plesaunce, 
Sin  that  thy  servant  was  this   Chaimtecleer, 
And  in  thy  service  dide  al  his  poweer. 
More  for  delyt,  than  world  to  multiplye,  5^5 
Why  woldestow   suffre  him   on   thy  day  to 

dye? 
O  Gaufred,  dere  mayster  soverayn, 
That,   whan    thy   worthy  king   Richard   was 

slayn 
With   shot,   compleynedest  his  deth   so   sore, 
Why  ne  hadde  I  now  thy  sentence  and  thy 

lore,  530 

The  Friday  for  to  chide,  as  diden  ye? 
(For  on  a  Friday  soothly  slayn  was  he.) 
Than  wolde  I  shewe  yow  how  that  I  coude 

pleyne 
For  Chauntecleres  drede,  and  for  his  peyne. 
Certes,  swich  cry  ne  lamentacioun  535 

Was  nevere  of  ladies  maad,  whan  Ilioun 
Was    wonne,    and    Pirrus    with    his    streite 

swerd, 
Whan  he  hadde  hent  king  Priam  by  the  herd. 
And  slayn  him  (as  saith  us  Encydos), 
As  maden  alle  the  hennes  in  the  clos,        540 
Whan    they   had    seyn   of    Chaunteclecr    the 

sighte. 
But   sovercynly  dame   Pertelote   shrighte, 
Ful  louder  than  dide  Hasdrubales  wyf, 
Whan  that  hir  housbond  hadde  lost  his  lyf, 
And  that  the  Romayns  hadde  brend  Cartage, 
She  was  so  ful  of  torment  and  of  rage,    546 
That  wilfully  into  the  fyr  she  sterte. 
And  brende  hir-selven  with  a  stedfast  herte. 
O  woful  hennes,  right  so  cryden  ye, 
As,  whan  that  Nero  brende  the  citee         sso 
Of  Rome,  cryden   senatoures  wyves. 
For    that    hir    housbondes    losten    alle    hir 

lyves ; 
Withouten  gilt  this  Nero  hath  hem  slayn. 
Now  wol  I  torne  to  my  tale  agayn : 

This  sely  widwe,  and  eek  hir  doghtres  two, 
Herden  thise  hennes  crye  and  maken  wo,  556 
And  out  at  dores  sterten  thay  anoon. 
And  syen  the  fox  toward  the  grove  goon, 
And  bar  upon  his  bak  the  cok  away ; 
And  cryden,  '  Out !  harrow  !  and  weylaway ! 
Ha,  ha,  the  fox ! '  and  after  him  they  ran, 
And  eek  with  staves  many  another  man ;  562 
Ran  Colle  our  dogge,  and  Talbot,  and  Ger- 

land, 
And  Malkin,  with  a  distaf  in  hir  hand;     564 
Ran  cow  and  calf,  and  eek  the  verray  hogges 


So  were  they  fered  for  berking  of  the  dogges 
And  shouting  of  the  men  and  wimmen   eke. 
They  ronne  so,  hem  thoughtc  hir  herte  breke. 
They  yelleden  as  feendcs  doon  in  helle ; 
The  dokes  cryden  as  men  wolde  hem  quelle; 
The  gees  for  fere  flowen  over  the  trees;  S7' 
Out  of  the  hyve  cam  the  swarm  of  bees; 
So  hidous   was  the  noyse,   a!   bcncdicite! 
Certes,  he  lakke  Straw,  and  his  meynee, 
Ne  maden  nevere  shoutes  half  so  shrille,  575 
Whan  that  they  wolden  any  Fleming  kille, 
As  thilke  day  was  maad  upon  the  fox. 
Of  bras  thay  broghten  hemes,  and  of  box. 
Of  horn,  of  boon,  in  whiche  they  blewe  and 

pouped. 
And     therwithal     thay     shryked     and     they 

houped ;  580 

It  semed  as  that  hevene  sholde  falle. 
Now,  gode  men,  I  pray  yow  herkneth  alle! 

Lo,  how  fortune  turneth  sodeinly 
The  hope  and  pryde  eek  of  hir  enemy! 
This  cok,  that  lay  upon  the  foxes  bak,      58s 
In  al  his  drede,  un-to  the  fox  he  spak, 
And  seyde,  '  Sire,  if  that  I  were  as  ye, 
Yet  sholde  I  seyn    (as  wis  God  helpe  me), 
"Turneth  agayn,  ye  proude  cherles  alle! 
A  verray  pestilence  up-on  yow  falle !         59o 
Now  am  I  come  un-to  this  wodes  syde, 
Maugree    your    heed,     the     cok     shal    beer 

abyde ; 
I  wol  him  etc  in  feith,  and  that  anon."' 
The    fox    answerde,    '  In    feith,    it    shal    be 

don,' 
And  as  he  spak  that  word,  al  sodeinly      595 
This  cok  brak  from  his  mouth  deliverly, 
And  heighe  up-on  a  tree  he  fleigh  aaon. 
And  whan  the  fox  saugh  that  he  was  y-gon, 
'Alias!'  quod  he,  'O  Chaunteclecr,  alias! 
I   have   to   yow,'  quod   he,   '  y-doon   trespas, 
In-as-muche  as  I  maked  yow  aferd,  601 

Whan  I  yow  hente,  and  broghte  out  of  the 

yerd; 
But,  sire,  I  dide  it  in  no  wikke  entente ; 
Com    doun,    and    I    shal    telle    yow    what    I 

mente. 
I   shal   seye  sooth  to  yow,  God  help  me  so.' 
'  Nay  than,'  quod  he,  '  I  shrewe  us  bothe  two. 
And  first  I  shrewe  my-self,  bothe  blood  and 

bones,  607 

If  thou  bigyle  me  ofter  than  ones. 
Thou  shalt  namore,  thurgh  thy  flaterye 
Do  me  to  singe  and  winke  with  myn  ye.  610 
For  he  that  winketh,  whan  he  sholde  see, 
Al  wilfully,  God  lat  him  never  thee!' 
'  Nay,'    quod    the    fox,    '  but    God    yive    him 

meschaunce, 
That  is  so  undiscreet  of  governaunce. 
That  iangleth  whan  he  sholde  holde  his  pees.' 


i8 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


6i6 


620 


Lo,  swich  it  is  for  to  be  recclielees. 
And  necligcnt,  and  tniste  on  flaterye. 
But  ye  that  holden  this  tale  a  folye, 
As  of  a  fox,  or  of  a  cok  and  hen, 
Taketh   the   nioralitee,   good   men. 
For  seint  Paul  seith,  that  al  that  writen  is, 
To  our  doctryne  it  is  y-write,  y-wis. 
Takclh  the   fruyt,  and  lat  the  chaf  be  stille. 

Now,  gode  God,  if  that  it  be  thy  wille,  624 
As  seith  rny  lord,  so  make  us  alle  good  men  ; 
And  bringe  us  to  his  heighe  blisse.     Amen. 

CHAUCERS     WORDES     UNTO    ADAM 
HIS   OWNE   SCRIVEYN 

Adam  scriveyn,  if  ever  it  thee  bifalle 
Boece   or   Troilus   to   wryten   newe. 
Under  thy  lokkes  thou  most  have  the  scalle, 
But   after  my  making  thou  wryte  trewe. 
So  ofte  a  daye  I  mot  thy  werk  renewe,     5 
Hit  to  correcte  and  eek  to  rubbe  and  scrape ; 
And  al  is  through  thy  negligence  and  rape. 


LAK  OF  STEDFASTNESSE 


Som  tyme  this   world   was   so   stedfast   and 

stable 
That  mannes  word  was  obligacioun. 
And  now  hit  is  so   fals  and  deceivable, 
That  word  and  deed,  as  in  conclusioun, 
Ben  no-thing  lyk,   for  turned  up  so  doun   5 
Is   al   this   world   for  mede  and   wilfulnesse, 
That  al  is  lost,  for  lak  of  stedfastnesse. 

What   niaketh   this   world   to   be   so   variable 
But   lust   that   folk  have   in   dissensioun? 
Among  us  now  a  man  is  holde  unable,       'o 
But-if  he  can,  by  som  collusioun, 
Don   his    neighbour   wrong   or   oppressioun. 
What  causeth  this,  but  wilful  wrecchednesse, 
That  al  is  lost,  for  lak  of  stedfastnesse? 

Trouthe    is    put    doun,     resoun     is    holden 
fable;  is 

Vertu  hath  now  no  dominacioun, 
Pitee    exyled,    no    man    is    merciable. 
Through   covetyse   is   blent   discrecioun; 


The  world  hath  mad  a  permutacioun 

Fro  right  to  wrong,  fro  trouthe  to  fikelnesse, 

That  al  is  lost,  for  lak  of  stedfastnesse.     21 

Lenvoy  to  King  Richard 

0  prince,  desyre  to  be  honourable. 
Cherish    thy    folk   and   hate   extorcioun ! 
Suffre  no  thin^,  that  may  be  reprcvablc     ^5 
To   thyn   estat,  don   in   thy   regioun. 

Shew  forth  thy  swerd  of  castigacioun, 
Dred  God,  do  law,  love  trouthe  and  worthi- 

nesse, 
And  wed  thy  folk  agein  to  stedfastnesse. 

THE    COMPLEINT    OF    CHAUCER    TO 
HIS  EMPTY  PURSE 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  non  other  wight 
Compleyne   I,   for  ye  be  my  lady  dere ! 

1  am  so  sory,  now  that  ye  be  light ; 
For  certes,  but  ye  make  me  hevy  chere, 
Me  were  as  leef  be  leyd  up-on  my  here;      5 
For  whiche  un-to  your  mercy  thus  I  crye: 
Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye ! 

Now  voucheth  sauf  this  day,  or  hit  be  night, 
That  I  of  you  the  blisful  soun  may  here. 
Or  see  your  colour  lyk  the  sonne  bright,     10 
That  of  yelownesse  hadde   never   pere. 
Ye  be  my  lyf,  ye  be  myn  hertes  stere, 
Queue  of  comfort  and  of  good  companye: 
Beth  hevy  ageyn,   or  elles   mot   I   dye ! 

Now  purs,  that  be  to  me  my  lyves  light,     'S 
And   saveour,   as   doun   in   this   world   here. 
Out    of    this    toune    help    me    through    your 

might. 
Sin  that  ye  wole  nat  been  my  tresorere; 
For  I  am  shave  as  nye  as  any  frere. 
But  yit   I   pray  un-to  your  curtesye :  20 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye! 

Lenvoy  de  Chaucer 

O  conquerour  of  Brutes  Albioun ! 
Which   that   by   lyne   and    free   eleccioun 
Ben  verray  king,  this  song  to  you  I  sende; 
And  ye,  that  mowen  al  our  harm  amende,  26 
Have  minde  up-on  my  supplicacioun ! 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  (c.   1400-1471) 

Concerning  the  life  of  the  author  of  the  Mortc  d'Arthur  little  is  known.  He  was  born  about 
the  year  1400.  lived  at  Xewbold  Kevell,  was  knighted,  and  represented  Warwickshire  in  parlia- 
ment in  3445.  He  was  'a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  house  and  a  soldier,'  belonging  to  the 
most  highly  cultivated  society  of  his  day.  jNIalory  was  prominent  on  the  Lancastrian  side  in 
the  AVars  of  the  Roses,  and  his  military  service  extended  to  France,  where  he  was  associated 
with  Richard  Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Warwick,  a  knight  distinguished  throughout  Europe  as  the 
embodiment  of  the  chivalric  ideal  and  as  '  the  father  of  courtesy.'  Certain  of  the  Earl  of 
Warwick's  exploits  provide  a  rapid  and  highly  colored  narrative  not  unlike  that  of  the  Mortc 
d'Arthur  itself.  It  would  seem,  then,  that  Sir  Thomas  Malory  was  in  every  way  endowed  for 
composing  the  chivalric  compilation  by  which  he  is  now  chiefly  known. 

William  Caxton  (c.  1422-3491)  deserves  a  place  by  the  side  of  Malory  in  the  literary  his- 
tory of  the  fifteenth  century  not  only  because  he  edited  and  published  the  Morie  d'Arthur.  but 
also  because  he  brought  into  print  numerous  other  works  of  romance.  After  a  considerable 
period  of  activity  as  a  merchant.  Caxton  began  his  career  as  printer,  translator,  and  editor  by 
issuing  at  Bruges,  about  1475.  the  first  book  printed  in  English,  The  Reciti/ell  of  the  Ilixtories 
of  Troy.  Caxton  translated  this  work  himself,  from  the  French  of  Raoul  le  Fevre.  In  147() 
he  returned  to  England,  and  set  up  his  press  in  Westminster,  where  he  finished  printing,  on 
November  IS,  1477.  The  Dictcs  and  Sai/inf/s  of  the  Philosophers,  the  first  dated  book  issued  in 
England.  From  his  press  in  Westminster,  Caxton  issued  some  seventy-one  separate  works,  of 
which  Malory's  Morte  d'Arthur  was  the  fifty-second. 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR 

PREFACE  OF  WILLIAM  CAXTON        and  the  third,  Julius  Caesar,  Emperor  of 

Rome,  of  whom  the  histories  be  well 
After  that  I  had  accomplished  and  fin-  known  and  had.  And  as  for  the  three 
ished  divers  histories,  as  well  of  contem-  Jews  which  also  were  to-fore  the  Incar- 
plation  as  of  other  historical  and  worldly  5  nation  of  our  Lord,  of  whom  the  first  was 
acts  of  great  conquerors  and  princes,  and  Duke  Joshua  which  brought  the  children 
also  certain  books  of  ensamples  and  doc-  of  Israel  into  the  land  of  behest ;  the  sec- 
trine,  many  noble  and  divers  gentlemen  of  ond,  David,  King  of  Jerusalem;  and  the 
this  realm  of  England  came  and  demanded  third,  Judas  Maccabaeus :  of  these  three 
me,  many  and  ofttimes,  wherefore  that  I  lo  the  Bible  rehearseth  all  their  noble  histo- 
have  not  do  made  and  enprint  the  noble  ries  and  acts.  And  since  the  said  Incar- 
history  of  the  Sangreal,  and  of  the  most  nation  have  been  three  noble  christian 
renowned  christian  king,  first  and  chief  of  men  stalled  and  admitted  through  the  uni- 
the  three  best  christian  and  worthy,  King  versal  world  into  the  number  of  the  nine 
Arthur,  which  ought  most  to  be  remem-  15  best  and  worthy,  of  whom  was  first  the 
bered  among  us  Englishmen  to-fore  all  noble  Arthur,  whose  noble  acts  I  purpose 
other  christian  kings.  For  it  is  noto-  to  write  in  this  present  book  here  follow- 
riously  known  through  the  universal  world  ing.  The  second  was  Charlemagne,  or 
that  there  be  nine  worthy  and  the  best  Charles  the  Great,  of  whom  the  history  is 
that  ever  were.  That  is  to  wit  three  pay-  20  had  in  many  places,  both  in  French  and 
nims,  three  Jews,  and  three  christian  men.  English ;  and  the  third  and  last  was  God- 
As  for  the  paynims  they  were  to-fore  frey  of  Boloine,  of  whose  acts  and  life  I 
the  Incarnation  of  Christ,  which  were  made  a  book  unto  the  excellent  prince  and 
named,  the  first.  Hector  of  Troy,  of  whom  king  of  noble  memory,  King  Edward  the 
the  history  is  come  both  in  ballad  and  in  25  Fourth.  The  said  noble  gentlemen  in- 
prose ;  the  second,  Alexander  the  Great ;      stantly  required  me  to  enprint  the  history 

19 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


of  tlie  said  iiolile  king  and  conqueror,  King  in  tlic  town  of  Camelot,  the  great  stones 
Arthur,  and  of  his  kniglits,  with  the  his-  and  marvelous  works  of  iron,  lying  under 
tory  of  the  vSangreal,  and  of  the  death  and  the  ground,  and  royal  vaults,  which  divers 
ending  of  the  said  Arthur;  affirming  that  I  now  living  have  seen.  Wherefore  it  is  a 
ought  rather  to  enprint  his  acts  and  noble  5  marvel  why  he  js  no  more  renowned  in 
feats,  than  of  Godfrey  of  Boloine,  or  any  his  own  country,  save  only  it  accordeth  to 
of  the  other  eight,  considering  that  he  was  the  Word  of  God,  which  saith  that  no 
a  man  born  within  this  realm,  and  king  man  is  accept  for  a  prophet  in  his  own 
and  emperor  of  the  same;  and  that  there      country. 

be  in  French  divers  and  many  noble  vol-  lo  Then  all  these  things  foresaid  alleged, 
umes  of  his  acts,  and  also  of  his  knights.  I  could  not  well  deny  but  that  there  was 
To  whom  I  answered,  that  divers  men  such  a  noble  king  named  Arthur,  and  re- 
hold  opinion  that  there  was  no  such  Ar-  puted  one  of  the  nine  worthy,  and  first 
thur,  and  that  all  such  books  as  been  made  and  chief  of  the  christian  men;  and  many 
of  him  be  feigned  and  fables,  because  that  15  noble  volumes  be  made  of  him  and  of  his 
some  chronicles  make  of  him  no  mention,  noble  knights  in  French,  which  I  have  seen 
nor  remember  him  no  thing,  nor  of  his  and  read  beyond  the  sea,  which  be  not 
knights.  Whereto  they  answered,  and  one  had  in  our  maternal  tongue,  but  in  Welsh 
in  special  said,  that  in  him  that  should  be  many  and  also  in  French,  and  some 
say  or  think  that  there  was  never  such  a  20  in  English,  but  nowhere  nigh  all.  Where- 
king  called  Arthur,  might  well  be  aretted  fore,  such  as  have  late  been  drawn  out 
great  folly  and  blindness;  for  he  said  that  briefly  into  English  I  have  after  the  sim- 
there  were  many  evidences  of  the  con-  pie  conning  that  God  hath  sent  to  me, 
trary :  first  ye  may  see  his  sepulture  in  the  under  the  favor  and  correction  of  all 
monastery  of  Glastonbury.  And  also  in  25  noble  lords  and  gentlemen,  emprised  to 
Polichronicon,  in  the  fifth  book  the  sixth  enprint  a  book  of  the  noble  histories  of 
chapter,  and  in  the  seventh  book  the  the  said  King  Arthur,  and  of  certain  of 
twenty-third  chapter,  where  his  body  was  his  knights,  after  a  copy  unto  me  deliv- 
buried,  and  after  found,  and  translated  ered,  which  copy  Sir  Thomas  Malory  did 
into  the  said  monastery.  Ye  shall  see  30  take  out  of  certain  books  of  French,  and 
also  in  the  history  of  Bochas,  in  his  book  reduced  it  into  English.  And  I,  accord- 
Dc  Casti  Principiim,  part  of  his  noble  acts,  ing  to  my  copy,  have  done  set  it  in  en- 
and  also  of  his  fall.  Also  Galfridus  in  his  print,  to  the  intent  that  noble  men  may 
British  book  recounteth  his  life;  and  in  see  and  learn  the  noble  acts  of  chivalry, 
divers  places  of  England  many  remem-35  the  gentle  and  virtuous  deeds  that  some 
brances  be  yet  of  him  and  shall  remain  knights  used  in  those  days,  by  which  they 
perpetually,  and  also  of  his  knights.  First  came  to  honor;  and  how  they  that  were 
in  the  Alabey  of  Westminster,  at  Saint  vicious  were  punished  and  oft  put  to 
Edward's  shrine,  remaineth  the  print  of  shame  and  rebuke ;  humbly  beseeching  all 
his  seal  in  red  wax  closed  in  beryl,  in  40  noble  lords  and  ladies,  with  all  other  es- 
which  is  written  Patricins  Arthunis,  Brit-  lates,  of  what  estate  or  degree  they  been 
annie,  Gallic,  Germanic,  Dacic,  Imperator.  of,  that  shall  see  and  read  in  this  said 
Item  in  the  castle  of  Dover  ye  may  see  book  and  work,  that  they  take  the  good 
Gawaine's  skull  and  Craddock's  mantle :  and  honest  acts  in  their  remembrance,  and 
at  Winchester  the  Round  Table:  in  other 45  to  follow  the  same.  Wherein  they  shall 
places  Launcelot's  sword  and  many  other  find  many  joyous  and  pleasant  histories, 
things.  Then  all  these  things  considered,  and  noble  and  renowned  acts  of  humanity, 
there  can  no  man  reasonably  gainsay  but  gentleness,  and  chivalries.  For  herein  may 
there  was  a  king  of  this  land  named  Ar-  be  seen  noble  chivalry,  courtesy,  humanity, 
thur.  For  in  all  places,  christian  and  50  friendliness,  hardiness,  love,  friendshiu, 
heathen,  he  is  reputed  ajid  taken  for  one  cowardice,  murder,  hate,  virtue,  and  sin. 
of  the  nine  worthy,  and  the  first  of  the  Do  after  the  good  and  leave  the  evil,  and 
three  christian  men.  And  also  he  is  more  it  shall  bring  you  to  good  fame  and  re- 
spoken  of  beyond  the  sea,  more  books  nown.  And  for  to  pass  the  time  this  book 
made  of  his  noble  acts,  than  there  be  in  55  shall  be  pleasant  to  read  in ;  but  for  to 
England,  as  well  in  Dutch,  Italian,  Span-  give  faith  and  belief  that  all  is  true  that 
ish,  and  Greek,  as  in  French.  And  yet  of  is  contained  herein,  ye  be  at  your  liberty; 
record  remain  in  witness  of  him  in  Wales,      but   all    is   written    for   our  doctrine,   ana 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR 


for  to  beware  that  we  fall  not  to  vice  nor  teen  chapters.  The  twelfth  book  treat- 
sin;  but  to  exercise  and  follow  virtue;  eth  of  Sir  Launcelot  and  his  madness, 
by  which  we  may  come  and  attain  to  good  and  containeth  fourteen  chapters.  The 
lame  and  renown  in  this  life,  and  after  thirteenth  book  treateth  how  Galahad 
this  short  and  transitory  life,  to  come  unto  5  came  first  to  King  Arthur's  court,  and 
everlasting  bliss  in  heaven,  the  which  he  the  quest  how  the  Sangreal  was  be- 
grant  us  that  reigneth  in  heaven,  the  gun,  and  containeth  twenty  chapters, 
blessed  Trinity.     Amen.  _  The  fourteenth  book  treateth  of  the  quest 

Then  to  proceed  forth  in  this  said  book,  of  the  Sangreal,  and  containeth  ten  chap- 
which  I  direct  unto  all  noble  princes,  lords,  lo  ters.  The  fifteenth  book  treateth  of  Sir 
and  ladies,  gentlemen  or  gentlewomen,  Launcelot,  and  containeth  six  chapters, 
that  desire  to  read  or  hear  read  of  the  The  sixteenth  book  treateth  of  Sir  Bors 
noble  and  joyous  history  of  the  great  con-  and  Sir  Lionel  his  brother,  and  contain- 
queror  and  excellent  king,  King  Arthur,  eth  seventeen  chapters.  The  seventeenth 
sometime  king  of  this  noble  realm,  then  15  book  treateth  of  the  Sangreal,  and  con- 
called  Britain.  I,  William  Caxton,  sim-  taineth  twenty-three  chapters.  The  ei^-ht- 
ple  person,  present  this  book  following,  eenth  book  treateth  of  Sir  Launcelot  and 
which  I  have  emprised  to  enprint ;  and  the  queen,  and  containeth  twenty-five 
treateth  of  the  noble  acts,  feats  of  arms  chapters.  The  nineteenth  book  treateth 
of  chivalry,  prowess,  hardiness,  humanity,  20  of  Queen  Guenever  and  Launcelot,  and 
love,  courtesy  and  very  gentleness,  with  containeth  thirteen  chapters.  The  twen- 
many  wonderful  histories  and  adventures,  tieth  book  treateth  of  the  piteous  death 
And  for  to  understand  briefly  the  content  of  Arthur,  and  containeth  twenty-two 
of  this  volume,  I  have  divided  it  into  chapters.  The  twenty-first  book  treateth 
twenty-one  books,  and  every  book  chap-  25  of  his  last  departing,  and  how  Sir  Laun- 
tered  as  hereafter  shall  by  God's  grace  celot  came  to  revenge  his  death,  and  con- 
follow.  The  first  book  shall  treat  how  taineth  thirteen  chapters.  The  sum  is 
Uther  Pendragon  gat  the  noble  conqueror  twenty-one  books,  which  contain  the  sum 
King  Arthur,  and  containeth  twenty-eight  of  five  hundred  and  seven  chapters,  as 
chapters.  The  second  book  treateth  of  3°  more  plainly  shall  follow  hereafter. 
Balin    the    noble    knight,    and    containeth 

nineteen  chapters.     The  third  book  treat-  *     *     * 

eth  of  the  marriage  of  King  Arthur  to 

Queen  Guenever,  with  other  matters,  and  ■ROD'K"  "5{"YT 

containeth    fifteen    chapters.     The    fourth  35  I5UUK  AAi 

book,   how   Merlin  was   assotted,   and   of  chapter  I 

war  made  to  King  Arthur,  and  containeth 

twenty-nine  chapters.  The  fifth  book  "^w  sir  mordred  presumed  and  took 
treateth  of  the  conquest  of  Lucius  the  em-  ^^  ^^^  to  be  king  of  England,  and 

peror,  and  containeth  twelve  chapters.  40  ^°uld  have  married  the  queen,  his 
The  sixth  book  treateth  of  Sir  Launcelot  ^^^^^  ^  ^^^^ 

and    Sir    Lionel,    and    marvelous    adven-  As  Sir  Mordred  was  ruler  of  all  Eng- 

tures,  and  containeth  eighteen  chapters,  land,  he  did  do  make  letters  as  though 
The  seventh  book  treateth  of  a  noble  that  they  came  from  beyond  the  sea,  and 
knight  called  Sir  Gareth,  and  named  by  45  the  letters  specified  that  King  Arthur  was 
Sir  Kay,  Beaumains,  and  containeth  slain  in  battle  with  Sir  Launcelot.  Where- 
thirty-six  chapters.  The  eighth  book  treat-  fore  Sir  Mordred  made  a  parliament,  and 
eth  of  the  birth  of  Sir  Tristram  the  noble  called  the  lords  together,  and  there  he 
knight,  and  of  his  acts,  and  containeth  made  them  to  choose  him  king;  and  so 
forty-one  chapters.  The  ninth  book  treat- 50  was  he  crowned  at  Canterbury,  and  held 
eth  of  a  knight  named  by  Sir  Kay,  Le  a  feast  there  fifteen  days;  and  afterward 
Cote  Male  Taille,  and  also  of  Sir  Tris-  he  drew  him  unto  Winchester,  and  there 
tram,  and  containeth  forty-four  chapters,  he  took  the  Queen  Guenever,  and  said 
The  tenth  book  treateth  of  Sir  Tristram  plainly  that  he  would  wed  her  which  was 
and  other  marvelous  adventures,  and  55  his  uncle's  wife  and  his  father's  wife, 
containeth  eighty-eight  chapters.  The  And  so  he  made  ready  for  the  feast, 
eleventh  book  treateth  of  Sir  Launcelot  and  a  day  prefixed  that  they  should  be 
and    Sir    Galahad,    and    containeth    four-      wedded;  wherefore  Queen  Guenever  was 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


passing  heavy.  But  she  durst  not  dis- 
cover her  heart,  but  spake  fair,  and 
agreed  to  Sir  Mordrcd's  will.  Then  she 
desired  of  Sir  Mordred  for  to  go  to  Lon- 
don, to  buy  all  manner  of  things  that  5 
longed  unto  the  w^edding.  And  because 
of  her  fair  speech.  Sir  Mordred  trusted 
her  well  enough,  and  gave  her  leave  to 
go.  And  so  when  she  came  to  London, 
she  took  the  Tower  of  London,  and  sud-  lo 
denly  in  all  haste  possible  she  stuffed  it 
with  all  manner  of  victual,  and  well  gar- 
nished it  with  men,  and  so  kept  it.  Then 
when  Sir  Mordred  wist  and  understood 
how  he  was  beguiled,  he  was  passing  15 
wroth  out  of  measure.  And  a  short  tale 
for  to  make,  he  went  and  laid  a  mighty 
siege  about  the  Tower  of  London,  and 
made  many  great  assaults  thereat,  and 
threw  many  great  engines  unto  them,  and  20 
shot  great  guns.  But  all  might  not  pre- 
vail Sir  Mordred,  for  Queen  Guenever 
would  never  for  fair  speech  nor  for  foul, 
would  never  trust  to  come  in  his  hands 
again.  Then  came  the  Bishop  of  Canter- 25 
bury,  the  which  was  a  noble  clerk  and 
an  holy  man,  and  thus  he  said  to  Sir 
Mordred:  'Sir,  what  will  ye  do?  will  ye 
first  displease  God  and  sithen  shame 
yourself,  and  all  knighthood?  Is  not  30 
King  Arthur  your  uncle,  no  farther  but 
your  mother's  brother,  and  on  her  himself 
King  Arthur  begat  you  upon  his  own 
sister,  therefore  how  may  you  wed  your 
father's  wife?  Sir,'  said  the  noble  35 
clerk,  '  leave  this  opinion  or  I  shall  curse 
you  with  book  and  bell  and  candle.'  '  Do 
thou  thy  worst,'  said  Sir  Mordred,  '  wit 
thou  well  I  shall  defy  thee.'  '  Sir,'  said  the 
bishop,  '  and  wit  you  well  I  shall  not  40 
fear  me  to  do  that  me  ought  to  do.  Also 
where  ye  noise  where  my  lord  Arthur  is 
slain,  and  that  is  not  so,  and  therefore  ye 
will  make  a  foul  work  in  this  land.' 
'  Peace,  thou  false  priest,'  said  Sir  Mor-  45 
dred,  '  for  an  thou  chafe  me  any  more,  I 
shall  make  strike  off  thy  head.'  So  the 
bishop  departed  and  did  the  cursing  in 
the  most  orgulist  wise  that  might  be  done. 
And  then  Sir  Mordred  sought  the  Bishop  50 
of  Canterbury,  for  to  have  slain  him. 
Then  the  bishop  fled,  and  took  part  of  his 
goods  with  him,  and  went  nigh  unto 
Glastonbury;  and  there  he  was  as  priest 
hermit  in  a  chapel,  and  lived  in  poverty  55 
and  in  holy  prayers,  for  well  he  under- 
stood that  mischievous  war  was  at  hand. 
Then    Sir    Mordred    sought   on    Queen 


Guenever  by  letters  and  sonds,  and  by 
fair  means  and  foul  means,  for  to  have 
her  to  come  out  of  the  Tower  of  London; 
but  all  this  availed  not,  for  she  answered 
him  shortly,  openly  and  privily,  that  she 
had  liefer  slay  herself  than  to  be  married 
with  him.  Then  came  word  to  Sir  Mor- 
dred that  King  Arthur  had  araised  the  1 
siege  for  Sir  Launcelot,  and  he  was  com-  ] 
ing  homeward  with  a  great  host,  to  be 
avenged  upon  Sir  Mordred ;  wherefore 
Sir  Mordred  made  write  writs  to  all  the 
barony  of  this  land,  and  much  people 
drew  to  him.  For  then  was  the  common 
voice  among  them  that  with  Arthur  was 
none  other  life  but  war  and  strife,  and 
with  Sir  Mordred  was  great  joy  and  bliss. 
Thus  was  Sir  Arthur  depraved  and  evil 
said  of.  And  many  there  were  that  King 
Arthur  had  made  up  of  naught,  and  given 
them  lands,  might  not  then  say  him  a 
good  word.  Lo  ye  all  Englishmen,  see 
ye  not  what  a  mischief  here  was !  for  he 
that  was  the  most  king  and  knight  of  the 
world,  and  most  loved  the  fellowship  of 
noble  knights,  and  by  him  they  were  all 
upholden,  now  might  not  these  English- 
men hold  them  content  with  him.  Lo 
thus  was  the  old  custom  and  usage  of 
this  land;  and  also  men  say  that  we  of 
this  land  have  not  yet  lost  nor  forgotten 
that  custom  and  usage.  Alas,  this  is 
great  default  of  us  Englishmen,  for  there 
may  no  thing  please  us  no  term.  And 
so  fared  the  people  at  that  time,  they 
were  better  pleased  with  Sir  Mordred 
than  they  were  with  King  Arthur;  and 
much  people  drew  unto  Sir  Mordred,  and 
said  they  would  abide  with  him  for  bet- 
ter and  for  worse.  And  so  Sir  Mordred 
drew  with  a  great  host  to  Dover,  for 
there  he  heard  say  that  Sir  Arthur  would 
arrive,  and  so  he  thought  to  beat  his 
own  father  from  his  lands;  and  the  most 
part  of  all  England  held  with  Sir  Mor- 
dred, the  people  were  so  new-fangle. 

CHAPTER  II 

HOW  AFTER  THAT  KING  ARTHUR  HAD 
TIDINGS,  HE  RETURNED  AND  CAME  TO 
DOVER,  WHERE  SIR  MORDRED  MET  HIM 
TO  LET  HIS  LANDING;  AND  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF   SIR   GAWAINE 

And  SO  as  Sir  Mordred  was  at  Dover 
with  his  host,  there  came  King  Arthur 
with  a  great  navy  of  ships,  and  galleys, 
and  carracks.     And  there  was  Sir  Mordred 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR _23 

ready  awaiting  upon  his  landing,  to  let  I,  Sir  Gawaine,  King  Lot's  son  of  Ork- 
his  own  father  to  land  upon  the  land  that  ney,  sister's  son  unto  the  noble  King 
he  was  king  over.  Then  there  was  Arthur,  send  thee  greeting,  and  let  thee 
launchino-  of  great  boats  and  small,  and  have  knowledge  that  the  tenth  day  of 
full  of  noble  men  of  arms ;  and  there  was  5  May  I  was  smitten  upon  the  old  wound 
much  slaughter  of  gentle  knights,  and  that  thou  gavest  me  afore  the  city  of 
many  a  full  bold  baron  was  laid  full  low,  Benwick,  and  through  the  same  wound 
on  both  parties.  But  King  Arthur  was  so  that  thou  gavest  me  I  am  come  to  my 
courageous  that  there  might  no  manner  death-day.  And  I  will  that  all  the  world 
of  knights  let  him  to  land,  and  his  knights  lo  wit,  that  I,  Sir  Gawaine,  knight  of  the 
fiercely  followed  him;  and  so  they  landed  Table  Round,  sought  my  death,  and  not 
maugre  Sir  Mordred  and  all  his  power,  through  thy  deserving,  but  it  was  mine 
and  put  Sir  Mordred  aback,  that  he  fled  own  seeking;  wherefore  I  beseech  thee, 
and  all  his  people.  Sir  Launcclot,  to  return  again  unto  this 

So  when  this  battle  was  done,  King  15  realm,  and  see  my  tomb,  and  pray  some 
Arthur  let  bury  his  people  that  were  dead,  prayer,  more  or  less,  for  my  soul.  And 
And  then  was  noble  Sir  Gawaine  found  this  same  day  that  I  wrote  this  cedle,  I 
in  a  great  boat,  lying  more  than  half  dead.  was  hurt  to  the  death  in  the  same  wound. 
When  Sir  Arthur  wist  that  Sir  Gawaine  the  which  I  had  of  thy  hand.  Sir  Launce- 
was  laid  so  low,  he  went  unto  him ;  and  20  lot ;  for  of  a  more  nobler  man  might  I 
there  the  king  made  sorrow  out  of  meas-  not  be  slain.  Also,  Sir  Launcelot,  for  all 
ure,  and  took  Sir  Gawaine  in  his  arms,  the  love  that  ever  was  betwixt  us,  make 
and  thrice  he  there  swooned.  And  then  no  tarrying,  but  come  over  the  sea  in 
when  he  awaked,  he  said:  'Alas,  Sir  Ga-  all  haste,  that  thou  mayest  with  thy 
waine,  my  sister's  son,  here  now  thou  25  noble  knights  rescue  that  noble  king  that 
liest,  the  man  in  the  world  that  I  loved  made  thee  knight,  that  is  my  lord  Ar- 
most;  and  now  is  my  joy  gone,  for  now,  ihur;  for  he  is  full  straitly  bestead  with 
my  nephew  Sir  Gawaine,  I  will  discover  a  false  traitor,  that  is  my  half-brother, 
me  unto  your  person:  in  Sir  Launcelot  Sir  Mordred;  and  he  hath  kt  crown  him 
and  you  I  most  had  my  joy,  and  mine  30  king,  and  would  have  wedded  my  lady 
affiance,  and  now  have  I  lost  my  joy  of  Queen  Guenever,  and  so  had  he  done 
you  both;  wherefore  all  mine  earthly  joy  had  she  not  put  herself  in  the  Tower  of 
is  gone  from  me.'  '  Mine  uncle  King  London.  And  so  the  tenth  day  of  May 
Arthur,'  said  Sir  Gawaine,  '  wit  you  well  last  past,  my  lord  Arthur  and  we  all 
my  death-day  is  come,  and  all  is  through  35  landed  upon  them  at  Dover ;  and  there  we 
mine  own  hastiness  and  wilfulness;  for  put  that  false  traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  to 
I  am  smitten  upon  the  old  wound  the  flight,  and  there  it  misfortuned  me  to  be 
which  Sir  Launcelot  gave  me,  on  the  stricken  upon  thy  stroke.  And  at  the 
which  I  feel  well  I  must  die;  and  had  date  of  this  letter  was  written,  but 
Sir  Launcelot  been  with  you  as  he  was,  40  two  hours  and  a  half  afore  my 
this  unhappy  war  had  never  begun;  and  death,  written  with  mine  own  hand, 
of  all  this  am  I  causer,  for  Sir  Launcelot  and  so  subscribed  with  part  of  my 
and  his  blood,  through  their  prowess,  held  heart's  blood.  And  I  require  thee,  most 
all  your  cankered  enemies  in  subjection  famous  knight  of  the  world,  that  thou 
and  danger.  And  now,'  said  Sir  Ga-45  wilt  see  my  tomb.'  And  then  Sir  Ga- 
waine, 'ye  shall  miss  Sir  Launcelot.  waine  wept,  and  King  Arthur  wept;  and 
But,  alas,  I  would  not  accord  with  him,  then  they  swooned  both.  And  when  they 
and  therefore,'  said  Sir  Gawaine,  '  I  pray  awaked  both,  the  king  made  Sir  Ga- 
you,  fair  uncle,  that  I  may  have  paper,  waine  to  receive  his  Saviour.  And  then 
pen,-  and  ink,  that  I  may  write  to  Sir  50  Sir  Gawaine  prayed  the  king  for  to  send 
Launcelot  a  cedle  with  mine  own  hands.'  for  Sir  Launcelot,  and  to  cherish  him 
And  then  when  paper  and  ink  was  above  all  other  knights.  And  so  at  the 
I  brought,  then  Gawaine  was  set  up  weakly  hour  of  noon  Sir  Gawaine  yielded  up 
;  by  King  Arthur,  for  he  was  shriven  a  the  spirit;  and  then  the  king  let  inter 
little  to-fore ;  and  then  he  wrote  thus,  as  55  him  in  a  chapel  within  Dover  Castle ; 
j  the  French  book  maketh  mention :  '  Unto  and  there  yet  all  men  may  see  the  skull 
Sir  Launcelot,  flower  of  all  noble  knights  of  him,  and  the  same  wound  is  seen  that 
that  ever  I  heard  of  or  saw  by  my  days,      Sir  Launcelot  gave  him  in  battle.     Then 


24 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


was  it  told  the  king  that  Sir  Mordred  awaked  the  king;  and  then  he  was  so 
had  pight  a  new  fickl  upon  Barham  amazed  that  he  wist  not  where  he  was; 
Down.  And  upon  the  morn  the  king  and  tlicn  he  fell  a-slumbering  again,  not 
rode  thither  to  him,  and  there  was  a  sleeping  nor  thoroughly  waking.  So  the 
great  battle  betwixt  them,  and  much  peo-  5  king  seemed  verily  that  there  came  Sir 
pie  was  slain  on  both  parties;  but  at  the  Gawaine  unto  him  with  a  number  of 
last,  Sir  Arthur's  party  stood  best,  and  fair  ladies  with  him.  And  when  King 
Sir  Mordred  and  his  party  fled  unto  Can-  Arthur  saw  him,  then  he  said:  '  Welcome, 
terbury.  my  sister's  son ;  I  weened  thou  hadst  been 

10  dead,  and  now  I  see  thee  alive,  much  am 
CHAPTER  III  J  beholding  unto  almighty  Jesu.     O   fair 

HOW     AFTER,     SIR     GAWAINe's     GHOST     AP-        'f P'^^^^     ^}'^     "^^     f'^.^'''    ,^«"'     ^^^^^^     be 

FEARED  TO   KING  ARTHUR,  AND  WARNED      ^hcse    lad.es    tha     hither    be    come    w.th 

iiiM  THAT  HE  SHOULD  NOT  FIGHT  THAT      f^"/  ,.    Sh",   Said  Sir  Gawaine,    all  these 

15  be  ladies  for  whom  I  have  foughten 
when  I  was  man  living,  and  all  these  are 

And  then  the  king  let  search  all  the  those  that  I  did  battle  for  in  righteous 
towns  for  his  knights  that  were  slain,  quarrel;  and  God  hath  given  them  that 
and  interred  them;  and  salved  them  with  grace  at  their  great  prayer,  because  I 
soft  salves  that  so  sore  were  wounded.  20  did  battle  for  them,  that  they  should 
Then  much  people  drew  unto  King  Ar-  bring  me  hither  unto  you:  thus  much 
thur.  And  then  they  said  that  Sir  Mor-  hath  God  given  me  leave,  for  to  warn 
dred  warred  upon  King  Arthur  with  you  of  your  death;  for  an  ye  fight  as 
wrong.  And  then  King  Arthur  drew  to-morn  with  Sir  Mordred,  as  ye  both 
him  with  his  host  down  by  the  seaside  25  have  assigned,  doubt  ye  not  ye  must  be 
westward  toward  Salisbury ;  and  there  slain,  and  the  most  part  of  your  people 
was  a  day  assigned  betwixt  King  Arthur  on  both  parties.  And  for  the  great  grace 
and  Sir  Mordred,  that  they  should  meet  and  goodness  ~that  Almighty  Jesu  hath 
upon  a  down  beside  Salisbury,  and  not  unto  you,  and  for  pity  of  you,  and  many 
far  from  the  seaside;  and  this  day  was  30  more  other  good  men  there  shall  be  slain, 
assigned  on  a  Monday  after  Trinity  Sun-  God  hath  sent  me  to  you  of  his  special 
day,  whereof  King  Arthur  was  passing  grace,  to  give  you  warning  that  in  no  wise 
glad,  that  he  might  be  avenged  upon  Sir  ye  do  battle  as  to-morn,  but  that  ye  take 
Mordred.  Then  Sir  Mordred  araised  a  treaty  for  a  month  day ;  and  proffer  you 
much  people  about  London,  for  they  of  35  largely,  so  as  to-morn  to  be  put  in  a  de- 
Kent,  Southsex,  and  Surrey,  Estsex,  and  lay.  For  within  a  month  shall  come  Sir 
of  Southfolk,  and  of  Northfolk,  held  the  Launcelot  with  all  his  noble  knights,  and 
most  part  with  Sir  Mordred ;  and  many  rescue  you  worshipfully,  and  slay  Sir 
a  full  noble  knight  drew  unto  Sir  Mor-  IMordred,  and  all  that  ever  will  hold  with 
dred  and  to  the  king:  but  they  tliat  loved  40  him.'  Then  Sir  Gawaine  and  all  the 
Sir  Launcelot  drew  unto  Sir  Mordred.  ladies  vanished. 

So    upon     Trinity     Sunday     at     night.  And    anon    the    king    called    upon    his 

King  Arthur  dreamed  a  wonderful  dream,  knights,  squires,  and  yeomen,  and  charged 
and  that  was  this :  that  him  seemed  he  them  wightly  to  fetch  his  noble  lords  and 
sat  upon  a  chaflet  in  a  chair,  and  the  45  wise  bishops  unto  him.  And  when  they 
chair  was  fast  to  a  wheel,  and  thereupon  were  come,  the  king  told  them  his  avision, 
sat  King  Arthur  in  the  richest  cloth  of  what  Sir  Gawaine  had  told  him,  and 
gold  that  might  be  made;  and  the  king  warned  him  that  if  he  fought  on  the 
thought  there  was  under  him,  far  from  morn  he  should  be  slain.  Then  the  king 
him,  an  hideous  deep  black  water,  and  50  commanded  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler,  and 
therein  were  all  manner  of  serpents,  and  his  brother  Sir  Bedivere,  with  two  bish- 
worms,  and  wild  beasts,  foul  and  hor-  ops  with  them,  and  charged  them  in  any 
rible;  and  suddenly  the  king  thought  the  wise,  an  they  might,  'Take  a  treaty  for 
wheel  turned  up-so-down,  and  he  fell  a  month  day  with  Sir  Mordred,  and 
among  the  serpents  and  every  beast  took  55  spare  not,  proffer  him  lands  and  goods  as 
him  by  a  limb;  and  then  the  king  cried  much  as  ye  think  best.'  So  then  they  de- 
as  he  lay  on  his  bed  and  slept:  'Help!'  parted,  and  came  to  Sir  Mordred,  where 
And   then   knights,    squires,   and   yeomen,      he  had  a  grim  host  of  an  hundred  thou- 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR  25 


sand     men.     And     there     they     entreated  in  devoir,  and  in  great  peril.     And  thus 

Sir  Mordred  long  time;  and  at  the  last  Sir  they   fought  all  the  long  day,   and  never 

Mordred   was   agreed   for   to   have   Corn-  stinted  till  the  noble  knights  were  laid  to 

wall   and   Kent,   by  Arthur's  days :   after,  tlie  cold  earth ;  and  ever  they  fought  still 

all   England,  after  the  days  of  King  Ar-  5  till   it  was  near   night,   and   by  that  time 

thur.  was  there  an  hundred  thousand  laid  dead 

upon  the  down.     Then  was  Arthur  wood 

CHAPTER  IN'  wroth  out  of  measure,  when  he  saw  his 

,,_  people  so  slain  from  him. 

HOW    BY    MISADVENTURE   OF    AN    ADDER   THE        '     ^\  ^i         i  •  i       i     j       i        ..    i.  •  i 

„     „^^    „,  >c.'°       Then  the   kmg  looked   about  hmi,   and 

BATTLE     BEGAN,      WHERE      MORDRED     WAS        ^,  .  ^  r      ii    i  ■      i        ^  i        r 

'      „,_     r..r,.^     n-r.     ^ , T .-      thcu  was  hc  ware,  of  all  his  host  and  of 

SLAIN,      AND      ARTHUR       HURT      TO      THE  ,,     ,  .  j     i      •    i  ^  i    r^ 

'  all   his  good   knights,   were  left  no   more 

alive  but  two  knights;  that  one  was  Sir 
Then  were  they  condescended  that  King  Lucan  the  Butler,  and  his  brother  Sir 
Arthur  and  Sir  Mordred  should  meet  be-  15  Bedivere,  and  they  were  full  sore 
twixt  both  their  hosts,  and  everych  of  wounded.  '  Jesu  mercy,'  said  the  king, 
them  should  bring  fourteen  persons ;  and  .  '  where  are  all  my  noble  knights  be- 
they  came  with  this  word  unto  Arthur.  come?  Alas  that  ever  I  should  see  this 
Then  said  he:  'I  am  glad  that  this  is  doleful  day,  for  now,'  said  Arthur,  'I  am 
done:  '  and  so  he  went  into  the  field.  20  come  to  mine  end.  But  would  to  God  that 
And  when  Arthur  should  depart,  he  I  wist  where  were  that  traitor  Sir  Mor- 
warned  all  his  host  that  an  they  see  any  dred,  that  hath  caused  all  this  mischief.' 
sword  drawn :  '  Look  ye  come  on  fiercely,  Then  was  King  Arthur  ware  where  Sir 
and  slay  that  traitor.  Sir  Mordred,  for  Mordred  leaned  upon  his  sword  among  a 
I  in  no  wise  trust  him.'  In  like  wise  Sir  25  great  heap  of  dead  men.  '  Now  give  me 
Mordred  warned  his  host  that :  '  An  ye  my  spear,'  said  Arthur  unto  Sir  Lucan, 
see  any  sword  drawn,  look  that  ye  come  '  for  yonder  I  have  espied  the  traitor  that 
on  fiercely,  and  so  slay  all  that  ever  be-  all  this  woe  hath  wrought.'  '  Sir,  let  him 
fore  you  standeth ;  for  in  no  wise  I  will  be,'  said  Sir  Lucan,  '  for  he  is  unhappy ; 
not  trust  for  this  treaty,  for  I  know  well  3°  and  if  ye  pass  this  unhappy  day,  ye  shall 
my  father  will  be  avenged  on  me.'  And  be  right  well  revenged  upon  him.  Good 
so  they  met  as  their  appointment  was,  lord,  remember  ye  of  your  night's  dream, 
and  so  they  were  agreed  and  accorded  and  what  the  spirit  of  Sir  Gawaine  told 
thoroughly ;  and  wine  was  fetched,  and  you  this  night,  yet  God  of  his  great  good- 
they  drank.  Right  soon  came  an  adder  35  ness  hath  preserved  you  hitherto.  There- 
out of  a  little  heath  bush,  and  it  stung  fore,  for  God's  sake,  my  lord,  leave  off  by 
a  knight  on  the  foot.  And  when  the  this,  for,  blessed  be  God,  ye  have  won  the 
knight  felt  him  stung,  he  looked  down  and  field,  for  here  we  be  three  alive,  and  with 
saw  the  adder,  and  then  he  drew  his  Sir  Mordred  is  none  alive;  and  if  ye 
sword  to  slay  the  adder,  and  thought  of  40  leave  off  now,  this  wicked  day  of  destiny 
none  other  harm.  And  when  the  host  on  is  past.'  '  Tide  me  death,  betide  me  life,' 
both  parties  saw  that  sword  drawn,  then  saith  the  king,  '  now  I  see  him  yonder 
they  blew  beams,  trumpets,  and  horns,  alone  he  shall  never  escape  mine  hands, 
and  shouted  grimly.  And  so  both  hosts  for  at  a  better  avail  shall  I  never  have 
dressed  them  together.  And  King  Arthur  45  him.'  'God  speed  you  well,'  said  Sir 
took  his  horse,  and  said :   '  Alas,  this  un-      Bedivere. 

happy   day!'    and    so    rode   to    his    party.  Then  the  king  gat  his  spear  in  both  his 

And  Sir  Mordred  in  like  wise.  And  hands,  and  ran  toward  Sir  Mordred,  cry- 
never  was  there  seen  a  more  dolefuller  ing:  'Traitor,  now  is  thy  death-day 
battle  in  no  christian  land;  for  there  was  50  come.'  And  when  Sir  ]\Iordred  heard  Sir 
but  rushing  and  riding,  foining  and  strik-  Arthur,  he  ran  until  him  with  his  sword 
ing,  and  many  a  grim  word  was  there  drawn  in  his  hand.  And  there  King  Ar- 
spoken  either  to  other,  and  many  a  deadly  thur  smote  Sir  Mordred  under  the  shield, 
stroke.  But  ever  King  Arthur  rode  with  a  foin  of  his  spear,  throughout  the 
throughout  the  battle  of  Sir  Mordred  55  body,  more  than  a  fathom.  And  when 
many  times,  and  did  full  nobly  as  a  noble  Sir  Mordred  felt  that  he  had  his  death 
king  should,  and  at  all  times  he  fainted  wound,  he  thrust  himself  with  the  might 
never;  and  Sir  Mordred  that  day  put  him      that  he  had  up  to  the  bur  of  King  Ar- 


26  SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


thur's  spear.  And  right  so  he  smote  his  me,  that  had  more  need  of  help  than  I. 
father  Arthur,  with  his  sword  holden  in  Alas,  he  would  not  complain  him,  his 
both  his  hands,  on  the  side  of  the  head,  heart  was  so  set  to  help  me :  now  Jesu 
that  the  sword  pierced  the  helmet  and  the  have  mercy  upon  his  soul !  '  Then  Sir 
brain-pan,  and  therewithal  Sir  Mordred  5  Bedivere  wept  for  the  death  of  his  brother, 
fell  stark  dead  to  the  earth  ;  and  the  noble  '  Leave  this  mourning  and  weeping,'  said 
Arthur  fell  in  a  swoon  to  the  earth,  and  the  king,  '  for  all  this  will  not  avail  me, 
there  he  swooned  oftlimes.  And  Sir  for  wit  thou  well,  an  I  might  live  myself, 
Lucan  the  Butler,  and  Sir  Bedivere,  oft-  the  death  of  vSir  Lucan  would  grieve  me 
times  heaved  him  up.  And  so  weakly  they  lo  evermore ;  but  my  time  hieth  fast,'  said 
led  him  betwixt  them  both,  to  a  little  the  king.  '  Therefore,'  said  Arthur  unto 
chapel  not  far  from  the  seaside.  And  Sir  Bedivere,  '  take  thou  Excalibur,  my 
when  the  king  was  there,  he  thought  him  good  sword,  and  go  with  it  to  yonder 
well  eased.  waterside,  and  when  thou  comest  there,  I 

Then  heard  they  people  cry  in  the  field.  15  charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in  that  water, 
'  Now  go,  thou,  Sir  Lucan,'  said  the  king,  and  come  again  and  tell  me  what  thou 
'  and  do  me  to  wit  what  betokens  that  there  seest.'  '  My  lord,'  said  Bedivere, 
noise  in  the  field.'  So  Sir  Lucan  de-  '  your  commandment  shall  be  done,  and 
parted,  for  he  was  grievously  wounded  in  lightly  bring  you  word  again.' 
many  places.  And  so  as  he  yede,  he  saw  20  So  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  by  the 
and  hearkened  by  the  moonlight,  how  that  way  he  beheld  that  noble  sword,  that  the 
pillers  and  robbers  were  come  into  the  pommel  and  the  haft  was  all  of  i)recious 
field,  to  pill  and  to  rob  many  a  full  noble  stones;  and  then  he  said  to  himself:  'If 
knight  of  brooches,  and  beads,  of  many  I  throw  this  rich  sword  in  the  water, 
a  good  ring,  and  of  many  a  rich  jewel ;  25  thereof  shall  never  come  good,  but  harm 
and  who  that  were  not  dead  all  out,  there  and  loss.'  And  then  Sir  Bedivere  hid 
they  slew  them  for  their  harness  and  Excalibur  under  a  tree.  And  so,  as  soon 
their  riches.  When  Sir  Lucan  understood  as  he  might,  he  came  again  unto  the  king, 
this  work,  he  came  to  the  king  as  soon  as  and  said  he  had  been  at  the  water,  and 
he  might,  and  told  him  all  what  he  had  30  had  thrown  the  sword  in  the  water, 
heard  and  seen.  'Therefore  by  my  rede,'  'What  saw  thou  there?'  said  the  king, 
said  Sir  Lucan,  '  it  is  best  that  we  bring  '  Sir,'  he  said,  '  I  saw  nothing  but  waves 
you  to  some  town.'  '  I  would  it  were  so,'  and  winds.'  '  That  is  untruly  said  of 
said  the  king.  thee,'    said   the   king,   '  therefore   go   thou 

35  lightly  again,  and  do  my  commandment; 

CHAPTER  V  as  thou  art  to  me  lief  and  dear,  spare  not, 

but  throw  it  in.'     Then  Sir  Bedivere  re- 

HOW     KING    ARTHUR    COMMANDED    TO    CAST        ^^^^^^^  .         ^^^^    ^^^^    ^j^^    ^^^^^    -^    j^j^ 

HIS   SWORD  EXCALIBUR   INTO   THE   WATER,        ^^^^     ^^^  ^^^^  ^.^^  ^^^^     ,^^  ^-^^  ^^^^  ^j^^^^^^ 
AND    HOW    HE   WAS   DELIVERED   TO    LADIES  ^^  ^^    ^^^^^    ^^^^    ^,^^^    ^^^^^^    3^^,^^.^^    3,^j    ^^ 

IN  A  BARGE  ^^^  j^^  j^jj  ^■^^  sword,  and  returned  again, 

'  But  I  may  not  stand,  mine  head  works  and  told  to  the  king  that  he  had  been  at 
so.  Ah,  Sir  Launcelot,'  said  King  Ar-  the  water,  and  done  his  commandment, 
thur,  'this  day  have  I  sore  missed  thee:  'What  saw  thou  there?'  said  the  king, 
alas,  that  ever  I  was  against  thee,  for  now  45  '  Sir,'  he  said,  '  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
have  I  my  death,  whereof  Sir  Gawaine  waters  wap  and  waves  wan.'  '  Ah,  trai- 
me  warned  in  my  dream.'  Then  Sir  tor  untrue,'  said  King  Arthur,  '  now  hast 
Lucan  took  up  the  king  the  one  part,  and  thou  betrayed  me  twice.  Who  would  have 
Sir  Bedivere  the  other  part,  and  in  the  weened  that,  thou  that  hast  been  to  me  so 
lifting  the  king  swooned;  and  Sir  Lucan  50  lief  and  dear?  and  thou  art  named  a  noble 
fell  in  a  swoon  with  the  lift,  that  the  part  knight,  and  would  betray  me  for  the  rich- 
of  his  guts  fell  out  of  his  body,  and  there-  ness  of  the  sword.  But  now  go  again 
with  the  noble  knight's  heart  brast.  And  lightly,  for  thy  long  tarrying  putteth  me 
when  the  king  awoke,  he  beheld  Sir  in  great  jeopardy  of  my  life,  for  I  have 
Lucan,  how  he  lav  foaming  at  the  mouth,  55  taken  cold.  And  but  if  thou  do  now  as 
and  part  of  his"  guts  lay  at  his  feet.  I  l)id  thee,  if  ever  I  may  see  thee  I  shall 
'Alas,'  said  the  king,  'this  is  to  me  a  slay  thee  with  mine  own  hands;  for  thoii 
full  heavy  sight,  to  see  this  noble  duke  so  wouldst  for  my  rich  sword  see  me  dead, 
die  for  my  sake,  for  he  would  have  holnen  Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  went 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR 


27 


lo  the  sword,  and  lightly  took  it  up,  and  chapel,  he  saw  where  lay  an  hermit 
went  to  the  waterside ;  and  there  he  groveling  on  all  four,  there  fast  by  a 
bound  the  girdle  about  the  hilts,  and  then  tomb  was  new  graven.  When  the  hermit 
he  threw  the  sword  as  far  into  the  water  saw  Sir  Bedivere  he  knew  him  well,  for 
as  he  might;  and  there  came  an  arm  and  5  he  was  but  little  to-fore  Bishop  of  Canter- 
an  hand  above  the  water  and  met  it,  and  bury,  that  Sir  Mordred  flemed.  '  Sir,' 
caught  it,  and  so  shook  it  thrice  and  bran-  said  Bedivere,  '  what  man  is  there  interred 
dished,  and  then  vanished  away  the  hand  that  ye  pray  so  fast  for?'  'Fair  son,' 
with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So  Sir  said  the  hermit,  '  I  wot  not  verily,  but  by 
Bedivere  came  again  to  the  king,  and  told  10  deeming.  But  this  night,  at  midnight, 
him  what  he  saw.  *  Alas,'  said  the  king,  here  came  a  number  of  ladies,  and 
'  help  me  hence,  for  I  dread  me  I  have  brought  hither  a  dead  corpse,  and  prayed 
tarried  over  long.'  Then  Sir  Bedivere  me  to  bury  him;  and  here  they  offered 
took  the  king  upon  his  back,  and  so  went  an  hundred  tapers,  and  they  gave  me  an 
with  him  to  that  water  side.  And  when  15  hundred  besants.'  '  Alas,'  said  Sir  Be- 
they  were  at  the  water  side,  even  fast  by  divere,  '  that  was  my  lord  King  Arthur, 
the  bank  hoved  a  little  barge  with  many  that  here  lieth  buried  in  this  chapel.' 
fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among  them  all  was  Then  Sir  Bedivere  swooned ;  and  when 
a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods,  and  he  awoke  he  prayed  the  hermit  he  might 
all  they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw  20  abide  with  him  still  there,  to  live  with 
King  Arthur.  '  Now  put  me  into  the  fasting  and  prayers.  '  For  from  hence 
barge,'  said  the  king.  And  so  he  did  will  I  never  go,'  said  Sir  Bedivere,  '  by  my 
softly;  and  there  received  him  three  will,  but  all  the  days  of  my  life  here  to 
queens  with  great  mourning ;  and  so  they  pray  for  my  lord  Arthur.'  '  Ye  are  wel- 
set  them  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  25  come  to  me,'  said  the  hermit,  '  for  I  know 
King  Arthur  laid  his  head.  And  then  ye  better  than  ye  ween  that  I  do.  Ye  are 
that  queen  said :  *  Ah,  dear  brother,  why  the  bold  Bedivere,  and  the  full  noble  duke, 
have  ye  tarried  so  long  from  me?  alas,  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler,  was  your  brother.' 
this  wound  on  your  head  hath  caught  Then  Sir  Bedivere  told  the  hermit  all  as 
over-much  cold.'  And  so  then  they  rowed  30  ye  have  heard  to-fore.  So  there  bode  Sir 
from  the  land,  and  Sir  Bedivere  beheld  Bedivere  with  the  hermit  that  was  to-fore 
all  those  ladies  go  from  him.  Then  Sir  Bishop  of  Canterbury,  and  there  Sir  Bedi- 
Bedivere  cried :  '  Ah,  my  lord  Arthur,  vere  put  upon  him  poor  clothes,  and 
what  shall  become  of  me,  now  ye  go  from  served  the  hermit  full  lowly  in  fasting  and 
me  and  leave  me  here  alone  among  mine  35  in  prayers. 

enemies?'     'Comfort    thyself,'    said    the  Thus  of  Arthur  I  find  never  more  writ- 

king,  '  and  do  as  well  as  thou  mayest,  for  ten  in  books  that  be  authorized,  nor  more 
in  me  is  no  trust  for  to  trust  in ;  for  I  of  the  very  certainty  of  his  death  heard  I 
will  into  the  vale  of  Avilion  to  heal  me  of  never  read,  but  thus  was  he  led  away  in  a 
my  grievous  wound:  and  if  thou  hear  40  ship  wherein  were  three  queens ;  that  one 
never  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul.'  was  King  Arthur's  sister,  Queen  Morgan 
But  ever  the  queens  and  ladies  wept  and  le  Fay;  the  other  was  the  Queen  of 
shrieked,  that  it  was  pity  to  hear.  And  Northgalis ;  the  third  was  the  Queen  of 
as  soon  as  Sir  Bedivere  had  lost  the  sight  the  Waste  Lands.  Also  there  was  Nimue, 
of  the  barge,  he  wept  and  wailed,  and  so  45  the  chief  lady  of  the  lake,  that  had  wed- 
took  the  forest;  and  so  he  went  all  that  ded  Pelleas  the  good  knight;  and  this  lady 
night,  and  in  the  morning  he  was  ware  had  done  much  for  King  Arthur,  for  she 
betwixt  two  holts  hoar,  of  a  chapel  and  would  never  suffer  Sir  Pelleas  to  be  in  no 
an  hermitage.  place  where  he  should  be  in  danger  of  his 

50  life;  and  so  he  lived  to  the  uttermost  of 
CHAPTER  VI  his  days  with  her  in  great  rest.     IMore  of 

HOW  SIR  BEDIVERE  FOUND  HIM  ON  THE  ^'/^^^^  ,^^^'"/  ^'J^"'  ^T^^  ^"T' 
MORROW  DEAD  IN  AN  HERMITAGE,  AND  5"^-'  ,^"^  ^h^^  ^^t'^'  '^^^"ght  him  tO  h,S 
HOW    HE    ABODE    THERE    WITH    THE    HER-,,  ^^^'f','    ^"^    ^"'^^^   °"^    "^.^^    Juried    there, 

j^j_  55  that  the  hermit  bare  witness  that  some- 

time was  Bishop  of  Canterburv.  but  vet 
Then  was  Sir  Bedivere  glad,  and  thither      the  hermit  knew  not  in  certain   that  he 
he    went;    and    when    he    came    into   the      was  verily  the  body  of  King  Arthur:   for 


28  SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


this  tale  Sir  Bedivere,  knight  of  the  Table      the  queen  would  not  wed  him;  then  was 
Round,  made  it  to  he  written.  Sir  Launcelot  wroth  out  of  measure,  and 

said   to   his   kinsmen:   'Alas,   that   double 
CllAi'TEK  \  11  traiter    Sir    Mordred,    now    me    repenteth 

.    ^^      ,TT.  5  ^'''it  ever  he  eseaped  my  hands,  for  much 
OF   THE   OPINION    OF    SOMF.    MEN    OF    THE      ,,uune  hath  he  done  unto  my  lord  Arthur : 
OKA-ni     OF     KiNc:     ART.. uu;     AN.)     ..ow       i^r  all  1  feel  by  the  doleful  letter  that  my 
QUEEN   c:r>.:N..:vKK  ma.^k   ...-:.<  a   nun   in      ,^,.j  ^j^  (iawa.'ne  sent  me,  on  whose  soul 
ALMESBURY  j^g^    j^^^^    uicrcy,    that    my    lord    Arthur 

Yet  some  men  say  in  many  parts  of  lo  is  full  hard  bestead.  Alas,'  said  Sir 
Eng^land  that  King  Arthur  is  not  dead,  Launcelot,  '  that  ever  I  should  live  to 
but  had  by  the  will  of  our  Lord  Jcsu  into  hear  that  most  noble  king  that  made  me 
another  place;  and  men  say  that  he  shall  knight  thus  to  be  overset  with  his  subject 
come  again,  and  he  shall  win  the  holy  in  his  own  realm.  And  this  doleful  letter 
cross.  I  will  not  say  it  shall  be  so,  but  i5  that  my  lord,  Sir  Gawaine,  hath  sent  me 
rather  Twill  say:  here  in  this  world  he  afore  his  death,  praying  me  to  see  his 
changed  his  life.  But  many  men  say  that  tomb,  wit  you  well  his  doleful  words  shall 
there  is  written  upon  his  tomb  this  verse:  never  go  from  mine  heart,  for  he  was  a 
Hie  jacct  Arthurus,  Rex  quondam,  Rex-  full  noble  knight  as  ever  was  born ;  and 
que  futurus  [Here  lies  Arthur,  king  20  in  an  unhappy  hour  was  I  born  that  ever 
once,  and  king  to  be].  Thus  leave  I  here  I  should  have  that  unhap  to  slay  first  Sir 
Sir  Bedivere  with  the  hermit,  that  dwelled  Gawaine,  Sir  Gaheris  the  good  knight, 
that  time  in  a  chapel  beside  Glastonbury,  and  mine  own  friend  Sir  Gareth,  that 
and  there  was  his  hermitage.  And  so  full  noble  knight.  Alas,  I  may  say  I 
they  lived  in  their  prayers,  and  fastings,  ^5  am  unhappy,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  '  that 
and  great  abstinence.  ever    I    should    do    thus    unhappily,    and, 

And  when  Queen  Guenever  understood  '  alas,  yet  might  I  never  have  hap  to  slay 
that  King  Arthur  was  slain,  and  all  the  that  traitor.  Sir  Mordred.'  '  Leave  your 
noble  knights.  Sir  Mordred  and  all  the  complaints,'  said  Sir  Bors,  '  and  first  re- 
remnant,  then  the  queen  stole  away,  and  30  venge  you  of  the  death  of  Sir  Gawaine ; 
five  ladies  with  her,  and  so  she  went  to  and  it  will  be  well  done  that  ye  see  Sir 
Almesbury;  and  there  she  let  make  her-  Gawaine's  tomb,  and  secondly  that  ye  re- 
self  a  nun,  and  ware  white  clothes  and  venge  my  lord  Arthur,  and  my  lady, 
black,  and  great  penance  she  took,  as  ever  Queen  Guenever.'  '  I  thank  you,'  said 
did  sinful  lady  in  this  land,  and  never  35  Sir  Launcelot,  '  for  ever  ye  will  my  wor- 
creature  could  make  her  merry ;  but  lived  ship.'  Then  they  made  them  ready  in  all 
in  fasting,  prayers,  and  alms-deeds,  that  the  haste  that  might  be,  with  ships  and 
all  manner  of  people  marveled  how  virtu-  galleys,  with  Sir  Launcelot  and  his  host 
ously  she  was  changed.  Now  leave  we  to  pass  into  England.  And  so  he  passed 
Queen  Guenever  in  Ahnesbury,  a  nun  in  40  over  the  sea  till  he  came  to  Dover,  and 
white  clothes  and  black,  and  there  she  was  there  he  landed  with  seven  kings,  and  the 
abbess  and  ruler,  as  reason  would;  and  number  was  hideous  to  behold.  Then  Sir 
turn  we  from  her,  and  speak  we  of  Sir  Launcelot  spered  of  men  of  Dover  where 
Launcelot  du  Lake.  was  King  Arthur  become.     Then  the  peo- 

45  pie  told  him  how  that  he  was  slain,  and 

CHAPTER  VIII  Sir    Mordred    and    an    hundred    thousand 

died  on  a  day;  and  how  Sir  Mordred  gave 

HOW   WHEN    SIR  LAUNCELOT   HEARD  OF  THE  j^j          ^^^,^^J    ^j^^^^    ^j^^    ^^^^    ^^^^j^    ^^  ^.^ 

DEATH     OF     KING     ARTHUR,     AND     OF     SIR  j^^JJ           ^,^^j   ^,^^^^   ^^^^             _^   g;^    Gawaine 

GAWAINE,  AND  OTHER  MATTERS,   HE  CAME  j.^j        ''^^^^^     ^^^      ^j^^      ^^^-^^^      gj^     Mordred 

INTO  ENGLAND                                                                  '  r          i,        -.i     .1       i  •                       d      u           T-. 

fought  With  the  king  upon  barham  Down, 
And  when  he  heard  in  his  country  that  and  there  the  king  put  Sir  Mordred  to  the 
Sir  Mordred  was  crowned  king  in  Eng-  worse.  '  Alas,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  '  this 
land,  and  made  war  against  King  Arthur,  is  the  heaviest  tidings  that  ever  came  to 
his  own  father,  and  would  let  him  to  land  55  me.  Now,  fair  sirs,'  said  .Sir  Launce- 
in  his  own  land;  also  it  was  told  Sir  lot,  'shew  me  the  tomb  of  Sir  Gawaine.' 
Launcelot  how  that  Sir  Mordred  had  laid  And  then  certain  people  of  the  town 
siege  about  the  Tower  of  London,  because      brought  him  into  the  Castle  of  Dover,  and 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR  29 


shewed  him  the  tomb.  Then  Sir  Launce-  she  swooned  thrice,  that  all  the  ladies 
lot  kneeled  down  and  wept,  and  prayed  and  gentlewomen  had  work  enough  to 
heartily  for  his  soul.  And  that  night  he  hold  the  queen  up.  So  when  she  might 
made  a  dole,  and  all  they  that  would  speak,  she  called  ladies  and  gentlewomen 
come  had  as  much  flesh,  fish,  wine  and  5  lo  her,  and  said :  *  Ye  marvel,  fair  ladies, 
ale,  and  every  man  and  woman  had  twelve  why  I  make  this  fare.  Truly,'  she  said, 
pence,  come  who  would.  Thus  with  his  '  it  is  for  the  sight  of  yonder  knight  that 
own  hand  dealt  he  this  money,  in  a  yonder  standelh ;  wherefore  I  pray  you 
mourning  gown;  and  ever  he  wept,  and  all  call  him  to  me.'  When  Sir  Launcelot 
prayed  them  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  Sir  10  was  brought  to  her,  then  she  said  to  all 
Gawaine.  And  on  the  morn  all  the  the  ladies :  '  Through  this  man  and  me 
])riests  and  clerks  that  might  be  gotten  in  hath  all  this  war  been  wrought,  and  the 
the  country  were  there,  and  sang  mass  of  death  of  the  most  noblest  knights  of  the 
Requiem;  and  there  offered  first  Sir  Laun-  world;  for  through  our  love  that  we  have 
celot,  and  he  offered  an  hundred  pound;  15  loved  together  is  my  most  noble  lord 
and  then  the  seven  kings  offered  forty  slain.  Therefore,  Sir  Launcelot,  wit  thou 
pound  apiece ;  and  also  there  was  a  thou-  well  I  am  set  in  such  a  plight  to  get  my 
sand  knights,  and  each  of  them  offered  a  soul-heal ;  and  yet  I  trust  through  God's 
pound ;  and  the  offering  dured  from  morn  grace  that  after  my  death  to'  have  a  sight 
till  night,  and  Sir  Launcelot  lay  two  20  of  the  blessed  face  of  Christ,  and  at 
nights  on  his  tomb  in  prayers  and  weep-  doomsday  to  sit  on  his  right  side,  for  as 
ing.  Then  on  the  third  day  Sir  Launcelot  sinful  as  ever  I  was  are  saints  in  heaven, 
called  the  kings,  dukes,  earls,  barons,  and  Therefore,  Sir  Launcelot,  I  require  thee 
knights,  and  said  thus :  '  My  fair  lords,  I  and  beseech  thee  heartily,  for  all  the  love 
thank  you  all  of  your  coming  into  this  ^5  that  ever  was  betwixt  us,  that  thou  never 
country  with  me,  but  we  came  too  late,  see  me  more  in  the  visage;  and  I  com- 
and  that  shall  repent  me  while  I  live,  but  mand  thee,  on  God's  behalf,  that  thou 
against  death  may  no  man  rebel.  But  forsake  my  company,  and  to  thy  kingdom 
sithen  it  is  so,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  '  I  will  thou  turn  again,  and  keep  well  thy  realm 
myself  ride  and  seek  my  lady,  Queen  3°  from  war  and  wrack;  for  as  well  as  I  have 
Guenever,  for  as  I  hear  say  she  hath  had  loved  thee,  mine  heart  will  not  serve  me 
great  pain  and  much  disease;  and  I  heard  to  see  thee,  for  through  thee  and  me  is 
say  that  she  is  fled  into  the  West.  There-  the  flower  of  kings  and  knights  destroyed; 
fore  ye  all  shall  abide  me  here,  and  but  therefore.  Sir  Launcelot,  go  to  thy  realm, 
if  I  come  again  within  fifteen  days,  then  35  and  there  take  thee  a  wife,  and  live  with 
take  your  ships  and  your  fellowship,  and  her  with  joy  and  bliss;  and  I  pray  thee 
depart  into  your  country,  for  I  will  do  as  heartily,  pray  for  me  to  our  Lord  that  I 
I  say  to  you.'  may  amend  my  misliving.'     '  Now,  sweet 

madam,'    said    Sir   Launcelot,    *  would    ye 

CHAPTER  IX  40  that  I  should  now  return  again  unto  my 

HOW    SIR    LAUNCELOT    DEPARTED    TO    SEEK      ^ountry,  and  there  to  wed  a  lady  ?     Nay, 

THE     QUEEN     GUENEVER,     AND     HOW     HE        "^^^f  ^'  ,^'!    ^P"    W^"    ^hat    sha  I    I    never 

FOUND  HER  AT  ALMESBURY  ^°' /°^,  \  f  ^"  never  be  SO  false  to  you 

ot   that   1   have   promised;   but   the   same 

Then  came  Sir  Bors  de  Ganis,  and  45  destiny  that  ye  have  taken  you  to,  I  will 
said :  '  My  lord,  Sir  Launcelot,  what  take  me  unto^  for  to  please  Jesu,  and  ever 
think  ye  for  to  do,  now  to  ride  in  this  for  you  I  cast  me  specially  to  pray.'  '  If 
realm  ?  wit  ye  well  ye  shall  find  few  thou  wilt  do  so,'  said  the  queen,  '  hold  thy 
friends,'  '  Be  as  be  may,'  said  Sir  Laun-  promise,  but  I  may  never  believe  but  that 
celot,  '  keep  you  still  here,  for  I  will  5o  thou  wilt  turn  to  the  world  again.'  *  Well, 
forth  on  my  journey,  and  no  man  nor  madam,'  said  he,  'ye  say  as  pleaseth  you[ 
child  shall  go  with  me.'  So  it  was  no  yet  wist  you  me  never  false  of  my  prom- 
boot  to  strive,  but  he  departed  and  rode  ise,  and  God  defend  but  I  should  forsake 
westerly,  and  there  he  sought  a  seven  or  the  world  as  ye  have  done.  For  in  the 
eight  days ;  and  at  the  last  he  came  to  a  55  quest  of  the  Sangreal  I  had  forsaken  the 
nunnery,  and  then  was  Queen  Guenever  vanities  of  the  world  had  not  your  lord 
ware  of  Sir  Launcelot  as  he  walked  in  the  been.  And  if  I  had  done  so  at  that  time, 
cloister.     And   when   she   saw   him   there      with  my  heart,  will,  and  thought,  I  had 


30 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


passed   all   the   knights   that   were   in   the  Thus   the   great   host   abode   at    Dover. 

Sangreal  except  Sir  Galahad,  my  son.  And  then  Sir  Lionel  took  fifteen  lords 
And  therefore,  lady,  sithen  ye  have  taken  with  him,  and  rode  to  London  to  seek  Sir 
you  to  perfection,  I  must  needs  take  me  to  Launcclot;  and  there  Sir  Lionel  was  slain 
perfection,  of  right.  For  I  take  record  of  5  and  many  of  his  lords.  Then  Sir  Bors 
God,  in  you  I  have  had  mine  earthly  joy;  de  Ganis  made  the  great  host  for  to  go 
and  if  I  had  found  you  now  so  disposed,  home  again;  and  Sir  Bors,  Sir  Ector  de 
I  had  cast  to  have  had  you  into  mine  Maris,  Sir  Blamore,  Sir  Bleoberis,  with 
own  realm.  more  other  of  Sir  Launcelot's  kin,  took  on 

10  them  to  ride  all  England  overthwart  and 

endlong,  to  seek  Sir  Launcelot.  So  Sir 
CHAPTER  X  Bors  by  fortune  rode  so  long  till  he  came 

to  the  same  chapel  where   Sir  Launcelot 

HOW    SIR    LAUNCELOT    CAME    TO    THE    HER-        ^^^         ^^^    ^^    5.^    3^^^    ^^^^^    ^    j-^^j^    ^^jj 
MITAGE      WHERE      THE      ARCHBISHOP      OF  ^^  j^^^^jj      ^j^^^  ^^    ^^^^         ^^^    ^j^^^.^    ^^ 

CANTERBURY    WAS,     AND     HOW     HE    TOOK        ^jj^j^^^^      ^^^      ^^^^^      ^^^^^      ^^^      ^^^^ 
THE   HABIT  ON   HIM  ^^53    ^^g    ^^^^^    ^j^^    l^j^j^^p^     gjj.    L^unce- 

'  But  sitheo  I  find  you  thus  disposed,  I  lot,  and  Sir  Bedivere,  came  to  Sir  Bors. 
ensure  you  faithfully,  I  will  ever  take  me  And  when  Sir  Bors  saw  Sir  Launcelot  in 
to  penance,  and  pray  while  my  life  last-  20  that  manner  clothing,  then  he  prayed  the 
eth,  if  I  may  find  any  hermit,  either  gray  Bishop  that  he  might  be  in  the  same  suit, 
or  white,  that  will  receive  me.  Where-  And  so  there  was  an  habit  put  upon  him, 
fore,  madam,  I  pray  you  kiss  me  and  and  there  he  lived  in  prayers  and  fasting, 
never  no  more.'  '  Nay,'  said  the  queen,  And  within  half  a  year,  there  was  come  Sir 
'  that  shall  I  never  do,  but  abstain  you  25  Galihud,  Sir  Galihodin,  Sir  Blamore,  Sir 
from  such  works ; '  and  they  departed.  Bleoberis,  Sir  Villiars,  Sir  Clarras,  and 
But  there  was  never  so  hard  an  hearted  Sir  Gahalantine.  So  all  these  seven  no- 
man  but  he  would  have  wept  to  see  the  ble  knights  there  abode  still.  And  when 
dolor  that  they  made ;  for  there  was  lam-  they  saw  Sir  Launcelot  had  taken  him  to 
entation  as  they  had  been  stung  with  30  such  perfection,  they  had  no  lust  to  de- 
spears ;  and  many  times  they  swooned,  part,  but  took  such  an  habit  as  he  had. 
and  the  ladies  bare  the  queen  to  her  cham-  Thus  they  endured  in  great  penance  six 
her.  years;   and  then   Sir  Launcelot  took  the 

And  Sir  Launcelot  awoke,  and  went  habit  of  priesthood  of  the  bishop,  and  a 
and  took  his  horse,  and  rode  all  that  day  35  twelvemonth  he  sang  mass.  And  there 
and  all  night  in  a  forest,  weeping.  And  was  none  of  these  other  knights  but  they 
at  the  last  he  was  ware  of  an  hermitage  read  in  books,  and  holp  for  to  sing  mass, 
and  a  chapel  stood  betwixt  two  cliffs;  and  and  rang  bells,  and  did  bodily  all  manner 
then  he  heard  a  little  bell  ring  to  mass,  of  service.  And  so  their  horses  went 
and  thither  he  rode  and  alighted,  and  tied  40  where  they  would,  for  they  took  no  regard 
his  horse  to  the  gate,  and  heard  mass.  of  no  worldly  riches.  For  when  they  saw 
And  he  that  sang  mass  was  the  Bishop  Sir  Launcelot  endure  such  penance,  in 
of  Canterbury.  Both  the  bishop  and  Sir  prayers,  and  fastings,  they  took  no  force 
Bedivere  knew  Sir  Launcelot,  and  they  what  pain  they  endured,  for  to  see  the  no- 
spake  together  after  mass.  But  when  Sir  45  blest  knight  of  the  world  take  such  ab- 
Bedivere  had  told  his  tale  all  whole.  Sir  stinence  that  he  waxed  full  lean.  And 
Launcelot's  heart  almost  brast  for  sorrow,  thus  upon  a  night,  there  came  a  vision  to 
and  Sir  Launcelot  threw  his  arms  abroad.  Sir  Launcelot,  and  charged  him,  in  re- 
and  said:  'Alas,  who  may  trust  this  mission  of  his  sins,  to  haste  him  unto 
world.'  And  then  he  kneeled  down  on  50  Almesbury :  'And  by  then  thou  come 
his  knee,  and  prayed  the  bishop  to  shrive  there,  thou  shalt  find  Queen  Guenever 
him  and  assoil  him.  And  then  he  be-  dead.  And  therefore  take  thy  fellows 
sought  the  bishop  that  he  might  be  his  with  thee,  and  purvey  them  of  an  horse 
brother.  Then  the  bishop  said :  '  I  will  bier,  and  fetch  thou  the  corpse  of  her, 
gladly  ' ;  and  there  he  put  an  habit  upon  55  and  bury  her  by  her  husband,  the  noble 
Sir  Launcelot,  and  there  he  served  God  King  Arthur.'  So  this  avision  came  to 
day  and  night  with  prayers  and  fastings.      Sir  Launcelot  thrice  in  one  night. 


LE  MORTE  D' ARTHUR  31 


CHAPTER  XI  and   awaked   him,   and   said:     'Ye   be   to 

blame,    for    ye    displease    God    with    such 

SEVEN      FELLOWS      TO      ALMESBURY,      AND 


HOW  SIR  LAUNCELOT  WENT  WITH  HIS  manner  of  sorrow-making.'  '  Truly,'  said 
FOUND  THERE  QUEEN  GUENEVER  DEAD,  Sir  Launcelot, J  I  trust  I  do  not  displease 
WHOM  THEY  BROUGHT  TO  GLASTONBURY  ^  ^od,    for  he   knoweth   mine   mtent.     For 

my  sorrow  was  not,  nor  is  not,  for  any 
Then  Sir  Launcelot  rose  up  or  day,  rejoicing-  of  sin,  but  my  sorrow  may  never 
and  told  the  hermit.  '  It  were  well  done,'  have  end.  For  when  I  remember  of  her 
said  the  hermit,  '  that  ye  made  you  ready,  beauty,  and  of  her  noblesse,  that  was  both 
and  that  you  disobey  not  the  avision.'  10  with  her  king  and  with  her,  so  when  I 
Then  Sir  Launcelot  took  his  seven  fellows  saw  his  corpse  and  her  corpse  so  lie  to- 
with  him,  and  on  foot  they  yede  from  gether,  truly  mine  heart  would  not  serve 
Glastonbury  to  Almesbury,  the  which  is  to  sustain  my  careful  body.  Also  when  I 
little  more  than  thirty  mile.  And  thither  remember  me  how  by  my  default,  mine 
they  came  within  two  days,  for  they  were  15  orgulity,  and  my  pride,  that  they  were 
weak  and  feeble  to  go.  And  when  Sir  both  laid  full  low,  that  were  peerless  that 
Launcelot  was  come  to  Almesbury  within  ever  was  living  of  christian  people,  wit 
the  nunnery.  Queen  Guenever  died  but  you  well,'  said  Sir  Launcelot,  '  this  re- 
half  an  hour  afore.  And  the  ladies  told  membered,  of  their  kindness  and  mine  un- 
Sir  Launcelot  that  Queen  Guenever  told  20  kindness,  sank  so  to  mine  heart,  that  I 
them  all  or  she  passed,  that  Sir  Launce-  might  not  sustain  myself.'  So  the  French 
lot  had  been  priest  near  a  twelvemonth,  book  maketh  mention. 
'  And  hither  he  cometh  as  fast  as  he  may 

to  fetch  my  corpse ;  and  beside  my  lord,  CHAPTER  XII 

King  Arthur,  he  shall  bury  me.'     Where-  25 

fore  the  queen  said  in  hearing  of  them  all :  «°^  ^^«  launcelot  began  to  sicken,  anl 
'I    beseech    Almighty    God    that    I    may  after  died,  whose  body  was  borne  to 

1  /  c-     T  1  i.         joyous  card  for  to  be  buried 

never   have   power  to   see   Sir   Launcelot         j^'^^^^  ^^^  j^"«- 

with  my  worldly  eyes.'     *  And  thus,'  said  Then  Sir  Launcelot  never  after  ate  but 

all  the  ladies,  '  was  ever  her  prayer  these  3o  little  meat,  ne  drank,  till  he  was  dead, 
two  days,  till  she  was  dead.'  Then  Sir  For  then  he  sickened  more  and  more,  and 
Launcelot  saw  her  visage,  but  he  wept  dried,  and  dwined  away.  For  the  bishop 
not  greatly,  but  sighed.  And  so  he  did  all  nor  none  of  his  fellows  might  not  make 
the  observance  of  the  service  himself,  both  him  to  eat,  and  little  he  drank,  that  he  was 
the  Dirigc,  and  on  the  morn  he  sang  mass.  35  waxen  by  a  cubit  shorter  than  he  was,  that 
And  there  was  ordained  an  horse  bier;  the  people  could  not  know  him.  For  ever- 
and  so  with  an  hundred  torches  ever  bren-  more,  day  and  night,  he  prayed,  but  some- 
ning  about  the  corpse  of  the  queen,  and  time  he  slumbered  a  broken  sleep ;  ever  he 
ever  Sir  Launcelot  with  his  seven  fellows  was  lying  groveling  on  the  tomb  of  King 
went  about  the  horse  bier,  singing  and  40  Arthur  and  Queen  Guenever.  And  there 
reading  many  an  holy  orison,  and  frankin-  was  no  comfort  that  the  bishop,  nor  Sir 
cense  upon  the  corpse  incensed.  Thus  Bors,  nor  none  of  his  fellows,  could  make 
Sir  Launcelot  and  his  seven  fellows  went  him,  it  availed  not.  So  within  six  weeks 
on  foot  from  Almesbury  unto  Glastonbury,  after.  Sir  Launcelot  fell  sick,  and  lay  in 
And  when  they  were  come  to  the  chapel  45  his  bed;  and  then  he  sent  for  the  Bishop 
and  the  hermitage,  there  she  had  a  Dirigc,  that  there  was  hermit,  and  all  his  true 
with  great  devotion.  And  on  the  morn,  fellows.  Then  Sir  Launcelot  said  with 
the  hermit  that  sometime  was  Bishop  of  dreary  steven :  '  Sir  Bishop,  I  pray  you 
Canterbury  sang  the  mass  of  Requiem  give  to  me  all  my  rites  that  longeth  to  a 
with  great  devotion.  And  Sir  Launcelot  5o  christian  man.'  '  It  shall  not  need  you,' 
was  the  first  that  offered,  and  then  also  said  the  hermit  and  all  his  fellows,  '  it 
his  seven  fellows.  And  then  she  was  is  but  heaviness  of  your  blood ;  ye  shall 
wrapped  in  cered  cloth  of  Raines,  from  be  well  mended  by  the  grace  of  God  to- 
the  top  to  the  toe,  in  thirtyfold;  and  after  morn.'  'My  fair  lords,'  said  Sir  Laun- 
she  was  put  in  a  web  of  lead,  and  then  in  55  celot,  'wit  you  well  my  careful  body  will 
a  coffin  of  marble.  And  when  she  was  into  the  earth,  I  have  warning  more  than 
put  in  the  earth,  Sir  Launcelot  swooned,  now  I  will  say;  therefore  give  me  my 
and  lay  long  still,  while  the  hermit  came      rites.'     So    when    he    was    houseled    and 


32  SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 


ancaled,  and  had  all  that  a  christian  man      so  lie  with  open  visage  till  that  they  were 
ought  to  have,  he  prayed  the  bishop  that      buried.     And  right  thus  as  they  were  at 
his  fellows  might  bear  his  body  to  Joyous      their    service,    there    came    Sir    Ector   dc 
(Jard.     Some    men    say    it    was    Alnwick,      Maris,    that    had    seven   years    sought    all 
and   some   men   say   it   was    Bamborough.   5  England,    Scotland,    and    Wales,    seeking 
'  iiowtjeit,'    said    Sir    Launcelot,    'me    re-      his  brother.  Sir  Eauncclot. 
pentcth  sore,  but  I  made  mine  avow  some- 
time,   that    in    Joyous    Gard    I    would    be  CHAPTER  xill 
buried.     And  because  of  breaking  of  mine 

avow,  I  pray  you  all,  lead  me  thither.'  lo  "ow  sir  ector  found  sir  launcelot  his 
Then    there    was   weeping   and   wringing  ^'^otuer  dead,  and  how   constantine 

of  hands  among  his  fellows.  ^^^^^^^   ^^-^'^   ^^^'^-^   Arthur;   and  of 

So  at  a  season  of  the  night  they  all  went  ^"^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^0°^ 

to  their  beds,  for  they  all  lay  in  one  cham-  And  when  Sir  Ector  heard  such  noise 

ber.  And  so  after  midnight,  against  day,  i5  and  light  in  the  quire  of  Joyous  Gard,  he 
the  bishop  [that]  then  was  hermit,  as  he  alighted  and  put  his  horse  from  him,  and 
lay  in  his  bed  asleep,  he  fell  upon  a  great  came  into  the  quire,  and  there  he  saw 
laughter.  And  therewith  all  the  fellow-  men  sing  and  weep.  And  all  they  knew 
ship  awoke,  and  came  to  the  bishop,  and  Sir  Ector,  but  he  knew  not  them.  Then 
asked  him  what  he  ailed.  '  Ah,  Jesu  20  went  Sir  Bors  unto  Sir  Ector,  and  told 
mercy,'  said  the  bishop,  *  why  did  ye  him  how  there  lay  his  brother.  Sir  Laun- 
awake  me?  I  was  never  in  all  my  life  celot,  dead;  and  then  Sir  Ector  threw  his 
so  merry  and  so  well  at  ease.'  '  Where-  shield,  sword,  and  helm  from  him.  And 
fore?'  said  Sir  Bors.  'Truly,'  said  the  when  he  beheld  Sir  Launcelot's  visage, 
bishop,  '  here  was  Sir  Launcelot  with  me  25  he  fell  down  in  a  swoon.  And  when  he 
with  more  angels  than  ever  I  saw  men  in  waked,  it  were  hard  any  tongue  to  tell  the 
one  day.  And  I  saw  the  angels  heave  up  doleful  complaints  that  he  made  for  his 
Sir  Launcelot  unto  heaven,  and  the  gates  brother.  '  Ah  Launcelot,'  he  said,  '  thou 
of  heaven  opened  against  him.'  '  It  is  but  were  head  of  all  christian  knights,  and 
dretching  of  swevens,'  said  Sir  Bors,  '  for  30  now  I  dare  say,'  said  Sir  Ector,  '  thou  Sir 
I  doubt  not  Sir  Launcelot  aileth  nothing  Launcelot,  there  thou  liest,  that  thou  were 
but  good.'  '  It  may  well  be,'  said  the  never  matched  of  earthly  knight's  hand. 
Bishop ;  '  go  ye  to  his  bed,  and  then  shall  And  thou  were  the  courteoust  knight  that 
ye  prove  the  sooth.'  So  when  Sir  Bors  ever  bare  shield.  And  thou  were  the 
and  his  fellows  came  to  his  bed,  they  35  truest  friend  to  thy  lover  that  ever 
found  him  stark  dead,  and  he  lay  as  he  bestrad  horse.  And  thou  were  the  tru- 
had  smiled,  and  the  sweetest  savor  about  est  lover  of  a  sinful  man  that  ever 
him  that  ever  they  felt.  loved  woman.     And  thou  were  the  kindest 

Then  was  there  weeping  and  wringing  man  that  ever  struck  with  sword.  And 
of  hands,  and  the  greatest  dole  they  made  40  thou  were  the  goodliest  person  that  ever 
that  ever  made  men.  And  on  the  morn  came  among  press  of  knights.  And  thou 
the  bishop  did  his  mass  of  Requiem;  and  was  the  meekest  man  and  the  gentlest 
after,  the  bishop  and  all  the  nine  knights  that  ever  ate  in  hall  among  ladies.  And 
put  Sir  Launcelot  in  the  same  horse  bier  thou  were  the  sternest  knight  to  thy  mor- 
that  Queen  Guenever  was  laid  in  to-fore  45  tal  foe  that  ever  put  spear  in  the  rest.' 
that  she  was  buried.  And  so  the  bishop  Then  there  was  weeping  and  dolor  out 
and  they  all  together  went  with  the  body      of  measure. 

of  Sir  Launcelot  daily,  till  they  came  to  Thus  they  kept  Sir  Launcelot's  corpse 

Joyous  Gard;  and  ever  they  had  an  bun-  aloft  fifteen  days,  and  then  they  buried  it 
drcd  torches  brenning  about  him.  And  so  5o  with  great  devotion.  And  then  at  leisure 
within  fifteen  days  they  came  to  Joyous  they  went  all  with  the  Bishop  of  Canter- 
CJard.  And  there  they  laid  his  corpse  in  bury  to  his  hermitage,  and  there  they  were 
the  body  of  the  quire,  and  sang  and  read  together  more  than  a  month.  Then  Sir 
many  psalters  and  prayers  over  him  and  Constantine,  that  was  Sir  Cador's  son  of 
about  him.  And  ever  his  visage  was  laid  55  Cornwall,  was  chosen  king  of  England, 
open  and  naked,  that  all  folks  might  be-  And  he  was  a  full  noi)le  knight,  and  wor- 
hold  him.  For  such  was  the  custom  in  shipfully  he  ruled  this  realm.  And  then 
those  days,  that  all  men  of  worship  should      this  King  Constantine  sent  for  the  Bishop 


LE  MORTE  D'ARTHUR  33 


)£  Canterbury,  for  he  heard  say  where  he  Round  Table,  that  uhen  they  zvere  zvliolc 
vas.  And  so  he  was  restored  unto  his  together  there  was  ever  an  hundred  and 
)ishopric,  and  left  that  hermitage.  And  forty.  And  here  is  the  end  of  the  death 
sir  Bedivere  was  there  ever  still  hermit  of  Arthur.  I  pray  yon  all,  gentlemen  and 
his  life's  end.  Then  Sir  Bors  de  5  gentlewomen  that  readeth  this  book  of 
janis,  Sir  Ector  de  Maris,  Sir  Gahalan-  Arthur  and  his  knights,  from  the  begin- 
ine.  Sir  Galihud,  Sir  Galihodin,  Sir  ning  to  the  ending,  pray  for  me  while  I 
31amore,  Sir  Bleoberis,  Sir  Villiars  le  am  alive,  that  God  send  me  good  deliver- 
/aliant,  Sir  Clarrus  of  Clermont,  all  these  ance,  and  zvhen  I  am  dead,  I  pray  you  all 
:nights  drew  them  to  their  countries.  10  pray  for  my  soul.  For  this  book  zvas 
lowbeit  King-  Constantine  would  have  ended  the  ninth  year  of  the  reign  of  King 
lad  them  with  him,  but  they  would  n''t  Edward  the  Fourth,  by  Sir  Thomas  Ma- 
hide  in  this  realm.  And  there  they  all  leore,  knight,  as  Jesu  help  him  for  his 
ived  in  their  countries  as  holy  men.  great  might,  as  he  is  the  servant  of  Jesu 
Vnd  some  English  books  make  mention  15  both  day  and  night. 
hat  they  went  never  out  of  England  after 

ihe  death  of  Sir  Launcelot,  but  that  was  Thus  endeth  this  noble  and  joyous  book 

ut  favor  of  makers.  For  the  French  entitled  Le  Morte  Darthur.  Notwith- 
00k  maketh  mention,  and  is  authorized,  standing  it  treateth  of  the  birth,  life,  and 
lat  Sir  Bors,  Sir  Ector,  Sir  Blamore,  20  acts  of  the  said  King  Arthur,  of  his  noble 
nd  Sir  Bleoberis,  went  into  the  Holy  knights  of  the  Round  Table,  their  marvel- 
-and  thereas  Jesu  Christ  was  quick  and  ous  enquests  and  adventures,  the  achiev- 
ead,  and  anon  as  they  had  stablished  ing  'of  the  Sangreal,  and  in  the  end  the 
leir  lands.     For  the  book  saith,   so  Sir      dolorous  death  and  departing  out  of  this 

auncelot  commanded  them  for  to  do,  or  25  zvorld  of  them  all.  Which  book  zvas  re- 
vet he   passed   out  of  this   world.     And      duced  into  English  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory, 

lese  four  knights  did  many  battles  upon      knight,  as  afore  is  said,  and  by  me  divided 

le  miscreants  or  Turks.  And  there  they  into  tzventy-one  books,  chaptered  and  en- 
lied  upon  a  Good  Friday  for  God's  sake.  printed,  and  finished  in  the  abbey,  West- 
minster, the  last  day  of  July,  the  year  of 
I  Here  is  the  end  of  the  book  of  King      our  Lord  MCCCCLXXXV. 

rthur,  and  of  his  noble  knights  of  the  Caxton  me  fieri  fecit. 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID  (c.  1500) 

This  charming  anonymous  l.vrio,  wortliy  in  ilsclf  of  a  conspicuous  place  in  any  survey  of 
English  i)oetry,  serves 'significantly  as  a  link  between  an  earlier  and  a  later  period.  In  its 
suggestion  of  the  '  d6bat '  form,  it  recalls  the  middle  ages;  in  versification  and  sentiment,  it  is 
definitely  modern. 


THE   NUTBROWNE   MAIDE 

'  Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among  on 

women  do  complaine, 
Aft'ermyng    this,    how    that    it    is    a    labour 

spent  in  vaine 
To  love  them  wele,   for  never   a  dele   they 

love  a  man  agayne; 
For  lete  a  man  do  what  he  can  ther  favour 

to  attayne, 
Yet  yf  a  newe  do  them   pursue,  ther   furst 

trew  lover  than  5 

Laboureth  for  nought,  and  from  her  thought 

he   is    a    bannished   man.' 

'  I  say  not  nay  but  that  all  day  it  is  bothe 

writ  and  sayde 
That   woman's    fayth    is,   as   who    sayth,    all 

utterly  decayed  ; 
But  nevertheless,  right  good  witnes  in  this 

case  might  be  layde, 
That  they  love  trewe  and  contynew, —  recorde 

the  Nutbrowne  Maide,  lo 

Whiche   from  her  love,  whan,  her  to  prove, 

he  cam  to  make  his  mone, 
Wolde  not  departe,  for  in  her  herte  she  lovyd 

but  hym  allone.' 

'  Than  betwene  us  lete  us  discusse  what  was 

all  the  maner 
Betwene  them  too,  we  wyl  also  telle  all  the 

peyne  and  fere 
That  she  was  in.     Now  I  begynne,  see  that 

ye  me  answere.  'S 

Wherefore   [all]   ye  that  present  be,  I  pray 

you  geve  an  eare. 
I  am  a  knyght,  I  cum  be  nyght,  as  secret  as 

I   can, 
Sayng,  "  Alas !  thus  stondyth  the  case :  I  am 

a  bannisshed   man."  ' 

'And   T   your  wylle    for  to   fulfylle,   in   this 
wyl  not  refuse, 


Trusting  to  shewe,  in  wordis  fewe,  that  men 

have  an  ille  use,  2° 

To  ther  owne  shame   wymen   to  blame,  and 

causeles  them  accuse. 
Therfore  to  you  I  answere  now,  alle  wymen 

to  excuse : 
"  Myn  own  hert  dere,  with  you  what  chiere? 

I  prey  you  telle  anoon  ; 
For   in   my   mynde   of   all   mankynde   I   love 

but  you  allon." ' 

'  It  stondith  so,  a  deed  is  do  wherof  moche 

harme  shal  growe.  25 

My  desteny  is  for  to  dey  a  shamful  dethe, 

I  trowe. 
Or  ellis  to  flee;  the  ton  must  bee,  none  other 

wey  I  knowe 
But  to  withdrawe  as  an  outlaw  and  take  me 

to  my  bowe. 
Wherfore,  adew,  my  owne  hert  trewe,  none 

other  red  I  can  ; 
For  I  muste  to  the  grene  wode  goo,  alone, 

a    bannysshed    man.'  30 

'  O  Lorde,  what  is  this  worldis  blisse,  that 
chaungeth  as  the  mone? 

My  somers  day  in  lusty  May  is  derked  be- 
fore the  none. 

I  here  you  saye  "  farwel ;  "  nay,  nay,  we  de- 
parte not  soo  sone. 

Why  say  ye  so?  wheder  wyl  ye  goo?  alas! 
what  have  ye  done? 

Alle  my  welfare  to  sorow  and  care  shulde 
chaunge  if  ye  were  gon  ;  35 

For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love 
but  you  alone.' 

'  I  can   beleve   it  shal  you  greve,   and   som- 

what  you  distrayne ; 
But  aftyrwarde  your  paynes  harde  within  a 

day  or  tweyne 
Shal   sone  aslake,  and  ye  shal  take  confort 
!  to   you   agayne. 

34 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID 


35 


Why  shuld  ye  nought?  for  to  take  thought, 
your  labur  were  in  vayne.  4o 

And  thus  I  do,  and  pray  you,  too,  as  hertely 
as  I  can ; 

For  I  muste  too  the  grene  wode  goo,  alone, 
a  bannysshed  man.' 

'  Now  syth  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me  the 

secret  of  your  mynde, 
I   shalbe  playne  to  you  agayne,  lyke  as   ye 

shal  me  fynde; 
Syth  it  is  so  that  ye  wyll  goo,  I  wol  not  leve 

behynde;  45 

Shal    never    be    sayd   the    Nutbrowne    Mayd 

was  to  her  love  unkind. 
Make  you  redy,  for  soo  am  I,  all  though  it 

were  anoon ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  Yet   I   you   rede  to   take  good  hede,   what 

men  wyl  thinkc  and  sey ; 
Of  yonge  and  olde  it  shal  be  told  that  ye  be 

gone  away,  5° 

Your  wanton  wylle  for  to  fulfylle,  in  grene 

wood  you  to  play. 
And   that   ye   myght    from  your   delyte   noo 

lenger  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  shuld  thus  for  me  be  called 

an    ylle    woman. 
Yet  wolde  I  to  the  grenewodde  goo,  alone, 

a  banysshed  man.' 

'  Though    it    be    songe    of    olde    and    yonge 

that  I  shuld  be  to  blame,  55 

Theirs  be  the  charge  that  speke  so  large  in 

hurting  of  my  name; 
For  I  wyl  prove  that  feythful  love  it  is  de- 

voyd  of  shame, 
In    your    distresse    and    hevynesse    to    parte 

wyth  you  the   same ; 
And   sure   all   thoo  that  doo  not   so,  trewe 

lovers  ar  they  noon ; 
But   in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde   I   love 

but  you   alone.'  6o 

'I   counsel   yow,   remembre   how   it   is   noo 

maydens  lawe 
Nothing  to  dought,  but  to  renne  out  to  wod 

with  an  outlawe ; 
For   ye   must   there   in   your   hande    here    a 

bowe  to  here  and  drawe, 
And  as  a  theef  thus  must  ye  lyeve  ever  in 

drede  and  awe, 
By  whiche  to  yow  gret  harme  myght  grow ; 

yet  had  I  lever  than  65 

That  I  had  too  the  grenewod  goo,  alone,  a 

banysshyd  man.' 


'  I  thinke  not  nay,  but  as  ye  saye,  it  is  noo 

maydens  lore ; 
But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake,  as  ye 

have   said   before, 
To  com  on  fote,  to  hunte  and  shote  to  gete 

us  mete  and   store ; 
For  soo  that   I  your  company  may  have,   I 

aske  noo   more  ;  70 

From  whiche  to  parte,  it  makith  myn  herte 

as  colde  as  ony  ston ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  For  an  outlawe  this  is  the  lawe,  that  men 

hym  take  and  binde, 
Wythout    pytee   hanged    to    bee,    and    waver 

wyth  the  wynde. 
Yf  I  had  neede,  as  God  forbede,  what  res- 

cous  coude  ye  findc?  75 

For  sothe  I  trowe,  you  and  your  bowe  shuld 

drawe  for  fere  behynde; 
And  noo  merveyle,  for  lytel  avayle  were  in 

your   councel    than  ; 
Wherfore  I  too  the  woode  wyl  goo,  alone, 

a  banysshed  man.' 

'  Ful  wel  knowe  ye  that  wymen  bee  ful  febyl 

for  to  fyght; 
Noo   womanhed   is   it   indeede   to   bee  bolde 

as   a  knight ;  80 

Yet  in  suche  fere  yf  that  ye  were,  amonge 

enemys  day  and  nyght, 
I  wolde  wythstonde,  with  bowe  in  hande,  to 

greeve  them  as  I  myght, 
And  you  to  save,  as  wymen  have,  from  deth 

many  one; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  Vet  take  good  hede,  for  ever  I  drede  that 

ye  coude  not  sustein  85 

The    thorney    wayes,    the    depe    valeis,    the 

snowe,  the  frost,  the  reyn. 
The  colde,  the  hete ;   for,  drye  or  wete,  we 

must  lodge  on  the  playn. 
And,  us  aboove,  noon  other  rove  but  a  brake, 

bussh,  or  twayne ; 
Whiche  sone  shulde  greve  you,  I  beleve,  and 

ye  wolde  gladly  than 
That   I   had  too  the  grenewode  goo,   alone, 

a   banysshyd   man.'  90 

'  Syth  I  have  here  been  partynere  with  you 

of  joy  and  blysse. 
I  muste  also  parte  of  your  woo  endure,  as 

reason  is; 
Yet  am  I  sure  of  00  plesure,  and  shortly  it 

is  this, 


36 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID 


That    where    ye    bee,    mc    semeth,    perde,    1 

coiide  not  fare  aniyssc. 
Wythoiit  more  spcchc,  I  you  bcsechc  that  we 

were  soon  agonc  ;  95 

For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  Yf  ye  goo  thedyr,  ye  must  consider,  whan 

ye  have  lust  to  dyne, 
Ther    shel    no    mete    be    fore    to    getc,    nor 

drinke,  here,  ale,  ne  wine, 
Ne  shctis  clene  to  lye  betwene,  made  of  throd 

and   twyne, 
Noon  other  house  but   Icvys  and  bowes,  to 

kever  your  hed  and  myn.  '°° 

Loo!  myn  herte  swete,  this  ylle  dyet  shuld 

make  you  pale  and  wan ; 
Wherfore  I  to  the  wood  wyl  goo,  alone,  a 

banysshid   man.' 

*  Amonge  the   wylde  dere   suche   an   archicr 

as  men  say  that  ye  bee 

Ne  may  not  fayle  of  good  vitayle,  where  is 
so  grete  plcnte ; 

And  watir  cleere  of  the  ryvere  shal  be  ful 
swete  to  me,  '°5 

Wyth  whiche  in  hele  I  shal  right  wele  en- 
dure, as  ye  shal  see ; 

And,  er  we  goo,  a  bed  or  too  I  can  provide 
anoon  ; 

For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 
you  alone.' 

*  Loo !  yet  before  ye  must  doo  more,  yf  ye 

wyl  goo  with  me, — 
As   cutte   your   here   up   by   your   ere,   your 

kirtel   by   the  knee,  "o 

Wyth  bowe  in  handc,  for  to  withstonde  your 

enmys,  yf  ncde  be, 
And    this    same    nyght    before    daylight    to 

woodward  wyl   I   flee ; 
And  if  ye  wyl  all  this  fulfylle,  doo  it  shortely 

as  ye  can ; 
Ellis  wil   I  to  the  grenewode  goo,   alone,  a 

banysshyd  man.' 

'  I  shal,  as  now,  do  more  for  you  than  long- 
eth  to  womanhede,  ^^s 

To  short  my  here,  a  bowe  to  here  to  shote 
in  tyme  of  nede. 

O  my  swete  moder,  before  all  other,  for  you 
have  I  most  drede ; 

But  now  adiew !  I  must  ensue,  whcr  for- 
tune duth  me  leede : 

All  this  make  ye;  now  lete  us  flee,  the  day 
cums    fast    upon  ; 

l'"nr  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 
you    alone.'  ''" 


'  Nay,   nay,   not   soo,   ye   shal   not  goo !    and 

I  shal  telle  you  why : 
Your  appctyte  is  to  be  lyght  of  love,  I  wele 

aspic ; 
For  right  as  ye  have  sayd   to  mc,  in  lyke- 

wise  hardely 
Ye    wolde   answere,    whosoever    it    were,    in 

way   of  company. 
It  is  sayd  of  olde,  "  sone  hole,  sonc  colde," 

and  so  is  a  woman  ;  '^s 

Wherfore  I  too  the  woode  wyl  goo,  alone, 

a  banysshid  man.' 

'  Yef  ye  take  hcde,  yet  is  noo  nede,   suche 

wordis  to  say  bee  me. 
For  oft  ye  preyd,  and  longe  assayed,  or  I 

you  lovid,  perde ! 
And    though    that    I    of   auncestry   a   barons 

doughter   bee, 
Yet   have  you   proved   how   I    you   loved,   a 

squyer    of   lowe   degree,  '3o 

And  ever  shal,  what  so  bcfalle,  to  dey  ther- 

fore  anoon  ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  A  barons  childe  to  be  begyled,  it   were  a 

curssed  dede, 
To    be    felaw    with    an    outlawe,    almyghty 

God  forbede ! 
Yet  bettyr   were  the  power   squyer  alone  to 

forest  yede,  '35 

Than  ye  shal  saye,  another  day,  that  be  my 

wyked  dede 
Ye    were    betrayed;    wherfore,    good    inaide, 

the  best  red  that  I  can. 
Is  that  I  too  the  greenewode  goo,  alone,  a 

banysshcd  man.' 

'  Whatsoever   befalle,    I    never    shal    of    this 

thing  you   upbraid ; 
But  yf  ye  goo  and   leve  me   so,  than  have 

ye   me   betraied.  '4o 

Remembre  you  wele  how  that  ye   dele,   for 

yf  ye,  as  ye  sayde. 
Be    so    unkynde   to    leve   behynd   your    love. 

the   Notbrowne  Maide, 
Trust  me  truly  that  I  shal  dey  sone  after  ye 

be  gone ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  Yef  that  ye  went,  ye  shulde  repent,  for  in 
the    forest    now  '43 

I  have  purveid  mc  of  a  maidc,  whom  I  love 
more    than   you, — 

.A.nother  fayrer  than  ever  ye  were,  I  dare 
it  wel  avowe ; 


I 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID 


37 


And  of  you  bothe,  eche  shulde  be  wrothe  with 

other,  as  I  trowe. 
It  were  myn  ease  to  lyve  in  pease ;   so  wyl 

I,  yf  I  can  ; 
Wherfore  I  to  the  wode  wyl  goo,  alone,  a 

banyssbid  man.'  'So 

'Though  in  the  wood  I  undirstode  ye  had  a 

paramour, 
All  this  may  nought  remeve  my  thought,  Init 

that  I  wil  be  your ; 
And  she  shal  fynde  me  soft  and  kynde,  and 

curteis  every  our. 
Glad    to    fulfylle    all    that    she    wylle    com- 

maunde  me,  to  my  power ; 
For  had  ye,  loo!  an  hundred  moo,  yet  wolde 

I  be  that  one;  155 

For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  Myn  oune  dere  love,  I  see  the  prove  that  ye 

be  kynde  and  trewe; 
Of  mayde  and  wyf,  in  all  my  lyf,  the  best 

that  ever  I  knewe ! 
Be  mery  and  glad,  be  no  more  sad,  the  case 

is  chaunged  newe ; 
For  it  were  ruthe  that  for  your  trouth  you 

shuld  have  cause  to  rewe.  160 

Be  not  dismayed,  whatsoever  I  sayd,  to  you 

whan   I  began, 
I  wyl  not  too  the  grenewod  goo,  I  am  noo 

banysshyd  man.' 

'Theis  tidingis  be  more  glad  to  me  than  to 
be  made  a  queue, 


Yf  I  were  sure  they  shuld  endure ;  but  it  is 

often   seen, 
When   men  wyl  breke   promyse,  they   speke 

the  wordis  on  the  splene.  "65 

Ye  shape  some  wyle,  me  to  begyle,  and  stele 

fro  me,  I  wene. 
Then  were  the  case  wurs  than  it  was,  and  I 

more  woo-begone ; 
For  in  my  mynde  of  all  mankynde  I  love  but 

you  alone.' 

'  Ye  shall  not  nede  further  to  drede,  I  wyl 

not  disparage 
You,  God  dcfcnde,  sith  you  descende  of  so 

grete  a  lynage.  170 

Nou  understonde,  to  Westmerlande,  whiche 

is   my  herytage, 
I  wyle  you  bringe,  and  wyth  a  rynge,  be  wey 

of  maryage, 
I   wyl  you  take,  and  lady  make,  as  shortly 

as  I  can ; 
Thus  have  ye  wone  an  erles  son,  and  not 

a  banysshyd  man.' 

Here   may  ye    see   that   wymen    be    in   love 

meke,  kinde,  and  stable,  '75 

Late  never  man  repreve  them  than,  or  calle 

them   variable, 
But  rather  prey  God  that  we  may  to  them 

be  confortable, 
Whiche  somtyme  provyth  suche  as  he  loveth, 

yf  they  be  charitable. 
For  sith  men   wolde  that  wymen   sholde  be 

meke  to  them  echeon, 
Moche  more  ought   they  to  God   obey,   and 

serve   but  hym  alone.  180 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 

The  popular  ballad  is  a  short,  anouyuious  poem,  in  simple  meter,  recouuting  a  simple  narra- 
tive, and  adapted,  originally,  for  singing  to  a  recurrent  melody.  The  true  ballad  shows  no 
traces  of  individual  authorship:  the  story  is  told  impersonally,  without  a  suggestion  of  senti- 
ment or  reflection  from  the  story-toller.  Ballads  originate  in  a  naive,  homogeneous  community, 
and  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  they  are  composed  not  by  any  individual,  but  by  tiie  com- 
munity as  a  whole.  Ballads  are  to  be  thought  of  as  beginning,  ultimately  and  normally,  in 
a  choral  throng,  in  which,  to  the  accompaniment  of  dancing  and  singing,  one  person  after 
another  contributes  an  improvised  verse,  couplet,  or  short  stanza  to  a  simple  but  ever  increas- 
ing story.  The  story  grows  by  'incremental  repetition';  that  is,  in  his  improvisation,  each 
singer  in  succession  both  repeats  a  part  of  the  preceding  improvisation  and  adds  to  the  story 
a  new  element  of  his  own.  After  contributing  their  bits  to  the  narrative,  the  several  singers 
disappear  as  individuals,  leaving  as  a  result  a  simple  narrative  poem,  which  is  henceforth 
regarded  as  the  composition  not  of  one  person  or  of  particular  persons,  but  of  the  gathering 
as  a  whole.  Although  such  a  process  of  composition  can  be  secui'ely  inferred,  no  extant  ballad 
shows  so  simple  a  form  as  would  result  immediately  from  such  communal  authorship.  Since 
all  true  ballads  are  transmitted  orally,  variations  in  style  and  alterations  of  the  narrative  are 
inevitable;  and  the  hand  of  a  dominating  individual  may  often  be  inferred.  A  large  propor- 
tion of  the  ballads  actually  preserved  do,  however,  bear  unmistakable  marks  of  their  ultimate 
choral  and  community  origin,  and  all  ballads  worthy  of  the  name  are  the  actual  possession  of 
the  folk  as  a  whole. 

From  the  fact  that  ballads  are  transmitted  orally,  and  are  committed  to  writing  only  by 
happy  accident,  the  body  of  preserved  and  published  ballads  of  any  people  will  represent, 
inevitably,  only  a  small  proportion  of  the  whole  sum  of  ballads  produced  during  the  history 
of  that  people.  The  English  language,  including  Scottish,  is  fortunate  in  the  preservation 
of  at  least  three  hundred  and  six  ballads.  Although  the  greater  part  of  these  ballads  are 
recorded  only  in  comparatively  modern  documents,  many  of  the  stories  themselves  are  of  very 
ancient  origin.  The  oldest  English  ballad  completely  recorded  dates  from  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. The  most  important  of  ballad  manuscrijits, —  the  so-called  Percy  Folio, —  was  written 
about  the  year  1050.  Only  some  eleven  of  our  ballads  are  preserved  in  documents  older  than 
the  seventeenth  century. 

On  the  theory  of  '  communal  authorship  '  one  can  readily  explain  the  chief  formal  charac- 
teristics of  popular  ballads  :   refrain,  repetition,  and  dialogue. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF 
GISBORNE 

1.  When  shawes  beene  sheene,  and  shradds 

full  fayre, 
And  leeves  both  large  and  longe, 
It  is  merry,  walking  in  the  fayre  fforrest, 
To  hearc  the  small  birds  songe. 

2.  The    woodweele    sang,    and    wold    not 

cease,  5 

Amongst   the   leaves   a   lyne ; 
And  it  is  by  two  wight  yeomen. 
By  dearc   God,  that   I  meane. 

3.  *  Me    thought    they    did    mee   beate    and 

binde, 
And   tonke  my  bowe  mee  froe ;  10 


If  I  bee  Robin  alive  in  this  lande, 
rie  be  wrocken  on  both  them  towe.' 

4.  '  Sweavens     are     swift,     master,'     quoth 

John, 
'  As  the  wind  that  blowes  ore  a  hill ; 
Ffor  if  itt  be  never  soe  lowde  this  night, 
To-morrow  it  may  be  still.'  16 

5.  '  Buske  yee,  bowne  yee,  my  merry  men 

all, 
Ffor  John  shall  goe  with  mee; 
For  rie  goe  seeke  yond  wight  yeomen 
In  greenwood  where  they  bee.'  20 

6.  They  cast  on  their  gowne  of  greene, 

A  shooting  jrone  are  they. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNE 


39 


Untill   they    came    to    the    merry   green- 
wood, 
Where  they  had  gladdest  bee ; 
There  were  they  ware  of  a  wight  yeo- 
man, -25 
His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 

7.  A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his 

side, 
Had  beene  many  a  mans  banc, 
And  he  was  cladd  in  his  capiiU-hydc, 
Topp,  and  tayle,  and  mayne.  30 

8.  '  Stand    you    still,    master,'    quoth    Litle 

John, 
'  Under  this  trusty  tree, 
And  I  will  goe  to  yond  wight  yeoman, 
To   know   his  meaning  trulye.' 

9.  '  A,  John,  by  me  thou  setts  noe  store,  35 

And    that's   a    ffarley   thinge ; 

How  oiTt  send  I  my  men  beffore. 

And    tarry   my-selfe    behinde? 

10.  '  It  is  noe  cunning  a  knave  to  ken ; 

And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake      4° 
And    itt    were    not   for   bursting   of   my 
bowe, 
John,  I  wold  thy  head  breake.' 

11.  But  often  words  they  breeden  bale; 

That  parted  Robin  and  John. 
John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale,  45 

The  gates  he  knowes  eche  one. 

12.  And  when  hee  came  to   Barnesdale, 

Great  heavinesse  there  hee  hadd ; 
He  flfound  two  of  his  fellowes 
Were  slaine  both  in  a  slade,  so 

13.  And  Scarlett  a-ffoote  flyinge  was, 

Over   stockes   and  stone. 
For  the   sheriffe  with   seven   score  men 
Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

14.  '  Yett  one  shoote  I'le  shoote,'  sayes  Litle 

John,  55 

'  With   Crist  his  might  and  mayne ; 
I'le  make  yond  fellow  that  flyes  soe  fast 
To  be  both  glad  and   fifaine.' 

15.  John  bent  up  a  good  veiwe  bow, 

And   ffetteled   him   to   shoote ;  60 

The  bow  was  made  of  a  tender  boughe, 
And   fell   downe  to  his   foote. 


16.  '  Woe   worth   thee,    wicked   wood,' 
Litle   John, 


sayd 


'  That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree ! 
Ffor  this  day  thou  art  my  bale,  65 

My  boote  when  thou  shold  bee ! ' 

17.  This    shoote   it   was   but   looselye   shott. 

The  arrowe   flew   in   vaine, 
And   it  mctt   one  of  the  sheriffes  men ; 
Good  William  a  Trent  was  slaine.     7° 

18.  It  had  beene  better  for  William  a  Trent 

To  hange  upon  a  gallowe 
Then   for   to   lye   in  the  greenwoode, 
There  slaine   with  an  arrowe. 

19.  And  it  is  sayd,  when  men  be  mett,       7S 

Six  can  doe  more  then  three : 
And  they  have  tane  Litle  John, 
And  bound  him   fifast  to  a  tree. 

20.  '  Thou    shalt    be    drawen    by    dale    and 

downe,'    quoth    the    sheriffe, 
'  And  hanged  hye  on  a  hill :  '  80 

'  But  thou  may  fifayle,'  quoth  Litle  John, 
'  If  itt  be  Christs  owne  will.' 

21.  Let  us  leave  talking  of  Litle  John, 

For  hee  is  bound  fast  to  a  tree, 
And  talke  of  Guy  and  Robin  Hood     ^s 
In  the  green  woode  where   they   bee. 

22.  How    these    two    yeomen    together    they 

mett. 
Under  the  leaves   of  lyne, 
To  see  what  marchandise  they  made 
Even  at  that   same  time.  90 

2T,.  '  Good  morrow,  good  fellow,'  quoth  Sir 
Guy; 
'  Good    morrow,    good    fifellow,'    quoth 
hee; 
'  Methinkes  by  this  bow  thou  beares  in 
thy   hand, 
A  good  archer  thou  seems  to  bee.' 

24.  '  I    am   wilfuU    of    my    way,'    quoth    Sir 

Guye,  95 

'  And  of  my  morning  tyde  :  ' 
'  I'le  lead  thee  through  the  wood,'  quoth 

Robin, 
'  Good  ffellow,  I'le  be  thy  guide.' 

25.  '  I  seeke  an  outlaw,'  quoth  Sir  Guye, 

'Men   call   him   Robin    Hood;  100 

I  had  rather  meet  with  him  upon  a  day 
Than   forty  pound  of  golde.' 

26.  'If    you    tow    mett,    itt    wold    be    scene 

whether  were  better 


40 


EN(iLlSlI  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


Afore  yec  did  part  awaye ; 
Let  us  some  other  pastime  find,  '"S 

Good  tTcllow,  I  thee  pray. 

27.  'Let  us  some  otlicr  mastcrycs  make, 

And  wee  will  walkc  in  the  woods  even ; 

Wee  may  chance  meet  with  Robin  Hoodc 

Att   some   unsctt   steven.'  "o 

28.  They    cutt    them     downc    the    summer 

shroggs 
Which  grew  both  under  a  bryar, 
And  sett  them  three  score  rood  in  twinn, 
To  shoote  the  prickes   full  neare. 

29.  'Leade  on,  good  ffellow,'  sayd  Sir  Guye, 

'Lead  on,  I  doe  bidd  thee:'  J'S 

'  Nay,  by  my  faith,'  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
'  The   leader  thou   shalt  bee.' 

30.  The  first  good  shoot  that  Robin  Icdd, 

Did    not    shoote    an    inch    the    pricke 
fierce ; 
Guy  was  an  archer  good  enoughe,       i-i 
But  he  cold  neere  shoote  soe. 

31.  The  second  shoote  Sir  Guy  shott. 

He  shott  within  the  garlande; 
But    Robin   Hoode    shott   it   better   then 
bee,  '^5 

For  he  clove  the  good  pricke-wande. 

32.  '  Gods    blessing    on    thy    heart ! '    sayes 

Guye, 
'  Goode  fifellow,  thy  shooting  is  goode ; 
For  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy  hands, 
Thou   were  better  then  Robin   Hood. 

:i3.  'Tell  me  thy  name,  good  fifellow,'  quoth 
Guy,  '^' 

'  Under  the  leaves  of  lyne  : ' 
'  Nay,  by  my  faith,'  quoth  good  Robin, 
'  Till  thou  have  told  me  thine.' 

34.  '  I    dwell    by    dale    and    downe,'    quoth 

Guye,  '-^^ 

'  And  I  have  done  many  a  curst  turne ; 

And    he    that    calles    me    by    my    right 

name, 
Calles  me  Guye  of  good  Gysborne.' 

35.  '  ]\ly    dwelling    is    in    the    wood,'    sayes 

Robin ; 
'  By   thee   I   set   right  nought ;  '40 

My  name  is  Rol)in  Hood  of  Barncsdale, 
A  fifellow   thou  has  long  sought.' 


36.  He   that    had   neither   beene  a  kithe   nor 

kin 
Might  have  scene  a  full  fayrc  sight. 
To     see     how     together     these     yeomen 

went,  145 

With  blades  both  brownc  and  bright; 

37.  To    have    scene    how    these   yeomen    to- 

gether fought 
Two  howers  of  a  summers  day; 
lit  was  neither  Guy  nor   Robin   Hood 
That  ffettled  them  to  flye  away.         J5o 

38.  Robin  was   reacheles  on   a  roote, 

And   stumbled   at   that  tyde. 
And  Guy  was  quicke  and  nimble  withall, 
And  hitt  him  ore  the  left  side. 

39.  'Ah,   deere  Lady!'   sayd   Robin   Hoode, 

'Thou  art  both  mother  and  may!    '56 
I    thinke    it   was   never   mans   destinye 
To  dye  before  his  day.' 

40.  Robin  thought  on  Our  Lady  deere, 

And   soone   leapt   up   againe,  160 

And   thus    he   came   with    an   awkwarde 
stroke ; 
Good  Sir  Guy  hee  has  slayne. 

41.  He  tooke  Sir  Guys  head  by  the  hayre. 

And  sticked  itt  on  his  bowes  end : 
'  Thou  hast  beene  traytor  all  thy  liffe. 
Which  thing  must  have  an  ende.'     '66 

42.  Robin    pulled    forth    an    Irish    kniffe. 

And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  fiface, 
"Phat  hee  was  never  on  a  woman  borne 
Cold  tell  who  Sir  Guye  was.  '70 

43.  Sales,    '  Lye   there,    lye   there,   good    Sir 

Guye, 
And    with    me   be    not    wrothe; 
H  thou  have  had  the  worse  stroakcs  at 

my   hand. 
Thou  shalt  have  the  better  cloathe.' 

44.  Robin  did  off  his  gowne  of  greene,     i7S 

Sir  Guye  hee  did  it  throwe; 

And  hee  put  on  that  capuU-hyde 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 

45.  '  The  bowe,  the  arrowes,  and  litle  home. 

And  with  me  now  I'le  beare;  '^^'^ 

Ffor  now  I  will  goe  to  Barnesdale 
To  see  how  my  men  doe  ffare.' 

46.  Robin  sett  Guycs  home  tn  his  nmulli. 

A  lowd  blast  in  it  he  did  blow  ; 


ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL 


41 


That    beheard    the    sheriffe   of    Notting- 
ham, '8s 
As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe. 

47.  '  Hearken  !   hearken  ! '  sayd  the   sheriffe, 

'  I  heard  noe  tydings  but  good ; 
For    yonder    I    heare    Sir    Guyes    home 
blowe, 
For  he  hath  slaine  Robin  Hoode.     190 

48.  '  For  yonder   I   heare   Sir   Guyes   home 

blow, 
Itt  blowes  soe  well  in  tyde, 
For  yonder  comes  that   wighty  yeoman, 
Cladd   in  his   capull-hyde. 

49.  '  Come  hither,  thou   good   Sir  Guy, 

Aske   of  mee   what   thou   wilt   have :  ' 
*  rie    none    of    thy    gold,'    sayes    Robin 
Hood,  197 

'  Nor  rie  none  of  itt  have. 

50.  '  But  now  I  have  slaine  the  master,'  he 

sayd, 
'  Let  me  goe  strike  the  knave ;  200 

This  is  all  the  reward  I  aske, 
Nor  noe  other  will  I  have.' 

51.  'Thou  art  a  madman,'  said  the  shiriffe, 

'  Thou    sholdest    have    had    a    knights 
ffee; 
Seeing  thy  asking  hath  beene  soe  badd, 
Well  granted  it  shall  be.'  206 

52.  But  Litle  John  heard  his  master  speake. 

Well  he  knew  that  was  his  steven  ; 
'  Now  shall  I  be  loset,'  quoth  Litle  John, 
'With   Christs   might   in   heaven.'     21° 

53.  But   Robin  hee  hyed  him  towards  Litle 

John, 
Hee    thought     hee     wold     loose     him 
bclive ; 
The   sherifife  and   all   his   companye 
Fast  after  him  did  drive. 

54.  '  Stand    abacke !     stand    abacke ! '     sayd 

Robin;  215 

'Why  draw  you  mee  soe  neere? 
Itt  was  never  the  use  in  our  counlrye 
Ones    shrift    another   shold   heere.' 

55  But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irysh  knifife, 
And  losed  John  hand  and  fifoote,     220 
And    gave    him    Sir    Guyes    bow    in   his 
hand. 
And  bade  it  be  his  boote. 


56.  But  John  tooke  Guyes  bow  in  his  hand — 

His    arrowes    were    rawstye    by    the 
roote ; 
The    sherriffe    saw    Litle    John    draw    a 
bow  22s 

And   ffcttle  him   to   slioote. 

57.  Towards    his    house    in    Nottingam 

He   ffled   full    fast  away. 
And  soe  did  all  his  companye, 

Not  one  behind  did  stay.  230 

58.  But   he   cold   neither    soe   fast   goe, 

Nor   away   soe    fast    runn^ 
But  Litle  John,  with  an   arrow  broade. 
Did   cleave  his   heart   in   twinn. 


ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND 
BURIAL 

1.  When   Robin  Hood   and  Little  John 

Down  a  down  a  down  a  down 
Went   oer  yon   bank  of  broom. 

Said  Robin  Hood  bold  to  Little  John, 
'  We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound.'         5 

Hey  down,  a  down,  a  down. 

2.  '  But  I   am  not  able  to   shoot  one  shot 

more. 
My  broad  arrows  will  not  flee ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below. 
Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me.'         Jo 

3.  Now  Robin  he  is  to  fair  Kirkly  gone. 

As   fast  as   he  can   win ; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear. 
He  was  taken  very  ill. 

4.  And  when  he  came  to  fair  Kirkly-hall, 

He  knockd  all  at  the  ring,  '6 

But   none    was    so    ready   as   his   cousin 
herself 
For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

5.  '  Will    you    please    to    sit    down,    cousin 

Robin,'   she   said, 
'And  drink  some  beer  with  me?'     20 
'  No,   I   will  neither   eat  nor   drink, 
Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee.' 

6.  '  Well,    I    have    a    room,    cousin    Robin,' 

she    said, 
'  Which  you  did  never  see, 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein,       25 
You  blooded  by  me  shall  be.' 


42 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


7.  She  took   him  by  the  lily-white  hand, 

And   led   him   to  a  private   room, 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood, 
While  one  drop   of  blood  would    run 
down.  3" 

8.  She  blooded  him  in  a  vein  of  the  arm, 

And  locked  him  up  in  the  room ; 
Then  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day. 
Until   the   next   day   at   noon. 

9.  He  then   bethought  him  of  a  casement 

there,  3S 

Thinking  for  to  get  down ; 
But  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 
He  could  not  get  him  down. 

10.  He   then   bethought    him    of    his    bugle- 

horn. 
Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee ;    40 
He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth. 
And  blew   out  weak  blasts  three. 

11.  Then   Little  John,   when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  a  tree, 
'  I  fear  my  master  is  now  near  dead,    45 
He  blows  so  wearily.' 

12.  Then  Little  John  to  fair  Kirkly  is  gone, 

As   fast  as  he  can  dree; 
But   when   he   came   to    Kirkly-hall, 
He  broke  locks  two  or  three  :  5° 

13.  Until  he  came  bold  Robin  to  see, 

Then   he   fell   on  his   knee ; 
'A  boon,  a  boon,'  cries  Little  John, 
'  Master,   I  beg  of  thee.' 

14.  '  What  is  that  boon,'  said  Robin  Hood, 

'Little  John,  thou  begs  of  me?'        56 
'It   is   to  burn   fair   Kirkly-hall, 
And  all  their  nunnery.' 

15.  '  Now  nay,  now  nay,'  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

'That  boon  I  '11  not  grant  thee;         60 
I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  lif?. 
Nor  men  in  woman's  company. 

16.  '  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Nor  at  mine  end  shall  it  be; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand,  65 

And  a  broad  arrow  I  '11  let  Hee 
And  where  this   arrow  is  taken  up. 

There    shall    my   grave   digged   be. 

17.  *  Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head. 

And  another  at  my  feet;  7° 


And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side. 
Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 

And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green. 
Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

18.  'Let     me     have     length     and     breadth 

enough,  75 

With  a  green  sod  under  my  lieacl ; 
That  they  may  say,  when  I  am  dead. 
Here  lies  bold   RoImu  Hood.' 

19.  These  words  they  readily  granted  him, 

Which  did  bold  Robin  please :  ^° 

And  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Within  the  fair  Kirkleys. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  OTTERBURN 

1.  Yt  felle  abowght  the  Lamasse  tyde. 

Whan  husbondcs  Wynnes  ther  haye. 
The   dowghtye    Dowglasse   bowynd   hym 
to  ryde, 
In  Ynglond  to  take  a  praye. 

2.  The  yerlle  of  Fyffe,  wythowghten  stryffe. 

He  bowynd  hym  over  Sulway ;  6 

The  grete  wolde  ever  to-gethcr  ryde; 
That  raysse  they  may  rewe  for  aye. 

3.  Over  Hoppertope  hyll  they  cam  in, 

And  so  down  by  Rodclyffe  crage ;       'o 
Upon  Grene  Lynton  they  lighted  dowyn, 
Styrande  many  a  stage. 

4.  And  boldely  brente   Northomberlond, 

And   haryed   many   a   towyn ; 
They     dyd     owr     Ynglyssh     men     grete 
w  range,  '5 

To  battell  that  were  not  bowyn. 

5.  Then  spake  a  berne  upon  the  bent. 

Of  comforte  tliat  was  not  colde, 
And   sayd,   '  We   have  brente   Northom- 
berlond, 
We  have  all  welth  in  holde.  -° 

6.  '  Now    we   have   haryed   all   Bamborowc 

schyre, 
All  the  welth  in  the  worlde  have  wee ; 
I  rede  we  ryde  to  Newe  Castell, 
So   styll    and    stalworthlye.' 

7.  Upon  the  morowc,  when  it  was  day,       25 

The  standerds  schone  fulle  bryght ; 
To  the  Newe  Castell  tliey  toke  the  waye. 
And   thethcr  they  cam   full   ryght. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  OTTERBURN 


43 


8.  Syr    Henry    Perssy    laye    at    the    New 
Castell, 
I  tell  yow  wythowtten  drede ;  3° 

He  had  byn  a  march-man  all  hys  dayes, 
And  kepte   Barwyke  upon  Twede. 

g.  To  the  Newe  Castell  wlien  they  cam, 
The  Skottes  they  cryde  on  hyght, 
'  Syr     Hary     Perssy,     and     thow     byste 
within,  35 

Com  to  the  fylde,  and  fyght. 

10.  '  For  we  have  brente  Northomberlonde, 

Thy  erytage  good  and  ryght, 
And  syne  my  logeyng  I  have  take, 
Wyth     my    brande    dubbyd     many     a 
knyght.'  40 

11.  Syr  Harry  Perssy  cam  to  the  walles, 

The  Skottyssch  oste  for  to  se, 
And  sayd,  '  And  thow  hast  brente  North- 
omberlond, 
Full  sore  it  rewyth  me. 

12.  'Yf    thou    hast    haryed    all    Bamborowe 

schyre,  4S 

Thow  hast  done  me  grete  envye ; 
For  the  trespasse  thow  hast  me  done, 
The  tone  of  us  schall  dye.' 

13.  'Where    schall    I    byde    the?'    sayd    the 

Dowglas, 
'  Or  where  wylte  thow  com  to  me  ? '  so 
'  At  Otterborne,  in  the  hygh  way, 
Ther   mast   thow    well   logeed   be. 

14.  '  The  roo  full  rekeles  ther  sche  rinnes, 

To  make  the  game  and  glee; 
The  fawken  and  the  fesaunt  both,  ss 

Amonge  the  holtes  on  hye. 

15.  'Ther  mast  thow  have  thy  welth  at  wyll, 

Well  looged  ther  mast  be; 
Yt  schall  not  be  long  or  I  com  the  tyll,' 
Sayd  Syr  Harry  Perssye.  60 

16.  '  Ther  schall  I  byde  the,'  sayd  the  Dow- 

glas, 
'  By  the   fayth   of  my   bodye.' 
'  Thether  schall  I  com,'  sayd  Syr  Harry 
Perssy 
'  My  trowth  I  plyght  to  the.' 

17.  A  pype  of  wyne  he  gave  them  over  the 

walles,  65 

For  soth  as   I  yow  saye ; 
Ther  he  mayd  the  Dowglasse  drynke, 
And  all  hys  ost  that  daye. 


18.  The    Dowglas    turnyd    hym    homewarde 

agayne, 
For  soth  withowghten  naye ;  7o 

He  toke  his   logeyng  at  Oterborne, 
Upon  a  Wedynsday. 

19.  And  ther  he  pyght  hys  standerd  dowyn, 

Hys   gettyng  more   and   lesse. 
And  syne  he  warned  hys  men  to  goo    75 
To  chose  ther  geldynges  gresse. 

20.  A    Skottysshe    knyght    hoved    upon    the 

bent, 
A  wache  I   dare  well  saye ; 
So  was  he  ware  on  the  noble  Perssy, 
In  the  dawnyng  of  tlie  daye.  80 

21.  Fie  pryckcd   to   hys   pavyleon-dore. 

As  faste  as  he  myghl  ronne ; 
'  Awaken,  Dowglas,'  cryed  the  knyght, 
'  For  hys  love  that  syttes  in  trone. 

22.  '  Awaken,  Dowglas,'  cryed  the  knyght,  85 

'  For  thow  maste  waken  wyth  wynnc  ; 
Yender  have  I  spyed  tlie  prowde  Perssye, 
And  seven   stondardes   wyth  hym.' 

23.  '  Nay  by  my  trowth,'  the  Dowglas  sayed, 

'  It  ys  but  a  fayned  taylle ;  9o 

He  durst  not  loke  on  my  brede  banner 
For  all  Ynglonde  so  haylle. 

24.  '  Was    I    not    ycsterdaye    at    the    Newe 

Castell, 
That  stondes  so  fayre  on  Tyne? 
For  all  the  men  the  Perssy  had,  95 

He  coude  not  garre  me  ones  to  dyne.' 

25.  He  stepped  owt  at  his  pavelyon-dore. 

To  loke  and  it  were  lesse: 
'  Araye  yow,  lordynges,  one  and  all, 
For  here  bygynnes  no  peysse.  1°° 

26.  '  The  yerle   of  IMentaye,    thow    arte   my 

eme, 
The  fowarde  I  gyve  to  the : 
The  yerlle  of  Huntlay,  cawte  and  kene. 
He  schall  be  wyth  the. 

27.  'The     lorde     of    Bowghan,     in     armure 

bryght,  '05 

On  the  other  hand  he  schall  be ; 
Lord  Jhonstoune  and  Lorde  Maxwell, 
They  to  schall  be  wyth  me. 

28.  '  Swynton,  fayre  fylde  upon  your  pryde ! 

To  batell  make  yow  bowen  ^'o 

Syr  Davy  Skotte.  Syr  Water  Stewarde, 
Syr  Jhon  of  Agurstone !  ' 


44 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


29.  The   Perssy  cam  byfore  hys   ostc, 

Wycli   was  ever  a  gentyll  knyght ; 
Upon  the  Uowglas  lowde  can  he  crye,  "5 
'  I  wyll  liolde  tliat  I  have  hyght. 

30.  '  For    tliou    haste    brente     Northomljer- 

londe, 
And  done  me  grete  envye ; 
For  thys  trespasse  thou  hast  me  done, 
The  tone  of  us  schall  dye.'  '-° 

31.  The  Dowglas  answer de  hym  agayne, 

VVyth  grett  wurdes  upon  hye, 
And   sayd,   '  I   have  twenty  agaynst  thy 
one, 
Byholde,  and  thou  maste  see.' 

32.  Wyth  that  the  Perssy  was  grevyd  sore, 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye;  ■-'^ 

He  lyghted  dowyn  upon  his  foote, 
And  schoote  hys  horsse  clene  awayc. 

33.  Every  man  sawe  that  he  dyd  soo, 

That  ryall  was  ever  in  rowght;        uo 
Every  man  schoote  hys  horsse  hym  froo, 
And  lyght  hym  rowynde  abowght. 

34.  Thus  Syr  Hary  Perssye  toke  the  fylde, 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye; 
Jhesu  Cryste  in  hevyn  on  hyght  '35 

Dyd  helpe  hym  well  that  daye. 

35.  But  nyne  thowzand,  ther  v^^as  no  moo, 

The  cronykle  wyll  not  layne ; 
Forty  thowsande  of  Skottes  and   fowre 
That  day  fowght  them  agayne.  ho 

36.  But  when  the  batell  byganne  to  joyne. 

In  hast  ther  cam  a  knyght; 
The  letters  fayre  furth  hath  he  tayne. 
And  thus  he  sayd  full  ryght: 

2,"].  '  My   lorde   your    father   he   gretes   yow 
well,  145 

Wyth  many  a  noble  knyght; 
He  desyres  yow  to  byde 
That  he  may  see  thys  fyght. 

38.  '  The  Baron  of  Grastoke  ys  com  out  of 

the  west, 
With  hym  a  noble  companye;  150 

All  they  loge  at  your  fathers  thys  nyght, 
And  the  batell  fayne  wolde  they  see.' 

39.  '  For     Jhesus     love,'     sayd     Syr     Harye 

Perssy, 
'That  dyed  for  yow  and  me, 
Wende  to  my  lorde  my  father  agayne,  '55 
And  saye  thow  sawe  me  not  with  yee. 


40.  '  My  trowth  ys  plyght  to  yonne  Skottysh 

knyght. 
It  nedes   me  not  to  layne. 
That  I  schulde  byde  hym  upon  thys  bent, 
And  I  have  hys  trowth  agayne.  '6° 

41.  '  And  if  that  I  weynde  of  thys  growende. 

For  soth,  onfowghten  awaye, 
He  wolde  me  call  but  a  kowarde  knyglit 
In  hys  londe  another  daye. 

42.  '  Yet  had  I  lever  to  be  rynde  and  rente, 

By  Mary,  that  mykkel  maye,  '66 

Then  ever  my  manhood  schulde  be   re- 
provyd 
Wyth  a  Skotte  another  daye. 

4.3.  '  Wherefore  schote,  archars,  for  my  sake. 
And  let  scharpe  arowcs   flee;  170 

Mynstrells,   playe   up   for  your   waryson. 
And  well  quyt  it  schall  bee. 

44.  '  Every  man  thynke  on  hys  trewe-love. 

And  marke  hym  to  the  Trenite; 
For  to  God  I  make  myne  avowe  '75 

Thys  day  wyll  I  not  flee.' 

45.  The  blodye  harte  in  the  Dowglas  armes, 

Hys  standerde  stood  on  hye, 
That  every  man  myght  full  well  knowe ; 
By  syde  stode  starres  thre.  'So 

46.  The  whyte  lyon  on  the  Ynglyssh  perte. 

For  soth  as  I  yow  sayne, 
The  lucettes  and  the  cressawntes  both ; 
The  Skottes  faught  them  agayne. 

47.  Upon  Sent  Androwe  lowde  can  they  crye, 

And  thrysse  they  schowte  on  hyght,  '86 
And   syne  merked  them  one  owr   Yng- 
lysshe  men. 
As  I  have  tolde  yow  ryght. 

48.  Sent    George    the    bryght,    owr    Ladyes 

knyglit, 
To  name  they  were  full  fayne;  190 

Owr  Ynglyssh  men  they  cryde  on  hyght, 
And  thrysse  the  schowtte  agayne. 

49.  Wyth  that  scharpe  arowes  bygan  to  flee, 

I  tell  yow  in  sertayne; 
Men  of  armes  byganne  to  joyne,  '95 

Many  a  dowghty  man  was  ther  slayne. 

50.  The  Perssy  and  the  Dowglas  mette. 

That  ether  of  other  was  fayne  ; 
They    swapped    togetlier    wliyll    that    the 
swette, 
Wyth  swordes  of  fyne  collayne :        200 


CAPTAIN  CAR  OR  EDOM  O  GORDON 


45 


51.  Tyll  the  bloode  from  ther  bassonnettes 

ramie, 
As  the  roke  doth  in  the  rayne ; 
'  Yelde  the  to  me,'  sayd  the  Dowglas, 
'  Or  elles  thow  schalt  be  slayne. 

52.  '  For  I  see  by  thy  bryght  bassonet,      205 

Thow  arte  sum  man  of  myght ; 
And  so  I  do  by  thy  burnysshcd  brande ; 
Thow  arte  an  yerle,  or  elles  a  knyght.' 

53.  '  By    my    good    faythe,'    sayd    the    noble 

Perssye, 
'Now  haste  thow  rede  full  ryght ;  2'° 
Yet  wyll  I  never  yelde  me  to  the, 
Whyll  I  may  stonde  and  fyght.' 

54.  They  swapped  together  whyll  that  they 

swette, 
Wyth  swordes   scharpe  and  long; 
Ych  on  other  so  faste  thee  bectte,       ~^s 
Tyll  ther  helmes  cam  in  peyses  dowyn. 

55.  The  Perssy  was  a  man  of  strenghth, 

I   tell   yow    in   thys   stounde ; 
He  smote   the   Dowglas  at  the  swordes 
length 
That  he  felle  to  the  growynde.         ~~° 

56.  The  sworde  was  scharpe,  and  sore  can 

byte, 
I  tell  yow  in  sertayne ; 
To  the  harte  he  cowde  hym  smyte, 
Thus    was    the    Dowglas    slayne. 

57.  The  stonderdes  stode  styll  on  eke  a  syde, 

Wyth  many  a  grevous  grone ;  ^^6 

Ther  they  fowght  the  day,  and  all  the 
nyght. 
And  many  a  dowghty  man  was  slayne. 

58.  Ther  was  no  freke  that  ther  wolde  flye, 

But  styffely  in  stowre  can  stond,     230 
Ychone    hewyng    on    other    whyll    they 
myght  drye, 
Wyth  many  a  baylleful  bronde. 

59.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Skottes  syde, 

For  soth  and  sertenly, 
Syr  James  a  Dowglas  ther  was  slayne. 
That  day  that  he  cowde  dye.  236 

60.  The  yerlle  of  Mentaye  he  was  slayne, 

Grysely  groned  upon  the  growynd ; 
Syr  Davy  Skotte.  Syr  Water  Stewarde, 
Syr  Jhon  of  Agurstoune.  240 

61.  Syr  Charlies  Morrey  in  that  place, 

That  never  a  fote  wold  flee : 


Syr  Hewe  Maxwell,  a  lord  he  was, 
Wyth  the  Dowglas  dyd  he  dye. 

62.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Skottes  syde, 

For  soth  as  I  yow  save,  246 

Of    fowre  and    forty  thowsande   Scottes 
Went  but  eyghtene  awaye. 

63.  Ther    was    slayne    upon    the    Ynglysshe 

syde. 
For  soth  and  sertenlye,  250 

A  gentell  knyght,  Syr  Jhon  Fechewe, 
Yt  was  the  more  pety. 

64.  Syr  James  Hardbotell  ther  was  slayne. 

For  hym  ther   hartes  were  sore ; 
The  gentyll  Lovell  ther  was  slayne,      255 
That  the  Ferssys  standerd  bore. 

65.  Ther  was  slayne  upon  the  Ynglyssh  perte, 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye. 
Of  nyne  thowsand  Ynglyssh  men 

Fvye  hondert  cam  awaye.  260 

66.  The  other  were  slayne  in  the  fylde ; 

Cryste  kepe  ther  sowlles  from  wo ! 
Seyng  ther  was  so  fewe  fryndes 
Agaynst  so  many  a  foo. 

67.  Then   on   the   morne   they   mayde   them 

beerys  265 

Of  byrch  and  haysell  graye ; 
Many  a  wydowe,  wyth  wepyng  teyres, 
Ther  makes  they  fette  awaye. 

68.  Thys  fraye  bygan  at  Otterborne, 

Bytwene  the  nyght  and  the  day ;        270 
Ther  the  Dowglas  lost  hys  lyflfe, 
And   the   Perssy  was  lede  awaye. 

69.  Then  was  ther  a  Scottysh  prisoner  tayne, 

Syr  Hewe  Mongomery  was  hys  name ; 

For  soth  as  I  yow  saye,  2-5 

He  borowed  the  Perssy  home  agayne. 

70.  Now  let  us  all  for  the  Perssy  praye 

To  Jhesu  most  of  myght. 
To   bryng   hys    sowlle   to   the   blysse   of 
heven. 
For  he  was  a  gentyll  knyght.  280 


CAPTAIN  CAR  OR  EDOM  O  GORDON 

I.  It  befell  at  Martynmas, 

When  wether  waxed  colde, 

Captaine  Care  said  to  his   men, 

'  We  must  go  take  a  holde.' 


46 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


Syck,  sikc,  and  to-towc  sikc,  s 

And  sike  and   like  to  die ; 

The  sikcst  niglite  that  ever  I  abode, 
God  Lord  have  mercy  on  me ! 

2.  '  Haille,  master,  and  wether  you  will. 

And  wether  ye  like  it  best ;  '  lo 

'  To  the  castle  of  Crecrynbroghe, 
And  there  we  will  take  our  reste.' 

3.  '  I  knowe  whcr  is  a  gay  castle, 

Is  builded  of  lyme  and  stone; 
Within  their  is  a  gay  ladie,  'S 

Her  lord  is  riden  and  gone.' 

4.  The  ladie  she  lend  on  her  castle-walle, 

She  loked  upp  and  downe; 
There  was  she  ware  of  an  host  of  men, 
Come  riding  to  the  towne.  20 

5.  '  Se  yow,  my  meri  men  all, 

And  se  yow  what  I  see? 
Yonder  I  see  an  host  of  men, 
I  muse  who  they  shold  bee.' 

6.  She  thought  he  had  ben  her  wed  lord,    ^s 

As  he  comd  riding  home ; 
Then  was  it  traitur  Captaine  Care 
The  lord  of  Ester-towne. 

7.  They  wer  no  soner  at  supper  sett, 

Then  after  said  the  grace,  3° 

Or  Captaine  Care  and  all  his  men 
Were  lighte  aboute  the  place. 

8.  '  Gyve   over   thi   howsse,   thou   lady  gay. 

And  I  will  make  the  a  bande ;  34 

To-nighte  thou  shall  ly  within  my  armes, 

To-morrowe  thou  shall  ere  my  lande.' 

9.  Then  bespacke  the  eldest  sonne. 

That  was  both  whitt  and  redde : 
'  O  mother  dere,  geve  over  your  howsse, 
Or  elles  we  shalbe  deade.'  40 

10.  '  I    will    not    geve    over    my    hous,'    she 

saithe, 
*  Not  for  feare  of  my  lyfife ; 
It  shalbe  talked  throughout  the  land. 
The  slaughter  of  a  wyfife. 

11.  'Fetch  me  my  pestilett,  45 

And  charge  me  my  gonne. 
That  I  may  shott  at  this  bloddy  butcher, 
The  lord  of  Easter-towne.' 

12.  Styfly  upon  her  wall  she  stode. 

And  lett  the  pellettes  flee;  50 


But  then  she  myst  the  blody  bucher, 
And  she  slew  other  three. 

13.  '  I    will    not    geve    over    my    hous,'    she 

saithe, 
'  Netheir  for  lord  nor  lownc  ; 
Nor  yet  for  traitour  Captaine  Care,      ss 
The  lord  of  Easter-towne. 

14.  '  I  desire  of  Captaine  Care, 

And  all  his  bloodye  band, 
That  he  would  save  my  eldest  sonne, 
The  eare  of  all  my  lande.'  60 

15.  'Lap  him  in  a  shete,'  he  sayth, 
,  '  And  let  him  downe  to  me, 

And  I  shall  take  him  in  my  armes. 
His  waran  shall  I  be.' 

16.  The  captayne  sayd  unto  him  selfe;        65 

Wyth  sped,  before  the  rest, 
He  cut  his  tonge  out  of  his  head. 
His  hart  out  of  his  brest. 

17.  He  lapt  them  in  a  handkerchef. 

And  knet  it  of  knotes  three,  70 

And  cast  them  over  the  castell-wall. 
At  that  gay  ladye. 

18.  'Eye  upon  the,  Captayne  Care, 

And  all  thy  bloddy  band! 
For  thou  hast  slayne  my  eldest  sonne,  75 
The  ayre  of  all  my  land.' 

19.  Then  bespake  the  yongest  sonne, 

That  sat  on  the  nurses  knee, 
Sayth,    '  Mother    gay,    geve    over    your 
house; 
It   smoldereth   me.'  So 

20.  '  I  wold  geve  my  gold,'  she  saith, 

'  And  so  I  wolde  my  ffee. 
For  a  blaste  of  the  westryn  wind. 
To  dryve  the  smoke  from  thee. 

21.  '  Fy  upon  the,  John  Hamleton,  85 

That  ever  I   paid  the  hyre ! 
For  thou  hast  broken  my  castle-wall. 
And  kyndled  in  the  fifyre.' 

22.  The  lady  gate  to  her  close  parler. 

The  fire  fell  aboute  her  head  ;  9° 

She  toke  up  her  children  thre, 
Seth,  '  Babes,  we  are  all  dead.' 

22,.  Then   bespake  the  hye   steward. 
That  is  of  hye  degree; 
Saith,  '  Ladie  gay,  you  are  in  close,      95 
Wether  ye  fighte  or  flee.' 


KEMP  OWYNE 


47 


24.  Lord  Hamleton  dremd  in  his  dream, 

In  Carvall  where  he  laye, 
His  halle  were  all  of  fyre, 
His  ladie  slayne  or  daye,  '°o 

25.  *  Busk  and  bowne,  my  mery  men  all, 

Even  and  go  ye  with  me ; 
For  I  dremd  that  my  haal  was  on  fyre, 
My  lady  slayne  or  day.' 

26.  He  buskt  him  and  bownd  hym,  >o5 

And  like  a  worthi  knighte; 
And  when  he  saw  his  hall  burning. 
His  harte  was  no  dele  lighte. 

27.  He  sett  a  trumpett  till  his  mouth. 

He  blew  as  it  plesd  his  grace;         no 
Twenty  score  of  Hamlentons 
Was  light  aboute  the  place. 

28.  'Had  I  knowne  as  much  yesternighte 

As  I  do  to-daye, 
Captaine  Care  and  all  his  men  "S 

Should  not  have  gone  so  quite. 

29.  *  Fye  upon  the,  Captaine  Care, 

And  all  thy  blody  bande ! 
Thou  haste  slayne  my  lady  gay, 

More  wurth  then  all  thy  lande.  120 

30.  *  If  thou  had  ought  eny  ill  w  ill,'  he  saith, 

'  Thou  shoulde  have  taken  my  lyffe, 
And  have  saved  my  children  thre. 
All  and  my  lovesome  wyffe.' 


THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL 

1.  There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well, 

And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she; 
She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  oer  the  sea. 

2.  They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her,       5 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
Whan  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 
That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

3.  They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three,  ^° 

Whan  word  came  to  the  carlin  wife 
That  her  sons  she  'd  never  see. 

4.  'I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fashes  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me,    '5 
In  earthly  flesh  and  blood.' 


It  fell  about  the  Martinmass, 
When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk, 

The  carlin  wife's  three  sons  came  hame, 
And  their  hats  were  o  the  birk.        20 

It  neither  grew  in  syke   nor  dvcn, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh ; 
But  at  the  gates  o  Paradise, 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneu^. 


7,  '  Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens,  25 

Bring  water  from  the  well ; 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  thi«  night. 
Since  my  three  sons  are  well.' 

8.  And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 

She's  made  it  large  and  wide,  30 

And  she  's  taen  her  mantle  her  about. 
Sat  down  at  the  bed-side. 


9.  Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 
And  up  and  crew  the  gray ; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  saicf.  35 

'  'T  is  time  we  were  away.' 

10.  The  cock  he  hadna  crawd  but   once. 

And  clappd  his  wings  at  al. 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 
'  Brother,  we  must  awa.  40 

11.  'The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 

The  channerin  worm  doth  chide; 
Gin  we  be  mist  out  o  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide. 

12.  '  Faer  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear!  45 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre ! 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 
That  kindles  my  mother's  fire ! ' 


KEMP  OWYNE 

1.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  young. 

Which  gave  her  cause  to  make  great 
moan  ; 
Her  father  married  the  warst  woman 
That  ever  lived  in  Christendom. 

2.  She  served  her  with  foot  and  hand,       5 

In  every  thing  that  she  could  dee. 
Till  once,  in  an  unlucky  time. 

She  threw  her  in  ower  Craigy's  sea. 

3.  Says,    '  Lie   you   there,   dove   Isabel, 

And  all  my  sorrows  lie  with  thee; 


48 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


Till  Kemp  Owyne  come  ower  the  sea, 
And  borrow  you  with  kisses  three 

Let  all  the  warld  do  what  they  will, 
Oh  borrowed  shall  yon  never  be !  ' 

4.  Her  breath  grew  Strang,  her  hair  grew 

lang,  •        '5 

And  twisted  thrice  about  the  tree. 
And  all  the  people,  far  and  near, 
Thought  that  a  savage  beast  was  she. 

5.  These  news  did  come  to  Kemp  Owyne, 

Where  he  lived,  far  beyond  the  sea ;  20 
He  hasted  him  to  Craigy's  sea, 
And  on  the  savage  beast  lookd  he. 

6.  Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was  lang. 

And  twisted  was  about  the  tree. 
And  with  a  swing  she  came  about:      ^s 
'  Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss  with 
me. 

7.  'Here  is  a  royal  belt,'  she  cried, 

'  That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea ; 
And  while  your  body  it  is  on, 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be ;  30 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  vow  my  belt  your  death  shall  be.' 

8.  He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss. 

The  royal  belt  he  brought  him  wi ; 
Her   breath    was    Strang,    her    hair    was 
lang,  35 

And  twisted  twice  about  the  tree, 
And  with  a  swing  she  came  about  : 
'  Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss  with 
me. 

9.  'Here  is  a  royal  ring,'  she  said, 

'  That    I    have    found    in    the    green 
sea ;  40 

And  while  your  finger  it  is  on. 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be ; 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  swear  my  ring  your  death  shall  be.' 

10.  He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss,  45 

The  royal  ring  he  brought  him  wi ; 
Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was  lang. 

And  twisted  ance  about  the  tree. 
And  with  a  swing  she  came  about : 

'Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss  with 
me.  50 

11.  'Here  is  a  royal  brand,'  she  said, 

'  That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea ; 
And  while  your  body  it  is  on, 
Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be; 


But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin,  55 

I  swear  my  brand  your  death  shall  be.' 

12.  He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss, 

Tlie  royal  brand  he  brought  him  wi ; 
Iler    brcatli    was    sweet,    her    hair    grew 
short, 
And  twisted  nane  about  the  tree,      60 
And  smilingly  she  came  about, 
As  fair  a  woman  as  fair  could  be. 


THE  D^AION  LOVER 

1.  '  O  where  have  you  been,  my  long,  long 

love, 
This  long  seven  years  and  mair?' 
'  O  I  'm  come  to  seek  my  former  vows 
Ye  granted  me  before.' 

2.  '  O    hold    your   tongue   of   your    former 

vows,  5 

For  they  will  breed  sad  strife  ; 

0  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows, 
F"or  I  am  become  a  wife.' 

3.  He  turned  him  right  and  round  about. 

And  the  tear  blinded  his  ce :  'o 

'I    wad    never    hae    trodden    on    Irish 
ground. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  thee. 

4.  '  I  might  hae  had  a  king's  daughter. 

Far,  far  beyond  the  sea ; 

1  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter,       '5 
Had  it  not  been  for  love  o  thee.' 

5.  '  If  ye  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Yerscl  ye  had  to  blame ; 
Ye    might    have    had    taken    the    king's 
daughter, 
For  ye  kend  that  I  was  nane.  20 

6.  '  If  I  was  to  leave  my  husband  dear. 

And  my  two  babes  also, 
O  what  have  you  to  take  me  to, 


If  with  you  I  should 


gOi 


7.  '  I  hae  seven  ships  upon  the  sea  —        25 

The  eighth  brought  me  to  land  — 
With    four-and-twenty   bold    mariners. 
And  music  on  every  hand.' 

8.  She  has  taken  up  her  two  little  babes, 

Kissd  them  baith  check  and  cliin  :       3° 
'  O   fair  ye  weel,  my  ain  two  babes, 
For  I  '11  never  see  you  again.' 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 


49 


9.  She  set  her  foot  upon  the  ship, 
No  mariners  could  she  behold ; 
But  the  sails  were  o  the  taffetie,  35 

And  the  masts  o  the  beaten  gold. 

10.  She  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A   league  but  barely  three, 
When  dismal  grew  his  countenance,      4° 
And  drumlie  grew  his  ee. 

11.  They  had  not  saild  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three. 
Until  she  espied  his  cloven  foot. 
And  she  wept  right  bitterlie.  45 

12.  'O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  weeping,' 

says  he, 
'  Of  your  weeping  now  let  me  be ; 
I  will  shew  you  how  the  lilies  grow 
On  the  banks  of  Italy.' 

13.  '  O  what  hills  are  yon,  yon  pleasant  hills. 

That  the  sun  shines  sweetly  on?'      51 
'  O  yon  are  the  hills  of  heaven,'  he  said, 
'  Where  you  will  never  win.' 

14.  '  O  whaten  a  mountain  is  yon,'  she  said, 

'  All  so  dreary  wi  frost  and  snow  ? '    55 
'  O  yon  is  the  mountain  of  hell,'  he  cried, 
'  Where  you  and  I  will  go.' 

15.  He  strack  the  tap-mast  wi  his  hand, 

The  fore-mast  wi  his  knee, 
And  he  brake  that  gallant  ship  in  twain. 
And  sank  her  in  the  sea.  Ci 


LORD  RANDAL 

'  O  where  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my 

son? 
O    where    hae    ye    been,    my    handsome 

young  man  ? ' 
'  I  hae  been  to  the  wild  wood ;  mother, 

make  my  bed  soon. 
Fir  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald 

lie  down.' 

'  Where  gat  ye  your  dinner.  Lord  Randal, 
my  son  ?  5 

Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  my  hand- 
some   young   man  ?  ' 

*  I  dined  wi  my  true-love ;  mother,  make 
my  bed  soon, 

For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald 
lie  down.' 


3.  '  What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner.  Lord  Ran- 

dal, my  son  ? 

What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  hand- 
some young  man?  '  'o 

'  I  gat  eels  boiled  in  broo ;  mother  make 
my  bed  soon, 

For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald 
lie  down.' 

4.  '  What    became    of    your    bloodhounds. 

Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  my 

handsome  young  man?' 
'  O  they  swelld  and  they  died ;  mother, 

make  my  bed  soon,  'S 

For  I  'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald 

lie  down.' 

5.  '  O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond.  Lord  Randal, 

my  son  I 
O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond,  my  handsome 

young  man ! ' 
'  O   yes !    I    am   poisond ;   mother,   make 

my  bed  soon. 
For   I  'm   sick  at   the  heart  and   I    fain 

wald  lie  down.'  20 


N^      SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

1.  The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine: 

*  O  whar  w  ill  I  get  guid  sailor, 

To  sail  this  schip  of  mine?' 

2.  Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht,  5 

Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne: 

*  Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  sails  upon  the  se.' 

3.  The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter. 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand,  10 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

4.  The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  lauched  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red,        i5 
The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

5.  *  0  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid, 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me. 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 
To  sail  upon  the  se !  20 

6.  *  Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 

Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne:' 


50 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


'  O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 
For  I  fcir  a  deadlie  storme. 

7.  '  Late,    late    yestreen    I     saw    the    new 

moone,  ^5 

Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arnic. 
And  I  fcir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 
That  we  will  cum  to  harme.' 

8.  O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 

To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone ;      3° 
Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone. 

9.  O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand. 
Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence  35 

Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

10.  O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 

Wi  thair  gold  kems  in  their  hair, 
Waiting  for  thar  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they  '11  se  thame  na  mair.  40 

11.  Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdonr, 

It 's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 


THOMAS  RYMER 

1.  True  Thomas  lay  oer  yond  grassy  hank, 

And  he  beheld  a  ladle  gay, 
A  ladie  that  was  brisk  and  bold. 
Come  riding  oer  the  fernie  brae. 

2.  Her  skirt  was  of  the  grass-green  silk,     5 

Her  mantel  of  the  velvet  fine. 
At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  mane 
Hung  fifty  silver  bells   and  nine. 

3.  True  Thomas  he  took  off  his  hat 

And    bowed    him    low    down    till    his 

knee:  'o 

'  All  hail,  thou  mighty  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 

For  your  peer  on  earth  I  never  did  see.' 

4.  '  O  no,  O  no,  True  Thomas,'  she  says, 

'  That  name  does  not  belong  to  me ; 

I  am  but  the  queen  of  fair  Elfland,       '5 

And  I  'm  come  here  for  to  visit  thee. 


5.  '  But  ye  maun  go  wi  me  now,  Thomas, 
True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi  mc, 
For  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years,       '9 
Thro  weel  or  wae  as  may  chance  to  be.' 


6.  She  turned  about  her  milk-white  steed, 

And  took  True  Thomas  uj)  Ijcliind, 
And  aye  whencer  her  bridle  rang, 
The  steed  flew  swifter  than  the  wind. 

7.  For  forty  days  and  forty  nights  25 

Me  wade  thro  red  blude  to  the  knee. 
And   he  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
P.ut  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

8.  O  they  rade  on  and  further  on, 

I'ntil  they  came  to  a  garden  green:    3° 
'  Light  down,  light  down,  ye  ladie  free, 
Some  of  that  fruit  let  me  pull  to  thee.' 

9.  '  O  no,  O  no,  True  Thomas,'  she  says, 

'  That   fruit   maun   not   be   touched   by 
thee, 
For  a'  the  plagues  that  are  in  hell        35 
Light  on  the  fruit  of  this  countrie. 

10.  '  But  I  have  a  loaf  here  in  my  lap. 
Likewise  a  bottle  of  claret  wine, 
And  here  ere  we  go  farther  on. 

We  '11  rest  a  while,  and  ye  may  dine.' 4° 

]i.  When  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill, 
'  Lay  down  your  head  upon  my  knee,' 
The  lady  sayd,  '  ere  we  climb  yon  hill, 
And  I  will  show  you  fairlies  three. 

12.  'O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road,  45 

So  thick  beset  wi  thorns  and  briers? 
That  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 
Tho  after  it  but  few  enquires.     . 

13.  'And  see  not  ye  that  braid  braid  road. 

That  lies  across  yon  lillie  leven?  so 

That  is  the  path  of  wickedness, 
Tho  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven. 

14.  '  And  see  ye  not  that  bonny  road, 

Which  winds  about  the  fernie  brae? 
That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland,  ss 

Where  you  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 

15.  '  But  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 

Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see, 
For  gin  ae  word  you  should  chance  to 

speak, 
You   will   neer   get  back   to  your   ain 

countrie.'  ^o 

16.  He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 

And  a  pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green. 
And  till  seven  years  were  past  and  gone 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 


THE  TWA  SISTERS 


51 


BONNY  BARBARA  ALLAN 

1.  It  was  in  and  about  the  Martinmas  time, 

When  the  green  leaves  were  a  falling, 
That    Sir    John    Gr?eme,    in    the    West 
Country, 
Fell  in  love  with  Barbara  Allan. 

2.  He  sent  his  man  down  through  the  town, 

To  the  place  where  she  was  dwelling :  6 
'  O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear. 
Gin  ye  be  Barbara  Allan.' 

3.  O  hooly,  hooly  rose  she  up. 

To  the  place  where  he  was  lying,        '" 
And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by, 
'  Young  man,  I  think  you  're  dying.' 

4.  '  O  it 's  I  'm  sick,  and  very,  very  sick, 

And  't  is  a'  for  Barbara  Allan : ' 
*0  the  better  for  me  ye  's  never  be,      iS 
Tho  your  heart's  blood  were  a  spilling. 

5.  '  O  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,'  said  she, 

'When  ye  was  in  the  tavern  a  drink- 
ing, 
That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and 
round, 
And  slighted  Barbara  Allan?'  -o 

6.  He  turnd  his  face  unto  the  wall. 

And  death  was  with  him  dealing: 
'Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  all. 
And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allan.' 

7.  And  slowly,  slowly  raise  she  up,  ^5 

And  slowly,   slowly  left  him, 
And  sighing  said,  she  could  not  stay. 
Since  death  of  life  had  reft  him. 

8.  She  had  not  gane  a  mile  but  twa,  29 

When  she  heard  the  dead-bell  ringing, 
And  every  jow  that  the  dead-bell  geid. 
It  cryd,  Woe  to  Barbara  Allan! 

9.  '  O  mother,  mother,  make  my  bed ! 

0  make  it  saft  and  narrow  ! 

Since  my  love  died  for  me  to-day,        35 

1  '11  die  for  him  to-morrow.' 


THE  TWA  SISTERS 

I.  There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr, 
Edinburgh,  Edinburgh 
There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr, 

Stirling    for    ay 
There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr. 


There  came  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer, 
Bonny  Saint  Johnston  stands  upon  Tay. 

2.  He  courted  the  eldest  wi  glove  an  ring. 
But  he  lovd  the  youngest  above  a'  thing. 

3.  He  courted  the  eldest  wi  brotch  an  knife, 
But  lovd  the  youngest  as  his  life.  n 

4.  The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 
And  much  envied  her  sister  fair. 

5.  Into  her  bowr  she  could  not  rest, 

Wi  grief  an  spite  she  almos  brast.         is 

6.  Upon  a  morning  fair  an  clear. 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear : 

7.  '  O  sister,  come  to  yon  sea  stran. 

An  see  our  father's  ships  come  to  Ian.' 

8.  She  's  taen  her  by  the  milk-white  han,     20 
An  led  her  down  to  yon  sea  stran. 

9.  The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane. 
The  eldest  came  an  threw  her  in. 

10.  She  tooke  her  by  the  middle   sma. 
And  dashd  her  bonny  back  to  the  jaw.  ^s 

11.  'O  sister,  sister,  tak  my  han. 

An  Ise  mack  you  heir  to  a'  my  Ian. 

12.  'O  sister,  sister,  tak  my  middle, 

An   yes   get   my   goud   and   my   gouden 
girdle. 

13.  '  O  sister,  sister,  save  my  life,  30 
An  I  swear  Ise  never  be  nae  man's  wife.' 

14.  '  Foul  fa  the  han  that  I  should  tacke, 
It  twind  me  an  my  wardles  make. 

15.  '  Your  cherry  cheeks  an  yallovv  hair 
Gars  me  gae  maiden  for  evermair.'        35 

16.  Sometimes  she  sank,   an   sometimes  she 

swam. 
Till  she  came  down  yon  bonny  mill-dam. 

17.  O  out  it  came  the  miller's  son. 
An  saw  the  fair  maid  swimmin  in. 

18.  '  O  father,  father,  draw  your  dam.  40 
Here's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan.' 

19.  The  miller  quickly  drew  the  dam. 
An  there  he  found  a  drownd  woman. 


52 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


20.  You  coiidna  see  her  yallow  hair 

For  gold  and  pearle  that  were  so  rare.  45 

21.  You  coudna  sec  her  middle  sma 

For  gouden  girdle  that  was  sae  braw. 

2_'.  You  coudna  sec  her  fingers  white, 
For  gouden  rings  tliat  was  sae  grytc. 

23.  An  by  there  came  a  harper  fine,  so 
That  harped  to  the  king  at  dine. 

24.  When  he  did  look  that  lady  upon, 
He  sighd  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

25.  He  's  taen  three  locks  o  her  yallow  hair. 
And  wi  them  strung  his  harp  sae  fair,   ss 

26.  The  first  tune  he  did  play  and  sing, 
Was,  '  Farewell  to  my  father  the  king.' 

27.  The  nextin  tune  that  he  playd  syne. 
Was,  *  Farewell  to  my  mother  the  queen.' 

28.  The  lasten  tune  that  he  playd  then,      60 
Was,  'Wae  to  my  sister,  fair  Ellen.' 


THE  CRUEL  BROTHER 

There  was  three  ladies  playd  at  the  ba, 
With  a  hey  ho  and  a  lillie  gay 

There    came    a    knight    and    played    oer 
them  a'. 
As  the  primrose  spreads  so  sweetly. 

The  eldest  was  baith  tall  and  fair,         5 
But  the  youngest  was  beyond  compare. 

The  midmost  had  a  graceful  mien, 
But    the    youngest    lookd    like    beautic's 
queen. 

The  knight  bowd  low  to  a'  the  three. 
But  to  the  youngest  he  bent  his  knee.     10 

The  ladie  turned  her  head  aside. 

The  knight  he  wooed  her  to  be  his  bride. 

The  ladie  blushd  a  rosy  red, 
And  sayd,  '  Sir  knight,  I  'm  too  young 
to  wed.' 

'O  ladie  fair,  give  me  your  hand,  '5 

And  I  '11  make  you  ladie  of  a'  my  land.' 

,  '  Sir  knight,  ere  ye  my  favor  win, 
You  maun  get  consent  frae  a'  my  kin.' 


9.  He  's  got  consent  frae  her  parents  dear, 
And  likewise  frae  her  sisters  fair.  20 

10.  He  's  got  consent  frae  her  kin  each  one, 
But  forgot  to  spick  to  her  lirutlicr  John. 

11.  Now,  wlicii  the  wedding  day  was  come. 
The  knight  would  take  his  bonny  bride 

home. 

12.  And  many  a  lord  and  many  a  kniglit      -5 
Came  to  behold  that  ladie  bright. 

13.  And  tliere  was  nae  man  that  did  her  see 
But  wishd  himself  bridegroom  to  be. 

14.  Her  father  dear  led  her  down  the  stair, 
And    her    sisters    twain    they    kissd    her 

there.  30 

15.  Her  mother  dear  led  her  thro  the  closs, 
And    licr   brother   John   set   her    on    her 

horse. 

16.  She  leand  her  oer  the  saddle-bow, 
To  give  him  a  kiss  ere  she  did  go. 

17.  He    has    taen    a    knife,    baith    lang    and 

sharp,  35 

And    stabbed    that    bonny    bride    to    the 
heart. 

18.  She  hadno  ridden  half  thro  the  town. 
Until  her  heart's  blude  staind  her  gown. 

19.  '  Ride    softly    on,'    says    the    best    young 

man, 
'  For  I  think  our  bonny  bride  looks  pale 
and  wan.'  40 

20.  '  O  lead  me  gently  up  yon  hill, 

And  I  '11  there  sit  down,  and  make  my 
will' 

21.  '  O  what  will  you  leave  to  your  father 

dear? ' 
'  The  silver-shode  steed  that  brought  me 
here.' 

22.  '  What    will   you    leave   to  your    mother 

dear  ?  '  45 

'  My  velvet  pall  and  my  silken  gear.' 

23.  'What    will    you    leave    to    your    sister 

Anne? ' 
'  My  silken  scarf  and  my  gowdcn  fan.' 


EDWARD 


53 


24.  '  What    will    you    leave    to    your    sister 

Grace  ?  ' 
'  My  bloody  deaths  to  wash  and  dress.'  so 

25.  'What  will  you   leave   to  your  brother 

John  ? ' 
'  The  gallows-tree  to  hang  him  on.' 

26.  '  What  will  you   leave  to  your  brother 

John's  wife  ? ' 
'  The  wilderness  to  end  her  life.' 

27.  This  ladie  fair  in  her  grave  was  laid,    S5 
And  many  a  mass  was  oer  her  said. 

28.  But  it  would  have  made  your  heart  right 

sair, 
To  see  the  bridegroom  rive  his  haire. 


EDWARD 

'  Why  dois  your  brand  sae  drap  wi  bluid, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Why  dois  your  brand  sae  drap  wi  bluid, 

And  why  sae  sad  gang  yee  O  ?  ' 
*  O  I  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid,       5 

Mither,  mither, 
O  I  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid. 
And  I  had  nae  mair  bot  hce  O.' 

'  Your  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

Edward,  Edward,  'o 
Your  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

My  deir  son  I  tell  thee  O.' 
'  O  I  hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 
Mither,  mither, 
O   I  hae  killed  my  reid-roan   steid,       '5 
That   erst   was   sae   fair   and    frie   O.' 

'  Your  steid  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got 
mair, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Your  steid  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got  mair, 
Sum  other  dule  ye  drie  O.'  -° 

'  O  I  hae  killed  my  fadir  deir, 

Mither,  mither, 


O  1  hae  killed  my  fadir  deir, 
Alas,  and  wae  is  niee  O ! ' 

4.  *  And   whatten  penance  wul  ye  drie  for 

that,  25 

Edward,  Edward, 
And   whatten   penance   will   ye   drie   for 
that  ? 
My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  O.' 
'  He  set  my  feit  in  yonder  boat, 

Mither,  mither,       3° 
lie  set  my  feit  in  yonder  boat. 
And  He  fare  ovir  the  sea  O.' 

5.  '  And  what  wul  ye  doe  wi  your  towirs 

and  your  ha, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  what  wul  you   doe  wi  your  towirs 
and  your  ha,  35 

That  were  sae  fair  to  see  O  ? ' 

*  He  let  thame  stand  tul  they  doun  fa, 

Mither,  mither. 
He  let  thame  stand  tul  ihey  down  fa, 
For  here  nevir  mair  maun  I  bee  O.'     4° 

6.  '  And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  bairns 

and  your  wife, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And   what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  bairns 
and  j'our  wife. 
Whan  ye  gang  ovir  the  sea  O  ? ' 

*  The  warldis  room,  late  them  beg  thrae 

life,  45 

Mither,  mither, 
The  warldis  room,  late  them  beg  thrae 
life. 
For  thame  nevir  mair  w'ul  I  see  O.' 

7.  '  And    what    wul    ye    leive    to   your    ain 

mither  deir, 

Edward,  Edward  ?  so 
And    what    wul    ye    leive    to    your    ain 
mither  deir? 
My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  O.' 
'  The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  beir, 

IMither,  mither. 
The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  beir,    55 
Sic  counseils  ye  gave  to  me  O.' 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT  (1503?-!  542) 

Wyatt  was  preeminently  a  courtier.  Well  cduoated  at  Cambridge,  and,  possibly,  also  at 
Oxford,  he  began  his  career  at  court  in  several  oflices  connected  with  the  jierson  of  the  king, 
from  which  he  advanced  speedily  to  diplomatic  services,  during  the  period  1520-1540,  in  France, 
Italy,  Spain,  and  Flanders.  In^JLSSG^  Wyatt  -was  knighted,  and  in  1542,  he  represented  Kent 
in  parliaTiient.  A  vigorous  tradition  peT-sists  that  Wyatt  was  attached  to  the  English  court 
not  only  through  his  official  appointments,  but  also,  indirectly,  as  the  youthful  lover  of  Anne 
Boleyn. 

Well-read  in  Italian,  French,  and  classical  literature,  Wyatt  deliberately  formed  his  style 
by  imitating  Italian  and  French  models.  He  is  conspicuous  in  the  history  of  English  literature 
chiefly  from  tlie  fact  that  he  introduced  into  English  the  sonnet  form,  with  its  refining^  in- 
fluence upon  English  meter  and  diction.  Several  of  Wyatt's  sonnets  are  direct  translations 
from  Petrarch,  upon  whom,  throughout,  he  drew  largely  for  his  rime-scheme,  his  vocabulary, 
and  his  conventional  ideas.  Besides  sonnets,  Wyatt  wrote  other  lyrics,  epigrams,  satires,  and 
devotional  verse.  In  his  lyrics  other  than  sonnets,  is  found  his  finest  work.  A  collection  of 
Wyatt's  poems  was  printed  in  Songs  and  Sonnets  written  by  the  right  honorable  Lord  Henry 
Hotvard,  late  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  others,  published  by  Richard  Tottel  in  1557,  and  commonly 
known  as  TotteVs  Miscellany. 


THE  LOVER  FOR  SHAME-FASTNESS 
HIDETH  HIS  DESIRE  WITHIN  HIS 
FAITHFUL  HEART 

The  long  love  that  in  my  thought  I  harbor, 
And  in  my  heart  doth  keep  his  residence, 
Into  my  face  presseth  with  bold  pretence, 
And  there  campeth  displaying  his  banner. 
She  that  me  learns  to  love  and  to  suffer,     s 
And   wills   that   my  trust,   and   lust's   negli- 
gence 
Be  reined  by  reason,  shame,  and  reverence, 
With  his  hardiness  takes  displeasure. 
Wherewith    love    to    the    heart's    forest    he 

fleeth. 
Leaving  his  enterprise  with  pain  and  cry,     lo 
And  there  him  hideth,  and  not  appeareth. 
What  may  I  do,  when  my  master  feareth? 
But  in  the  field  with  him  to  live  and  die? 
For  good  is  the  life,  ending  faithfully. 


THE  LOVER  COMPARETH  HIS  STATE 
TO  A  SHIP  IN  PERILOUS  STORM 
TOSSED  ON  THE  SEA 

My  galley  charged  with  forgetfulness 
Thorough  sharp  seas,  in  winter  nights  doth 

pass, 
'Tween  rock  and  rock ;  and  eke  my  foe,  alas. 
That  is  my  lord,  steereth  with  cruelness. 


And  every  hour,  a  thought  in  readiness,      S 

As  though  that  death  were  light  in  such  a 
case. 

An  endless  wind  doth  tear  the  sail  apace 

Of  forced  sighs,  and  trusty  fearfulness. 

A  rain  of  tears,  a  cloud  of  dark  disdain 

Hath  done  the  wearied  cords  great  hinder- 
ance,  '" 

Wreathed  with  error,  and  with  ignorance. 

The  stars  be  hid  that  led  me  to  this  pain ; 

Drowned  is  reason  that  should  be  my  com- 
fort. 

And  I  remain,  despairing  of  the  port. 


THE  LOVER  HAVING  DREAMED  OF 
ENJOYING  OF  HIS  LOVE,  COM- 
PLAINETH  THAT  THE  DREAM  IS 
NOT   EITHER   LONGER   OR   TRUER 

Unstable   dream,   according  to  the  place. 
Be  steadfast  once,  or  else  at  least  be  true. 
By  tasted  sweetness  make  me  not  to  rue 
The  sudden  loss  of  thy  false  feigned  grace. 
By  good  respect  in  such  a  dangerous  case     5 
Thou   broughtst   not   her   into  these  tossing 

seas, 
But  madest  my  spirit  to  live,  my  care  t'en- 

crease. 
My  body  in  tempest  her  delight  t'embrace. 
The  body  dead,  the  spirit  had  his  desire; 


54 


THE  LOVER  COMPLAINETH 


55 


Painless  was  th'  one,  the  other  in  delight.     lo 
Why  then,  alas!  did  it  not  keep  it  right, 
But  thus  return  to  leap  into  the  fire. 
And  where  it  was  at  wish,  could  not  remain? 
Such   mocks  of  dreams   do   turn   to  deadly- 
pain  ! 


A  RENOUNCING  OF  LOVE 

Farewell,  Love,  and  all  thy  laws  for  ever ! 
Thy  baited  hooks  shall  tangle  me  no  more : 
Senec  and  Plato  call  me  from  thy  lore 
To  perfect  wealth  my  wit  for  to  endeavor. 
In  blind  error  when  I  did  persever,  5 

Thy  sharp  repulse,  that  pricketh  aye  so  sore, 
Taught  me  in  trifles  that  I  set  no  store ; 
But    'scape    forth    thence,    since    liberty    is 

lever. 
Therefore,     farewell !     go    trouble    younger 

hearts. 
And  in  me  claim  no  more  authority.  1° 

With  idle  youth  go  use  thy  property. 
And  thereon  spend  thy  many  brittle  darts ; 
For  hitherto  though  I  have  lost  my  time. 
Me  list  no  longer  rotten  boughs  to  climb. 


THE  LOVER  BESEECHETH  HIS  MIS- 
TRESS NOT  TO  FORGET  HIS 
STEADFAST  FAITH  AND  TRUE  IN- 
TENT 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began  5 

The  weary  life  ye  know,  since  whan 
The  suit,  the  service  none  tell  can; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays. 

The   cruel   wrong,   the   scornful   ways,  lo 

The  painful  patience  in  delays, 

Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not !     O,   forget  not  this. 

How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is. 

The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss —  'S 

Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose   steadfast    faith   yet   never  moved: 
Forget  not  this  !  20 


AN  EARNEST  SUIT  TO  HIS  UNKIND 
MISTRESS  NOT  TO  FORSAKE  HIM 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay,  say  nay,  for  shame! 

To  save  thee  from  the  blame 

Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus?  5 

Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 

That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 

In  wealth  and  woe  among : 

And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  10 

As   for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay  !  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart 
Never  for  to  depart  is 

Neither  for  pain  nor  smart : 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 

And  have  no  more  pity  20 

Of  him  that  loveth  thee? 

Alas,  thy  cruelty! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay!  say  nay! 


THE  LOVER  COMPLAINETH  THE  UN- 
KINDNESS  OF  HIS   LOVE 

My  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 
Labor  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste. 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun. 
And  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done.  S 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone, 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon. 
Should  we  then  sigh,  or  sing,  or  moan? 
No,  no,  my  lute,  for  I  have  done.  10 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  waves  continually, 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection  ; 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy, 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done.  iS 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts  through  Loves  shot, 
By  whom  unkind  thou  hast  them  won, 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow   forgot, 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done.  20 


56 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 


Vengeance  shall   fall  on  thy  disdain 
That    makest   but    game    on    earnest    pain. 
Think  not  alone  under  the  sun 
llncjuit  to  cause  thy  lovers  playn, 
Although  my  lute  and   I  have  done.  -S 

May  chance   thcc   lie   withered   and   old 
In  winter  nights  that  arc  so  cold, 
Playning  in  vain  unto  the  moon ; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told. 
Care  then  who  list,  for  I  have  done.  3° 

And  then  may  cliance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent 
To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon  ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I  have  done.  3  5 

Now  cease,   my   lute,   this   is  the   last 
Labor  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  ended   is   that   we  begun. 
Now  is  the  song  both  sung  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done.  4° 


OF  THE  MEAN  AND  SURE  ESTATE 

WRITTEN   TO  JOHN   POINS 

My  mother's  maids,  when  they  did  sew  and 

spin. 
They    sung    sometime    a    song    of    the    field 

mouse 
That,    for    because    her    livelihood    was    but 

thin. 
Would    needs   go    seek    her   townish    sister's 

house. 
She     thought     herself     endured    too     much 

pain ;  s 

The    stormy    blasts    her    cave    so    sore    did 

souse 
That  when  the   furrows   swimmed  with  the 

rain, 
She  must  lie  cold  and  wet  in  sorry  plight ; 
And  worse  than  that,  bare  meat  there  did 

remain 
To    comfort   her   when    she   her   house   had 

dight;  10 

Sometime  a  barley  corn;  sometime  a  bean, 
For  which  she  labored  hard  both  day  and 

night 
In    harvest    time    whilst    she   might    go    and 

glean ; 
And  when  her  store  was  stroyed   with   the 

flood, 
Then  welaway !  for  she  undone  was  clean.    i5 
Then  was  she  fain  to  take,  instead  of   food, 
Sleep,  if  she  might,  her  hunger  to  beguile. 
'  My  sister,'  quoth  she,  '  hath  a  living  good, 


And  hence  from  me  she  dwclleth  not  a  mile. 
In  cold  and  storm  she  licth  warm  and  dry  20 
In  bed  of  down,  the  dirt  doth   not  defile 
Her  tender   foot,   she   laboreth  not  as   I. 
Richly    she    fccdcth,   and   at   the    rich    man's 

cost. 
And   for  her  meat  she  needs  not  crave  nor 

cry. 
By  sea,  by  land,  of  the  delicatcs,  the  most     25 
Her  cater  seeks  and  spareth  for  no  peril. 
She    feedeth    on    boiled    bacon,    meat,    and 

roast, 
And  hath  thereof  neither  charge  nor  travail ; 
And,  when  she  list,  the  liquor  of  the  grape 
Doth    glad    her    heart    till    that    her    belly 

swell.'  30 

And  at  this  journey  she  maketh  but  a  jape; 
So  forth  she  goeth,  trusting  of  all  this  wealth 
With  her  sister  her  part  so  for  to  shape, 
That  if  she  might  keep  herself  in  health, 
To  live  a  lady  while  her  life  doth  last.  35 
And  to  the  door  now  is  she  come  by  stealth, 
And  with  her  foot  anon  she  scrapeth  full  fast. 
Th'   other,    for    fear,   durst   not   well   scarce 

appear, 
Of  every  noise  so  was  the  wretch  aghast. 
At  last  she  asked  softly  who  was  there,      40 
And  in  her  language  as  well  as  she  could. 
'  Peep ! '  quoth  the  other  sister,  '  I  am  here.' 
'  Peace,'  quoth  the  town  mouse,  '  why  speak- 

est  thou  so  loud  ? ' 
And  by  the  hand  she  took  her  fair  and  well. 
'  Welcome,'    quoth    she,    '  my    sister,    by    the 

Rood ! '  45 

She  feasted  her,  that  joy  it  was  to  tell 
The  fare  they  had;  they  drank  the  wine  so 

clear. 
And,  as  to  purpose  now  and  then  it  fell, 
She    cheered    her    with    '  How,    sister,    what 

cheer ! ' 
Amid  this  joy  befell  a  sorry  chance,        so 
That,    welaway!    the    stranger    bought    full 

dear 
The  fare  she  had,  for,  as  she  looked  askance. 
Under  a  stool  she  spied  two  steaming  eyes 
In  a  round  head  with  sharp  ears.     In  France 
Was  never  mouse  so  feared,  for,  though  un- 
wise 55 
Had  not  y-secn  such  a  beast  before. 
Yet  had  nature  taught  her  after  her  guise 
To  know  her  foe  and  dread  him  evermore. 
The  towny  mouse  fled,  she  knew  whither  to 

go; 
Th'  other  had  no  shift,  but  wonders  sore     60 
Feared  of  her  life.     At  home  she  wished  her 

tho. 
And  to  the  door,  alas!  as  she  did  skip, 


OF  THE  MEAN  AND  SURE  ESTATE 


57 


The  heaven  it  would,  lo !  and  eke  her  chance 

was  so, 
At  the  threshold  her  silly  foot  did  trip; 
And  ere  she  might  recover  it  again,  65 

The  traitor  cat  had  caught  her  by  the  hip, 
And  made  her  there  against  her  will  remain, 
That  had    forgot   her  poor   surety   and   rest 
For  seeming  wealth  wherein  she  thought  to 

reign. 
Alas,  my  Poins,  how  men  do  seek  the  best  7° 
And  find  the  worst  by  error  as  they  stray! 
And  no  marvel ;  when  sight  is  so  opprest. 
And  blinds  the  guide,  anon  out  of  the  way 
Goeth  guide  and  all  in  seeking  quiet  life. 
O  wretched  minds,  there  is  no  gold  that  may 
Grant  that  you  seek ;  no  war,  no  peace,  no 
strife.  76 

No,  no,  although  thy  head  were  hooped  with 

gold. 
Sergeant    with    mace,    halberd,    sword,    nor 

knife, 
Cannot  repulse  the  care  that   follow  should. 
Each   kind   of    life   hath   with   him   his    dis- 
ease. 80 
Live  in  delight  even  as  thy  lust  would. 
And   thou   shalt  find,   when    lust   doth   most 

thee  please, 
It  irketh  straight,  and  by  itself  doth  fade. 
A  small  thing  is  it  that  may  thy  mind  ap- 
pease. 
None  of  ye  all  there  is  that  is  so  mad        §5 
To  seek  for  grapes  on  brambles  or  on  briars ; 
Nor  none,  I  trow,  that  hath  his  wit  so  bad 
To  set  his  hay  for  conies  over  rivers, 


Nor  ye  set  not  a  drag-net  for  an  hare ; 
And  yet  the  thing  that  most  is  your  de- 
sire 9° 
Ye  do  mis-seek  with  more  travail  and  care. 
Make  plain  thine  heart,  that  it  be  not  knotted 
With   hope   or   dread,   and   see   thy   will   be 

bare 
From  all  effects  whom  vice  hath  ever  spotted. 
Thyself  content  with  that  is  thee  assigned,  95 
And  use  it  well  that  is  to  thee  allotted. 
Then  seek  no  more  out  of  thyself  to  find 
The  thing  that  thou  hast  sought  so  long  be- 
fore. 
For  thou  shalt  feel  it  sticking  in  thy  mind. 
Mad,  if  ye  list  to  continue  your  sore,       100 
Let  present  pass  and  gape  on  time  to  come, 
And    deep    yourself    in    travail    more    and 
more. 
Henceforth,  my  Poins,  this  shall  be  all  and 
some. 
These  wretched  fools  shall  have  naught  else 

of   me; 
But  to  the  great  God  and  to  his  high  dome, 
None  other  pain  pray  I  for  them  to  be,     106 
But,  when  the  rage  doth  lead  them  from  the 

right. 
That,    looking    backward,    virtue    they    may 

see. 
Even  as  she  is  so  goodly  fair  and  bright. 
And   whilst   they   clasp   their   lusts    in   arms 
across,  "° 

Grant  them,   good  Lord,  as   thou   mayst  of 

thy  might, 
To  fret  inward  for  losing  such  a  loss. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY  (i5i7?-i547) 

Ilcnry  Howard,  or,  as  he  is  couunonly  called,  Surrey,  was,  like  Wyatt,  actively  connected 
with  the  English  coiirt.  His  courtly  occupations,  however,  were  not  so  much  administrative 
and  diplomatic  as  military  and  chivalric.  From  his  early  years  up  to  manhood,  Surrey  was 
the  companion  of  princes,  and  more  than  once  his  elders  bargained  for  liis  marriage  with  a 
princess.  As  a  boy  of  some  fifteen  years,  Surrey  accompanied  the  king  to  France,  and  remained 
eleven  months  at  the  French  court.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  by  striking  a  courtier  who  had 
accused  him  of  seditious  intentions,  he  landed  himself  in  confinement  for  a  few  months  at 
Windsor.  These  months  Surrey  spent  in  versifying,  a  diversion  for  which  he  had  been  well 
prepared  by  previous  practice -and  by  considerable  reading  in  classical  and  contemporary  litera- 
ture. After  having  distinguished  himself  from  time  to  time  in  jousts,  he  was  made  knight  of 
the  garter  in  1541.  Surrey's  impulsive  and  adventurous  spirit,  which  established  him  as  '  the 
most  foolish  proud  boy  that  is  in  England,'  led  him  to  eminent  military  service  in  France, 
during  which  he  called  forth  the  king's  reprimand  by  exposing  himself  needlessly  to  danger. 
l!y  numerous  angry  and  trenchant  utterances,  he  eventually  brought  upon  himself  the  charge 
of  treason,  which  he  vigorously  denied,  but  which  led,  ultimately,  to  his  beheading  on  Tower 
Hill,  January  21,  1547. 

Although  Surrey  composed  verse  during  most  of  his  life-time,  his  poems  first  appeared  in 
print  in  1557.  when  Richard  Tottel  published  Songs  and  Sonnets  written  hi/  the  right  honorable 
Lord  Henri/  Hoivard,  late  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  others.  During  the  same  year  appeared  Surrey's 
translation  of  the  second  and  fourth  books  of  Virgil's  ^^neid,  a  translation  in  which  blank 
verse  is  used  for  the  first  time,  in  any  notable  way,  in  English.  Although  Surrey  was  the 
poetical  disciple  of  his  friend  Wyatt,  he  excelled  his  master  in  all  points.  In  particular,  this 
superiority  is  apparent  in  range  of  subject,  in  refinement  and  variety  of  versification,  and  In 
delicacy  of  feeling. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING,  WHEREIN 
EACH  THING  RENEWS,  SAVE  ONLY 
THE  LOVER 

The  soote  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings, 
With   green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the 

vale; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale: 
Summer    is    come,     for    every    spray    now 

springs ;  5 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale; 
The  addcF  all  her  slough  away  she  slings ; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings.  n 
Winter  is  worn,  that  was  the  flowers'  bale : 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs  ! 

COMPLAINT  OF  A  LOVER  REBUKED 

Love,  that  liveth  and  reigneth  in  my  thought. 
That  built  his  seat  within  my  captive  breast, 


Clad  in  the  arms  wherein  with  me  he  fought, 
Oft  in  my  face  he  doth  his  banner  rest. 
She  that  me  taught  to  love,  and  suffer  pain. 
My  doubtful  hope  and  eke  my  hot  desire  6 
With  shamefast  cloak  to  shadow  and  refrain, 
Her  smiling  grace  converteth  straight  to  ire. 
The  coward  Love  then  to  the  heart  apace 
Taketh    his    flight,    whereas    he    lurks    and 

plains,  10 

His  purpose  lost,  and  dare  not  show  his  face. 
For    my    lord's    guilt    thus    faultless   bide    I 

pains. 
Yet  from  my  lord  shall  not  my  foot  remove ; 
Sweet    is   his    death   that    takes    his    end   by 

love. 


DESCRIPTION   AND    PRAISE   OF  HIS 
LOVE   GERALD  I NE 

From  Tuscan  came  my  lady's  worthy  race; 
Fair    Florence    was    sometime    her    ancient 

seat ; 
The  Western  isle  whose  pleasant  shore  doth 

face 
Wild    Camber's    cliffs    did    give    her    lively 

heat: 


58 


COMPLAINT 


59 


Fostered  she  was  with  milk  of  Irish  breast; 
Her    sire,    an    earl;    her    dame,    of    princes' 

blood ;  _  6 

From  tender  years,  in  Britain  she  doth  rest. 
With  a  king's  child,  where  she  tasteth  costly 

food; 
Hunsdon  did  first  present  her  to  mine  eyen ; 
Bright  is  her  hue,  and  Geraldine  she  hight ; 
Hampton   me   taught   to   wish    her   first    for 

mine;  '^ 

And  Windsor,  alas,  doth  chase  me  from  her 

sight : 
Her  beauty  of  kind,  her  virtues  from  above. 
Happy  is  he  that  can  obtain  her  love ! 


COMPLAINT   OF   THE   LOVER   DIS- 
DAINED 

In    Cyprus    springs,    whereas    dame    Venus 

dwelt, 
A  well  so  hot,  that  whoso  tastes  the  same, 
Were  he  of  stone,  as  thawed  ice  should  melt, 
And  kindled  find  his  breast  with  fired  flame ; 
Whose  moist  poison  dissolved  hath  my  heart. 
With  creeping  fire  my  cold  limbs  are   sup- 

prest,  6 

Feeleth    the    heart    that    harbored    freedom, 

smart : 
Endless  despair  long  tliraldom  hath  imprest. 
Another  well  of  frozen  ice  is  found, 
Whose  chilling  venom  of  repugnant  kind,    'o 
The    fervent    heat    doth    quench    of    Cupid's 

wound, 
And    with    the    spot    of   change    infects    the 

mind ; 
Whereof  my  dear  hath  tasted,  to  my  pain : 
Whereby  my  service  grows  into  disdain. 


A    COMPLAINT    BY    NIGHT    OF    THE 
LOVER  NOT  BELOVED 

Alas,  so  all  things  now  do  hold  their  peace ! 
Heaven  and  earth  disturbed  in  nothing; 
The  beasts,  the  air,  the  birds  their  song  do 

cease, 
The  nightes  chair  the  stars  about  doth  bring. 
Calm  is  the  sea;  the  waves  work  less  and 

less;  5 

So  am  not  I,  whom  love,  alas,  doth  wring, 
Bringing  before  my   face  the  great   increase 
Of  my  desires,  whereat  I  weep  and  sing. 
In  joy  and  woe,  as  in  a  doubtful  ease. 
For  my  sweet  thoughts  sometime  do  pleasure 

bring;  'o 

But  by  and  by,  the  cause  of  my  disease 
Gives  me  a  pang,  that  inwardly  doth  sting, 


When  that  I  think  what  grief  it  is  again, 
To   live  and   lack  the   thing   should   rid   my 
pain. 


VOW   TO   LOVE   FAITHFULLY   HOW- 
SOEVER HE  BE  REWARDED 

Set    me    whereas    the    sun    doth    parch    the 

green. 
Or  where  his  beams  do  not  dissolve  the  ice; 
In  temperate  heat,  where  he  is  felt  and  seen  ; 
In  presence  prest  of  people,  mad  or  wise; 
Set  me  in  high,  or  yet  in  low  degree ;  s 

In  longest  night,  or  in  the  longest  day; 
In  clearest  sky,  or  where  clouds  thickest  be ; 
In  lusty  youth,  or  when  my  hairs  are  gray : 
Set  me  in  heaven,  in  earth,  or  else  in  hell ; 
In  hill,  or  dale,  or  in  the  foaming  flood;     >" 
Thrall,  or  at  large,  alive  whereso  I  dwell ; 
Sick  or  in  health,  in  evil  fame  or  good  ; 
Hers  will  I  be,  and  only  with  this  thought 
Content     myself,     although     my    chance     be 

naught. 


COMPLAINT    OF    THE    ABSENCE    OF 
HER  LOVER  BEING  UPON  THE  SEA 

0  happy  dames !  that  may  embrace 
The   fruit  of  your  delight ; 

Help  to  bewail  the  woeful  case. 

And  eke  the  heavy  plight. 

Of  me,  that  wonted  to  rejoice  s 

The  fortune  of  my  pleasant  choice : 

Good  ladies,  help  to  fill  my  mourning  voice. 

In  ship  freight  with  rememberance 

Of  thoughts  and  pleasures  past. 

He  sails  that  hath  in  governance  'o 

My  life,  while  it  will  last; 

With  scalding  sighs,  for  lack  of  gale. 

Furthering  his  hope,  that  is  his  sail. 

Toward  me,  the  sweet  port  of  his  avail. 

Alas,  how  oft  in  dreams  I  see  is 

Those  eyes  that  were  my  food ; 
Which  sometime  so  delighted  me. 
That  yet  they  do  me  good ; 
Wherewith  I  wake  with  his  return. 
Whose  absent  flame  did  make  me  burn :      ^o 
But    when    I    find    the    lack.    Lord,    how    I 
mourn ! 

When  other  lovers  in  arms  across, 

Rejoice  their  chief  delight, 

Drowned   in   tears  to  mourn   my  loss, 

1  stand  the  bitter  night  25 


6o 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY 


In  my  vviiulcnv,  where  I  may  see 
Before  the  winds  how  the  clouds  flLC : 
Lo,  what  a  mariner  love  hath  made  mt- ! 

And  in  green  waves  when  the  salt  flood 

Doth  rise  by  rage  of  wind,  3" 

A  thousand  fancies  in  that  mood. 

Assail  my  restless  mind. 

Alas,  now  drenchcth  my  sweet  foe, 

That  with  the  spoil  of  my  heart  did  go, 

And  left  me;  but,  alas,  why  did  he  so?      35 

And  when  the  seas  wax  calm  again. 
To  chase  from  me  annoy. 
My  doubtful  hope  doth  cause  me  pain ; 
So  dread  cuts  off  my  joy. 
Thus  is  my  wealth  mingled  with  woe,        40 
And  of  each  thought  a  doubt  doth  grow ; 
Now  he  comes!     Will  he  come?     Alas,  no, 
no ! 


A  PRAISE  OF  HIS  LOVE  WHEREIN 
HE  REPROVETH  THEM  THAT  COM- 
PARE  THEIR  LADIES   WITH   HIS 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 

That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain  ; 

My  lady's  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayn. 

Than  doth  the  sun  the  candle  light,  5 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 

As  had  Penelope  the  fair; 

For  what  she  saith,  ye  may  it  trust 

As  it  by  writing  sealed  were:  '° 

And  virtues  hath  she  many  mo 

Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would. 
The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint. 
When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mold,  '5 

The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint : 
With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did  cry. 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind, 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart,  -o 

There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 

That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart. 

And  this  was  chieily  all  her  pain: 

She  could  not  make  the  like  again. 

Sith  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise,  -'5 

To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought; 
In  faith,  methink,  some  better  ways 


On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought, 

Than  to  compare,  as  ye  have  done. 

To  match  the  candle  with  the  sun.  3" 


DESCRIPTION    OF   THE    RESTLESS 
STATE  OF  A  LOVER 

The  sun  hath  twice  brought  forth  his  tender 

green 
And  clad  the  earth  in  lively  lustiness. 
Once    have    the    winds    the    trees    despoiled 

clean, 
And  new  again  begins  their  cruelness, 
Since  I  have  hid  under  my  breast  the  harm 
That  never  shall  recover  health  fulness.        6 
The  winter's  hurt  recovers  with  the  warm. 
The    parched    green    restored    is    with    the 

shade. 
What  warmth,  alas,  may  serve  for  to  disarm 
The    frozen  heart   that   mine   in   flame   hath 

made?  'o 

What  cold  again  is  able  to  restore 
My  fresh  green  years,  that  wither  thus  and 

fade? 
Alas,  I  see,  nothing  hath  hurt  so  sore, 
But  time  in  time  reduceth  a  return  ; 
In    time    my    harm    increaseth    more    and 

more,  15 

And  seems  to  have  my  cure  always  in  scorn. 
Strange  kinds  of  death,  in  life  that  I  do  try, 
At  hand  to  melt,  far  off  in  flame  to  burn ; 
And  like  as  time  list  to  my  cure  apply. 
So  doth  each  place  my  comfort  clean  re- 
fuse. 20 
All  thing  alive  that  seeth  the  heavens  with 

eye 
With  cloak  of  night  may  cover  and  excuse 
Itself  from  travail  of  the  day's  unrest. 
Save  I,  alas,  against  all  others'  use, 
That    then    stir    up    the    torments    of    my 

breast,  25 

And  curse  each  star  as  causer  of  my  fate. 
And  when   the   sun   hath   eke   the  dark  op- 

prest. 
And  brought  the  day,  it  doth  nothing  abate 
The  travails  of  mine  endless  smart  and  pain; 
For    then,    as    one    that    hath    the    light    in 

hate,  30 

I  wish   for  night,  more  covertly  to  plain, 
And  me  withdraw  from  every  haunted  place, 
Lest  by  my  cheer  my  chance  appear  too  plain, 
.^nd  in  my  mind  I  measure,  pace  by  pace. 
To  seek  the  place  where  I  myself  had  lost, 
That  day  that  I  was  tangled  in  the  lace,      36 
In  seeming  slack,  that  knitteth  ever  most. 
But  never  yet  the  travail  of  my  thought 
Of  better  state  could  catch  a  cause  to  boast; 


VIRGIL'S  ^NEID 


6i 


For  if  I  found,  sometime  that  I  have  sought, 
Those  stars  by  whom  I  trusted  of  the  port,  4i 
My  sails  do  fall,  and  I  advance  right  naught, 
As  anchored  fast,  my  spirits  do  all  resort 
To  stand  agazed,  and  sink  in  more  and  more 
The   deadly   harm    virhich   she   doth   take   in 

sport.  45 

Lo,  if  I  seek,  how  do  I  find  my  sore! 
And  if  I  flee  I  carry  with  me  still 
The   venomed   shaft,   which    doth    his    force 

restore 
By  haste  of  flight,  and  I  may  plain  my  fill 
Unto  myself,  unless  this  careful   song         5° 
Print  in  your  heart  some  parcel  of  my  teen; 
For  I,  alas,  in  silence  all  too  long 
Of  mine   old  hurt  yet   feel   the   wound   but 

green. 
Rue  on  my  life,  or  else  your  cruel  wrong     54 
Shall  well  appear,  and  by  my  death  be  seen ! 


THE  MEANS  TO  ATTAIN  HAPPY 
LIFE 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 

The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find: 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain ; 

The  fruitful  ground;  the  quiet  mind; 

The  egall  friend;  no  grudge,  no  strife;  5 

No  charge  of  rule,  no  governance ; 

Without  disease,  the  healthful  life; 

The  household   of  continuance; 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness;  'o 

The  night  discharged  of  all  care. 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night : 

Contented  with  thine  own  estate,  is 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 


OF  THE  DEATH   OF   SIR  T[HOMAS] 
W[YATT] 

Resteth  here,  that  quick  could  never  rest ; 
Whose  heavenly  gifts,  encreased  by  disdain. 
And  virtue  sank  the  deeper  in  his  breast ; 
Such  profit  he  by  envy  could  obtain.  4 

A  head  where  wisdom  mysteries  did  frame ; 
Whose  hammers  beat  still  in  that  lively  brain 
As    on   a   stithe   where   that    some   work   of 

fame 
Was  daily  wrought  to  turn  to  Britain's  gain. 
A    visage    stern    and    mild,    where   both    did 

grow, 
Vice  to  condemn,  in  virtue  to  rejoice;  'o 

Amid  great  storms,  whom  grace  assured  so 


To  live  upright  and  smile  at  fortune's  choice. 
A  hand  that  taught  what  might  be   said  in 

rime; 
That  reft  Chaucer  the  glory  of  his  wit:        u 
A  mark,  the  which    (unperfected,   for  time) 
Some   may  approach,   but   never   none   shall 

hit. 
A  tongue  that  served  in  foreign  realms  his 

king ; 
Whose  courteous  talk  to  virtue  did  enflame 
Each  noble  heart ;   a  worthy  guide  to  bring 
Our  English  youth  by  travail  unto  fame,     ^n 
An  eye   whose  judgment   none   affect   could 

blind, 
Friends  to  allure,  and  foes  to  reconcile ; 
Whose  piercing  look  did  represent  a  mind 
With  virtue  fraught,  reposed,  void  of  guile. 
A  heart  where  dread  was  never  so  imprest. 
To  hide  the  thought  that  might  the  truth  ad- 
vance ; 
In  neither  fortune  lost,  nor  yet  represt,      27 
To  swell  in  wealth,  or  yield  unto  mischance. 
A  valiant  corse,  where  force  and  beauty  met ; 
Happy,  alas,  too  happy,  but  for  foes !  30 

Lived,  and  ran  the  race  that  Nature  set : 
Of  manhood's  shape,  where  she  the  mold  did 

lose. 
But  to  the  heavens  that  simple  soul  is  fled, 
Which    left    with    such    as    covet    Christ    to 

know 
Witness  of  faith  that  never  shall  be  dead,  35 
Sent  for  our  health,  but  not  received  so. 
Thus  for  our  guilt,  this  jewel  have  we  lost; 
The  earth  his  bones,  the  heavens  possess  his 

ghost ! 


VIRGIL'S  .ENEID 
BOOK  II 

They  whisted  all,  with  fixed  face  attent, 

When  Prince  ^Eneas  from  the  royal  seat 

Thus  gan  to  speak :     '  O  Queen,  it  is  thy  will 

I  should  renew  a  woe  cannot  be  told ; 

How  that  the  Greeks  did  spoil  and  over- 
throw 5 

The  Phrygian  wealth  and  wailful  realm  of 
Troy. 

Those  ruthful  things  that   I  myself  beheld. 

And  whereof  no  small  part  fell  to  my  share ; 

Which  to  express,  who  could  refrain  from 
tears  ? 

What  Myrmidon?  or  yet  what  Dolopes?     i" 

What  stern   Ulysses'  waged  soldier? 

And  lo !  moist  night  now  from  the  welkin 
falls. 

And  stars  declining  counsel  us  to  rest: 


62 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY 


But  since  so  great  is  thy  delight  to  hear 
Of  our  mishaps  and  Troyes  last  decay,       >s 
Though  to  record  the  same  my  mind  abhors 
And  plaint  eschews,  yet  thus  will  I  begin  : — 
The   Greekes   chieftains,   all    irked   with    the 

war, 
Wherein  they  wasted  had  so  many  years. 
And  oft  repulsed  by  fatal  destiny,  20 

A  huge  horse  made,  high  raised  like  a  hill, 
By  the  divine  science  of  Minerva, — 
Of  cloven  fir  compacted  were  his  ribs, 
For  their  return  a  feigned  sacrifice, —        24 
The   fame  whereof  so  wandered   it  at  point. 
In  the  dark  bulk  they  closed  bodies  of  men 
Chosen  by  lot,  and  did  enstuff  by  stealth 
The  hollow  womb  with  armed  soldiers. 
There  stands  in  sight  an  isle  hight  Tene- 
don, 
Rich,  and  of   fame   while   Priam's  kingdom 

stood,  30 

Now  but  a  bay  and  road  unsure  for  ship. 
Hither  them  secretly  the  Greeks  withdrew. 
Shrouding     themselves     under     the     desert 

shore ; 
And,   weening   we    they   had   been   fled    and 

gone, 
And    with    that    wind   had    fet    the    land   of 

Greece,  35 

Troy  discharged  her  long  continued  dole. 
The  gates  cast  up,  we  issued  out  to  play, 
The  Greekish  camp  desirous  to  behold. 
The  places  void  and  the  forsaken  coasts. 
Here    Pyrrhus'    band,    there    fierce    Achilles 

pight ;  40 


Here  rode  their  ships,  there  did  their  battles 

join. 
Astonied  some  the  scathful  gift  beheld, 
Hchight  by  vow  unto  the  chaste  Minerve, 
All  wondering  at  the  hup'encss  of  the  horse. 
And  first  of  all,  Timrctes  gan  advise      45 
Within    the    walls    to    lead    and    draw    the 

same, 
And  place  it  eke  amid  the  palace  court. 
Whether  of  guile,  or  Troyes   fate   it  would. 
Capys,  with  some  of  judgment  more  discreet, 
Willed  it  to  drown,  or  underset  with  flame. 
The   suspect  present  of  the  Greeks'  deceit, 
Or    bore    and    gauge    the   hollow    caves    un- 
couth ; 
So  diverse  ran  the  giddy  people's  mind.      53 
Lo !  foremost  of  a  rout  that  followed  him, 
Kindled  Laocoon  hasted  from  the  tower, 
Crying  far  off:     "O  wretched  citizens,       56 
What  so  great  kind  of  frenzy  fretteth  you? 
Deem    ye    the    Greeks,    our    enemies,    to    be 

gone  ? 
Or  any  Greekish  gifts  can  you  suppose 
Devoid  of  guile?     Is  so  Ulysses  known?     60 
Either  the  Greeks  are  in  this  timber  hid. 
Or  this  an  engine  is  to  annoy  our  walls. 
To    view    our    towers,    and  overwhelm    our 

town. 
Here  lurks  some  craft.     Good  Troyans  give 

no  trust 
Unto  this  horse,  for,  whatsoever  it  be,        65 
I    dread    the    Greeks,   yea,    when    they   offer 

gifts."' 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST  (1536-1608) 

About  the  year  1553,  certain  English  printers  projected  a  continuation  of  John  Lydgpce's 
Fall  of  Princes,  a  version  of  Boccaccio's  De  Casihus  Virorum  Illustrium,  the  design  of  these 
printers  being  to  add  stories  of  famous  unfortunates  from  the  period  with  which  Boccaccio 
ended  '  unto  this  presente  time.'  The  project,  under  the  general  title  A  Mirror  for  Marjistrates, 
was  printed  in  gradually  enlarged  editions  between  tlie  years  1555  and  IGIO.  Although  prob- 
■ibly  not  a  partner  to  the  original  plan,  i^ackville  early  became  an  associate  and  a  contributor. 
'J'he  Induction,  written  as  an  introduction  to  such  stories  as  he  should  contril)ute,  and  The 
Complaint  of  Henry,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  the  only  '  tragedy  '  actually  contributed  by  Sackville, 
appeared  in  the  edition  of  1563. 

The  Induction  is  commonly  accounted  the  best  achievement  in  English  poetry  between 
Chaucer  and  Spenser.  Although  in  writing  his  description  of  the  lower  world  Sackville  evi- 
dently had  in  mind  both  the  sixth  book  of  Virgil's  /Eneid  and  medieval  allegory,  the  superb 
vivifying  of  such  abstractions  as  Remorse  of  Conscience,  Drend.  Revenge,  and  the  like,  is  to  be 
credited  to  the  genius  of  the  English  poet.  Sackville  owes  his  inspiration,  perhaps,  to  Virgil, 
and  his  verse  form,  certainly,  to  Chaucer ;  his  masterly  control  of  his  material  and  hi-s  powe. 
of  phrasing  are  surely  his  own. 


THE  INDUCTION 

The  wrathful  Winter,  'preaching  on  apace, 
With    blustering   blasts   had    all    ybared   the 

trecn, 
And  old  Saturnus,  with  his  frosty  face, 
With   chilling   cold   had   pierced   the    tender 
green ;  4 

The  mantles  rent,  wherein  enwrapped  been 
The    gladsome    groves    that    now    lay    over- 
thrown. 
The    tapets    torn,    and    every    ])loom    down 
blown. 

The  soil,  that  erst  so  seemly  was  to  seen, 

Was  all  despoiled  of  her  beauty's  hue ; 

And  soote  fresh  flowers,  wherewith  the  sum- 
mer's queen  lo 

Had  clad  the  earth,  now  Boreas'  blasts  down 
blew; 

And  small  fowls  flocking,  in  their  song  did 
rue 

The  winter's  wrath,,  wherewith  each  thing 
defaced 

In  woeful  wise  bewailed  the  summer  past. 

Hawthorn  had  lost  his  motley  livery,  is 

The  naked  twigs  were  shivering  all  for  cold, 
And  dropping  down  the  tears  abundantly; 
Each  thing,  methought,  with  weeping  eye  me 

told 
The  cruel  season,  bidding  me  withhold 
Myself  within;  for  I  was  gotten  out  2c 

Into  the  fields,  whereas  I  walked  about. 


When    lo,    the    night    with    misty    mantles 

spread, 
Gan  dark  the  day,  and  dim  the  azure  skies; 
And  Venus  in  her  message  Hermes  sped 
To  bloody  Mars,  to  will  him  not  to  rise,       25 
While    she    herself    approached    in    speedy 

wise ; 
And  Virgo  hiding  her  disdainful  breast. 
With  Thetis  now  had  laid  her  down  to  rest. 

Whiles   Scorpio  dreading  Sagittarius'  dart. 
Whose  bow   prest  bent  in  fight,   the  string 

had  slipped,  30 

Down  slid  into  the  ocean  flood  apart. 
The  Bear,  that  in  the  Irish  seas  had  dipped 
His  grisly   feet,  with  speed  from  thence  he 

whipped : 
For  Thetis,  hasting  from  the  Virgin's  bed. 
Pursued  the   Bear,  that   ere  she  came  was 

fled.  35 

And  Phaeton  now,  near  reaching  to  his  race 
With  glist'ring  beams,  gold  streaming  where 

they  bent, 
Was  prest  to  enter  in  his  resting  place: 
Erythius,  that  in  the  cart  first  went. 
Had  even  now  attained  his  journey's  stent: 
And,   fast  declining,  hid  away  his  head,     41 
While  Titan  couched  him  in  his  purple  bed. 

And  pale  Cynthea,  with  her  borrowed  light. 
Beginning  to  supply  her  brother's  place  44 
Was  past  the  noonstead  six  degrees  in  sight, 
When  sparkling  stars  amid  the  heaven's  face, 


ft: 


64 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST 


With    twinkling    light    shone    on    the    earth 

apace, 
That,  while   they   hrought   about   the  nightes 

chare, 
The  dark  had   dinnncd   the  day  ere   I   was 

ware. 

And  sorrowing  I  to  see  the  summer  flowers, 
The  lively  green,  the  lusty  leas  forlorn,  5' 
The     sturdy    trees    so    shattered    with    the 

showers. 
The  fields  so  fade,  that  flourished  so  beforn, 
It  taught  me  well,  all  earthly  things  be  born 
To  die  the  death,  for  naught  long  time  may 

last ;  S3 

The  summer's  beauty  yields  to  winter's  blast. 

Then  looking  upward  to  the  heaven's  Icams, 
With    nightes    stars    thick    powdered    every- 
where. 
Which    erst    so    glistened    with    the    golden 

streams 
That  cheerful  Phoebus  spread  down  from  his 
sphere,  60 

Beholding  dark  oppressing  day  so  near : 
The  sudden  sight  reduced  to  my  mind, 
The  sundry  changes  that  in  earth  we  find. 

That    musing    on    this    worldly    wealth    in 

thought. 
Which  comes,  and  goes,  more  faster  than  we 

see  65 

The    flickering    flame    that    with    the    fire    is 

wrought, 
My  busy  mind  presented  unto  me 
Such   fall  of  peers  as  in  this  realm  had  be ; 
That   oft    I   wished    some   would   their   woes 

descrive. 
To  warn  the  rest  whom  fortune  left  alive. 

And  straight  forth  stalking  with  redoubled 
pace,  71 

For  that  I  saw  the  night  drew  on  so  fast, 

In  black  all  clad,  there  fell  before  my  face 

A  piteous  wight,  whom  woe  had  all  fore- 
waste; 

Forth  from  her  eyen  the  crystal  tears  out 
brast ;  75 

And  sighing  sore,  her  hands  she  wrung  and 
fold, 

Tare  all  her  hair,  that  ruth  was  to  behold. 

Her  body  small,  forewithered,  and  forespent. 
As  is  the  stalk  that  summer's  drought  op- 
pressed ; 
Her  welked  face  with  woeful  tears  besprent ; 
Her  color  pale;  and,  as  it  seemed  her  best, 
In  woe  and  plaint  reposed  was  her  rest ;      82 


And,  as  the  stone  that  drops  of  water  wears, 
So  dented  were  her  cheeks  with  fall  of  tears. 

Her  eyes  swollen  with  flowing  streams 
afloat,  85 

Wherewith,  her  looks  thrown  up  full  pite- 
ously. 

Her   forceless  hands  together  oft  she  smote, 

With  doleful  shrieks,  that  echoed  in  the  sky; 

Whose  plaint  such  sighs  did  straight  ac- 
company, 

That,  in  my  doom,  was  never  man  did  see 

A  wight  but  half  so  woe-begone  as  she.      91 

I  stood  aghast,  beholding  all  her  plight, 
'Tween    dread    and    dolor,    so    distrained    in 

heart. 
That,    while    my    hairs    upstarted    with    the 

sight. 
The    tears    outstreamed    for    sorrow    of    her 

smart :  95 

But,  when  I  saw  no  end  that  could  apart 
The    deadly   dewle    which    she    so    sore    did 

make. 
With  doleful  voice  then  thus  to  her  I  spake : 

'  Unwrap  thy  woes,  whatever  wight  thou  be, 

And  stint  in  time  to  spill  thyself  with 
plaint:  100 

Tell  what  thou  art,  and  whence,  for  well  I 
see 

Thou  canst  not  dure,  with  sorrow  thus  at- 
taint :  ' 

And,  with  that  word  of  sorrow,  all  fore- 
faint 

She  looked  up,  and,  prostrate  as  she  lay. 

With  piteous  sound,  lo,  thus  she  gan  to  say : 

'  Alas,  I  wretch,  whom  thus  thou  seest  dis- 
trained 106 
With  wasting  woes,  that  never  shall  aslake, 
Sorrow  I  am,  in  endless  torments  pained 
Among  the  Furies  in  the  infernal  lake. 
Where  Pluto,  god  of  hell,  so  grisly  black. 
Doth    hold    his    throne,    and    Lethe's    deadly 
taste  1 1  ■ 
Doth  reave  remembrance  of  each  thing  fore- 
past  : 

'  Whence  come  I  am,  the  dreary  destiny 
And  luckless  lot  for  to  bemoan  of  those 
Whom   fortune,  in  this  maze  of  misery,     I'S 
Of    wretched   chance,    most    woeful    mirrors 

chose ; 
That,  when  thou  seest  how  lightly  they  did 

lose 
Their    pomp,    their    power,    and     that    they 

thought  most  sure, 


THE  INDUCTION 


65 


Thou  mayst  soon  deem  no  earthly  joy  may 
dure.' 

Whose  rueful  voice  no  sooner  had  out 
brayed  '-° 

Those    woeful    words    wherewith    she    sor- 
rowed so, 
But  out,  alas,  she  shright,  and  never  stayed, 
Fell    down,    and    all    to-dashed    herself    for 

woe; 
The  cold  pale  dread  my  limbs  gan  overgo. 
And  I  so  sorrowed  at  her  sorrows  eft,       '^s 
Tliat,    what    with    grief   and    fear,    my   wits 
were  reft. 

I  stretched  myself,  and  straight  my  heart 
revives, 

That  dread  and  dolor  erst  did  so  appale ; 

Like  him  that  with  the  fervent  fever  strives. 

When  sickness  seeks  his  castle  health  to 
scale;  "30 

With  gathered  spirits  so  forced  I  fear  to 
avale : 

And,  rearing  her,  with  anguish  all  fore- 
done. 

My  spirits  returned,  and  then  I  thus  begun: 

*0  Sorrow,  alas,  sith  Sorrow  is  thy  name. 
And  that  to  thee  this  drear  doth  well  per- 
tain, 135 
In  vain  it  were  to  seek  to  cease  the  same : 
But,  as  a  man  himself  with  sorrow  slain, 
So  I,  alas,  do  comfort  thee  in  pain, 
That  here  in  sorrow  art  foresunk  so  deep, 
That  at  thy  sight  I  can  but  sigh  and  weep.' 

I  had  no  sooner  spoken  of  a  stike,  141 

But    that    the    storm    so    rumbled    in    her 

breast. 
As  ^olus  could  never  roar  the  like; 
And  showers  down  rained  from  her  eyen  so 

fast, 
That  all  bedrent  the  place,  till  at  the  last, 
Well  eased  they  the  dolor  of  her  mind,      146 
As    rage    of    rain    doth    swage    the    stormy 

wind : 

For  forth  she  paced  in  her  fearful  tale : 

'  Come,  come,'  quoth  she,  *  and  see  what  I 

shall  show. 
Come,  hear  the  plaining  and  the  bitter  bale 
Of  worthy  men  by  Fortune  overthrow:       151 
Come  thou,  and  see  them  ruing  all  in   row, 
They  were  but  shades  that  erst  in  mind  thou 

rolled : 
Come,  come  with  me,  thine  eyes  shall  them 

behold.' 


What  could  these  words  but  make  me  more 
aghast,  155 

To  hear  her  tell  whereon  I  mused  whilere? 

So  was  I  mazed  therewith,  till,  at  the  last, 

Musing  upon  her  words,  and  what  they 
were, 

All   suddenly  well   lessoned  was  my   fear ; 

For  to  my  mind  returned,  how  she  telled 

Both  what  she  was,  and  where  her  won  she 
held.  161 

Whereby  I  knew  that  she  a  goddess  was, 
And,  therewithal,  resorted  to  my  mind 
My  thought,  that  late  presented  me  the  glass 
Of  brittle  state,  of  cares  that  here  we  find. 
Of  thousand  woes  to  silly  men  assigned:   '66 
And  how  she  now  bid  me  come  and  behold, 
To  see  with  eye  that  erst  in  thought  I  rolled. 

Flat  down  I  fell,  and  with  all  reverence 
Adored  her,  perceiving  now  that  she,         170 
A  goddess,  sent  by  godly  providence, 
In  earthly  shape  thus  showed  herself  to  me. 
To  wail  and  rue  this  world's  uncertainty : 
And,    while    I    honored   thus    her    godhead's 

might 
With  plaining  voice  these  words  to  me  she 

shright:  175 

*  1  shall  thee  guide  first  to  the  grisly  lake. 
And  thence  unto  the  blissful  place  of  rest, 
Where   thou   shall   see,  and  hear,  the  plaint 

they  make 
That    whilom    here    bare    swing   among   the 

best : 
This  shalt  thou  see :  but  great  is  the  unrest 
That  thou  must  bide,  before  thou  canst  at- 
tain 181 
Unto  the  dreadful  place  where  these  remain.' 

And,  with  these  words,  as  I  upraised  stood. 
And   gan   to    follow   her   that   straight    forth 

paced. 
Ere  I  was  ware,  into  a  desert  wood  185 

We   now   were  come,  where,  hand   in  hand 

embraced. 
She  led  the  way,  and  through  the  thick  so 

traced. 
As,  but  I  had  been  guided  by  her  might, 
It  was  no  way  for  any  mortal  wight. 

But  lo,  while  thus  amid  the  desert  dark  19c 
We  passed  on  with  steps  and  pace  unmeet, 
A    rumbling   roar,   confused   with    howl    and 

bark 
Of   dogs,    shook   all    the   ground   under   our 

feet. 


66 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST 


And  struck  the  din  within  our  ears  so  deep, 
As,  half  distraught,  unto  the  ground  I   fell, 
Besought  return,  and  not  to  visit  hell.       '96 

But  she,  forthwith,  uplifting  me  apace, 

Removed  my  dread,  and,  with  a  steadfast 
mind, 

Bade  me  come  on ;  for  here  was  now  the 
place. 

The  place  where  we  our  travail  end  should 
find :  2"" 

Wherewith  I  rose,  and  to  the  place  assigned 

Astoined  I  stalk,  when  straight  we  ap- 
proached near 

The  dreadful  place,  that  you  will  dread  to 
hear. 

An  hideous  hole  all  vast,  withouten  shape, 
Of  endless  depth,  o'erwhelmed  with  ragged 
stone,  205 

With  ugly  mouth,  and  grisly  jaws  doth  gape, 
And  to  our  sight  confounds  itself  in  one: 
Here  entered  we,  and  yeding  forth,  anon 
An  horrible  loathly  lake  we  might  discern, 
As  black  as  pitch,  that  cleped  is  Avern :     z'o 

A    deadly   gulf,    where    naught    but    rubbish 

grows, 
With   foul   black   swelth   in   thickened   lumps 

that  lies, 
Which    up   in   th'    air    such    stinking   vapors 

throws, 
That  over  there  may  fly  no  fowl  but  dies 
Choked  with  the  pestilent  savors  that  arise: 
Hither  we  come ;  whence   forth  we  still  did 

pace,  2i6 

In  dreadful  fear  amid  the  dreadful  place: 

And,  first,  within  the  porch  and  jaws  of 
hell, 

Sat  deep  Remorse  of  Conscience,  all  be- 
sprent 

With   tears;   and   to   herself   oft   would   she 

tell  220 

Her   wretchedness,   and  cursing  never   stent 
To  sob  and  sigh ;  but  ever  thus  lament. 
With    thoughtful    care,    as    she    that,    all    in 

vain. 
Would  wear,  and  waste  continually  in  pain. 

Her  eyes  unsteadfast,  rolling  here  and  there, 
Whirled   on    each   place,  as   place  that   ven- 
geance brought,  226 
So  was  her  mind  continually  in  fear, 
Tossed     and     tormented     with    the    tedious 

thought 
Of    those    detested    crimes    which    she    had 
wrought ; 


With  dreadful  cheer,  and  looks  thrown  to 
the    sky,  230 

Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  she  could  not 
die. 

Next   saw  we  Dread,  all  trembling  how  he 

shook, 
With     foot    uncertain,    proffered    here    and 

there : 
Benumbed    of    speech,    and,    with    a    ghastly 

look 
Searched  every  place,  all  pale  and  dead  for 

fear,  235 

His  cap  borne  up  with  staring  of  his  hair, 
'Stoined  and  amazed  at  his  own   shade  for 

dread, 
And  fearing  greater  dangers  than  was  need. 

And  next,  within  the  entry  of  this  lake, 
Sat    fell    Revenge,    gnashing   her    teeth    for 

ire,  240 

Devising    means    how    she    may    vengeance 

take. 
Never  in  rest,  till  she  have  her  desire : 
But  frets  within  so  far  forth  with  the  fire 
Of    wreaking    flames,    that    now    determines 

she  244 

To  die  by  death,  or  venged  by  death  to  be. 

When   fell   Revenge,   with  bloody   foul   pre- 
tence 
Had  showed  herself,  as  next  in  order  set, 
With     trembling     limbs     we     softly     parted 

thence. 
Till  in  our  eyes  another  sight  we  met : 
When    from   my   heart   a   sigh    forthwith    I 
fet,  250 

Ruing,  alas !  upon  the  woeful  plight 
Of  Misery,  that  next  appeared  in  sight. 

His    face    was    lean,    and    somedeal    pined 

away, 
And  eke  his  hands  consumed  to  the  bone, 
But  what  his  body  was,  I  cannot  say,       255 
For  on  his  carcass  raiment  had  he  none. 
Save  clouts  and  patches,  pieced  one  by  one ; 
With   staff  in   hand,  and   scrip  on   shoulders 

cast, 
His  chief  defence  against  the  winter's  blast. 

His  food,  for  most,  was  wild  fruits  of  the 
tree,  260 

Unless  sometimes  some  crumbs  fell  to  his 
share. 

Which  in  his  wallet  long,  God  wot.  kept  he. 

As  on  the  which  full  daint'Iy  would  he  fare: 

His  drink,  the  running  stream  :  his  cup,  the 
bare 


THE  INDUCTION 


67 


Of  his  palm  closed;  his  bed,  the  hard  cold 
ground:  ^65 

To  this  poor  life  was  Misery  ybound. 

Whose  wretched  state  when  we  had  well  be- 
held, 
With  tender  ruth  on  him,  and  on  his  fears. 
In  thoughtful  cares  forth  then  our  pace  we 

held; 
And,  by    and  by,  another  shape  appears,    270 
Of  greedy  Care,  still  brushing  up  the  breres. 
His  knuckles  knobbed,  his  flesh  deep  dented 

in, 
With  tawed  hands,  and  hard  ytanned  skin. 

The  morrow  gray  no  sooner  hath  begun 
To    spread    his    light,    even    peeping   in    our 
eyes,  ^75 

When  he  is  up,  and  to  his  work  yrun  : 
But    let    the    night's    black    misty    mantles 

rise, 
And    with    foul    dark    never    so    much    dis- 
guise 
The  fair  bright  day,  yet  ceaseth  he  no  while. 
But  hath  his  candles  to  prolong  his  toil.    280 

By    him    lay    heavy    Sleep,    the    cousin    of 

Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath : 
Small  keep  took  he,  whom  Fortune  frowned 

on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne      285 
Of  high  renown  ;  but,  as  a  living  death. 
So,  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart. 

The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  fear  was 

he, 
And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part;    290 
Reaver  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 
Things  oft  that  tide,  and  oft  that  never  be; 
Without  respect,  esteeming  equally 
King  CrcEsus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty. 

And  next,  in  order  sad.  Old  Age  we  found : 
His    beard    all    hoar,    his    eyes    hollow    and 

blind,  296 

With    drooping    cheer    still    poring    on    the 

ground, 
As  on  the  place  where  Nature  him  assigned 
To  rest,  when  that  the  Sisters  had  untwined 
His    vital    thread,     and    ended    with    their 

knife  300 

The  fleeting  course  of  fast  declining  life. 

There  heard  we  him  with  broke  and  hollow 
plaint 


Rue  with  himself  his  end  approaching  fast. 

And  all  for  naught  his  wretched  mind  tor- 
ment 

With  sweet  rem.embrance  of  his  pleasures 
past,  305 

And  fresh  delights  of  lusty  youth  fore- 
waste  ; 

Recounting  which,  how  would  he  sob  and 
shriek. 

And  to  be  young  again  of  Jove  beseek! 

But  and  the  cruel  fates  so  fixed  be, 
That  time  forepast  cannot  return  again,    310 
This  one  request  of  Jove  yet  prayed  he: 
That,  in  such  withered  plight,  and  wretched 

pain, 
As    eld,    accompanied    with    his    loathsome 

train. 
Had  brought  on  him,   all  were   it  woe  and 

grief. 
He  might  a  while  yet  linger   forth  his  life, 

And  not  so  soon  descend  into  the  pit,       316 
Where   Death,    when   he   the    mortal    corpse 

hath  slain. 
With   reckless  hand  in  grave  doth  cover  it. 
Thereafter  never  to  enjoy  again 
The    gladsome    light,    but    in    the    ground 

ylain,  320 

In  the  depth  of  darkness  waste  and  wear  to 

naught. 
As    he     had    never    into    the    world    been 

brought. 

But  who  had  seen  him  sobbing,  how  he 
stood 

Unto  himself,  and  how  he  would  bemoan 

His  youth  forepast,  as  though  it  wrought 
him   good  325 

To  talk  of  youth,  all  were  his  youth  fore- 
gone, 

He  would  have  mused,  and  marveled  much, 
whereon 

This  wretched  Age  should  life  desire  so 
fain. 

And  knows  full  well  life  doth  but  length  his 
pain. 

Crookbacked     he     was,     tooth-shaken,     and 

blear-eyed,  330 

Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometime  crept  on 

four. 
With    old    lame    bones    that    rattled    by    his 

side. 
His   scalp   all    pilled,   and   he   with    eld    for- 

lore  : 
His    withered   fist   still   knocking   at    Death's 

door. 


68 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST 


Fumbling,    and    driveling,    as  he   draws    his 

breath :  335 

For  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of 
Death. 

And  fast  by  him  pale  Malady  was  placed, 
Sore  sick  in  bed,  her  color  all   foregone. 
Bereft  of  stomach,  savor,  and  of  taste, 
Ne    could    she    brook    no    meat,    but    broths 
alone:  34o 

Her  breath  corrupt,  her  keepers  every  one 
Abhorring  her.  her  sickness  past  recure, 
Detesting  physic,  and  all  physic's  cure. 

But,  oh,  the  doleful  sight  that  then  we  see! 
We  turned  our  look,  and,  on  the  other  side, 
A  grisly  shape  of  Famine  might  we  see,  346 
With  greedy  looks,  and  gaping  mouth  that 

cried 
And   roared    for   meat,  as   she   should   there 

have    died; 
Her  body  thin  and  bare  as  any  bone,      349 
Whereto  was  left  naught  but  the  case  alone. 

And  that,  alas,  was  gnawn  on  every  where, 
All  full  of  holes,  that  I  ne  might  refrain 
From  tears,  to  see  how  she  her  arms  could 

tear. 
And  with  her  teeth  gnash  on  the  bones  in 

vain, 
When,    all    for    naught,    she    fain    would    so 

sustain  355 

Her    starven    corpse,    that    rather    seemed    a 

shade, 
Than  any  substance  of  a  creature  made. 

Great  was  her  force,  whom  stone  wall  could 

not  stay. 
Her  tearing  nails  snatching  at  all  she  saw ; 
With  gaping  jaws,  that  by  no  means  ymay 
Be  satisfied  from  hunger  of  her  maw,       361 
But  eats  herself  as  she  that  hath  no  law: 
Gnawing,  alas,  her  carcass  all  in  vain, 
Where  you  may  count  each  sinew,  bone,  and 

vein. 

On    her    while    we    thus    firmly    fixed    our 


eyes, 


365 


That  bled  for  ruth  of  such  a  dreary  sight, 
Lo,  suddenly  she  shrieked  in  so  huge  wise. 
As  made  hell-gates  to  shiver  with  the  might : 
Wherewith,  a  dart  we  saw,  how  it  did  light 
Right  on  her  breast,  and,  therewithal,  pale 
Death  370 

Enthrilling  it,  to  reave  her  of  her  breath. 

And  by  and  by,  a  dumb  dead  corpse  we  saw. 
Heavy,  and  cold,  the  shape  of  Death  aright. 


That  daunts  all  earthly  creatures  to  his 
law;  374 

Against  whose  force  in  vain  it  is  to  fight: 
Ne  peers,  ne  princes,  nor  no  mortal  wight, 
No    towns,    ne    realms,    cities,    ne    strongest 

tower. 
But  all,  perforce,  must  yield  unto  his  power. 

His  dart,  anon,  out  of  the  corpse  he  took. 
And  in  his  hand  (a  dreadful  sight  to  see) 
With    great   triumph   eftsoons   the   same   he 

shook,  381 

That  most  of  all  my  fears  affrayed  me: 
His    body    dight    with    naught    but    bones, 

parde. 
The  naked  shape  of  man  there  saw  I  plain, 
All  save  the  flesh,  the  sinew,  and  the  vein. 

Lastly,  stood  War,  in  glittering  arms  yclad. 
With  visage  grim,   stern  looks,  and  blackly 
hued ;  387 

In  his  right  hand  a  naked  sword  he  had, 
That    to   the   hilts    was    all   with    blood    im- 
brued ; 
And  in   his   left    (that  kings  and  kingdoms 
rued)  390 

Famine  and  fire  he  held,  and  therewithal 
He  razed  towns,  and  threw  down  towers  and 
all. 

Cities  he  sacked,  and  realms  that  whilom 
flowered 

In  honor,  glory,  and  rule,  above  the  best. 

He  overwhelmed,  and  all  their  fame  de- 
voured, 395 

Consumed,  destroyed,  wasted  and  never 
ceased. 

Till  he  their  wealth,  their  name,  and  all  op- 
pressed : 

His  face  forehewed  with  wounds,  and  by  his 
side 

There  hung  his  targe,  with  gashes  deep  and 
wide. 

In  mids  of  which,  depainted  there,  we  found 
Deadly  Debate,  all   full  of  snaky  hair,      401 
That  with  a  bloody  fillet  was  ybound, 
Out    breathing    naught    but    discord    every- 
where : 
And  round  about  were  portrayed,  here  and 

there. 
The  hugy  hosts,  Darius  and  his  power,    40; 
His    kings,    princes,    his    peers,    and    all    his 
flower. 

Whom    great    Macedo    vanquished    there    in 

sight, 
With  deep  slaughter,  despoiling  all  his  pride, 


THE  INDUCTION 


69 


Pierced  through  his  reahns,  and  daunted  all 

his    might : 
Duke    Hannibal   beheld   I   there   beside,    410 
In  Canna's  field,  victor  how  he  did  ride, 
And  woeful  Romans  that  in  vain  withstood. 
And  consul  Paulus  covered  all  in  blood. 

Yet  saw  I  more  the  fight  at  Thrasimene, 
And  Treby  field,  and  eke  when  Hannibal   415 
And  worthy  Scipio   last  in  arms  were  seen 
Before   Carthago  gate,  to  cry  for  all 
The  world's  empire,  to  whom  it  should  be- 
fall : 
There    saw    I    Pompey   and    Caesar    clad    in 
arms,  419 

Their  hosts  allied  and  all  their  civil  harms  : 

With  conquerors'  hands,  forebathed  in  their 

own  blood. 
And  Cssar  weeping  over  Pompey's  head ; 
Yet    saw    I    Sulla    and    Marius    where    they 

stood. 
Their  great  cruelty,  and  the  deep  bloodshed 
Of  friends:  Cyrus  I  saw  and  his  host  dead, 
And  how  the  queen  with  great  despite  hath 

flung  426 

His  head  in  blood  of  them  she  overcome. 

Xerxes,  the  Persian  king,  yet  saw  I   there. 
With   his   huge   host,   that   drank   the   rivers 

dry. 
Dismounted   hills,    and    made   the   vales   up- 
rear,  430 
His  host  and  all  yet  saw  I  slain,  parde : 
Thebes  I  saw,  all  razed  how  it  did  lie 
In  heaps  of  stones,  and  Tyrus  put  to  spoil. 
With  walls  and  towers  flat  evened  with  the 
soil. 

But     Troy,     alas,    methought,     above     them 
all,  43S 

It  made  mine  eyes  in  very  tears  consume  : 
When  I  beheld  the  woeful  word  befall, 
That  by  the  wrathful  will  of  gods  was  come; 
And    Jove's    unmoved    sentence    and    fore- 
doom 
On  Priam  king,  and  on  his  town  so  bent, 
I  could  not  lin,  but  I  must  there  lament.    441 

And    that    the    more,    sith    destiny    was    so 

stern 
As,    force    perforce,    there    might    no    force 

avail. 
But    she    must    fall :    and,    by    her    fall,    wc 

learn, 
That   cities,   towers,    wealth,   world,   and   all 

shall  quail : 


No  manhood,  might,  nor  nothing  might  pre- 
vail ; 

All  were  there  pressed  full  many  a  prince, 
and  peer. 

And  many  a  knight  that  sold  his  death  full 
dear. 

Not   worthy  Hector,  worthiest  of  them  all, 

Her    hope,    her    joy,    his    force    is    now  for 

naught :  450 

0  Troy,   Troy,   Troy,  there  is  no  boot  but 

bale. 
The  hugy  horse  within  thy  walls  is  brought ; 
Thy  turrets    fall,   thy  knights,   that   whilom 

fought 
In  arms  ann'd  the  field,  are  slain  in  bed. 
Thy  gods  defiled,  and  all  thy  honor  dead.  455 

The  flames  up  spring,  and  cruelly  they  creep 
From  wall  to  roof,  till  all  to  cinders  waste: 
Some    fire   the    houses    where    the   wretches 

sleep. 
Some    rush   in   here,   some   run   in   there  as 

fast; 
In  every  where  or  sword  or  fire  they  taste: 
The   walls   are  torn,  the   towers   whirled   to 

the  ground  ;  461 

There    is    no    mischief    but    may    there    be 

found. 

Cassandra  yet  there   saw  I  how  they  haled 
From  Pallas'  house,  with  spercled  tress  un- 
done. 
Her    wrists    fast    bound,    and    with    Greeks' 
rout  empaled :  465 

And  Priam  eke,  in  vain  how  he  did  run 
To  arms,  whom   Pyrrhus  with  despite  hath 

done 
To  cruel  death,  and  bathed  him  in  the  baign 
Of  his  son's  blood,  before  the  altar  slain. 

But  how  can  I  describe  the  doleful  sight,  47" 
That  in  the  shield  so  livelike  fair  did  shine? 
Sith  in  this  world,  I  think  was  never  wight 
Could  have  set  forth  the  half,  not  half  so 
fine: 

1  can  no  more,  but  tell  hovv  there  is  seen 
Fair  Ilium  fall  in  burning  red  gledes  down, 
And,   from  the   soil,  great  Troy,   Neptunus' 

town.  476 

Herefrom    when    scarce    I   could   mine   eyes 

withdraw. 
That  filled  with  tears  as  doth  the  springing 

well. 
We  passed  on  so  far  forth  till  we  saw 
Rude  Acheron,  a  loathsome  lake  to  tell,    48° 


70 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST 


That  boils  and  bubs  up  swelth  as  black  as 

hell; 
Where  grisly  Charon,  at  their  fixed  tide, 
Still  ferries  ghosts  unto  the  farther  side. 

The  aged  God  no  sooner  Sorrow  spied, 
But,  hasting  straight  unto  the  bank  apace, 
With  hollow  call  unto  the  rout  he  cried,    486 
To  swerve  apart,  and  give  the  goddess  place : 
Straight  it  was  done,  when  to  the  shore  we 

pace, 
Where,    hand    in    hand    as    we    then    linked 

fast. 
Within  the  boat  we  are  together  placed.     490 

And  forth  we  launch  full   fraughted  to  the 

brink : 
When,  with  the  unwonted  weight,  the  rusty 

keel 
Began  to  crack  as  if  the  same  should  sink: 
We  hoise  up  mast  and  sail,  that  in  a  while 
We    fetched    the    shore,    where    scarcely   we 

had  while  49s 

For  to  arrive,  but  that  we  heard  anon 
A  three-sound  bark  confounded  all  in  one. 

We  had  not  long  forth  passed,  but  that  we 
saw 

Black  Cerberus,  the  hideous  hound  of  hell. 

With  bristles  reared,  and  with  a  three- 
mouthed   jaw  soo 

Foredinning  the  air  with  his  horrible  yell. 

Out  of  the  deep  dark  cave  where  he  did 
dwell. 

The  goddess  straight  he  knew,  and  by  and 
by, 

He  peased  and  couched,  while  that  we  passed 
by. 

Thence  come  we  to  the  horror  and  the 
hell,  505 

The  large  great  kingdoms,  and  the  dreadful 
reign 

Of  Pluto  in  his  throne  where  he  did  dwell. 

The  wide  waste  places,  and  the  hugy  plain, 


The  wailings,   .shrieks,  and   sundry   sorts  of 

pain, 
The    sighs,    the    sobs,    the   deep    and    deadly 

groan;  sio 

Earth,    air,    and    all,    resounding    plaint    and 

moan. 

Here  puled  the  babes,  and  here  the  maids 
unwed 

With  folded  hands  their  sorry  chance  be- 
wailed ; 

Here  wept  the  guiltless  slain,  and  lovers 
dead. 

That  slew  themselves  when  nothing  else 
availed;  5is 

A  thousand  sorts  of  sorrow*  here,  that 
wailed 

With  sighs,  and  tears,  sobs,  shrieks,  and  all 
yfear. 

That,  of,  alas,  it  was  a  hell  to  hear. 

We    staid    us    straight,    and    with    a    rueful 

fear. 
Beheld   this   heavy  sight;   while    from   mine 

eyes  520 

The    vapored    tears    down    stilled    here    and 

there. 
And  Sorrow  eke,  in  far  more  woeful  wise, 
Took  on  with  plaint,  upheaving  to  the  skies 
Her  wretched  hands,  that,  with  her  cry,  the 

rout  524 

Can  all  in  heaps  to  swarm  us  round  about. 

'  Lo  here '  quoth  Sorrow,  '  princes  of  re- 
nown. 

That  whilom  sat  on  top  of  Fortune's  wheel, 

Now  laid  full  low;  like  wretches  whirled 
down. 

Even  with  one  frown,  that  stayed  but  with  a 
smile ; 

And  now  behold  the  thing  that  thou,  ere- 
while,  530 

Saw  only  in  thought ;  and,  what  thou  now 
shalt   hear. 

Recount  the  same  to  kesar,  king,  and  peer.' 


I 


ROGER  ASCHAM  (1515-1568) 

Ascham  was  prepared  for  his  career  by  gentle  birth  and  by  a  thorough  humanistic  education 
at  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  His  studying  of  Greek  resulted  in  his  being  one  of  the 
most  enthusiastic  advocates  of  the  new  classical  learning.  In  1531,  he  became  a  fellow  of 
St.  John's  College,  and  subsequently  held  the  appointments  of  reader  in  Greek  and  of  public 
orator.  Ascham's  ToxophUus  (1545),  full  of  patriotism,  learning,  and  human  feeling,  won  for 
him  the  favor  of  Henry  VIII,  who  granted  him  a  pension,  later  renewed  by  Edward  VI.  In 
1.548,  he  became  tutor  of  the  Princess  E]liz.abeth,  and,  soon  after,  secretary  to  an  embassy  to 
the  court  of  Charles  V.  He  became  secretary  to  Queen  Mary,  and  later  received  preferment 
from  Queen  Elizabeth.  Ascham's  vigorous  humanism  is  emphatically  expressed  in  his  School- 
master, written  late  in  life,  and  published  posthumously  in  1570. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  those  manners  which  you  gather  in  Italy: 

From  BOOK  I  ^   good    schoolhouse    of   wholesome    doc- 

trine, and  worthy  masters  of  commendable 
But  I  am  afraid  that  over-many  of  our  scholars,  where  the  master  had  rather 
travelers  into  Italy  do  not  eschew  the  5  defame  himself  for  his  teaching-,  than  not 
way  to  Circe's  Court,  but  go  and  ride,  and  shame  his  scholar  for  his  learning.  A 
run,  and  fly  thither;  they  make  great  haste  good  nature  of  the  master,  and  fair  con- 
to  come  to  her;  they  make  great  suit  to  ditions  of  the  scholars.  And  now  choose 
serve  her;  yea,  I  could  point  out  some  you,  you  Italian  Englishmen,  whether  you 
with  my  finger  that  never  had  gone  out  lo  will  be  angry  with  us  for  calling  you 
of  England  but  only  to  serve  Circe  in  monsters,  or  with  the  Italians  for  calling 
Italy.  Vanity  and  vice  and  any  licence  you  devils,  or  else  with  your  own  selves 
to  ill  living  in  England  was  counted  stale  that  take  so  much  pains  and  go  so  far  to 
and  rude  unto  them.  And  so,  being  mules  make  yourselves  both.  If  some  yet  do  not 
and  horses  before  they  went,  returned  15  well  understand  what  is  an  Englishman 
very  swine  and  asses  home  again;  yet  Italianated,  I  will  plainly  tell  him.  He 
everywhere  very  foxes  with  subtle  and  that  by  living  and  traveling  in  Italy 
busy  heads;  and  where  they  may,  very  bringeth  home  into  England  out  of  Italy 
wolves  with  cruel  malicious  hearts.  A  the  religion,  the  learning,  the  policy,  the 
marvelous  monster,  which,  for  filthiness  20  experience,  the  manners  of  Italy.  That 
of  living,  for  dulness  to  learning  himself,  is  to  say,  for  religion,  papistry  or  worse ; 
for  wiliness  in  dealing  with  others,  for  for  learning,  less,  commonly,  than  they 
malice  in  hurting  without  cause,  should  carried  out  with  them;  for  policy,  a  fac- 
carry  at  once,  in  one  body,  the  belly  of  a  tious  heart,  a  discoursing  head,  a  mind  to 
swine,  the  head  of  an  ass,  the  brain  of  a 25  meddle  in  all  men's  matters;  for  experi- 
fox,  the  womb  of  a  wolf.  If  you  think  ence,  plenty  of  new  mischiefs  never 
we  judge  amiss  and  write  too  sore  against  known  in  England  before;  for  manners, 
you,  hear  what  the  Italian  saith  of  the  variety  of  vanities  and  change  of  filthy 
Englishman,  what  the  master  reporteth  living.  These  be  the  enchantments  of 
of  the  scholar;  who  uttereth  plainly  what  3°  Circe,  brought  out  of  Italy  to  mar  men's 
is  taught  by  him,  and  what  is  learned  by  manners  in  England ;  much  by  example 
you,  saying,  '  In^lese  Italianato  e  un  dia-  of  ill  life,  but  more  by  precepts  of  fond 
bolo  incarnato'  that  is  to  say,  you  remain  books  of  late  translated  out  of  Italian  into 
men  in  shape  and  fashion,  but  become  English,  sold  in  every  shop  in  London, 
devils  in  life  and  condition.  This  is  not  35  commended  by  honest  titles,  the  sooner  to 
the  opinion  of  one  for  some  private  spite,  corrupt  honest  manners ;  dedicated  over- 
but  the  judgment  of  all  in  a  common  prov-  boldly  to  virtuous  and  honorable  person- 
erb,    which    riseth    of   that   learning   and      ages,  the  easier  to  beguile  simple  and  in- 

71 


72  ROGER  ASCHAM 


nocent  wits.  It  is  pity  that  those  which  standeth  in  two  special  points  —  in  open 
have  authority  and  charge  to  allow  and  manslaughter  and  bold  bawdry.  In  which 
ilisallow  books  to  be  printed,  be  no  more  book  those  be  counted  the  noblest  knights 
circumspect  herein  than  they  are.  Ten  that  do  kill  most  men  without. any  quarrel, 
sermons  at  Paul's  Cross  do  not  so  much  5  and  commit  foulest  adulteries  by  subtlest 
good  for  moving  men  to  true  doctrine,  as  shifts:  as  Sir  Launcelot  with  the  wife  of 
one  of  those  books  do  harm  with  enticing  King  Arthur,  his  master;  vSir  Tristram 
men  to  ill  living.  Yea,  I  say  farther,  those  with  the  wife  of  King  Mark,  his  uncle; 
books  tend  not  so  much  to  corrupt  honest  Sir  Lamerock  with  the  wife  of  King  Lot, 
living,  as  they  do  to  subvert  true  religion.  lo  that  was  his  own  aunt.  This  is  good 
More  papists  be  made  by  your  merry  books  stuff  for  wise  men  to  laugh  at,  or  honest 
of  Italy  than  by  your  earnest  books  of  men  to  take  pleasure  at!  Yet  I  know 
Louvain.  And  because  our  great  physi-  when  God's  Bible  was  banished  the  court, 
cians  do  wink  at  the  matter,  and  make  no  and  Mortc  Arthur  received  into  the 
count  of  this  sore,  I,  though  not  admitted  15  prince's  chamber.  What  toys  the  daily 
one  of  their  fellowship,  yet  having  been  reading  of  such  a  book  may  work  in  the 
many  years  a  prentice  to  God's  true  re-  will  of  a  young  gentleman  or  a  young 
ligion,  and  trust  to  continue  a  poor  jour-  maid  that  liveth  wealthily  and  idly,  wise 
neyman  therein  all  days  of  my  life,  for  men  can  judge  and  honest  men  do  pity, 
the  duty  I  owe  and  love  I  bear  both  to  20  And  yet  ten  Morte  Arthurs  do  not  the 
true  doctrine  and  honest  living,  though  I  tenth  part  so  much  harm  as  one  of  these 
have  no  authority  to  amend  the  sore  my-  books  made  in  Italy  and  translated  in 
self,  yet  I  will  declare  my  good-will  to  dis-  England.  They  open  not  fond  and  corn- 
cover  the  sore  to  others.  mon  ways  to  vice,  but  such  subtle,  cun- 
St.  Paul  saith  that  sects  and  ill  opinions  25  ning,  new,  and  diverse  shifts  to  carry 
be  the  works  of  the  flesh  and  fruits  of  young  wills  to  vanity  and  young  wits  to 
sin.  This  is  spoken  no  more  truly  for  the  mischief,  to  teach  old  bawds  new  school- 
doctrine  than  sensible  for  the  reason.  points,  as  the  simple  head  of  an  Eng- 
And  why?  For  ill  doings  breed  ill  think-  lishman  is  not  able  to  invent,  nor  never 
ings.  And  of  corrupted  manners  spring  30  was  heard  of  in  England  before;  yea, 
perverted  judgments.  And  how?  There  when  papistry  overflowed  all.  Suffer 
be  in  man  two  special  things :  man's  will,  these  books  to  be  read,  and  they  shall  soon 
man's  mind.  Where  will  inclineth  to  displace  all  books  of  godly  learning.  For 
goodness,  the  mind  is  bent  to  truth,  they,  carrying  the  will  to  vanity  and  mar- 
Where  will  is  carried  from  goodness  to  35  ring  good  manners,  shall  easily  corrupt 
vanity,  the  mind  is  scon  drawn  from  truth  the  mind  with  ill  opinions  and  false  judg- 
to  false  opinion.  And  so  the  readiest  way  ment  in  doctrine :  first,  to  think  nothing 
to  entangle  the  mind  with  false  doctrine  is  of  God  himself  —  one  special  point  that 
first  to  entice  the  will  to  wanton  living,  is  to  be  learned  in  Italy  and  Italian  books. 
Therefore,  when  the  busy  and  open  pap-  40  And  that  which  is  most  to  be  lamented, 
ists  abroad  could  not  by  their  contentious  and  therefore  more  needful  to  be  looked 
books  turn  men  in  England  fast  enough  to,  there  be  more  of  these  ungracious 
from  truth  and  right  judgment  in  doc-  books  set  out  in  print  within  these  few 
trine,  then  the  subtle  and  secret  papists  at  months  than  have  been  seen  in  England 
home  procured  bawdy  books  to  be  trans-  45  many  score  years  before.  And  because 
lated  out  of  the  Italian  tongue,  whereby  our  Englishmen  made  Italians  cannot  hurt 
over-many  young  wills  and  wits,  allured  but  certain  persons  and  in  certain  places, 
to  wantonness,  do  now  boldly  contemn  all  therefore  these  Italian  books  are  made 
severe  books  that  sound  to  honesty  and  English  to  bring  mischief  enough  openly 
godliness.  In  our  forefathers'  time,  when  5°  and  boldly  to  all  states,  great  and  mean, 
papistry,  as  a  standing  pool,  covered  and  young  and  old,  everywhere, 
overflowed  all  England,  few  books  were  And  thus  you  see  how  will  enticed  to 
read  in  our  tongue,  saving  certain  books  wantonness  doth  easily  allure  the  mind 
[of]  chivalry,  as  they  said,  for  pastime  and  to  false  opinions;  and  how  corrupt  man- 
pleasure,  which,  as  some  say,  were  made  55  ners  in  living,  breed  false  judgment  in 
in  monasteries  by  idle  monks  or  wanton  doctrine;  how  sin  and  fleshliness  bring 
canons:  as  one,  for  example,  Morte  Ar-  forth  sects  and  heresies.  And,  therefore, 
thur,  the  whole  pleasure  of  which   book      suffer  not  vain  books  to  breed  vanity  in 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  73 


men's  wills,  if  you  would  have  God's  truth  declare  of  whose  school,  of  what  religion 
take  root  in  men's  minds.  they  be  —  that  is,  epicures  in  living  and 

That  Italian  that  first  invented  the  Ital-  ddeoi  [godless]  in  doctrine.  This  last 
ian  proverb  against  our  Englishmen  Ital-  word  is  no  more  unknown  now  to  plain 
ianated,  meant  no  more  their  vanity  in  5  Englishmen  than  the  person  was  unknown 
living  than  their  lewd  opinion  in  religion,  some  time  in  England,  until  some  English- 
For  in  calling  them  devils,  he  carrieth  man  took  pains  to  fetch  that  devilish  opin- 
them  clean  from  God;  and  yet  he  carrieth  ion  out  of  Italy.  These  men,  thus  Ital- 
them  no  farther  than  they  willingly  go  ianated  abroad, .  cannot  abide  our  godly 
themselves  —  that  is,  where  they  may  10  Italian  church  at  home;  they  be  not  of 
freely  say  their  minds  —  to  the  open  con-  that  parish;  they  be  not  of  that  fellow- 
tempt  of  God  and  all  godliness,  both  in  ship;  they  like  not  that  preacher;  they 
living  and  doctrine.  hear   not   his   sermons,   except   sometimes 

And  how?     I  will  express  how,  not  by      for  company  they  come  thither  to  hear  the 
a  fable  of  Homer,  nor  by  the  philosophy  15  Italian    tongue    naturally    spoken,    not    to 
of  Plato,   but   by  a   plain  truth  of   God's      hear  God's  doctrine  truly  preached. 
Word,    sensibly    uttered    by    David    thus:  And  yet  these  men  in  matters  of  divin- 

'  These  men,  abominabilcs  facti  in  studiis  ity  openly  pretend  a  great  knowledge,  and 
suis,  think  verily  and  sing  gladly  the  have  privately  to  themselves  a  very  com- 
verse  before,  Dixit  insipiens  in  corde  sno,  20  pendious  understanding  of  all,  which, 
non  est  Dens' — that  is  to  say,  they  giv-  nevertheless,  they  will  utter  when  and 
ing  themselves  up  to  vanity,  shaking  off  where  they  list.  And  that  is  this :  all  the 
the  motions  of  grace,  driving  from  them  mysteries  of  Moses,  the  whole  law  and 
the  fear  of  God,  and  running  headlong  ceremonies,  the  Psalms  and  prophets, 
into  all  sin,  first  lustily  contemn  God,  25  Christ  and  his  Gospel,  God  and  the  devil, 
then  scornfully  mock  his  Word,  and  also  heaven  and  hell,  faith,  conscience,  sin, 
spitefully  hate  and  hurt  all  well-willers  death,  and  all  they  shortly  wrap  up,  they 
thereof.  Then  they  have  in  more  rever-  quickly  expound  with  this  one  half  verse 
ence  the  Triumphs  of  Petrarch  than  the  of  Horace  : 
Genesis  of  Moses.     They  make  more  ac-  30 

count   of   Tully's   Offices   than    St.    Paul's  Credat  Judaeus  Apella. 

Epistles;  of   a   tale   in   Boccaccio   than   a  [Let  the  Jew  Apella  believe  it] 

story  of  the   Bible.     Then  they  count  as 

fables  the  holy  mysteries  of  christian  re-  Yet  though  in  Italy  they  may  freely  be 

ligion.  They  make  Christ  and  his  Gos-  35  of  no  religion,  as  they  are  in  England  in 
pel  only  serve  civil  policy.  Then  neither  very  deed  to,  nevertheless,  returning  home 
religion  cometh  amiss  to  them.  In  time  into  England,  they  must  countenance  the 
they  be  promoters  of  both  openly :  in  profession  of  the  one  or  the  other,  how- 
place,  again,  mockers  of  both  privily,  as  I  ever  inwardly  they  laugh  to  scorn  both, 
wrote  once  in  a  rude  rime: —  40  And  though  for  their  private  matters  they 

can  follow,  fawn,  and  flatter  noble  person- 
New  new,  now  old,  now  both,  now  ages  contrary  to  them  in  all  respects,  yet 
neither,  commonly  they   ally  themselves   with  the 
To  serve  the  world's  course,  they  care  not      worst  papists,   to  whom   they  be  wedded, 
with  whether.                                            45  and  do  well  agree  together  in  three  proper 

opinions :  in  open  contempt  of  God's 
For  where  they  dare,  in  company  where  Word ;  in  a  secret  security  of  sin ;  and  in 
they  like,  they  boldly  laugh  to  scorn  both  a  bloody  desire  to  have  all  taken  away  by 
protestant  and  papist.  They  care  for  no  sword  and  burning  that  be  not  of  their 
Scripture;  they  make  no  count  of  general  50  faction.  They  that  do  read  with  indiffer- 
councils;  they  contemn  the  consent  of  the  ent  judgment  Pygius  and  Machiavelli, 
church;  they  pass  for  no  doctors;  they  two  indift'erent  patriarchs  of  these  two  re- 
mock  the  Pope ;  they  rail  on  Luther ;  they  ligions,  do  know  full  well  what  I  say  true, 
allow    neither    side;    they    like    none,    but  Ye  see  what  manners  and  doctrine  our 

only  themselves.  The  mark  they  shoot  55  Englishmen  fetch  out  of  Italy.  For,  find- 
at,  the  end  they  look  for,  the  heaven  they  ing  no  other  there,  they  can  bring  no 
desire,  is  only  their  own  present  pleasure  other  hither.  And,  therefore,  many  godly 
and  private  profit;  whereby  they  plainly,     and    excellent    learned    Englishmen,    not 


74  ROGER  ASCHAM 


many  years  ago,  did  make  a  belter  choice,  home  in  Rome,  then  let  wise  men  think 
when  open  cruelty  drove  them  out  of  this  Italy  a  safe  place  for  wholesome  doctrine 
country,  to  place  themselves  there  where  and  godly  manners,  and  a  fit  school  for 
Christ's  doctrine,  the  fear  of  God,  pun-  young  gentlemen  of  England  to  be  brought 
ishment  of  sin,  and  discipline  of  honesty  5  up  in ! 

were  had  in  special  regard.  Our    Italians    bring    home    with    them 

I  was  once  in  Italy  myself;  but  I  thank  other  faults  from  Italy,  though  not  so 
God  my  abode  there  was  but  nine  days.  great  as  this  of  religion,  yet  a  great  deal 
And  yet  I  saw  in  that  little  time,  in  one  greater  than  many  good  men  can  well 
city,  more  liberty  to  sin  than  ever  I  heard  lo  bear.  For  commonly  they  come  home 
tell  of  in  our  noble  city  of  London  in  common  contemners  of  marriage  and 
nine  years,  I  saw  it  was  there  as  free  ready  persuaders  of  all  others  to  the  same ; 
to  sin  not  only  without  all  punishment,  not  because  they  love  virginity,  nor  yet 
but  also  without  any  man's  marking,  as  it  because  they  hate  pretty  young  virgins, 
is  free  in  the  city  of  London  to  choose  i5  but,  being  free  in  Italy  to  go  whitherso- 
without  all  blame  whether  a  man  lust  to  ever  lust  will  carry  them,  they  do  not 
wear  shoe  or  pantocle.  And  good  cause  like  that  law  and  honesty  should  be  such 
why;  for,  being  unlike  in  truth  of  re-  a  bar  to  their  like  liberty  at  home  in 
ligion,  they  must  needs  be  unlike  in  hon-  England.  And  yet  they  be  the  greatest 
esty  of  living.  For  blessed  be  Christ,  in  20  makers  of  love,  the  daily  dalliers,  with 
our  city  of  London  commonly  the  com-  such  pleasant  words,  with  such  smiling 
mandments  of  God  be  more  diligently  and  secret  countenances,  with  such  signs, 
taught,  and  the  service  of  God  more  rev-  tokens,  wagers,  purposed  to  be  lost  before 
erently  used,  and  that  daily  in  many  they  were  purposed  to  be  made,  with  bar- 
private  men's  houses,  than  they  be  in  25  gains  of  wearing  colors,  flowers,  and 
Italy  once  a  week  in  their  common  herbs,  to  breed  occasion  of  ofter  meeting 
churches ;  where  making  ceremonies  to  of  him  and  her,  and  bolder  talking  of  this 
delight  the  eye,  and  vain  sounds  to  please  and  that,  etc.  And  although  I  have  seen 
the  ear,  do  quite  thrust  out  of  the  churches  some,  innocent  of  all  ill  and  staid  in  all 
all  service  of  God  in  spirit  and  truth.  30  honesty,  that  have  used  these  things  with- 
Yea,  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  being  out  all  harm,  without  all  suspicion  of 
but  a  civil  officer,  is  commonly,  for  his  harm,  yet  these  knacks  were  brought  first 
time,  more  diligent  in  punishing  sin,  the  into  England  by  them  that  learned  them 
bent  enemy  against  God  and  good  order,  before  in  Italy  in  Circe's  court;  and  how 
than  all  the  bloody  inquisitors  in  Italy  35  courtly  courtesies  soever  they  be  counted 
be  in  seven  years.  For  their  care  and  now,  yet,  if  the  meaning  and  manners  of 
charge  is  not  to  punish  sin,  not  to  amend  some  that  do  use  them  were  somewhat 
manners,  not  to  purge  doctrine,  but  only  amended,  it  were  no  great  hurt  neither 
to  watch  and  oversee  that  Christ's  true  re-  to  themselves  nor  to  others, 
ligion  set  no  sure  footing  where  the  Pope  40  Another  property  of  this  our  English 
hath  any  jurisdiction.  I  learned,  when  Italians  is  to  be  marvelous  singular  in 
I  was  at  Venice,  that  there  it  is  counted  all  their  matters:  singular  in  knowledge, 
good  policy,  when  there  be  four  or  five  ignorant  of  nothing;  so  singular  in  wis- 
brethren  of  one  family,  one  only  to  marry,  dom  (in  their  own  opinion)  as  scarce  they 
and  all  the  rest  to  welter  with  as  little  45  count  the  best  counselor  the  prince  hath 
shame  in  open  lechery  as  swine  do  here  comparable  with  them ;  common  discour- 
in  the  common  mire.  Yea,  there  be  as  sers  of  all  matters;  busy  searchers  of 
fair  houses  of  religion,  as  great  provision,  most  secret  affairs;  open  flatterers  of 
as  diligent  officers  to  keep  up  this  mis-  great  men ;  privy  mislikers  of  good  men ; 
order,  as  Bridewell  is  and  all  the  mas-  50  fair  speakers,  with  smiling  countenances 
ters  there  to  keep  down  misorder.  And,  and  much  courtesy  openly  to  all  men ; 
therefore,  if  the  Pope  himself  do  not  only  ready  backbiters,  sore  nippers,  and  spite- 
grant  pardons  to  further  these  wicked  ful  reporters  privily  of  good  men.  And 
purposes  abroad  in  Italy,  but  also  (al-  being  brought  up  in  Italy  in  some  free 
though  this  present  Pope  in  the  beginning  55  city,  as  all  cities  be  there,  where  a  man 
made  some  show  of  misliking  thereof)  may  freely  discourse  against  what  he  will, 
assign  both  meed  and  merit  to  the  main-  against  whom  he  lust,  against  any  prince, 
tenance   of   stews   and    brothel-houses   at      against  any  government,  yea,  against  God 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER 


75 


himself  and  his  whole  religion;  where  he  me,  until  they  begin  to  amend  themselves, 
must  be  either  Guelph  or  Ghibelin,  either  I  touch  not  them  that  be  good ;  and  I  say 
French  or  Spanish,  and  always  compelled  too  little  of  them  that  be  not;  and  so, 
to  be  of  some  party,  of  some  faction,  he  though  not  enough  for  their  deserving, 
shall  never  be  compelled  to  be  of  any  re-  5  yet  sufficiently  for  this  time,  and  more 
ligion ;  and  if  he  meddle  not  over-much  else  when  if  occasion  so  require, 
with  Christ's  true  religion,  he  shall  have  And  thus  far  have  I  wandered  from  my 
free  liberty  to  embrace  all  religions,  and  first  purpose  of  teaching  a  child,  yet  not 
become,  if  he  lust,  at  once,  without  any  altogether  out  of  the  way,  because  this 
let  or  punishment,  Jewish,  Turkish,  pa-  lo  whole  talk  hath  tended  to  the  only  ad- 
pish,  and  devilish.  vancement  of  truth  in   religion  and  hon- 

A  young  gentleman  thus  bred  up  in  this  esty    of    living;    and    hath    been    wholly 

goodly  school,  to  learn  the  next  and  ready  within  the  compass  of  learning  and  good 

way  to  sin,  to  have  a  busy  head,  a  factious  manners,   the   special  points  belonging  in 

heart,    a    talkative   tongue,    fed    with    dis- 15  the  right  bringing  up  of  youth, 

coursing  of  factions,  led  to  contemn  God  But  to  my  matter,   as   I   began  plainly 

and    his    religion,    shall    come   home    into  and  simply  with  my  young  scholar,  so  will 

England  but  very  ill  taught,  either  to  be  I  not  leave  him,  God  wilfing,  until  I  have 

an  honest  man  himself,  a  quiet  subject  to  brought  him  a  perfect  scholar  out  of  the 

his  prince,  or  willing  to  serve  God  under  20  school,  and  placed  him  in  the  university, 

the  obedience  of  true  doctrine,  or  within  to  become  a  fit  student  for  logic  and  rhet- 

the  order  of  honest  living.  oric :  and  so  after  to  physic,  law,  or  di- 

I  know  none  will  be  offended  with  this  vinity,    as    aptness    of    nature,    advice    of 

my  general  writing,  but  only  such  as  find  friends,   and   God's   disposition   shall   lead 

themselves   guilty   privately  therein :   who  25  him. 
shall  have  good  leave  to  be  offended  with 


JOHN  LYLY  (i554?-i6o6) 

Of  the  events  of  Lyly's  life  little  is  known.  After  taking  his  degree  from  Oxford,  thus 
securing  for  himself  the  somewhat  invidious  title  of  'university  wit,'  he  supported  himself  in 
London  by  his  pen.  Although  his  nine  plays  had  an  important  influence  in  the  development 
of  pre-Shakspercan  drama,  and  although  they  represent  his  most  valuable  contribution  to 
English  literature,  Lyly  is  best  known,  probably,  through  the  extravagant  style  of  his  Euphues, 
ilie  Anaiomy  of  Wit  (1578)  and  Enplnics  and  his  Enr/land  (1580).  These  two  works, 
usually  referred  to  in  combination  as  Euphucs,  constitute,  ostensibly,  a  romance.  The  story, 
however,  meager  at  best,  is  almost  infinitely  attenuated  by  letters,  '  model '  conversations, 
and  moral  preachments.  The  interest  of  Euphues. —  an  interest  more  curious  and  historical 
than  human, —  lies  in  its  unremitting  artificiality  of  style,  characterized  especially  by  balance, 
alliteration,  citations  of  classical  examples,  and  references  to  natural  history. 


From  EUPHUES  AND  HIS  ENG-  rather  bountifully  to  reward,  being  as  far 

LAND  from  rigor  when  she  might  have  killed,  as 

her  enemies  were  from  honesty  when  they 

This  queen  being  deceased,  Elizabeth,  could  not,  giving  a  general  pardon  when 
being  of  the  age  of  twenty-two  years,  of  5  she  had  cause  to  use  particular  punish- 
more  beauty  than  honor,  and  yet  of  more  ments,  preferring  the  name  of  pity  before 
honor  than  any  earthly  '  creature,  was  the  remembrance  of  perils,  thinking  no 
called  from  a  prisoner  to  be  a  prince,  revenge  more  princely  than  to  spare  when 
from  the  castle  to  the  crown,  from  the  she  might  spill,  to  stay  when  she  might 
fear  of  losing  her  head,  to  be  supreme  10  strike,  to  proffer  to  save  with  mercy  when 
head.  And  here,  ladies,  it  may  be  you  she  might  have  destroyed  with  justice.  ' 
will  move  a  question,  why  this  noble  lady  Here  is  the  clemency  worthy  commenda- 
was  either  in  danger  of  death,  or  cause  of  tion  and  admiration,  nothing  inferior  to 
distress,  which,  had  you  thought  to  have  the  gentle  disposition  of  Aristides,  who, 
passed  in  silence,  I  would,  notwithstand- 15  after  his  exile,  did  not  so  much  as  note 
ing,  have  revealed.  them  that  banished  him,  saying  with  Alex- 

This  lady  all  the  time  of  her  sister's  ander  that  there  can  be  nothing  more  no- 
reign  was  kept  close,  as  one  that  ten-  ble  than  to  do  well  to  those  that  deserve 
dered   not  those   proceedings  which   were      ill. 

contrary  to  her  conscience,  who,  having 20  This  mighty  and  merciful  queen,  having 
divers  enemies,  endured  many  crosses,  but  many  bills  of  private  persons  that  sought 
so  patiently  as  in  her  deepest  sorrow  beforetime  to  betray  her,  burnt  them  all, 
she  would  rather  sigh  for  the  liberty  of  resembling  Julius  Caesar,  who.  being  pre- 
the  Gospel  than  her  own  freedom.  Suf-  sented  with  the  like  complaints  of  his 
fering  her  inferiors  to  triumph  over  her,  25  commons,  threw  them  into  the  fire,  say- 
her  foes  to  threaten  her,  her  dissembling  ing  that  he  had  rather  not  know  the  names 
friends  to  undermine  her,  learning  in  all  of  rebels  than  have  occasion  to  revenge, 
this  misery  only  the  patience  that  Zeno  thinking  it  better  to  be  ignorant  of  those 
taught  Eretricus  to  bear  and  forbear,  that  hated  him  than  to  be  angry  with 
never  seeking  revenge,  but,  with  good  Ly-  30  them. 

curgus,  to  lose  her  own  eye  rather  than  This  clemency  did  her  Majesty  not  only 

to  hurt  another's  eye.  show  at  her  coming  to  the  throne,  but  also 

But  being  now  placed  in  the  seat  royal,  throughout  her  whole  government,  when 
she  first  of  all  established  religion,  ban-  she  hath  spared  to  shed  their  bloods  that 
ished  popery,  advanced  the  Word,  that  be-  35  sought  to  spill  hers,  not  racking  the  laws 
fore  was  so  much  defaced,  who  having  in  to  extremity,  but  mitigating  the  rigor, 
her    hand    the'  sword    to    revenge,    used      with  mercy,  insomuch  as  it  may  be  said 

76 


EUPHUES  AND  HIS  ENGLAND 


n 


of    that    royal    monarch    as    it    was    of  O  divine  nature,   O   heavenly   nobility, 

Antoninus,  surnamed  the  godly  Emperor,  what  thing  can  there  more  be  required 
who  reigned  many  years  without  the  effu-  in  a  prince,  than  in  greatest  power  to 
sion  of  blood.  What  greater  virtue  can  show  greatest  patience,  in  chiefest  glory 
there  be  in  a  prince  than  mercy ;  what  5  to  bring  forth  chiefest  grace,  in  abun- 
greater  praise  than  to  abate  the  edge  dance  of  all  earthly  pomp  to  manifest 
which  she  should  whet,  to  pardon  where  abundance  of  all  heavenly  piety?  O  for- 
she  should  punish,  to  reward  where  she  tunate  England  that  hath  such  a  Queen, 
should  revenge  ?  ungrateful     if    thou    pray    not     for    her. 

I    myself   being   in   England   when    her  lo  wicked  if  thou  do  not  love  her,  miserable 
Majesty   was    for   her   recreation   in    her      if  thou  lose  her. 
barge  upon  the  Thames,  heard  of  a  gun  *     *     * 

that  was  shot  off,  though  of  the  party  un-  Touching  the  beauty  of  this  prince,  her 

wittingly,  yet  to  her  noble  person  danger-  countenance,  her  personage,  her  majesty, 
ously,  which  fact  she  most  graciously  15  I  cannot  think  that  it  may  be  sufificiently 
pardoned,  accepting  a  just  excuse  before  commended,  when  it  cannot  be  too  much 
a  great  amends,  taking  more  grief  for  her  marveled  at ;  so  that  I  am  constrained  to 
poor  bargeman,  that  was  a  little  hurt,  say  as  Praxitiles  did,  when  he  began  to 
than  care  for  herself  that  stood  in  great-  paint  Venus  and  her  son,  who  doubted 
est  hazard.  O  rare  example  of  pity,  O  20  whether  the  world  could  afford  colors 
singular  spectacle  of  piety.  good    enough    for    two    such    fair    faces, 

Divers  besides  have  there  been  which  and  I,  whether  our  tongue  can  yield 
by  private  conspiracies,  open  rebellions,  words  to  blaze  that  beauty,  the  perfection 
close  wiles,  cruel  witchcrafts,  have  sought  whereof  none  can  imagine ;  which  seeing 
to  end  her  life,  which  saveth  all  their  25  it  is  so,  I  must  do  like  those  that  want 
lives,  whose  practices  by  the  divine  provi-  a  clear  sight,  who,  being  not  able  to  dis- 
dence  of  the  Almighty,  have  ever  been  cern  the  sun  in  the  sky,  are  enforced  to 
disclosed,  insomuch  that  he  hath  kept  her  behold  it  in  the  water.  Zeuxis,  having 
safe  in  the  whale's  belly  when  her  sub-  before  him  fifty  fair  virgins  of  Sparta 
jects  went  about  to  throw  her  into  the  30  whereby  to  draw  one  amiable  Venus,  said 
sea,  preserved  her  in  the  hot  oven,  when  that  fifty  more  fairer  than  those  could  not 
her  enemies  increased  the  fire,  not  suffer-  minister  sufficient  beauty  to  show  the 
ing  a  hair  to  fall  from  her,  much  less  goddess  of  beauty;  therefore,  being  in 
any  harm  to  fasten  upon  her.  These  despair  either  by  art  to  shadow  her,  or 
injuries  and  treasons  of  her  subjects,  35  by  imagination  to  comprehend  her,  he 
these  policies  and  undermining  of  for-  drew  in  a  table  a  fair  temple,  the  gates 
eign  nations  so  little  moved  her,  that  she  open,  and  Venus  going  in  so  as  nothing 
would  often  say,  '  Let  them  know  that,  could  be  perceived  but  her  back,  wherein 
though  it  be  not  lawful  for  them  to  he  used  such  cunning  that  Apelles  him- 
speak  what  they  list,  yet  it  is  lawful  for  40  self,  seeing  this  work,  wished  that  \^enus 
us  to  do  with  them  what  we  list,'  being  would  turn  her  face,  saying  that  if  it 
always  of  that  merciful  mind,  which  was  were  in  all  parts  agreeable  to  the  back, 
in  Theodosius,  who  wished  rather  that  he  he  would  become  apprentice  to  Zeuxis, 
might  call  the  dead  to  life  than  put  the  and  slave  to  Venus.  In  the  like  manner 
living  to  death,  saying  with  Augustus -iS  fareth  it  with  me,  for  having  all  the 
when  she  should  set  her  hand  to  any  ladies  in  Italy,  more  than  fifty  hundred, 
condemnation,  *  I  would  to  God  we  could  whereby  to  color  Elizabeth,  I  must  say 
not  write.'  Infinite  were  the  examples  with  Zeuxis  that  as  many  more  will  not 
that  might  be  alleged,  and  almost  incredi-  suffice,  and  therefore  in  as  great  an  agony 
ble,  whereby  she  hath  shown  herself  a  50  paint  her  court  with  her  back  towards 
lamb  in  meekness,  when  she  had  cause  to  you,  for  that  I  cannot  by  art  portray  her 
be  a  lion  in  might,  proved  a  dove  in  beauty,  wherein,  though  I  want  the  skill 
favor,  when  she  was  provoked  to  be  an  to  do  it  as  Zeuxis  did,  yet  viewing  it 
eagle  in  fierceness,  requiting  injuries  with  narrowly,  and  comparing  it  wisely,  you 
benefits,  revenging  grudges  with  gifts,  in  55  all  will  say  that  if  her  face  be  answerable 
highest  majesty  bearing  the  lowest  mind,  to  her  back,  you  will  like  my  handicraft 
forgiving  all  that  sued  for  mercy,  and  and  become  her  handmaids.  In  the  mean 
forgetting  all  that  deserved  justice.  season,  I  leave  you  gazing  until  she  turn 


78  JOHN  LYLY 


her  face,  iinagiiiing  her  to  he  such  a  one  ])hiloso])hy,  wlio  taught  Pericles;  exceed- 
as  nature  framed  to  that  end,  that  no  art  ing  in  judgment  Themistoclca,  who  in- 
should  imitate,  wherein  she  hath  proved  structcd  Pythagoras.  Add  to  these  qual- 
hcrsclf  to  he  exquisite,  and  painters  to  ities,  those  that  none  of  these  had;  the 
be  apes.  ^  French  tongue,   the    Spanish,   the    Itahan, 

This  beautiful  mold  when  I  beheld  to  not  mean  in  every  one,  but  excellent  in 
be  indued  with  chastity,  temperance,  all ;  readier  to  correct  escapes  in  those 
mildness,  and  all  other  good  gifts  of  na-  languages  than  to  be  controlled;  fitter  to 
ture  (as  hereafter  shall  appear),  when  I  teach  others  than  learn  of  any;  more  able 
saw  her  to  surpass  all  in  beauty,  and  yet  a  lo  to  add  new  rules  than  to  err  in  the  old ; 
virgin,  to  excel  all  in  piety,  and  yet  a  insomuch  as  there  is  no  ambassador  that 
l)rince,  to  be  inferior  to  none  in  all  the  cometh  into  her  court  but  she  is  willing 
lineaments  of  the  body,  and  yet  superior  and  al)le  both  to  understand  his  message 
to  every  one  in  all  gifts  of  the  mind,  I  and  utter  her  mind;  not  like  unto  the 
began  thus  to  pray,  that  as  she  hath  lived  15  kings  of  Assyria,  who  answered  ambas- 
forty  years  a  virgin  in  great  majesty,  so  sadors  by  messengers,  while  they  them- 
she  may  live  four  score  years  a  mother  selves  either  dally  in  sin  or  snort  in 
with  great  joy,  that  as  with  her  we  have  sleep.  Her  godly  zeal  to  learning,  with 
long  time  had  peace  and  plenty,  so  by  her  great  skill,  hath  been  so  manifestly 
her  we  may  ever  have  quietness  and  20  approved  that  I  cannot  tell  whether  she 
abundance,  wishing  this  even  from  the  deserve  more  honor  for  her  knowledge, 
bottom  of  a  heart  that  wisheth  well  to  or  admiration  for  her  courtesy,  who  in 
England,  though  feareth  ill,  that  either  great  pomp  hath  twice  directed  her  prog- 
the  world  may  end  before  she  die,  or  she  ress  unto  the  universities,  with  no  less 
live  to  see  her  children's  children  in  the  25  joy  to  the  students  than  glory  to  her 
world;  otherwise  how  fickle  their  state  state.  Here,  after  long  and  solemn  dis- 
is  that  now  triumph,  upon  what  a  twist  putations  in  law,  physic,  and  divinity, 
they  hang  that  now  are  in  honor,  they  not  as  one  wearied  with  scholars's  argu- 
that  live  shall  see,  which  I  to  think  on,  ments,  but  wedded  to  their  orations,  when 
sigh !  But  God  for  his  mercy's  sake,  30  every  one  feared  to  offend  in  length,  she 
Christ  for  his  merits'  sake,  the  Holy  in  her  own  person,  with  no  less  praise  to 
Ghost  for  his  name's  sake,  grant  to  that  her  Majesty  than  delight  to  her  subjects, 
realm  comfort  without  any  ill  chance,  and  with  a  wise  and  learned  conclusion,  both 
the  prince  they  have  without  any  other  gave  them  thanks,  and  put  herself  to 
change,  that  the  longer  she  liveth,  the  35  pains.  O  noble  pattern  of  a  princely 
sweeter  she  may  smell,  like  the  bird  Ibis,  mind,  not  like  to  the  kings  of  Persia, 
that  she  may  be  triumphant  in  victories,  who  in  their  progresses  did  nothing  else 
like  the  palm  tree,  fruitful  in  her  age  but  cut  sticks  to  drive  away  the  time,  nor 
like  the  vine,  in  all  ages  prosperous,  to  like  the  delicate  lives  of  the  Sybarites, 
all  men  gracious,  in  all  places  glorious,  40  who  would  not  admit  any  art  to  be  exer- 
so  that  there  be  no  end  of  her  praise  cised  within  their  city  that  might  make 
until  the  end  of  all  flesh.  the     least     noise.     Her     wit     so     sharp. 

Thus  did  I  often  talk  with  myself,  and  that  if  I  should  repeat  the  apt  answers, 
wish  with  mine  whole  soul.  the    subtle    questions,    the    fine    speeches, 

Why  should  I  talk  of  her  sharp  wit,  45  the  pithy  sentences,  which  on  the  sudden 
excellent  wisdom,  exquisite  learning,  and  she  hath  uttered,  they  would  rather  breed 
all  other  qualities  of  the  mind,  wherein  admiration  than  credit.  But  such  are 
she  seemeth  as  far  to  excel  those  that  have  the  gifts  that  the  living  God  hath  indued 
been  accounted  singular,  as  the  learned  her  withal,  that  look  in  what  art  or  Ian- 
have  surpassed  those  that  have  been  50  guage,  wit  or  learning,  virtue  or  beauty 
thought  simple.  any  one  hath   particularly  excelled  most. 

In  questioning,  not  inferior  to  Nicaulia,  she  only  hath  generally  exceeded  every 
the  queen  of  Saba,  that  did  put  so  many  one  in  all,  insomuch  that  there  is  nothing 
hard  doubts  to  Solomon ;  equal  to  Nicos-  to  be  added  that  either  man  would  wish 
trata  in  the  Greek  tongue,  who  was  55  in  a  woman,  or  God  doth  give  to  a 
thought    to   give    precepts    for    the    better      creature. 

perfection ;    more    learned    in    the    Latin  I  let  pass  her  skill  in  music,  her  knowl- 

than    Amalasunta;    passing    Aspasia    in      edge  in  all  the  other  sciences,  whenas  I 


EUPHUES  AND  HIS  ENGLAND  79 


fear  lest  by  my  simplicity  I  should  make  that  all  nations  round  about  her,  threat- 
them  less  than  they  are,  in  seeking  to  ening  alteration,  shaking  swords,  throw- 
show  how  great  they  are,  unless  I  were  ing  fire,  menacing  famine,  murder,  de- 
praising  her  in  the  gallery  of  Olympia,  struction,  desolation,  she  only  hath  stood 
where  giving  forth  one  word,  I  might  5  like  a  lamp  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  not  fear- 
hear  seven.  ing   the   blasts   of   the   sharp   winds,   but 

But  all  these  graces,  although  they  be  trusting  in  his  providence  that  rideth 
to  be  wondered  at,  yet  her  politic  gov-  upon  the  wings  of  the  four  winds.  Next 
ernment,  her  prudent  counsel,  her  zeal  to  followeth  the  love  she  beareth  to  her  sub- 
religion,  her  clemency  to  those  that  sub- 10  jects,  who  no  less  tendereth  them  than 
mit,  her  stoutness  to  those  that  threaten,  the  apple  of  her  own  eye,  showing  herself 
so  far  exceed  all  other  virtues  that  they  a  mother  to  the  afflicted,  a  physician  to 
are  more  easy  to  be  marveled  at  than  the  sick,  a  sovereign  and  mild  governess 
imitated.  to  all. 

Two  and  twenty  years  hath  she  borne  15      Touching   her   magnanimity,   her   maj- 
the  sword  with  such  justice,  that  neither      esty,   her  estate   royal,  there  was  neither 
offenders    could    complain    of    rigor,    nor      Alexander,   nor   Galba   the   Emperor,   nor 
the  innocent  of  wrong;  yet  so  tempered      any,  that  might  be  compared  with  her. 
with    mercy    as    malefactors    have    been  This  is  she  that,   resembling  the  noble 

sometimes  pardoned  upon  hope  of  grace,  20  queen  of  Navarre,  useth  the  marigold  for 
and  the  injured  requited  to  ease  their  her  flower,  which  at  the  rising  of  the 
grief,  insomuch  that  in  the  whole  course  sun  opencth  her  leaves,  and  at  the  setting 
of  her  glorious  reign,  it  could  never  be  shutteth  them,  referring  all  her  actions 
said  that  either  the  poor  were  oppressed  and  endeavors  to  him  that  ruleth  tfie  sun. 
without  remedy,  or  the  guilty  repressed  25  This  is  that  Caesar,  that  first  bound  the 
without  cause,  bearing  this  engraven  in  crocodile  to  the  palm  tree,  bridling  those 
her  noble  heart,  that  justice  without  that  sought  to  rein  her.  This  is  that 
mercy  were  extreme  injury,  and  pity  good  pelican,  that  to  feed  her  people 
without  equity,  plain  partiality,  and  that  spareth  not  to  rend  her  own  person. 
it  is  as  great  tyranny  not  to  mitigate  30  This  is  that  mighty  eagle,  that  hath 
laws,  as  iniquity  to  break  them.  thrown    dust    into    the    eyes    of    the    hart 

Her  care  for  the  flourishing  of  the  Cos-  that  went  about  to  work  destruction  to  her 
pel  hath  well  appeared  whenas  neither  subjects,  into  whose  wings  although  the 
the  curses  of  the  Pope  (which  are  bless-  blind  beetle  would  have  crept,  and  so 
ings  to  good  people)  nor  the  threatenings  35  being  carried  into  her  nest,  destroyed  her 
of  kings  (which  are  perilous  to  a  prince)  young  ones,  yet  hath  she  with  the  virtue 
nor  the  persuasions  of  papists  (which  are  of  her  feathers,  consumed  that  fly  in  his 
honey  to  the  mouth)  could  either  fear  own  fraud.  She  hath  exiled  the  swal- 
her  or  allure  her  to  violate  the  holy  low  that  sought  to  spoil  the  grasshopper, 
league  contracted  with  Christ,  or  to  40  and  given  bitter  almonds  to  the  ravenous 
maculate  the  blood  of  the  ancient  Lamb,  wolves  that  endeavored  to  devour  the 
which  is  Christ.  But  always  constant  in  silly  lambs,  burning  even  with  the  breath 
the  true  faith,  she  hath  to  the  exceeding  of  her  mouth  like  the  princely  stag,  the 
joy  of  her  subjects,  to  the  unspeakable  serpents  that  were  engendered  by  the 
comfort  of  her  soul,  to  the  great  glory  of  45  breath  of  the  huge  elephant,  so  that  now 
God,  established  that  religion  the  main-  all  her  enemies  are  as  whist  as  the  bird 
tenance  whereof  she  rather  seeketh  to  Attagen,  who  never  singeth  any  tune 
confirm  by  fortitude,  than  leave  off  for  after  she  is  taken,  nor  they  being  so 
fear,     knowing     that     there     is     nothing      overtaken. 

smelleth  sweeter  to  the  Lord  than  a  sound  50  But  whither  do  I  wade,  ladies,  as  one 
spirit,  which  neither  the  hosts  of  the  un-  forgetting  himself,  thinking  to  sound  the 
godly  nor  the  horror  of  death  can  either  depth  of  her  virtues  with  a  few  fathoms, 
remove  or  move.  when    there    is    no    bottom ;    for    I    know 

This  Gospel  with  invincible  .  courage,  not  how  it  cometh  to  pass  that,  being  in 
with  rare  constancy,  with  hot  zeal,  she  55  this  labyrinth,  I  may  sooner  lose  myself 
hath    maintained    in    her    own    countries      than  find  the  end. 

without  change,  and  defended  against  all  Behold,    ladies,    in   this   glass   a   queen, 

kingdoms   that   sought   change,    insomuch      a  woman,  a  virgin  in  all  gifts  of  the  l)ody. 


8o 


JOHN  LYLY 


in  all  graces  of  the  mind,  in  all  perfection 
of  either,  so  far  to  excel  all  men,  that  I 
know  not  whether  I  may  think  the  place 
too  bad  for  her  to  dwell  among  men. 

To  talk  of  other  things  in  that  court 
were  to  bring  eggs  after  apples,  or  after 
the  setting  out  of  the  sun,  to  tell  a  tale  of 
a   shadow. 

But  this  I  say,  that  all  offices  are  looked 
to  with  great  care,  that  virtue  is  em- 
braced of  all,  vice  hated,  religion  daily 
increased,  manners  reformed,  -that  who- 
so seeth  the  place  there,  will  think  it 
rather  a  church  for  divine  service  than  a 
court    for   princes'   delight. 

This  is  the  glass,  ladies,  wherein  I 
would  have  you  gaze,  wherein  I  took  my 
whole  delight ;  imitate  the  ladies  in  Eng- 
land, amend  your  manners,  rub  out  the 
wrinkles  of  the  mind,  and  be  not  curioui 
about  the  weams  in  the  face.  As  for 
their  Elizabeth,  since  you  can  neither 
sufficiently  marvel  at  her,  nor  I  praise 
her,  let  us  all  pray  for  her,  which  is  the 
only  duty  we  can  perform,  and  the  great- 
est that  we  can  proffer. 

Yours   to   command, 

EUPHUES. 


APELLES'  SONG 

(From   ALEXANDER  AND  CAMPASPE) 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards   for  kisses ;   Cupid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bows  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows; 

Loses   them  too;   then  down  he  throws       5 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how)  ; 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win.  'o 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  me? 

SPRING'S  WELCOME 

(From   ALEXANDER  AND  CAMPASPE) 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail? 
O   'tis  the  ravished  nightingale. 
'Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,  tereu,'  she  cries. 
And  still   her   woes  at  midnight  rise. 
Brave  prick-song!  who  is 't  now  we  hear?  5 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear; 
Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings. 
The  morn  not   waking  till   she  sings. 


Hark,  hark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note !  »o 

Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing, 
'  Cuckoo,'  to  welcome  in  the  spring ! 
'  Cuckoo,'  to  welcome  in  the  spring ! 

SAPPHO'S    SONG 

(From  SAPPHO  and  phao) 

O  cruel  Love !  on  thee  I  lay  J 

My  curse,  which  shall  strike  blind  the  day;         j 

Never  may  sleep  with  velvet  hand  ' 

Charm  thine   eyes  with   sacred   wand ; 

Thy  jailors  still  be  hopes  and  fears ;  5 

Thy  prison-mates   groans,   sighs,   and   tears ; 

Thy  play  to  wear  out  weary  times. 

Fantastic  passions,   vows,  and   rimes ; 

Thy  bread  be  frowns ;  thy  drink  be  gall  ; 

Such  as  when  you  Phao  call;  >" 

The  bed  thou  best  on  be  despair ; 

Thy  sleep,   fond  dreams ;   thy  dreams,  long 

care; 
Hope  (like  thy  fool)  at  thy  bed's  head, 
Mock  thee,  till  madness  strikes  thee  dead. 
As,    Phao,    thou    dost    me,    with    thy    proud 

eyes.  '  s 

In  thee  poor  Sappho  lives,  in  thee  she  dies. 

SONG 

(From  gallathea) 

Telusa  :     O  yes,  O  yes!  if  any  maid 
Whom  leering  Cupid  has  betrayed 
To  frowns  of  spite,  to  eyes  of  scorn. 
And  would  in  madness  now  see  torn 
The  boy  in  pieces, — 

All  Three:  Let  her  come 

Hither,  and  lay  on  him  her  doom. 

Eurota:     O  yes,  O  yes!  has  any  lost 
A  heart  which  many  a  sigh  hath  cost ; 
Is  any  cozened  of  a  tear  lo 

Which,  as  a  pearl,  disdain  does  wear? 

All  Three:     Here  stands  the  thief;  let  her 
but  come 
Hither,  and  lay  on  him  her  doom. 

Larissa  :     Is  any  one  undone  by  fire. 

And  turned  to  ashes  through  desire?       '5 
Did   ever  any  lady  weep, 
Benig  cheated  of  her  golden   sleep 
Stol'n   by   sick   thoughts? 


All  Three:  The  pirate's  found 

And  in  her  tears  he  shall  be  drowned. 
Read  this  indictment,   let  him  hear  ^i 

What  he's  to  trust  to.     Boy,  give  ear! 


I 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY    (1554-1586) 

Sidney's  parents  were  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  subsequently  lord  deputy  in  Ireland,  and  Lady 
Mary  Dudley,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Noithumberland.  After  an  agreeable  schooling  at 
Shrewsbury,  Sidney  took  up  residence  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  a  residence  which  he  cut 
short  in  order  to  travel  abroad,  after  the  fashion  of  young  men  of  rank.  At  the  time  of  the 
Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  August  2;j-4.  1572,  he  was  in  I'aris,  and  subsequently  his 
travels,  during  about  four  years,  extended  to  Germany,  Italy,  and  other  parts  of  the  Continent. 
Of  these  travels,  one  interesting  legacy  is  his  Latin  correspondence  with  the  distinguished 
Huguenot,  Hubert  Languet.  In  157G-77,  Sidney  was  abroad  on  a  diplomatic  mission  to  the 
Emperor  Rudolf  II.  As  a  courtier  he  was  esteemed  and  honored  on  the  continent,  both  for 
his  personal  charm  and  for  his  genuine  talent.  Although  he  was  a  favorite  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, his  opposition  to  her  proposed  marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Anjou  may  have  been  the  cause 
of  his  retirement,  for  a  time,  to  Wilton,  where  he  wrote  Arcadia,  a  pastoral  romance  (pub- 
lished 1500),  in  honor  of  his  sister,  the  countess  of  Pembroke,  and  An  Apology  for  Poetry 
(published  1595).  During  this  period  of  retirement,  also,  he  may  have  begun  writing  the 
sonnets  and  son_gs  addressed  to  Penelope  Devereux,  and  published,  in  1591,  as  Astrophcl  and 
Stella.  In  1582,  Sidney  was  knighted  by  the  queen,  who  is  said  to  have  interfered  later 
against  his  being  offered  the  Polish  crown.  In  1585,  the  queen  appointed  him  governor  of 
Flushing,  on  the  coast  of  the  Netherlands.  During  the  siege  of  Zutphen,  in  an  expedition  to 
intercept  a  Spanish  convoy,  he  was  mortally  wounded,  and  died,  October  17,  158G. 

Short-lived  as  he  was,  Sidney  acquired  a  substantial  place  in  English  literature,  as  a  masterly 
poet  of  the  courtly  order,  as  a  charming  romancer,  and  as  a  gentle  but  firm  critic.  The 
charm  of  his  poetry  and  romance  extended  to  his  criticism,  and  gave  to  his  somewhat  too 
orthodox  canons,  a  permanent  allurement  of  frankness,  gentleness,  and  humor. 


From    AN   APOLOGY   FOR   POETRY      James    of    Scotland;    such    cardinals    as 

Bembus  and  Bibiena ;  such  famous 
But  since  I  have  run  so  long  a  career  preachers  and  teachers  as  Beza  and 
in  this  matter,  methinks,  before  I  give  Melancthon ;  so  learned  philosophers  as 
my  pen  a  full  stop,  it  shall  be  but  a  little  5  Fracastorius  and  Scaliger;  so  great  ora- 
more  lost  time  to  inquire,  why  England,  tors  as  Pontanus  and  Muretus ;  so  pierc- 
the  mother  of  excellent  minds,  should  ing  wits  as  George  Buchanan ;  so  grave 
be  grown  so  hard  a  step-mother  to  poets,  councilors  as,  besides  many,  but  before 
who  certainly  in  wit  ought  to  pass  all  all,  that  Hospital  of  France,  than  whom, 
others,  since  all  only  proceeds  from  their  lo  I  think,  that  realm  never  brought  forth  a 
wit,  being,  indeed,  makers  of  themselves,  more  accomplished  judgment,  more  firmly 
not  takers  of  others.  How  can  I  but  builded  upon  virtue;  I  say  these,  with 
exclaim,  numbers  of  others,  not  only  to  read  others' 

poesies,  but  to  poetize  for  others'  reading: 

Musa,  mihi  causas  memora,  quo  numine      15  that    poesy,    thus    embraced    in    all    other 

laeso?  places,  should  only  find  in  our  time  a  hard 

[Muse,  bring  to  my  mind  the  reasons :  welcome    in    England,    I    think    the    very 

for  the  injury  of  what  divinity?]  earth  laments  it,  and  therefore  decks  our 

soil  with  fewer  laurels  than  it  was  accus- 
Sweet  poesy !  that  hath  anciently  had  20  tomed.  For  heretofore  poets  have  in 
kings,  emperors,  senators,  great  captains,  England  also  flourished;  and,  which  is  to 
such  as  besides  a  thousand  others,  David,  be  noted,  even  in  those  times  when  the 
Adrian,  Sophocles,  Germanicus,  not  only  trumpet  of  Mars  did  sound  loudest.  And 
to  favor  poets,  but  to  be  poets;  and  of  now  that  an  over-faint  quietness  should 
our  nearer  times  can  present  for  her  25  seem  to  strew  the  house  for  poets,  they 
patrons,  a  Robert,  King  of  Sicily;  the  are  almost  in  as  good  reputation  as  the 
great  King  Francis  of  France;  King  mountebanks  at  Venice.  Truly,  even 
6  81 


82  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


that,  as  of  the  one  side  it  giveth  great  any  that  have  strength  of  wit;  a  poet 
praise  to  poesy,  which,  like  Venus  (but  no  industry  can  make,  if  his  own  genius 
to  better  purpose),  had  rather  be  troubled  be  not  carried  into  it.  And  therefore  is 
in  the  net  with  Mars,  than  enjoy  tlie  it  an  old  proverb.  Orator  fit,  pacta  nasci- 
homely  quiet  of  Vulcan ;  so  serves  it  for  5  tur  [The  orator  is  made,  the  poet 
a  piece  of  a  reason  why  they  are  less  born].  Yet  confess  I  always,  that,  as 
grateful  to  idle  England,  which  now  can  the  fertilest  ground  must  be  manured,  so 
scarce  endure  the  pain  of  a  pen.  Upon  must  the  highest  flying  wit  have  a 
this  necessarily  followeth  that  base  men  Diedalus  to  guide  him.  That  Diedalus, 
with  servile  wits  undertake  it,  who  think  lo  they  say,  both  in  this  and  in  other,  hath 
it  enough  if  they  can  be  rewarded  of  the  three  wings  to  bear  itself  up  into  the  air 
printer;  and  so  as  Epaminondas  is  said,  of  due  commendation;  that  is,  art,  imita- 
with  the  honor  of  his  virtue,  to  have  tion,  and  exercise.  But  these,  neither 
made  an  office  by  his  exercising  it,  which  artificial  rules,  nor  imitative  patterns,  we 
before  was  contemptible,  to  become  15  much  cumber  ourselves  withal.  Exer- 
highly  respected;  so  these  men,  no  more  cise,  indeed,  we  do,  but  that  very  fore- 
but  setting  their  names  to  it,  by  their  backwardly;  for  where  we  should  exer- 
own  disgracefulness,  disgrace  the  most  cise  to  know,  we  exercise  as  having 
graceful  poesy.  For  now,  as  if  all  the  known;  and  so  is  our  brain  delivered  of 
Muses  were  got  with  child,  to  bring  forth  20  much  matter  which  never  was  begotten 
bastard  poets,  without  any  commission,  by  knowledge.  For  there  being  two 
they  do  post  over  the  banks  of  Helicon,  principal  parts,  matter  to  be  expressed 
until  they  make  their  readers  more  by  words,  and  words  to  express  the  mat- 
weary  than  post-horses;  while,  in  the  ter,  in  neither  we  use  art  or  imitation 
meantime,   they,  25  rightly.     Our    matter    is    qiiodlibct    [what 

you  will],  indeed,  although  wrongly,  per- 

Queis  meliore  luto  finxit  praecordia  Titan,      forming    Ovid's    verse, 

[Whose  heart-strings  the  Titan  fastened 

with  a  better  clay]  Quicquid  conabor  dicere,  versus  erit ; 

30  [Whatever  I  shall  try  to  say  will  be  verse] 
are    better    content   to    suppress    the    out- 

flowings  of  their  wit  than  by  publishing  never  marshaling  it  into  any  assured 
them  to  be  accounted  knights  of  the  same  rank,  that  almost  the  readers  cannot  tell 
order.  where  to  tind  themselves. 

But  I  that,  before  ever  I  durst  aspire  35  Chaucer,  undoubtedly,  did  excellently 
unto  the  dignity,  am  admitted  into  the  in  his  Troilus  and  Criseydc ;  of  whom, 
company  of  the  paper-blurrers,  do  find  truly,  I  know  not  whether  to  marvel 
the  very  true  cause  of  our  wanting  esti-  more,  either  that  he  in  that  misty  time 
mation  is  want  of  desert,  taking  upon  us  could  see  so  clearly,  or  that  we  in  this 
to  be  poets  in  despite  of  Pallas.  Now,  4°  clear  age  go  so  stumblingly  after  him. 
wherein  we  want  desert,  were  a  thank-  Yet  had  he  great  wants,  fit  to  be  forgiven 
worthy  labor  to  express.  But  if  I  in  so  reverend  antiquity.  I  account  the 
knew,  I  should  have  mended  myself;  but  Mirror  for  Magistrates  meetly  furnished 
as  I  never  desired  the  title,  so  have  I  of  beautiful  parts.  And  in  the  Earl  of 
neglected  the  means  to  come  by  it;  only,  45  Surrey's  lyrics,  many  things  tasting  of 
overmastered  by  some  thoughts,  I  a  noble  birth,  and  worthy  of  a  noble 
yielded  an  inky  tribute  unto  them.  mind.  The  Shepherd's  Calendar  hath 
Marry,  they  that  delight  in  poesy  itself,  much  poetry  in  its  eclogues,  indeed,  wor- 
should  seek  to  know  what  they  do,  and  thy  the  reading,  if  I  be  not  deceived, 
how  they  do,  and,  especially,  look  them-  50  That  same  framing  of  its  style  to  an  old 
selves  in  an  unflattering  glass  of  reason,  rustic  language,  I  dare  not  allow ;  since 
if  they  be  inclinable  unto  it.  neither    Theocritus    in    Greek,    Virgil    in 

For  poesy  must  not  be  drawn  by  the  Latin,  nor  Sannazaro  in  Italian,  did  af- 
ears,  it  must  be  gently  led,  or  rather  it  feet  it.  Besides  these,  I  do  not  remember 
must  lead;  which  was  partly  the  cause  55  to  have  seen  but  few  (to  speak  boldly) 
that  made  the  ancient  learned  affirm  it  printed  that  have  poetical  sinews  in 
was  a  divine  gift,  and  no  human  skill,  them.  For  proof  whereof,  let  but  most 
since  all  other  knowledges  lie  ready  for      of  the  verses  be  put  in  prose,  and  then 


il 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  POETRY  83 


ask  the  meaning,  and  it  will  be  found  imagine;  and  art  hath  taught  and  all 
that  one  verse  did  but  beget  another,  ancient  examples  justified,  and  at  this  day 
without  ordering  at  the  first  what  should  the  ordinary  players  in  Italy  will  not  err 
be  at  the  last;  which  becomes  a  con-  in.  Y^et  will  some  bring  in  an  example 
fused  mass  of  words,  with  a  tinkling  5  of  the  Eunuch  in  Terence,  that  containeth 
sound  of  rime,  barely  accompanied  with  matter  of  two  days,  yet  far  short  of 
reason.  twenty    years.     True    it    is,    and    so    was 

Our  tragedies  and  comedies  (not  with-  it  to  be  played  in  two  days,  and  so  fitted 
out  cause,  cried  out  against)  observing  to  the  time  it  set  forth.  And  though 
rules  neither  of  honest  civility  nor  of  10  Plautus  have  in  one  place  done  amiss,  let 
skilful  poetry,  excepting  Gorbodiic  (again  us  hit  it  with  him,  and  not  miss  with  him. 
I   say  of  those  that  I  have  seen),  which  But  they  will  say,  How  then  shall  we 

notwithstanding,  as  it  is  full  of  stately  set  forth  a  story  which  contains  both 
speeches  and  well-sounding  phrases,  many  places  and  many  times?  And  do 
climbing  to  the  height  of  Seneca's  15  they  not  know  that  a  tragedy  is  tied  to  the 
style,  and  as  full  of  notable  morality,  laws  of  poesy,  and  not  of  history;  not 
which  it  does  most  delightfully  teach,  and  bound  to  follow  the  story,  but  having 
so  obtain  the  very  end  of  poesy;  yet,  in  liberty  either  to  feign  a  quite  new  matter, 
truth,  it  is  very  defectious  in  the  cir-  or  to  frame  the  history  to  the  most  trag- 
cumstances,  which  grieves  me,  because  20  ical  conveniency?  Again,  many  things 
it  might  not  remain  as  an  exact  model  of  may  be  told,  which  cannot  be  showed:  if 
all  tragedies.  For  it  is  faulty  both  in  they  know  the  difference  betwixt  report- 
place  and  time,  the  two  necessary  com-  ing  and  representing.  As,  for  example,  I 
panions  of  all  corporal  actions.  For  may  speak,  though  I  am  here,  of  Peru, 
where  the  stage  should  always  represent  25  and  in  speech  digress  from  that  to  the 
but  one  place,  and  the  uttermost  time  pre-  description  of  Calicut;  but  in  action  I 
supposed  in  it  should  be,  both  by  Aris-  cannot  represent  it  without  Pacolet's 
totle's  precept,  and  common  reason,  but  horse.  And  so  was  the  manner  the  an- 
one  day,  there  is  both  many  days  and  cients  took,  by  some  Nuntius  [Messen- 
many  places  inartificially  imagined.  30  ger]    to   recount   things   done   in    former 

But  if  it  be  so  in  Gorboduc,  how  much      time,  or  other  place, 
more    in    all    the   rest?   where    you    shall  Lastly,   if  they   will   represent   an   his- 

have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Afric  of  tory,  they  must  not,  as  Horace  saith,  be- 
the  other,  and  so  many  other  under  king-  gin  ab  ovo,  [from  the  ^^z\  but  they  must 
doms,  that  the  player,  when  he  comes  in,  35  come  to  the  principal  point  of  that  one  ac- 
must  ever  begin  with  telling  where  he  is,  tion  which  they  will  represent.  By  ex- 
or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  conceived,  ample  this  will  be  best  expressed.  I  have 
Now  you  shall  have  three  ladies  walk  to  a  story  of  young  Polydorus,  delivered,  for 
gather  flowers,  and  then  we  must  believe  safety's  sake,  with  great  riches,  by  his 
the  stage  to  be  a  garden.  By  and  by,  we  40  father  Priamus  to  Polymnestor,  King  of 
hear  news  of  shipwreck  in  the  same  Thrace,  in  the  Trojan  war  time.  He. 
place,  and  then  we  are  to  blame  if  we  after  some  years,  hearing  the  overthrow 
accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon  the  back  of  Priamus,  for  to  make  the  treasure  his 
of  that  comes  out  a  hideous  monster,  with  own,  murdereth  the  child;  the  body  of 
fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the  miserable  45  the  child  is  taken  up  by  Hecuba;  she,  the 
beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave;  same  day,  findeth  a  sleight  to  be  revenged 
while,  in  the  meantime,  two  armies  fly  most  cruelly  of  the  tyrant.  Where,  now, 
in,  represented  with  four  swords  and  would  one  of  our  tragedy-writers  begin, 
bucklers,  and  then,  what  hard  heart  will  but  with  the  delivery  of  the  child?  Then 
not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field?  50  should  he  sail  over  into  Thrace,  and  so 

Now,  of  time  they  are  much  more  lib-  spend  I  know  not  how  many  years,  and 
eral;  for  ordinary  it  is.  that  two  young  travel  numbers  of  places.  But  where 
princes  fall  in  love;  after  many  traverses  doth  Euripides?  Even  with  the  finding 
she  is  got  with  child ;  delivered  of  a  fair  of  the  body ;  leaving  the  rest  to  be  told  by 
boy ;  he  is  lost,  groweth  a  man,  falls  in  55  the  spirit  of  Polydorus.  This  needs  no 
love,  and  is  ready  to  get  another  child;  further  to  be  enlarged;  the  dullest  wit 
and  all  this  in  two  hours'  space;  which,  may  conceive  it. 
how  absurd  it  is  in  sense,  even  sense  may  But,    besides    these    gross    absurdities, 


84  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


how  all  their  plays  be  neither  right  rather  pained  than  delighted  with  laugh- 
tragedies  nor  right  comedies,  mingling  ter.  Yet  deny  I  not,  but  that  they  may 
kings  and  clowns,  not  because  the  matter  go  well  together;  for,  as  in  Alexander's 
so  carrieth  it,  but  thrust  in  clowns  by  picture  well  set  out,  we  delight  without 
head  and  shoulders  to  play  a  part  in  5  laughter,  and  in  twenty  mad  antics  we 
majestical  matters,  with  neither  decency  laugh  without  delight:  so"  in  Hercules, 
nor  discretion;  so  as  neither  the  admira-  painted  with  his  great  beard  and  furious 
tion  and  commiseration,  nor  the  right  countenance,  in  a  woman's  attire,  spin- 
sportfulness,  is  by  their  mongrel  tragi-  ning  at  Omphale's  commandment,  it 
comedy  obtained.  I  know  Apuleius  did  lo  breedeth  both  delight  and  laughter;  for 
somewhat  so,  but  that  is  a  thing  re-  the  representing  of  so  strange  a  power  in 
counted  with  space  of  time,  not  repre-  love  procures  delight,  and  the  scornful- 
sented  in  one  moment:  and  I  know  the  ness  of  the  action  stirreth  laughter, 
ancients  have  one  or  two  examples  of  But  I  speak  to  this  purpose,  that  all  the 
tragi-comedies,  as  Plautus  hath  Amphi-  i5  end  of  the  comical  part  be  not  upon  such 
truo.  But,  if  we  mark  them  well,  we  shall  scornful  matters  as  stir  laughter  only,  but 
find  that  they  never,  or  very  daintily,  mix  with  it  that  delightful  teaching  which 
match  hornpipes  and  funerals.  So  fall-  is  the  end  of  poesy.  And  the  great  fault, 
eth  it  out,  that,  having,  indeed,  no  right  even  in  that  point  of  laughter,  and  for- 
comedy  in  that  comical  part  of  our  20  bidden  plainly  by  Aristotle,  is,  that  they 
tragedy,  we  have  nothing  but  scurrility,  stir  laughter  in  sinful  things,  which  are 
unworthy  of  any  chaste  ears ;  or  some  ex-  rather  execrable  than  ridiculous ;  or  in 
treme  show  of  doltishness,  indeed  fit  to  miserable,  which  are  rather  to  be  pitied 
lift  up  a  loud  laughter,  and  nothing  else ;  than  scorned.  For  what  is  it  to  make 
where  the  whole  tract  of  a  comedy  should  25  folks  gape  at  a  wretched  beggar,  and  a 
be  full  of  delight  as  the  tragedy  should  be  beggarly  clown ;  or  against  the  law  of 
still  maintained  in  a  well-raised  admira-  hospitality,  to  jest  at  strangers,  because 
tion.  they  speak  not  English  so  well  as  we  do? 

But   our   comedians   think  there   is   no     what  do  we  learn?  since  it  is  certain, 
delight   without   laughter,   which    is   very  30 

wrong;    for    though    laughter    may    come  Nil  habet  infelix  paupertas  durius  in  se, 

with  delight,  yet  cometh  it  not  of  delight,  Quam  quod   ridicules,  homines   facit. 

as  though  delight  should  be  the  cause  of        [Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distrest, 
laughter;   but  well  may  one   thing  breed  Sure  the   most  bitter  is   a  scornful   jest] 

both  together.     Nay,  in  themselves,  they  35 

have,  as  it  were,  a  kind  of  contrariety.  But  rather  a  busy  loving  courtier,  a  heart- 
For  delight  we  scarcely  do,  but  in  things  less  threatening  Thraso;  a  self-wise-seem- 
that  have  a  conveniency  to  ourselves,  or  ing  schoolmaster;  a  wry-transformed 
to  the  general  nature.  Laughter  almost  traveler :  these,  if  we  saw  walk  in  stage 
ever  cometh  of  things  most  dispropor-  40  names,  which  we  play  naturally,  therein 
tioned  to  ourselves  and  nature :  delight  were  delightful  laughter,  and  teaching  de- 
hath  a  joy  in  it,  either  permanent  or  lightfulness:  as  in  the  other,  the  tragedies 
present;  laughter  hath  only  a  scornful  of  Buchanan  do  justly  bring  forth  a 
tickling.     For  example:   we   are   ravished      divine  admiration. 

with  delight  to  see  a  fair  woman,  and  yet  45  But  I  have  lavished  out  too  many  words 
are  far  from  being  moved  to  laughter;  we  of  this  play  matter;  I  do  it,  because,  as 
laugh  at  deformed  creatures,  wherein  cer-  they  are  excelling  parts  of  poesy,  so  is 
tainly  we  cannot  delight ;  we  delight  in  there  none  so  much  used  in  England,  and 
good  chances;  we  laugh  at  mischances;  none  can  be  more  pitifully  abused ;  which, 
we  delight  to  hear  the  happiness  of  our  50  like  an  unmannerly  daughter,  showing  a 
friends  or  country,  at  which  he  were  bad  education,  causeth  her  mother  Poesy's 
worthy  to  be  laughed  at  that  would  honesty  to  be  called  in  question. 
laugh :   we   shall,   contrarily,   laugh   some-  Other  sorts  of  poetry,  almost  have  we 

times  to  find  a  matter  quite  mistaken,  and  none,  but  that  lyrical  kind  of  songs  and 
go  down  the  hill  against  the  bias,  in  the  55  sonnets,  which,  if  the  Lord  gave  us  so 
mouth  of  some  such  men,  as  for  the  re-  good  minds,  how  well  it  might  be  em- 
spect  of  them,  one  shall  be  heartily  sorry,  ployed,  and  with  how  heavenly  fruits, 
yet  he  cannot  choose  but  laugh,  and  so  is      both   private   and   public    in   singing  the 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  POETRY  85 

praises  of  the  immortal  beauty,  the  im-  derbolt  of  eloquence,  often  used  the  figure 
mortal  goodness  of  that  God,  who  giveth      of  repetition. 

us  hands  to  write  and  wits  to  conceive;  yivit.  Vivit?  imo  in  Senatum  venit,  etc. 
of  which  we  might  well  want  words,  but  ^^^  ij^.^^_  Lives?  nay  comes  to  the  Senate] 
never  matter;  of  which  we  could  turn  our  5  "^  ■" 

eyes  to  nothing,  but  we  should  ever  have  Indeed,  inflamed  with  a  well-grounded 
new  budding  occasions.  But,  truly,  many  rage,  he  would  have  his  words,  as  it  were, 
of  such  writings  as  come  under  the  ban-  double  out  of  his  mouth;  and  so  do  that 
ner  of  irresistible  love,  if  I  were  a  mis-  artificially  which  we  see  men  do  in  choler 
tress,  would  never  persuade  me  they  were  10  naturally.  And  we,  having  noted  the 
in  love;  so  coldly  they  apply  fiery  grace  of  those  words,  hale  them  in  some- 
speeches,  as  men  that  had  rather  read  times  to  a  familiar  epistle,  when  it  were 
lovers'  writings,  and  so  caught  up  certain  too  much  choler  to  be  choleric, 
swelling  phrases,  which  hang  together  —  How  well,  store  of  '  similiter  cadences ' 

like  a  man  which  once  told  me,  '  the  wind  15  doth  sound  with  the  gravity  of  the  pulpit, 
was  at  northwest  and  by  south,'  because  I  would  but  invoke  Demosthenes'  soul  to 
he  would  be  sure  to  name  winds  enough  —  tell,  who  with  a  rare  daintiness  useth 
than  that,  in  truth,  they  feel  those  pas-  them.  Truly,  they  have  made  me  think 
sions,  which  easily,  as  I  think,  may  be  of  the  sophister,  that  with  too  much 
bewrayed  by  the  same  forcibleness,  or  20  subtlety  would  prove  two  eggs  three,  and, 
energia  (as  the  Greeks  call  it),  of  the  though  he  might  be  counted  a  sophister, 
writer.  But  let  this  be  a  sufficient,  though  had  none  for  his  labor.  So  these  men 
short  note,  that  we  miss  the  right  use  of  bringing  in  such  a  kind  of  eloquence,  well 
the  material  point  of  poesy.  may  they  obtain  an  opinion  of  a  seeming 

Now    for    the    outside    of   it,    which    is  25  fineness,  but  persuade  few,  which  should 
words,  or,  as  I  may  term  it,  diction,  it  is      be  the  end  of  their  fineness. 
even  well  worse ;  so  is  that  honey-flowing  Now  for  similitudes  in  certain  printed 

matron  Eloquence,  appareled,  or  rather  discourses,  I  think  all  herbalists,  all 
disguised,  in  a  courtesan-like  painted  af-  stories  of  beasts,  fowls,  and  fishes  are 
fectation.  One  time  with  so  far-fetched  3o  rifled  up,  that  they  come  in  multitudes  to 
words,  that  may  seem  monsters,  but  must  wait  upon  any  of  our  conceits,  which 
seem  strangers  to  any  poor  Englishman :  certainly  is  as  absurd  a  surfeit  to  the  ears 
another  time  with  coursing  of  a  letter,  as  as  is  possible.  For  the  force  of  a  simili- 
if  they  were  bound  to  follow  the  method  tude  not  being  to  prove  anything  to  a 
of  a  dictionary :  another  time  with  figures  35  contrary  disputer,  but  only  to  explain  to 
and  flowers,  extremely  winter-starved.  a  willing  hearer:  when  that  is  done,  the 

But  I  would  this  fault  were  only  rest  is  a  most  tedious  prattling,  rather 
peculiar  to  versifiers,  and  had  not  as  large  overswaying  the  memory  from  the  pur- 
possession  among  prose  printers :  and,  pose  whereto  they  were  applied,  than  any 
which  is  to  be  marveled,  among  many  40  whit  informing  the  judgment,  already 
scholars,  and,  which  is  to  be  pitied,  among  either  satisfied,  or  by  similitudes  not  to 
some  preachers.     Truly,  I  could  wish  (if      be  satisfied. 

at  least  I  might  be  so  bold  to  wish,  in  a  For  my  part,  I  do  not  doubt,  when  An- 

thing  beyond  the  reach  of  my  capacity)  tonius  and  Crassus,  the  great  forefathers 
the  diligent  imitators  of  Tully  and  De- 45  of  Cicero  in  eloquence,  the  one  (as  Cicero 
mosthenes,  most  worthy  to  be  imitated,  testifieth  of  them)  pretended  not  to  know 
did  not  so  much  keep  Nizolian  paper-  art,  the  other  not  to  set  by  it,  because  with 
books  of  their  figures  and  phrases,  as  by  a  plain  sensibleness  they  might  win  credit 
attentive  translation,  as  it  were,  devour  of  popular  ears,  which  credit  is  the  near- 
them  whole,  and  make  them  wholly  theirs.  50  est  step  to  persuasion  (which  persuasion 
For  now  they  cast  sugar  and  spice  upon  is  the  chief  mark  of  oratory)  ;  I  do  not 
every  dish  that  is  served  to  the  table:  like  doubt,  I  say,  but  that  they  used  these 
those  Indians,  not  content  to  wear  ear-  knacks  very  sparingly;  which  who  doth 
rings  at  the  fit  and  natural  place  of  the  generally  use,  any  man  may  see,  doth 
ears,  but  they  will  thrust  jewels  through  55  dance  to  his  own  music;  and  so  to  be 
their  nose  and  lips,  because  they  will  be  noted  bv  the  audience,  more  careful  to 
sure  to  be  fine.  Tully,  when  he  was  to  speak  curiously  than  to  speak  truly.  Un- 
drive  out  Catiline,  as  it  were  with  a  thun-      doubtedlv    (at    least    to   my   opinion,    un- 


86  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


doubtedly)  I  luive  found  in  divers  small-  more  fit  for  music,  both  words  and  tune 
learned  courtiers  a  more  sound  style  than  observing  quantity;  and  more  fit  lively  to 
in  some  professors  of  learning;  of  which  exjiress  divers  ])assions,  by  the  low  and 
I  can  guess  no  other  cause,  but  that  the  lofty  sound  of  the  well-weighed  syllable, 
courtier  following  that  which  by  practice  5  Tlie  latter,  likewise,  with  his  rime  striketh 
he  findeth  fittest  to  nature,  therein  (though  a  certain  music  to  the  ear;  and,  in  fine, 
lie  know  it  not)  doth  according  to  art,  since  it  doth  delight,  though  by  another 
though  not  by  art:  where  the  other,  using  way,  it  oljtains  the  same  purpose;  there 
art  to  show  art,  and  not  to  hide  art  (as  l)eing  in  either,  sweetness,  and  wanting 
in  these  cases  he  should  do),  flieth  from  10  in  neither,  majesty.  Truly  the  English, 
nature,  and  indeed  abuseth  art.  before  any  other  vulgar  language  I  know, 

But  what!  mcthinks  I  deserve  to  be  is  fit  for  both  sorts;  for,  for  the  ancient, 
pounded  for  straying  from  poetry  to  ora-  the  Italian  is  so  full  of  vowels,  that  it 
tory :  but  both  have  such  an  affinity  in  the  must  ever  be  cumbered  with  elisions.  The 
wordish  considerations,  that  I  think  this  15  Dutch  so  of  the  other  side  with  conso- 
digression  will  make  my  meaning  receive  nants,  that  they  cannot  yield  the  sweet 
the  fuller  understanding:  which  is  not  to  sliding  fit  for  a  verse.  The  French,  in 
take  upon  me  to  teach  poets  how  they  his  whole  language,  hath  not  one  word 
should  do,  but  only  finding  myself  sick  that  hath  its  accent  in  the  last  syllable, 
among  the  rest,  to  show  some  one  or  two  20  saving  two,  called  antepenultima;  and 
spots  of  the  common  infection  grown  little  more  hath  the  Spanish ;  and,  there- 
among  the  most  part  of  writers ;  that,  ac-  fore,  very  gracelessly  may  they  use 
knowledging  ourselves  somewhat  awry,  dactyls.  The  English  is  subject  to  none 
we  may  bend  to  the  right  use  both  of  mat-      of  these  defects. 

ter  and  manner :  whereto  our  language  25  Now  for  rime,  though  we  do  not  ob- 
giveth  us  great  occasion,  being,  indeed,  serve  quantity,  yet  we  observe  the  accent 
capable  of  any  excellent  exercising  of  it.  very  precisely,  which  other  languages 
I  know  some  will  say,  it  is  a  mingled  either  cannot  do,  or  will  not  do  so  ab- 
language  :  and  why  not  so  much  the  better,  solutely.  That  caesura,  or  breathing- 
taking  the  best  of  both  the  other?  An- 30  place,  in  the  midst  of  the  verse,  neither 
other  will  say,  it  wanteth  grammar.  Nay,  Italian  nor  Spanish  have,  the  French  and 
truly,  it  hath  that  praise,  that  it  wanteth  we  never  almost  fail  of.  Lastly,  even  the 
not  grammar;  for  grammar  it  might  have,  very  rime  itself  the  Italian  cannot  put  in 
but  it  needs  it  not;  being  so  easy  in  itself,  the  last  syllable,  by  the  French  named  the 
and  so  void  of  those  cumbersome  differ-  35  masculine  rime,  but  still  in  the  next  to 
ences  of  cases,  genders,  moods,  and  the  last,  which  the  French  call  the  female ; 
tenses;  which,  I  think,  was  a  piece  of  the  or  the  next  before  that,  which  the  Italians 
Tower  of  Babylon's  curse,  that  a  man  term  sdrucciola:  the  example  of  the  for- 
should  be  put  to  school  to  learn  his  mer  is,  huono,  suono ;  of  the  sdrucciola  is, 
mother  tongue.  But  for  the  uttering 40 /f;» ma,  sanina.  The  French,  of  the 
sweetly  and  properly  the  conceits  of  the  other  side,  hath  both  the  male,  as  bon,  son, 
mind,  which  is  the  end  of  speech,  that  and  the  female,  as  plaise,  taise ;  but  the 
hath  it  equally  with  any  other  tongue  in  sdrucciola  he  hath  not;  where  the  Eng- 
the  world,  and  is  particularly  happy  in  lish  hath  all  three,  as  '  due,'  '  true,' 
compositions  of  two  or  three  words  to-  45  '  father,'  *  rather,'  '  motion.'  '  potion  ' ; 
gether,  near  the  Greek,  far  beyond  the  with  much  more  which  might  be  said,  but 
Latin;  which  is  one  of  the  greatest  beau-  that  I  find  already  the  tritlingness  of 
ties  can  be  in  a  language.  this  discourse  is  much  too  much  enlarged. 

Now,  of  versifying  there  are  two  sorts.  So    that    since    the    ever    praiseworthy 

the  one  ancient,  the  other  modern ;  the  an-  50  poesy  is  full  of  virtue-breeding  delight- 
cient  marked  the  quantity  of  each  syllable,  fulness,  and  void  of  no  gift  that  ought  to 
and  according  to  that,  framed  its  verse;  be  in  the  noble  name  of  learning;  since 
the  modern,  observing  only  number,  with  the  blames  laid  against  it  are  either  false 
some  regard  of  the  accent,  the  chief  life  or  feeble;  since  the  cause  why  it  is  not 
of  it  standcth  in  that  like  sounding  of  the  55  esteemed  in  England  is  the  fault  of  poet- 
words,  which  we  call  rime.  Whether  of  apes,  not  poets;  since,  lastly,  our  tongue 
these  be  the  more  excellent,  would  bear  is  most  fit  to  honor  poesy,  and  to  be  lion- 
many    speeches;    the    ancient,    no    doubt      ored   by   poesy;    I    conjure   you    all    that 


ASTROFHEL  AND  STELLA  87 

have  had  the  evil  luck  to  read  this  ink-      poets ;   that  while   you   live,   you   live   in 

Vi^asting  toy  of  mine,  even  in  the  name  of      love,    and    never    get    favor,    for    lacking 

the  Nine  Muses,  no  more  to  scorn  the  sa-      skill  of  a  sonnet;  and  when  you  die,  your 

cred  mysteries  of  poesy ;  no  more  to  laugh      memory  die  from  the  earth   for  want  of 

at  the  name  of  poets,  as  though  they  were   5  an  epitaph. 

next  inheritors  to  fools;  no  more  to  jest 

at  the   reverend  title  of  a   rimer;   but  to 

believe,  with  Aristotle,  that  they  were  the  ASTROPHEL  AND  STELLA 

ancient  treasurers  of  the  Grecians'  divin-  i 

ity;    to    believe     with    Bembus,    that    they  10  Loving  in  truth,  and   fain  in  verse  my  love 

were  the  first  bringers  in  of  all  civility;  ^^   gj^^^ 

to  believe,  with  Scaliger,  that  no  philoso-      jhat  she,  dear  she,  might  take  some  pleasure 

pher  s  precepts  can  sooner  make  you  an  q£  j^     p^jj-, 

honest  man,  than  the  reading  of  Virgil ;      pleasure  might  cause  her  read,  reading  might 

to  believe,  with  Clauserus,  the  translator  15         make  her   know 

of  Cornutus,  that  it  pleased  the  heavenly      Knowledge  might  pity  win,  and  pity  grace 

deity   by   Hesiod   and    Homer,   under  the  obtain 

veil   of   fables,   to   give  us   all  knowledge,      i  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^ords  to  paint  the  blackest  face 
logic,    rhetoric,    philosophy    natural    and  of   ^oe  5 

moral,    and    Quid    non?     [Why    not]     to  20  studying  inventions  fine,  her  wits  to  enter- 
believe,    with    me,    that   there    are    many  tain 

mysteries   contained   in   poetry,   which   of      oft  turning  others'  leaves,  to  see  if  thence 
purpose  were  written  darkly,  lest  by  pro-  would    flow 

fane  wits  it  should  be  abused ;  to  believe,      Some   fresh  and   fruitful   showers  upon   my 
with  Landin,  that  they  are  so  beloved  of  25         sunburnt  brain 

the  gods  that  whatsoever  they  write  pro-      But  words  came  halting  forth,  wanting  In- 
ceeds  of  a  divine  fury.     Lastly,  to  believe  vention's  stay  • 

themselves,  when  they  tell  you  they  will      invention,     Nature's    child,     fled     step-dame 
make  you  immortal  by  their  verses.  Study's  blows;  10 

Thus  doing,  your  names  shall  flourish  in  30  And  others'  feet  still  seemed  but  strangers' 
the  printers'  shops:  thus  doing,  you  shall  \^  my  way. 

be  of  kin  to  many  a  poetical  preface :  thus      Thus,  great  with  child  to  speak,   and  help- 
doing,  you  shall  be  most  fair,  most  rich,  j^ss  in  my  throes, 

most  wise,  most  all:  you  shall  dwell  upon      Biting   my  truant   pen,   beating   myself    for 
superlatives :   thus   doing,   though   you   be  35  spite ; 

Libcrtino  patre  notiis  [Born  of  a  freedman      <  pool,'  said  my  Muse  to  me,   'look  in  thy 
father],  you  shall  suddenly  grow  Herculca  heart    and  write.' 

proles  [Descendant  of  Hercules], 

Si  quid  mea  Carmina  possunt :  40  vii 

[If  my  poems   are  good    for   anything]  When  Nature  made  her  chief  work,  Stella's 

eyes. 
Thus  doing,  your  soul  shall  be  placed  with      In    color    black    why    wrapt    she    beams    so 
Dante's  Beatrice,  or  Virgil's  Anchises.  bright?  ,,,,.. 

But  if  (fie  of  such  a  but!)  you  be  born  45  ^^'Ould    she,    in    beamy    black,    like    pamtcr 

so  near  the  dull-making  cataract  of  Nilus,  wise,  ■     ^     ,    ,    ^ 

that  you  cannot  hear  the  planet-like  music  Frame  daintiest  luster,  mixed  of  shades  and 
of  poetrv;  if  you  have  so  earth-creeping  light?  .        ,     . 

a  mind    that  it  cannot  lift  itself  up  to  look  Or  did  she  else  that  sober  hue  devise,  5 

to  the  sky  of  poetry,  or  rather,  by  a  cer-  50  In    object    best    to    knit    and    strength    our 
tain  rustical  disdain,  will  become  such   a  sight; 

Mome,  as  to  be  a  Momus  of  poetry;  then.  Lest,  if  no  veil  these  brave  gleams  did  dis- 
though  I  will  not  wish  unto  you  the  ass's  guise, 

ears    of    Midas,    nor    to    be    driven    by    a  They,  sunlike,  should  more  dazzle  than  de- 
poet's   verses,   as   Bubonax   was,   to   hang  55  hght  ? 

himself;   nor  to  be  rimed  to  death,   as   is  Or  would  she  her  miraculous  power  show, 

said  to  be  done  in  Ireland;  yet  thus  much  That,    whereas    black    seems    Beauty's    con- 
curse  I  must  send  you  in  the  behalf  of  all  trary,  >o 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


She   even   in   black   doth   make  all   beauties 

flow? 
Both     so,    and     thus,— she,     minding    Love 

should   be 
Placed   ever  there,  ^ave  him  this  mourning 

weed 
To   honor   all    their   deaths   which    for   her 

bleed. 


You  that  do  searcli  for  every  purling  spring 
Which     from    the     ribs    of    old     Parnassus 

flows, 
And  every  flower,  not  sweet  perhaps,  which 

grows 
Near  thereabouts,  into  your  poesy  wring; 
You  that  do  dictionary's  method  bring         5 
Into   your   rimes,   running   in   rattling   rows ; 
You     that     poor     Petrarch's     long-deceased 

woes 
With  new-born   sighs  and  denizened  wit  do 

sing ; 
You  take  wrong  ways ;   those   far-fet  helps 

be  such 
As  do  bewray  a  want  of  inward  touch,       lo 
And  sure,  at  length  stolen  goods  do  come  to 

light : 
But   if,   both    for  your  love  and   skill,  your 

name 
You    seek    to    nurse    at    fullest    breasts    of 

Fame, 
Stella  behold,  and  then  begin  to  endite. 


Your     words,    my     friend,    right    healthful 

caustics,   blame 
My  young  mind   marred,  whom   Love  doth 

windlass   so  ; 
That  mine  own  writings,   like  bad   servants, 

show 
My  wits   quick  in   vain  thoughts,   in  virtue, 

lame ; 
That    Plato    I    read    for    naught    but-if    he 

tame  s 

Such  coltish  years ;  that  to  my  birth   I  owe 
Nobler  desires,  lest  else  that  friendly  foe, 
Great  Expectation,  wear  a  train  of  shame: 
For   since   mad   March  great  promise   made 

of   me. 
If  now  the  May  of  my  years  much  decline,  lo 
What    can    be    hoped    my    harvest-time    will 

be? 
Sure,  you  say  well,  '  Your  wisdom's  golden 

mine 
Dig  deep  with  Learning's  spade.'     Now  tell 

me  this  — 
Hath  this  world  aught  so  fair  as  Stella  is? 


With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st 

the  skies ! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquaintcd  eyes  5 
Can    judge   of    love,   thou    feel'st    a    lover's 

case, 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks ;  thy  languished  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of   fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me. 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of 

wit?  'o 

Are   beauties    there   as    proud   as   here   they 

•   be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those    lovers    scorn    whom    that    love    doth 

possess? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 


Morpheus,  the  lively  son  of  deadly  Sleep, 
Witness  of  life  to  them  that  living  die, 
A  prophet  oft,  and  oft  an  history, 
A  poet  eke,  as  humors  fly  or  creep; 
Since    thou    in    me    so    sure    a    power    dost 
keep,  5 

That  never  I  with  closed-up  sense  do  lie. 
But  by  thy  work  my  Stella  I  descry. 
Teaching  blind  eyes  both  how  to  smile  and 

weep ; 

Vouchsafe,  of   all   acquaintance,  this   to  tell, 

Whence   hast   thou   ivory,   rubies,   pearl,   and 

gold,  10 

To  show  her  skin,  lips,  teeth,  and  head  so 

well? 
'Fool!'  answers  he;   'no  Indes  such  treas- 
ures hold ; 
But  from  thy  heart,  while  my  sire  charmeth 

thee, 
Sweet  Stella's  image  I  do  steal  to  me.' 


Come,  Sleep !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 
peace. 

The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  I)alm  of  woe, 

The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  re- 
lease, 

Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and 
low  ; 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out 
the   press  5 

Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth 
throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 


ASTROPHEL  AND  STELLA 


89 


Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest 

bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head:  •' 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move    not   thy   heavy   grace,   thou    shalt    in 

me. 
Livelier  than   elsewhere,   Stella's   image   see. 


Having   this    day   my   horse,   my   hand,    my 

lance 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize, 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes 
And  of  some  sent  from  that   sweet  enemy, 

France ;  4 

Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance. 
Town   folks   my  strength ;   a  daintier  judge 

applies 
His  praise  to  sleight  which   from  good  use 

doth  rise; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance ; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take      9 
My  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in  this. 
Think  Nature  me  a  man-at-arms  did  make. 
How    far   they   shot   awry !    the   true   cause 

is, 
Stella  looked  on,  and  from  her  heavenly  face 
Sent   forth  the  beams  which  made   so   fair 

my  race. 


No  more!  My  Dear,  no  more  these  counsels 
try! 

0  give  my  passions  leave  to  run  their  race ! 
Let  Fortune  lay  on  me  her  worst  disgrace ! 
Let  folk  o'ercharged  with  brain,  against  me 

cry! 
Let   clouds  bedim  my   face,  break  in   mine 

eye!  5 

Let  me  no  steps  but  of  lost  labor  trace ! 
Let  all  the  earth  in  scorn  recount  my  case; 
But  do  not  will  me  from  my  love  to  fly ! 

1  do  not  envy  Aristotle's  wit ; 

Nor  do  aspire  to  Caesar's  bleeding  fame;  1° 
Nor  ought  do  care,  though  some  above  me 

sit; 
Nor    hope,     nor    wish     another    course     to 

frame : 
But    that    which    once    may    win    thy    cruel 

heart. 
Thou  art  my  wit,  and  thou  my  virtue  art. 


Stella,  since  thou  so  right  a  princess  art 
Of  all  the  powers  which  life  bestows  on  me : 
That  ere  by  them  ought  undertaken  be. 


The  first  resort  unto  that  sovereign  part. 

Sweet,  for  a  while  give  respite  to  my  heart,  5 

Which  pants  as  though  it  still  should  leap 
to   thee; 

And  on  my  thoughts  give  thy  lieutenancy 

To  this  great  cause,  which  needs  both  use 
and  art. 

And  as  a  queen,  who  from  her  presence 
sends 

Whom  she  employs,  dismiss  from  thee  my 
wit!  10 

Till  it  have  wrought  what  thy  own  will  at- 
tends. 

On  servants'  shame  oft  master's  blame  doth 
sit. 

O  let  not  fools  in  me  thy  works  reprove; 

And  scorning,  say,  'See,  what  it  is  to  love!' 


ELEVENTH    SONG 

'  Who  is  it  that  this  dark  night 

Underneath  my  window  plaineth?' 

It  is  one  who  from  thy  sight 

Being,  ah !  exiled,  disdaineth 

Every  other  vulgar  light.  s 

'  Why,  alas !  and  are  you  he? 

Be  not  yet  those  fancies  changed  ? ' 

Dear,  when  you  find  change  in  me. 

Though  from  me  you  be  estranged. 

Let  my  change  to  ruin  be.  10 

'Well,  in  absence  this  will  die; 

Leave  to  see,  and  leave  to  wonder.' 

Absence  sure  will  help,  if  I 

Can  learn  how  myself  to  sunder 

From  what  in  my  heart  doth  lie.  15 

'  But  time  will  these  thoughts  remove ; 

Time  doth  work  what  no  man  knoweth.' 

Time  doth  as  the  subject  prove; 

With  time  still  the  affection  grovveth 

In  the   faithful  turtle-dove.  20 

'What  if  we  new  beauties  see? 

Will  not  they  stir  new  affection  ? ' 

I  will  think  they  pictures  be, 

(Image-like,  of  saint's  perfection) 

Poorly  counterfeiting  thee.  ^=5 

'  But  your  reason's  purest  light 

Bids  you  leave  such  minds  to  nourish,' 

Dear,  do  reason  no  such  spite ; 

Never  doth  thy  beauty  flourish 

More  than  in  my  reason's  sight.  3« 

'  But  the  wrongs  Love  bears  will  make 
Love  at  length  leave  undertaking.' 


90 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


No,  the  more  fools  it  do  sliake, 
In  the  ground  of  so  firm  making, 
Deeper  still  they  drive  the  stake. 

'  Peace,  I  think  that  some  give  ear ! 
Come  no  more,  lest  I  get  anger ! ' 
Bliss,  I  will  my  bliss   forbear; 
Fearing,  sweet,  you  to  endanger; 
But  my  soul  shall  harbor  there. 

'  Well,  be  gone !  be  gone,  I  say. 

Lest  that  Argus'  eyes  perceive  you ! ' 

O  unjust  is  Fortune's  sway, 

Which  can  make  me  thus  to  leave  you 

And  from  louts  to  run  away. 


SONG:     THE   NIGHTINGALE 

The   nightingale,   as   soon   as   April   bringeth 

Unto  her  rested  sense  a  perfect  waking, 

While  late  bare  earth,  proud  of  new  cloth- 
ing, springeth. 

Sings  out  her  woes,  a  thorn  her  song-book 
making, 

And   mournfully  bewailing,  S 

Her  throat   in  tunes  expresseth 

What  grief  her  breast  oppresseth 

For  Tereus'  force  on  her  chaste  will  pre- 
vailing. 

O  Philomela  fair,  O  take  some  gladness. 

That  here  is  juster  cause  of  painful  sad- 
ness: 1° 

Thine  earth  now  springs,  mine  fadeth ; 

Thy  thorn  without,  my  thorn  my  heart  in- 
vadeth. 


LOVE  IS  DEAD 

Ring  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shows  be 
spread ; 
For  Love  is  dead : 
All   Love  is  dead,  infected 

With  plague  of  deep  disdain : 

Worth,  as  naught  worth,  rejected,         s 

And  Faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 
From  so  ungrateful    fancy, 
From  such  a  female  franzie, 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us!  'o 

Weep,  neighbors,  weep ;  do  you  not  hear  it 
said 
That  Love  is  dead? 
His  death-bed,  peacock's  folly; 
His  winding-sheet  is  shame ; 

His  will,  false-seeming  holy;  'S 

His  sole  exec'tor,  blame. 


From  so  ungrateful    fancy. 

From  such  a  female  franzie, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us !  20 

Let  dirge  be  sung,  and  trentals  rightly  read, 
For  Love  is  dead ; 
Sir  Wrong  his  tomb  ordaineth 

My  mistress'  marble  heart ; 

Which    epitaph    containeth,  2s 

'Her  eyes  were  once  his  dart.' 
From   so  ungrateful    fancy. 
From  such  a   female   franzie. 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us !  30 

Alas,  I  lie:  rage  hath  this  error  bred; 
Love  is  not  dead ; 

Love  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth 
In   her   unmatched   mind. 

Where  she  his  counsel  keepeth,  35 

Till  due  deserts  she  find. 

Therefore  from  so  vile   fancy, 

To  call  such  wit  a  franzie. 

Who  Love  can  temper  thus. 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us !  4° 

DORUS  TO  PAMELA 
(From    Arcadia) 

My  sheep  are  thoughts,  which  I  both  guide 
and  serve ; 

Their   pasture  is   fair  hills  of   fruitless  love. 

On    barren    sweets    they    feed,    and    feeding 
sterve. 

I  wail  their  lot,  but  will  not  other  prove; 

My  sheep-hook  is  wan  hope,  which  all  up- 
holds; 5 

My  weeds,  desire,  cut  out   in   endless  folds; 

What  wool  my  sheep  shall  bear,  whilst  thus 
they  live. 

In  you  it  is,  you  must  the  judgment  give. 

A   DITTY 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given: 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss. 
There   never   was    a   better   bargain   driven : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 
his.  -^ 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My   heart   in   him   his   thoughts   and    senses 

guides : 
He    loves    my    heart,    for    once    it    was    his 

own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides: 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 

his.  *' 


HAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 

Richard  Ilakluyt  (1553-161G)  has  been  well  termed  by  Professor  Raleigh  'the  Homer  of 
our  heroic  age  ' ;  yet  his  aim  was  uot  so  much  to  record  great  deeds  as  to  inspire  them,  to  urge 
his  countrymen  to  explore  and  colonize  unknown  countries,  to  encourage  trade  with  the  distant 
parts  of  the  earth,  and  to  furnish  maps  and  other  helps  to  navigation.  A  clergyman  and  a 
student,  he  had  no. experience  of  the  adventures  he  described  and  prompted;  but  he  was  much 
more  than  a  mere  compiler.  He  brought  to  his  self-appointed  task  the  devotion  and  enthusiasm 
of  a  lofty  purpose,  and  must  be  given  a  high  rank  among  those  who  founded  the  British 
Empire  and  established  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  beyond  the  seas.  It  was  fortunate  for  posterity 
that  the  Elizabethan  age  of  commercial  enterprise  and  romantic  adventure  found  a  chronicler 
with  leisure  and  ability  to  save  its  achievements  from  oblivion,  for  the  voyagers  themselves 
were,  as  a  rule,  too  busy  making  history  to  write  it.  Most  of  them  were  much  readier  with  the 
sword  Ihiin  with  the  pen;  Grenville's  desperate  resolution,  Gilbert's  religious  valor,  and  Drake's 
restless  daring  would  have  been  lost  to  literature,  and  perhaps  even  to  history,  if  we  had  had 
to  depend  on  their  own  records.  Raleigh  must  be  mentioned  as  a  conspicuous  exception; 
he  combined  with  the  spirit  of  adventure  a  literary  power  which  makes  his  narratives  a 
strange  contrast  to  the  matter-of-fact  or  garrulous  reports  of  his  less  gifted  fellows. 


DEDICATORY  EPISTLE  TO  SIR         Lord,  and  his  wonders  in  the  deep,  &c. 

FRANCIS  WALSINGHAM  Which  words  of  the  prophet,  together  with 

(From  the  first  edition  of  the  Voyages,      '"Y  cousin's  discourse  (things  of  high  and 

j_o   N  rare  dehght  to  my  young  nature),  took  in 

5  me  so  deep  an  impression  that  I  constantly 

Right  honorable,  I  do  remember  that  be-  resolved,  if  ever  I  were  preferred  to  the 
ing  a  youth,  and  one  of  her  Majesty's  university,  where  better  time  and  more 
scholars  at  Westminster,  that  fruitful  convenient  place  might  be  ministered  for 
nursery,  it  was  my  hap  to  visit  the  cham-  these  studies,  I  would  by  God's  assistance 
her  of  Mr.  Richard  Hakluyt,  my  cousin,  a  lo  prosecute  that  knowledge  and  kind  of  lit- 
gentleman  of  the  Middle  Temple,  well  erature,  the  doors  whereof,  after  a  sort, 
known  unto  you,  at  a  time  when  I  found  were  so  happily  opened  before  me. 
lying  open  upon  his  board  certain  books  According    to     which     my    resolution, 

of  cosmography,  with  a  universal  map.  when,  not  long  after,  I  was  removed  to 
He,  seeing  me  somewhat  curious  in  the  i5  Christ  Church  in  Oxford,  my  exercises 
view  thereof,  began  to  instruct  my  igno-  of  duty  first  performed,  I  fell  to  my  in- 
rance  by  showing  me  the  division  of  the  tended  course,  and  by  degrees  read  over 
earth  into  three  parts  after  the  old  ac-  whatsoever  printed  or  written  discoveries 
count,  and  then  according  to  the  latter,  and  voyages  I  found  extant  either  in  the 
and  better  distribution,  into  more.  He  20  Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  Spanish,  Portugal, 
pointed  with  his  wand  to  all  the  known  French,  or  English  languages,  and  in  my 
seas,  gulfs,  bays,  straits,  capes,  rivers,  public  lectures  was  the  first  that  produced 
empires,  kingdoms,  dukedoms,  and  terri-  and  showed  both  the  old  imperfectly  com- 
tories  of  each  part,  with  declaration  also  posed,  and  the  new  lately  reformed  maps, 
of  their  special  commodities,  and  particu-  25  globes,  spheres,  and  other  instruments  of 
lar  wants,  which,  by  the  benefit  of  traffic  this  art  for  demonstration  in  the  common 
and  intercourse  of  merchants,  are  plenti-  schools,  to  the  singular  pleasure  and  gen- 
fully  supplied.  From  the  map  he  brought  eral  contentment  of  my  auditory.  In  con- 
me  to  the  Bible,  and  turning  to  the  107th  tinuance  of  time,  and  by  reason  principally 
Psalm,  directed  me  to  the  23rd  and  24th  30  of  my  insight  in  this  study,  I  grew  fa- 
verses,  where  I  read,  that  they  which  go  miliarly  acquainted  with  the  chiefest  cap- 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships  and  occupy  by  tains  at  sea,  the  greatest  merchants,  and 
the  great  waters,  they  see  the  works  of  the      the  best  mariners  of  our  nation ;  by  which 

91 


92  HAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 


means  having  gotten  somewhat  more  than  ages  they  have  been  men  full  of  activity, 
common  knowledge,  I  passed  at  length  the  stirrers  abroad,  and  searchers  of  the  re- 
narrow  seas  into  France  with  Sir  Ed-  mote  parts  of  the  world,  so  in  this  most 
ward  Stafford,  her  Majesty's  careful  and  famous  and  peerless  government  of  her 
discreet  Ligier,  where  during  my  five  5  most  excellent  Majesty,  her  subjects, 
years'  abode  with  him  in  his  dangerous  through  the  special  assistance  and  blessing 
and  chargeable  residence  in  her  Highness'  of  God,  in  searching  the  most  opposite 
service,  I  both  heard  in  speech,  and  read  corners  and  quarters  of  the  world,  and  to 
in  books  other  nations  miraculously  ex-  speak  plainly,  in  compassing  the  vast  globe 
tolled  for  their  discoveries  and  notable  en-  10  of  the  earth  more  than  once,  have  excelled 
terprises  by  sea,  but  the  English  of  all  all  the  nations  and  people  of  the  earth, 
others  for  their  sluggish  security,  and  For  which  of  the  kings ^f  this  land  before 
continual  neglect  of  the  like  attempts,  es-  her  Majesty  had  their  banners  ever  seen 
pecially  in  so  long  and  happy  a  time  of  in  the  Caspian  sea?  which  of  them  hath 
peace,  either  ignominiously  reported,  or  15  ever  dealt  with  the  emperor  of  Persia  as 
exceedingly  condemned ;  which  singular  her  Majesty  hath  done,  and  obtained  for 
opportunity,  if  some  other  people,  our  her  merchants  large  and  loving  privileges? 
neighbors,  had  been  blessed  with,  their  who  ever  saw,  before  this  regiment,  an 
protestations  are  often  and  vehement,  they  English  Ligier  in  the  stately  porch  of  the 
would  far  otherwise  have  used.  *  *  *  20  Grand  Signor  at  Constantinople?  who  ever 
Thus  both  hearing  and  reading  the  oblo-  found  English  consuls  and  agents  at  Trip- 
quy  of  our  nation,  and  finding  few  or  none  olis  in  Syria,  at  Aleppo,  at  Babylon,  at 
of  our  own  men  able  to  reply  herein ;  and  Balsara,  and  which  is  more,  who  ever 
further,  not  seeing  any  man  to  have  care  heard  of  Englishman  at  Goa  before  now? 
to  recommend  to  the  world  the  industrious  25  what  English  ships  did  heretofore  ever  \ 
labors  and  painful  travels  of  our  country-  anchor  in  the  mighty  river  of  Plate?  pass  t 
men:  for  stopping  the  mouths  of  the  re-  and  repass  the  unpassable  (in  former  opin- 
proachers,  myself  being  the  last  winter  re-  ion)  Strait  of  Magellan,  range  along  the 
turned  from  France  with  the  honorable  coast  of  Chili,  Peru,  and  all  the  backside  | 
the  Lady  Sheffield,  for  her  passing  good  30  of  Nova  Hispania,  further  than  any  chris- 
behavior  highly  esteemed  in  all  the  tian  ever  passed,  traverse  the  mighty 
French  court,  determined  notwithstanding  breadth  of  the  South  Sea,  land  upon  the 
all  difificulties  to  undertake  the  burden  of  Luzones  in  despite  of  the  enemy,  enter 
that  work  wherein  all  others  pretended  into  alliance,  amity,  and  traffic  with  the 
either  ignorance  or  lack  of  leisure,  or  35  princes  of  the  Moluccas  and  the  isle  of 
want  of  sufiicient  argument,  whereas  (to  Java,  double  the  famous  cape  of  Bona 
speak  truly)  the  huge  toil  and  the  small  Speranza,  arrive  at  the  isle  of  St.  Helena, 
profit  to  ensue  were  the  chief  causes  of  and  last  of  all  return  home  most  richly 
the  refusal.  I  call  the  work  a  burden  in  laden  with  the  commodities  of  China,  as 
consideration  that  these  voyages  lay  so  40  the  subjects  of  this  now  flourishing  mon- 
dispersed,  scattered,  and  hidden  in  several  archy  have  done  ? 
hucksters'  hands,   that  I  now  wonder  at  *     *     * 

myself  to  see  how  I  was  able  to  endure  the 
delays,    curiosity,    and    backwardness    of 

many   from   whom   I  was  to   receive   my  45      THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  THE  RE- 
originals,    so   that   I   have   just   cause   to  VENGE 

make  that  complaint  of  the  maliciousness 

of  divers  in  our  time  which   Pliny  made  (From  '  a  report  of  the  truth  of  the  fight 

of  the  men  of  his  age :  At  nos  elaborata  about  the  isles  of  Azores,  the  last  of  Aug- 
iis  abscondere  atque  supprimere  cupimus,  50  ust,  1591,  betwixt  the  Rcznigc,  one  of  her 
et  fraudare  vitam  etiam  alienis  bonis,  &c.  Majesty's  ships  and  an  armada  of  the 
[But  we  desire  to  hide  away  and  suppress  king  of  Spain.  Penned  by  the  honorable 
their  achievements,  and  to  rob  life  even  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  knight.') 
the  glories  of  others.]  The  Lord  Thomas  Howard  with  six  of 

To  harp  no  longer  upon  this  string,  and  55  her  Majesty's  ships,  six  victualers  of  Lon- 
to  speak  a  word  of  that  just  commenda-  don.  the  bark  Rolcigh,  and  two  or  three 
tion  which  our  nation  do  indeed  deserve :  other  pinnaces  riding  at  anchor  near  unto 
it  cannot  be  denied,  but  as  in  all  former      Flores,  one  of  the  westerly  islands  of  the 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  THE  REVENGE  93 

Azores,  the  last  of  August  in  the  after-  fused  to  turn  from  the  enemy,  alleging 
noon,  had  intelligence  by  one  Captain  that  he  would  rather  choose  to  die  than  to 
Middleton  of  the  approach  of  the  Spanish  dishonor  himself,  his  country,  and  her 
armada.  Which  Middleton,  being  in  a  Majesty's  ship,  persuading  his  company 
very  good  sailer,  had  kept  them  company  5  that  he  would  pass  through  the  two  squad- 
three  days  before,  of  good  purpose  both  rons  in  despite  of  them  and  enforce  those 
to  discover  their  forces  the  more,  as  also  to  of  Seville  to  give  him  way.  Which  he 
give  advice  to  my  Lord  Thomas  of  their  performed  upon  divers  of  the  foremost, 
approach.  He  had  no  sooner  delivered  the  who,  as  the  mariners  term  it,  sprang  their 
news  but  the  fleet  was  in  sight ;  many  of  10  luff,  and  fell  under  the  lee  of  the  Rc- 
our  ships'  companies  were  on  shore  in  the  vcnge.  But  the  other  course  had  been 
island,  some  providing  ballast  for  their  the  better,  and  might  right  well  have  been 
ships,  others  filling  of  water  and  refresh-  answered  in  so  great  an  impossibility  of 
ing  themselves  from  the  land  with  such  prevailing.  Notwithstanding,  out  of  the 
things  as  they  could,  either  for  money,  or  15  greatness  of  his  mind,  he  could  not  be  per- 
by  force,  recover.  By  reason  whereof,  suaded.  In  the  meanwhile,  as  he  attended 
our  ships  being  all  pestered  and  rummag-  those  which  were  nearest  him,  the  great 
ing,  every  thing  out  of  order,  very  light  San  Philip,  being  in  the  wind  of  him  and 
for  want  of  ballast,  and  that  which  was  coming  towards  him,  becalmed  his  sails 
most  to  our  disadvantage,  the  one  half  20  in  such  sort,  as  the  ship  could  neither 
part  of  the  men  of  every  ship  sick  and  ut-  make  way  nor  feel  the  helm ;  so  huge  and 
terly  unserviceable;  for  in  the  Revenge  high  carged  was  the  Spanish  ship,  being 
there  were  ninety  diseased,  in  the  Bona-  of  a  thousand  and  five  hundred  tons, 
venture  not  so  many  in  health  as  could  Who  after  laid  the  Revenge  aboard.  When 
handle  her  mainsail.  For  had  not  twenty  25  he  was  thus  bereft  of  his  sails,  the  ships 
men  been  taken  out  of  a  bark  of  Sir  that  were  under  his  lee,  luffing  up,  also 
George  Carey's,  his  being  commanded  to  laid  him  aboard,  of  which  the  next  was 
be  sunk,  and  those  appointed  to  her,  she  the  admiral  of  the  Biscayans,  a  very 
had  hardly  ever  recovered  England.  The  mighty,  and  puissant  ship  commanded  by 
rest,  for  the  most  part,  were  in  little  better  30  Brittandona.  The  said  Philip  carried 
state.  The  names  of  her  Majesty's  ships  three  tiers  of  ordnance  on  a  side,  and 
were  these,  as  followeth :  the  Defiance,  eleven  pieces  in  every  tier.  She  shot 
which  was  admiral ;  the  Revenge,  vicead-  eight  forth  right  out  of  her  chase,  besides 
miral;  the  Bonaventure,  commanded  by  those  of  her  stern  ports. 
Captain  Cross ;  the  Lion  by  George  Fen-  35  After  the  Revenge  was  entangled  with 
ner;  the  Foresight  by  Mr.  Thomas  Vava-  this  Philip,  four  others  boarded  her,  two 
sour ;  and  the  Crane  by  Duffield.  The  on  her  larboard,  and  two  on  her  starboard. 
Foresight  and  the  Crane  being  but  small  The  fight,  thus  beginning  at  three  of  the 
ships,  only  the  others  were  of  the  middle  clock  in  the  afternoon,  continued  very  ter- 
size ;  the  rest,  besides  the  bark  Raleigh,  40  rible  all  that  evening.  But  the  great  San 
commanded  by  Captain  Thin,  were  victual-  Philip,  having  received  the  lower  tier  of 
ers,  and  of  small  force  or  none.  The  the  Revenge,  discharged  with  crossbar 
Spanish  fleet,  having  shrouded  their  ap-  shot,  shifted  herself  with  all  diligence 
proach  by  reason  of  the  island,  were  now  from  her  sides,  utterly  misliking  her  first 
so  soon  at  hand  as  our  ships  had  scarce  45  entertainment.  Some  say  that  the  ship 
time  to  weigh  their  anchors,  but  some  of  foundered,  but  we  cannot  report  it  for 
them  were  driven  to  let  slip  their  cables  truth,  unless  we  were  assured.  The  Span- 
and  set  sail.  Sir  Richard  Grenville  was  ish  ships  were  filled  with  companies  of  sol- 
the  last  that  weighed,  to  recover  the  men  diers, —  in  some  two  hundred  besides  the 
that  were  upon  the  island,  which  otherwise  5°  mariners,  in  some  five,  in  others  eight 
had  been  lost.  The  Lord  Thomas  with  the  hundred.  In  ours  there  were  none  at  all 
rest  very  hardly  recovered  the  wind,  which  beside  the  mariners  but  the  servants  of  the 
Sir  Richard  Grenville  not  being  able  to  commanders  and  some  few  voluntary  gen- 
do,  was  persuaded  by  the  master  and  tlemen  only.  After  many  interchanged 
others  to  cut  his  mainsail  and  cast  about.  55  volleys  of  great  ordnance  and  small  shot, 
and  to  trust  to  the  sailing  of  the  ship,  for  the  Spaniards  deliberated  to  enter  the  Rc- 
the  squadron  of  Seville  were  on  his  venge,  and  made  divers  attempts,  hoping 
weather  bow.     But  Sir  Richard  utterly  re-      to   force  her  by  the  multitudes   of   their 


94  HAKLUV  i'S  \OVAGES 


armed  soldiers  and  musketeers,  but  were      but  in  the  morning,  bearing  with  the  Rc- 
still  repulsed  again  and  again,  and  at  all      vcngc,   was   hunted   like   a   hare   amongst 
times  beaten  back  into  their  own  ships,  or      many  ravenous  hounds,  but  escaped, 
into   the   seas.     In   the   beginning  of  the  All  the  powder  of  the  Revenge  to  the 

fight,  the  George  Noble  of  London,  hav-  5  last  barrel  was  now  spent,  all  her  pikes 
ing  received  some  shot  through  her  by  broken,  forty  of  her  best  men  slain,  and 
the  armadas,  fell  under  the  lee  of  the  Re-  tlie  most  part  of  the  rest  hurt.  In  the  be- 
vcnge,  and  asked  vSir  Richard  what  he  ginning  of  the  fight  she  had  but  one  hun- 
woiild  command  him,  being  but  one  of  the  drcd  free  from  sickness,  and  fourscore  and 
victualers  and  of  small  force.  Sir  Rich- lo  ten  sick,  laid  in  hold  upon  the  ballast: 
ard  bade  him  save  himself,  and  leave  him  a  small  troop  to  man  such  a  ship,  and  a 
to  his  fortune.  After  the  fight  had  thus,  weak  garrison  to  resist  so  mighty  an  army, 
without  intermission,  continued  while  the  By  those  hundred  all  was  sustained,  the 
day  lasted  and  some  hours  of  the  night,  volleys,  boardings,  and  enterings  of  fifteen 
many  of  our  men  were  slain  and  hurt,  15  ships  of  war,  besides  those  which  beat 
and  one  of  the  great  galleons  of  the  ar-  her  at  large.  On  the  contrary,  the  Span- 
mada,  and  the  admiral  of  the  hulks  both  ish  were  always  supplied  with  soldiers 
sunk,  and  in  many  other  of  the  Spanish  brought  from  every  squadron,  all  manner 
ships  great  slaughter  was  made.  Some  of  arms  and  powder  at  will.  Unto  ours 
write  that  Sir  Richard  was  very  danger- 20  there  remained  no  comfort  at  all,  no  hope, 
ously  hurt  almost  in  the  beginning  of  the  no  supply  either  of  ships,  men,  or  weap- 
fight,  and  lay  speechless  for  a  time  ere  he  ons ;  the  masts  all  beaten  overboard,  all 
recovered.  But  two  of  the  Revenge's  own  her  tackle  cut  asunder,  her  upper  work 
company  brought  home  in  a  ship  of  Lima  altogether  razed,  and  in  effect  evened  she 
from  the  islands,  examined  by  some  of  the  25  was  with  the  water,  but  the  very  founda- 
lords  and  others,  affirmed  that  he  was  tion  or  bottom  of  a  ship,  nothing  being 
never  so  wounded  as  that  he  forsook  the  left  overhead,  either  for  flight  or  defence, 
upper  deck,  till  an  hour  before  midnight.  Sir  Richard,  finding  himself  in  this  dis- 
and  then,  being  shot  into  the  body 'with  a  tress,  and  unable  any  longer  to  make  re- 
musket,  as  he  was  dressing  was  again  3°  sistance,  having  endured,  in  this  fifteen 
shot  into  the  head,  and  withal  his  surgeon  hours'  fight,  the  assault  of  fifteen  several 
wounded  to  death.  This  agreeth  also  with  armadas,  all  by  turns  aboard  him,  and  by 
an  examination,  taken  by  Sir  Francis  Go-  estimation  eight  hundred  shot  of  great  ar- 
dolphin,  of  four  other  mariners  of  the  same  tillery,  besides  many  assaults  and  entries; 
ship,  being  returned,  which  examination  35  and  that  himself  and  the  ship  must  needs 
the  said  Sir  Francis  sent  unto  Master  Wil-  be  possessed  by  the  enemy,  who  were  now 
liam  Killigrew,  of  her  Majesty's  privy  all  cast  in  a  ring  round  about  him,  (the 
chamber.  Revenge   not   able   to  move   one   way   or 

But  to  return  to  the  fight:  the  Spanish  other,  but  as  she  was  moved  with  the 
ships  which  attempted  to  board  the  i?<:- 40  waves  and  billows  of  the  sea),  commanded 
venge,  as  they  were  wounded  and  beaten  the  master  gunner,  whom  he  knew  to  be 
off,  so  always  others  came  in  their  places,  a  most  resolute  man,  to  split  and  sink  the 
she  having  never  less  than  two  mighty  ship,  that  thereby  nothing  might  remain 
galleons  by  her  sides  and  aboard  her.  So  of  glory  or  victory  to  the  Spaniards,  see- 
that  ere  the  morning,  from  three  of  the  45  ing  in  so  many  hours'  fight,  and  with  so 
clock  the  day  before,  there  had  fifteen  great  a  navy,  they  were  not  able  to  take 
several  armadas  assailed  her;  and  all  so  her,  having  had  fifteen  hours'  time,  above 
ill  approved  their  entertainment  as  they  ten  thousand  men,  and  fifty  and  three  sail 
were  by  the  break  of  day  far  more  willing  of  men-of-war  to  perform  it  withal ;  and 
to  hearken  to  a  composition  than  hastily  50  persuaded  the  company,  or  as  many  as  he 
to  make  any  more  assaults  or  entries,  could  induce,  to  yield  themselves  unto  God, 
But  as  the  day  increased,  so  our  men  and  to  the  mercy  of  none  else ;  but  as  they 
decreased;  and  as  the  light  grew  more  had,  like  valiant  resolute  men,  repulsed 
and  more,  by  so  much  more  grew  our  dis-  so  many  enemies,  they  should  not  now 
comforts.  For  none  appeared  in  sight  but  55  shorten  the  honor  of  their  nation  by  pro- 
enemies,  saving  one  small  ship  called  the  longing  their  own  lives  for  a  few  hours 
Pilgrim,  commanded  by  Jacob  Whiddon,  or  a  few  days.  The  master  gunner  readily 
who  hovered  all  night  to  see  the  success,      condescended  and  divers  others ;  but  the 


THE  LOSS  OF  SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT  95 

captain  and  the  master  were  of  another  nor  any  of  them  once  to  separate  their 
opinion,  and  besought  Sir  Richard  to  have  ships  from  him,  unless  he  gave  commis- 
care  of  them,  alleging  that  the  Spaniard  sion  so  to  do.  Notwithstanding  the  vice- 
would  be  as  ready  to  entertain  a  composi-  admiral,  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  being  in 
tion  as  they  were  willing  to  offer  the  same,  5  the  ship  called  the  Revenge,  went  into  the 
and  that  there  being  divers  sufficient  and  Spanish  fleet  and  shot  among  them,  doing 
valiant  men  yet  living,  and  whose  wounds  them  great  hurt,  and  thinking  the  rest  of 
were  not  mortal,  they  might  do  their  coun-  the  company  would  have  followed ;  which 
try  and  prince  acceptable  service  here-  they  did  not,  but  left  him  there,  and  sailed 
after.  And  whereas  Sir  Richard  had  al- 10  away.  The  cause  why  could  not  be 
leged  that  the  Spaniards  should  never  known.  Which  the  Spaniards  perceiving, 
glory  to  have  taken  one  ship  of  her  Maj-  with  7  or  8  ships  they  boarded  her,  but 
esty,  seeing  they  had  so  long  and  so  no-  she  withstood  them  all,  fighting  with  them, 
tably  defended  themselves,  they  answered,  at  the  least  12  hours  together,  and  sunk 
that  the  ship  had  six  foot  water  in  hold,  15  two  of  them,  one  being  a  new  double  fly- 
three  shot  under  water,  which  were  so  boat  of  600  tons,  and  admiral  of  the  fly- 
weakly  stopped  as  with  the  first  working  boats,  the  other  a  Biscayan.  But  in  the 
of  the  sea,  she  must  needs  sink,  and  was  end,  by  reason  of  the  number  that  came 
besides  so  crushed  and  bruised  as  she  upon  her,  she  was  taken,  but  to  their  great 
could  never  be  removed  out  of  the  place.      20  loss,  for  they  had  lost  in  fighting  and  by 

And  as  the  matter  was  thus  in  dispute,  drowning  above  400  men,  and  of  the  Eng- 
and  Sir  Richard  refusing  to  hearken  to  lish  were  slain  about  100,  Sir  Richard 
any  of  those  reasons,  the  master  of  the  Grenville  himself  being  wounded  in  his 
Revenge  (while  the  captain  won  unto  him  brain,  whereof  afterwards  he  died.  He 
the  greater  party)  was  convoyed  aboard  25  was  carried  into  the  ship  called  San  Paul, 
the  General  Don  Alfonso  Bazan.  Who  wherein  was  the  admiral  of  the  fleet,  Don 
(finding  none  over  hasty  to  enter  the  Re-  Alonzo  de  Bazan.  There  his  wounds  were 
vcnge  again,  doubting  lest  Sir  Richard  dressed  by  the  Spanish  surgeons,  but  Don 
would  have  blown  them  up  and  himself,  Alonzo  himself  would  neither  see  him  nor 
and  perceiving  by  the  report  of  the  mas-  3o  speak  with  him.  All  the  rest  of  the  cap- 
ter  of  the  Revenge  his  dangerous  dispo-  tains  and  gentlemen  went  to  visit  him, 
sition)  yielded  that  all  their  lives  should  be  and  to  comfort  him  in  his  hard  fortune, 
saved,  the  company  sent  for  England,  and  wondering  at  his  courage  and  stout  heart, 
the  better  sort  to  pay  such  reasonable  ran-  for  that  he  showed  not  any  sign  of  faint- 
som  as  their  estate  would  bear,  and  in  the  35  ness  nor  changing  of  color.  But  feeling 
mean  season  to  be  free  from  galley  or  im-  the  hour  of  death  to  approach,  he  spake 
prisonment.  To  this  he  so  much  the  these  words  in  Spanish,  and  said:  Here 
rather  condescended  as  well,  as  I  have  die  I,  Richard  Grenville,  with  a  joyful  and 
said,  for  fear  of  further  loss  and  mischief  quiet  mind,  for  that  I  have  ended  my  life 
to  themselves,  as  also  for  the  desire  he  40  as  a  true  soldier  ought  to  do,  that  hath 
had  to  recover  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  fought  for  his  country,  queen,  religion, 
whom  for  his  notable  valor  he  seemed  and  honor,  whereby  my  soul  most  joyful 
greatly  to  honor  and  admire.  departeth  out  of  this  body,  and  shall  al- 

*     *  ways  leave  behind  it  an  everlasting  fame 

45  of  a  valiant  and  true  soldier,  that  hath 
done   his   duty,   as   he   was   bound   to   do. 
From    LINSCHOTEN'S    TESTIMONY      When  he  had  finished  these  or  such  other 

like   words,   he   gave   up   the   ghost,   with 

The    13th    of    September    the    said    ar-      great    and    stout    courage,    and    no    man 
mada    arrived    at    the    island    of    Corvo,  50  could  perceive  any  true  sign  of  heaviness 
where  the  Englishmen  with  about  16  ships      in  him. 
as  then  lay,  staying  for  the  Spanish  fleet,  *     *     * 

whereof  some  or  the  most  part  were  come, 

and  there  the  English  were  in  good  hope  THE  LOSS  OF  SIR  HUMPHREY  GIL- 
to  have  taken  them.     But  when  they  per-  55  BERT 

ceived  the  king's  army  to  be  strong,  the 

admiral,  being  the  Lord  Thomas  Howard,  (From    a  report  of  the  voyage  and  suc- 

coiiiniandod  his  fleet  not  to  fall  upon  them,      cess  thereof,  attempted  in  the  year  of  our 


g6  HAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 

Lord,  1583,  by  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  days  and  nights  back  again,  as  before  we 
knight,  with  other  gentlemen  assisting  him  had  done  in  eight  days  from  Cape  Race 
in  that  action,  intended  to  discover  and  to  unto  the  place  where  our  ship  perished, 
plant  christian  inhabitants  in  place  con-  which  hindrance  thitherward  and  speed 
venient,  upon  those  large  and  ample  5  back  again,  is  to  be  imputed  unto  the  swift 
countries  extended  northward  from  the  current,  as  well  as  to  the  winds,  which 
cape  of  Florida,  lying  under  very  temper-  we  had  more  large  in  our  return, 
ate   climes,   esteemed   fertile   and   rich   in  This  Monday  the  general  came  aboard 

minerals,  yet  not  in  the  actual  possession  the  Hind  to  have  the  surgeon  of  the  Hind 
of  any  christian  prince,  written  by  Mr.  10  to  dress  his  foot,  which  he  hurt  by  tread- 
Edward  Ilaie,  gentleman,  and  principal  ing  upon  a  nail.  At  what  time  we  com- 
actor  in  the  same  voyage,  who  alone  con-  forted  each  other  with  hope  of  hard  suc- 
tinued  to  the  end,  and  by  God's  special  cess  to  be  all  past,  and  of  the  good  to 
assistance  returned  home  with  his  retinue  come.  So  agreeing  to  carry  out  lights 
safe  and  entire.')  i5  always  by  night,  that  we  might  keep  to- 

So  upon  Saturdav  in  the  afternoon,  the  gether,  he  departed  into  his  frigate,  being 
31st  of  August,  we  changed  our  course  by  no  means  to  be  entreated  to  tarry  in  the 
and  returned  back  for  England,  at  which  Hind,  which  had  been  more  for  his  se- 
very  instant,  even  in  winding  about,  there  curity.  Immediately  after  followed  a 
passed  along  between  us  and  towards  the  20  sharp  storm  which  we  overpassed  for  that 
land  which  we  now  forsook,  a  very  lion  time.  Praised  be  God. 
to  our  seeming,  in  shape,  hair,  and  color,  The    weather    fair,    the    general    came 

not  swimming  after  the  manner  of  a  beast,  aboard  the  Hind  again  to  make  merry 
by  moving  of  his  feet,  but  rather  sliding  together  with  the  captain,  master,  and 
upon  the  water  with  his  whole  body  (ex-  25  company,  which  was  the  last  meeting,  and 
cepting  the  legs)  in  sight;  neither  yet  continued  there  from  morning  until  night, 
diving  under,  and  again  rising  above  the  During  which  time  there  passed  sundry 
water,  as  the  manner  is  of  whales,  dol-  discourses,  touching  affairs  past  and  to 
phins,  tunnies,  porpoises,  and  all  other  come,  lamenting  greatly  the  loss  of  his 
fish,  but  confidently  showing  himself  above  30  great  ship,  more  of  the  men,  but  most  of 
water  without  hiding.  Notwithstanding,  all  of  his  books  and  notes,  and  what  else 
we  presented  ourselves  in  open  view  and  I  know  not ;  for  which  he  was  out  of 
gesture  to  amaze  him,  as  all  creatures  will  measure  grieved,  the  same  doubtless  be- 
be  commonly  at  a  sudden  gaze  and  sight  ing  some  matter  of  more  importance  than 
of  men.  Thus  he  passed  along  turning  his  35  his  books,  which  I  could  not  draw  from 
head  to  and  fro,  yawning  and  gaping  wide,  him,  yet  by  circumstance  I  gathered  the 
with  ugly  demonstration  of  long  teeth  and  same  to  be  the  ore  which  Daniel  the  Saxon 
glaring  eyes,  and  to  bid  us  a  farewell  had  brought  unto  him  in  the  New-found- 
(coming  right  against  the  Hind)  he  sent  land.  Whatsoever  it  was,  the  remem- 
forth  a  horrible  voice,  roaring  or  bellow-  40  brance  touched  him  so  deep  as  not  able  to 
ing  as  doth  a  lion,  which  spectacle  we  all  contain  himself,  he  beat  his  boy  in  great 
beheld  so  far  as  we  were  able  to  discern  rage,  even  at  the  same  time,  so  long  after 
the  same,  as  men  prone  to  wonder  at  the  miscarrying  of  the  great  ship,  because 
every  strange  thing,  as  this  doubtless  was,  upon  a  fair  day,  when  we  were  becalmed 
to  see  a  lion  in  the  ocean  sea,  or  fish  in  45  upon  the  coast  of  the  New-found-land, 
shape  of  a  lion.  What  opinion  others  had  near  unto  Cape  Race,  he  sent  his  boy 
thereof,  and  chiefiy  the  general  himself,  aboard  the  admiral  to  fetch  certain  things, 
I  forbear  to  deliver.  But  he  took  it  for  amongst  which,  this  being  chief,  was  yet 
bonum  omen  [a  good  omen],  rejoicing  forgotten,  and  left  behind.  After  which 
that  he  was  to  war  against  such  an  enemy,  50  time,  he  could  never  conveniently  send 
if  it  were  the  devil.  again  aboard  the  great  ship;   much  less 

The  wind  was  large  for  England  at  our      he  doubted  her  ruin  so  near  at  hand, 
return,  but  very  high,  and  the  sea  rough.  Herein  my  opinion  was  better  confirmed 

insomuch  as  the  frigate  wherein  the  gen-  diversely,  and  by  sundry  conjectures, 
eral  went  was  almost  swallowed  up.  55  which  maketh  me  have  the  greater  hope 

Monday  in  the  afternoon  (Sept.  2),  we  of  this  rich  mine.  For  whereas  the  gen- 
passed  in  the  sight  of  Cape  Race,  having  eral  had  never  before  good  conceit  of 
made  as  much  way  in  little  more  than  two      these  north  parts  of  the  world,   now  his 


■li 


THE  LOSS  OF  SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT  97 

;;  I  mind  was  wholly  fixed  upon  the  New-  frigate,  which  was  overcharged  upon  their 
:c,  {  found-land.  And  as  before  he  refused  not  decks,  with  fights,  nettings,  and  small  ar- 
el  !  to  grant  assignments  liberally  to  them  that  tillery,  too  cumljersome  for  so  small  a 
iti  I  required  the  same  into  these  north  parts,  boat  that  was  to  pass  through  the  ocean 
cb  ,  now  he  became  contrarily  affected,  refus-  5  sea  at  that  season  of  the  year,  when  by 
!  ing  to  make  any  so  large  grants,  especially  course  we  might  expect  much  storm  of 
tl  I  of  St.  John's,  which  certain  English  mer-  foul  weather,  whereof  indeed  we  had 
Hi     chants  made  suit  for,  offering  to  employ      enough. 

i(].  I  their  money  and   travel   upon   the   same.  But  when  he  was  entreated  by  the  cap- 

111,  I  Yet  neither  by  their  own  suit,  nor  of  10  tain,  master,  and  other  his  well-willers  of 
1;.  [Others  of  his  own  company,  whom  he  the  Hind,  not  to  venture  in  the  frigate, 
to  I  seemed  willing  to  pleasure,  it  could  be  ob-  this  was  his  answer:  I  will  not  forsake 
1;,  Itained.  my  little  company  going  homeward,  with 

ii).  !  Also  laying  down  his  determination  in  whom  I  have  passed  so  many  storms  and 
^  [the  spring  following,  for  disposing  of  his  15  perils.  And  in  very  truth,  he  was  urged 
li(  I  voyage  then  to  be  re-attempted,  he  as-  to  be  so  over  hard,  by  hard  reports  given 
;;.  [signed  the  captain  and  master  of  the  of  him,  that  he  was  afraid  of  the  sea,  al- 
,  Golden  Hind  unto  the  south  discovery,  and  beit  this  was  rather  rashness  than  advised 
V     reserved  unto  himself  the  north,  affirming      resolution,  to  prefer  the   wind  of  a  vain 

|that  this  voyage  had  won  his  heart  from  20  report  to  the  weight  of  his  own  life. 
ill,,  jthe  south,  and  that  he  was  now  become  a  Seeing  he  would  not  bend  to  reason,  he 

■A  [northern  man  altogether.  had  provision  out  of  the  Hind,   such   as 

lill  I     Last,   being  demanded   what   means   he      was  wanting  aboard  his  frigate.     And  so 
!had  at  his  arrival  in  England  to  compass      we  committed  him  to  God's  protection,  and 
jthe  charges  of  so  great  preparation  as  he  25  set  him  aboard  his  pinnace,  we  being  more 
;:;   iintended  to  make  the  next  spring,  having      than  300  leagues  onward  of  our  way  home. 
t,||  idetermined   upon   two  fleets,   one   for   the  By  that  time  we  had  brought  the  islands 

1,;; I  {south,  another  for  the  north:     Leave  that      of  Azores  south  of  us;  yet  we  then  keep- 
,,;' |to  me  (he  replied),  I  will  ask  a  penny  of      ing  much  to  the  north,  until  we  had  got 
1.  lino  man.     I  will  bring  good  tidings  unto  30  into  the  height  and  elevation  of  England, 
„■(  iher  Majesty,  who  will  be  so  gracious  to      we  met  with  very  foul  weather  and  terri- 
',(.')  [lend  me   10,000  pounds,  willing  us  there-      ble  seas,  breaking  short  and  high,  pyramid 
,v    Ifore  to  be  of  good  cheer,  for  he  did  thank      wise.     The  reason  whereof  seemed  to  pro- 
^God  (he  said)  with  all  his  heart  for  that      ceed  either  of  hilly  grounds,  high  and  low, 
le  had  seen,  the  same  being  enough  for  us  35  within  the  sea,  (as  we  see  hills  and  dales 
ill,   and  that  we  needed  not  to  seek  any      upon  the  land),  upon  which  the  seas  do 
further.     And  these  last  words  he  would      mount  and  fall ;  or  else  the  cause  proceed- 
often  repeat,  with  demonstration  of  great      eth   of  diversity  of  winds,   shifting  often 
■    fervency  of  mind,  being  himself  very  con-      in  sundry  points,  all  which  having  power 
lident  and  settled  in  belief  of  inestimable  40  to  move  the  great  ocean,  which  again  is 
ijood   by   this   voyage,   which   the   greater      not  presently  settled,  so  many  seas  do  en- 
unnber  of  his  followers  nevertheless  mis-      counter  together  as  there  had  been  diver- 
rusted  altogether,  not  being  made  partak-      sity   of   winds.     Howsoever   it   cometh   to 
;rs   of   those    secrets,   which   the   general      pass,  men  which  all  their  life  time  had  oc- 
■cept  unto  himself.     Yet  all  of  them  that  45  cupied  the  sea,  never  saw  more  outrageous 
lire  living  may  be  witnesses  of  his  words      seas.     We  had  also  upon  our  mainyard,  an 
md  protestations,  which  sparingly  I  have      apparition  of  a  little  fire  by  night,  which 
lelivered.  _  seamen   do   call   Castor  and   Pollux.     But 

Leaving  the  issue  of  this  good  hope  unto  we  had  only  one,  which  thev  take  an  evil 
jod,  who  knoweth  the  truth  only,  and  can  50  sign  of  more  tempest ;  the  same  is  usual 
it   his   good   pleasure   bring  the   same   to      in  storms. 

ight,  I  will  hasten  to  the  end  of  this  trag-  Monday  the  ninth  of  September,  in  the 

'dy,  which  must  be  knit  up  in  the  person  afternoon,  the  frigate  was  near  cast  away, 
)f  our  general.  And  as  it  was  God's  or-  oppressed  by  waves;  yet  at  that  time  re- 
linance  upon  him,  even  so  the  vehement  55  covered ;  and  giving  forth  signs  of  joy, 
persuasion  and  entreaty  of  his  friends  the  general  sitting  abaft  with  a  book  in 
■ould  nothing  avail  to  divert  him  from  his  hand,  cried  out  unto  us  in  the //;';/(/  (so 
I  wilful  resolution  of  going  through  in  his      oft  as  we  did  approach  within  hearing)  : 


98  HAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 

We  are  as  near  to  heaven  by  sea  as  by      ance)  in  short  time  breaketh  them,  where- 1 
land.     Reiterating  the   same   speech,   well      by  their  bodies  are  notably  preserved  in 
beseeming    a    soldier,    resolute    in    Jesus      health,  and  know  not  many  grievous  dis- 
Christ,  as  I  can  testify  he  was.  eases,    wherewithal    we    in    England    arc 

The  same  Monday  night,  about  twelve  5  often  times  afflicted, 
of  the  clock,  or  not  long  after,  the  frigate  This  tcppozvoc  is  of  so  precious  cstiuii 

being   ahead   of  us   in   the   Golden  Hind,      tion  amongst  them,  that  they  think  tluir 
suddenly  her  lights  were  out,  whereof,  as      gods  are  marvelously  delighted  tlicrewuh. 
it  were  in  a  moment,  we  lost  the  sight,  ami      Whereupon    sometimes    they    make    hal- 
withal  our  watch  cried,  the  general  was  cast  lo  lowed  fires,  and  cast  some  of  the  powder 
away,  which  was  too  true.      For  in  that  mq-      therein  for  a  sacrifice.     Being  in  a  storm 
ment,  the  frigate  was  devoured  and  swal-      upon    the    waters,    to    pacify    their    gods, . 
lowed  up  of  the  sea.     Yet  still  w^e  looked      they  cast  some  up  into  the  air  and  into  the ' 
out  all  that  night  and  ever  after,  until  we      water.     So  a  weir  for  fish  being  newly  set 
arrived  upon  the  coast  of  England,  omit- 15  up,  they  cast  some  therein  and  into  the  air. 
ting  no  small  sail  at  sea,  unto  which  we      Also,  after  an  escape  of  danger,  they  ca-^t 
gave   not   the   tokens   between   us    agreed      some   into  the  air  likewise;   but  all  done 
upon,  to  have  perfect  knowledge  of  each      with  strange  gestures,  stamping,  sometime, 
other,  if  we  should  at  any  time  be  sepa-      dancing,  clapping  .of  hands,  holding  up  of^ 
rated.  20  hands,   and   staring  up   into  the   heavens. 

In  great  torment  of  weather  and  peril      uttering      therewithal,      and      chattering' 

of  drowning,  it  pleased  God  to  send  safe      strange  words  and  noises. 

home  the  Golden  Hind,  which  arrived  in  We  ourselves,  during  the  time  we  were 

Falmouth,  the  22nd  day  of  September,  be-      there,  used  to  suck  it  after  their  manner, 

ing  Sunday,  not  without  as  great  danger  ^5  as  also  since  our  return,  and  have  found 

escaped  in  a  flaw,  coming  from  the  south-      many  rare  and  wonderful  experiments  of 

east,  with  such  thick  mist  that  we  could      the  virtues  thereof,  of  which  the  relation 

not  discern  land,  to  put  in  right  with  the      would    require   a   volume   by   itself.     The 

haven.  use   of  it  by   so  many   of   late,   men   and 

30  women  of  great  calling,  as  else,  and  some 

learned  physicians  also,   is  sufHcient  wit- 

A  REPORT  OF  VIRGINIA  ness. 

*     *     * 

(From  'a  brief  and  true  report  of  the 
new-found  land  of  Virginia,  of  the  com- 35 

modities  there  found  and  to  be  raised,  as      From     RALEIGH'S     DISCOVERY    OF 
well  merchantable  as  others.     Written  by  GUIAXA 

Thomas    Heriot,    servant    to    Sir    Walter 

Raleigh,  a  member  of  the  colony  and  there  Upon    this    river   one    Captain    George, 

employed    in   discovering    a    full    twelve- 40  that   I   took   with   Berreo,   told   me   there  > 
month.')  was  a  great  silver  mine,  and  that  it  was 

There  is  an  herb  which  is  sowed  apart  near  the  banks  of  the  said  river.  But  by 
by  itself,  and  is  called  by  the  inhabitants  this  time  as  well  Orinoco,  Caroli,  as  all  the 
uppozvoc.  In  the  W^est  Indies  it  hath  rest  of  the  rivers  were  risen  four  or  five 
divers  names,  according  to  the  several  45  feet  in  height  so  as  it  was  not  possible  by 
places  and  countries  where  it  groweth  and  the  strength  of  any  men,  or  with  any  boat 
is  used;  the  Spaniards  generally  call  it  whatsoever  to  row  into  the  river  against 
tobacco.  The  leaves  thereof  being  dried  the  stream.  I  therefore  sent  Captain 
and  brought  into  powder,  they  use  to  take  Thyn,  Captain  Grenville,  my  nephew  John 
the  fume  or  smoke  thereof  by  sucking  it,  50  Gilbert,  my  cousin  Butshead  Gorges,  Cap- 
through  pipes  made  of  clay,  into  their  tain  Clark,  and  some  thirty  shot  more  to 
stomach  and  head,  from  whence  it  pur-  coast  the  river  by  land,  and  to  go  to  a 
geth  superfluous  phlegm  and  other  gross  town  some  twenty  miles  over  the  valley 
humors,  and  opens  all  the  pores  and  pas-  called  Amnatapoi.  And  they  found  guides 
sages  of  the  body ;  by  which  means  the  use  55  there  to  go  farther  towards  the  mountain 
thereof  not  only  preserveth  the  body  from  foot  to  another  great  town  called  Capure- 
obstructions,  but  also  (if  any  be,  so  that  pana,  belonging  to  a  casique  called  Ha- 
they  have  not  been  of  too  long  continu-      haracoa    (that  was  a  nephew  to  old  To- 


RALEIGH'S  DISCOVERY  OF  GUIANA  99 


piawari,  king  of  Arromaia,  our  chiefest  a  flint,  and  is  altogether  as  hard  or  harder ; 
friend)  because  this  town  and  province  of  and  besides  the  veins  lie  a  fathom  or  two 
Capurepana  adjoined  to  Macureguarai,  deep  in  the  rocks.  But  we  wanted  all 
which  was  a  frontier  town  of  the  empire,  things  requisite,  save  only  our  desires  and 
And  the  meanwhile  myself  with  Captain  5  good  will,  to  have  performed  more  if  it 
Gifford,  Captain  Calfield,  Edward  Han-  had  pleased  God.  To  be  short,  when  both 
cock,  and  some  half  a  dozen  shot  marched  our  companies  returned,  each  of  them 
overland  to  view  the  strange  overfalls  of  brought  also  several  sorts  of  stones  that 
the  river  of  Caroli  which  roared  so  far  appeared  very  fair,  but  were  such  as  they 
off,  and  also  to  see  the  plains  adjoining,  10  found  loose  on  the  ground,  and  were  for 
and  the  rest  of  the  province  of  Canuri.  the  most  part  but  colored,  and  had  not  any 
I  sent  also  Captain  Whiddon,  William  gold  fixed  in  them ;  yet  such  as  had  no 
Connocke,  and  some  eight  shot  with  them,  judgment  or  experience  kept  all  that 
to  see  if  they  could  find  any  mineral  stone  glistered,  and  would  not  be  persuaded 
alongst  the  riverside.  When  we  were  15  but  it  was  rich  because  of  the  luster,  and 
come  to  the  tops  of  the  first  hills  of  the  brought  of  those  and  of  marquesite  witiial, 
plains  adjoining  to  the  river,  we  beheld  from  Trinidad,  and  have  delivered  of  those 
that  wonderful  breach  of  waters  which  stones  to  be  tried  in  many  places,  and  have 
ran  down  Caroli,  and  might  from  that  thereby  bred  an  opinion  that  all  the  rest 
mountain  see  the  river  how  it  ran  20  is  of  the  same.  Yet  some  of  these  stones 
in  three  parts,  above  twenty  miles  off.  I  showed  afterward  to  a  Spaniard  of  the 
And  there  appeared  some  ten  or  twelve  Caracas,  who  told  me  that  it  was  el  madre 
overfalls  in  sight,  every  one  as  high  over  del  oro,  that  is,  the  mother  of  gold,  and 
the  other  as  a  church-tower,  which  fell  that  the  mine  was  farther  in  the  ground, 
with  that  fury,  that  the  rebound  of  water  25  *     *     * 

made  it  seem  as  if  it  had  been  all  covered  I  will  enter  no  further  into  discourse  of 

over  with  a  great  shower  of  rain ;  and  in  their  manners,  laws,  and  customs,  and 
some  places  we  took  it  at  the  first  for  a  because  I  have  not  myself  seen  the  cities 
smoke  that  had  risen  over  some  great  of  Inca,  I  cannot  avow  on  my  credit  what 
town.  For  mine  own  part,  I  was  well  3o  I  have  heard,  although  it  be  very  likely 
persuaded  from  thence  to  have  returned,  that  the  Emperor  Inca  hath  built  and 
being  a  very  ill  footman,  but  the  rest  were  erected  as  magnificent  palaces  in  Guiana 
all  so  desirous  to  go  near  the  said  strange  as  his  ancestors  did  in  Peru,  which  were 
thunder  of  waters,  as  they  drew  me  on  by  for  their  riches  and  rareness  most  marvel- 
little  and  little,  till  we  came  into  the  next  35  ous  and  exceeding  all  in  Europe,  and  I 
valley,  where  we  might  better  discern  the  think  of  the  world,  China  excepted;  which 
same.  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  coun-  also  the  Spaniards  (which  I  had)  assured 
try,  nor  more  lively  prospects,  hills  so  me  to  be  true,  as  also  the  nations  of  the 
raised  here  and  there  over  the  valleys,  borderers,  who,  being  but  savages  to  those 
the  river  winding  into  divers  branches,  40  of  the  inland,  do  cause  much  treasure  to 
the  plains  adjoining  without  bush  or  stub-  be  buried  with  them.  For  I  was  informed 
ble,  all  fair  green  grass,  the  ground  of  of  one  of  the  casiques  of  the  valley  of 
hard  sand,  easy  to  march  on,  either  for  Amariocapana,  which  had  buried  with 
horse  or  foot,  the  deer  crossing  in  every  him,  a  little  before  our  arrival,  a  chair  of 
path,  the  birds  towards  the  evening  sing-  45  gold  most  curiously  wrought,  which  was 
ing  on  every  tree  with  a  thousand  sev-  made  either  in  Macureguaray  adjoining, 
eral  tunes,  cranes,  and  herons  of  white,  or  in  Manoa.  But  if  we  should  have 
crimson,  and  carnation  perching  in  the  grieved  them  in  their  religion  at  the  first, 
riverside,  the  air  fresh  with  a  gentle  east-  i^efore  they  had  been  taught  better,  and 
erly  wind,  and  every  stone  that  we  50  have  digged  up  their  graves,  we  had  lost 
stooped  to  take  up,  promised  either  gold  them  all.  And  therefore  I  held  my  first 
or  silver  by  its  complexion.  Your  lord-  resolution  that  her  Majesty  should  either 
ship  shall  see  of  many  sorts,  and  I  hope  accept  or  refuse  the  enterprise  ere  any- 
some  of  them  cannot  be  bettered  under  the  thing  should  be  done  that  might  in  any 
sun  ;  and  yet  we  had  no  means  but  with  our  55  sort  hinder  the  same.  x\nd  if  Peru  had  so 
daggers  and  fingers  to  tear  them  out  here  many  heaps  of  gold,  whereof  those  Incas 
and  there,  the  rocks  being  most  hard,  of  were  princes,  and  that  they  delighted  so 
that  mineral  spar  aforesaid,  which  is  like      much   therein ;   no  doubt   but   this   which 


lOO  HAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 


now  livcth  and  reifjnelh  in  Manoa,  hath  lost  not  any  one,  nor  had  one  ill  disjwscd 
the  same  honor,  and  1  am  assured  hath  to  my  knowledge,  nor  found  any  calentura, 
more  abundance  of  gold  within  his  terri-  or  other  of  those  pestilent  diseases  which 
tory  than  all  Peru  and  the  West  Indies.  dwell  in  all  hot  regions,  and  so  near  the 

For  the  rest,  which  myself  have  seen,  I   5  equinoctial  line, 
will    promise    these    things    that    follow, 
which  I  know  to  be  true.     Those  that  are 

desirous  to  discover  and  to  see  many  na-      SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE  AT  SAN  DO-- 
tions  may   be   satisfied   within   this   river,  MINGO 

which  bringcth   forth  so  many  arms  and  lo 
branches  leading  to  several  countries  and  (From  'a  summary  and  true  discourse 

provinces,  above  2000  miles  east  and  west,  of  Sir  Francis  Drake's  West  Indian  voy- 
and  800  miles  south  and  north,  and  of  age,  begun  in  the  year  1585.  Wherein 
these  the  most  either  rich  in  gold  or  in  were  taken  the  cities  of  Saint  lago,  Santo 
other  merchandises.  The  common  soldier  15  Domingo,  Cartagena,  and  the  towM  of 
shall  here  fight  for  gold,  and  pay  himself,  Saint  Augustine  in  Florida.  Published  by 
instead  of  pence  with  plates  of  half  a  foot      Mr.  Thomas  Gates.') 

broad,  whereas  he  breaketh  his  bones  in  All    things    being    thus    considered    on, 

other  wars  for  provant  and  penury,  the  whole  forces  were  commanded  in  the 
Those  commanders  and  chieftains  that  20  evening  to  embark  themselves  in  pin- 
shoot  at  honor  and  abundance,  shall  find  naces,  boats,  and  other  small  barks  _ap- 
there  more  rich  and  beautiful  cities,  more  pointed  for  this  service.  Our  soldiers 
temples  adorned  with  golden  images,  more  being  thus  embarked,  the  general  put  him- 
sepulchres  filled  with  treasure  than  either  self  into  the  bark  Francis  as  admiral,  and 
Cortez  found  in  Mexico,  or  Pizarro  in  25  all  this  night  we  lay  on  the  sea,  bearing 
Peru;  and  the  shining  glory  of  this  con-  small  sail  until  our  arrival  to  the  landing 
quest  will  eclipse  all  those  so  far  ex-  place,  which  was  about  the  breaking  of 
tended  beams  of  the  Spanish  nation,  the  day,  and  so  we  landed,  being  New 
There  is  no  country  which  yieldeth  more  Year's  Day,  nine  or  ten  miles  to  the  west- 
pleasure  to  the  inhaljitants,  either  for  those  30  ward  of  that  brave  city  of  San  Domingo, 
common  delights  of  hunting,  hawking,  for  at  that  time,  nor  yet  is  known  to  us 
fishing,  fowling,  or  the  rest,  than  Guiana  any  landing  place  where  the  sea  surge 
doth.  It  hath  so  many  plains,  clear  rivers,  doth  not  threaten  to  overset  a  pinnace  or 
abundance  of  pheasants,  partridges,  quails,  boat.  Our  general,  having  seen  us  all 
rails,  cranes,  herons,  and  all  other  fowd,  35  landed  in  safety,  returned  to  his  fleet,  be- 
deer  of  all  sorts,  porks,  hares,  lions,  tigers,  queathing  us  to  God,  and  the  good  conduct 
leopards,  and  divers  other  sorts  of  beasts,  of  Master  Carliell,  our  lieutenant  general: 
either  for  chase  or  food.  It  hath  a  kind  at  which  time,  being  about  eight  of  the 
of  beast  called  cama,  or  anta,  as  big  as  an  clock,  we  began  to  march,  and  about  noom 
English  beef,  and  in  great  plenty.  40  time,  or  towards  one  of  the  clock,  we  ap- 

To  speak  of  the  several  sorts  of  every  proached  the  town,  where  the  gentlemen 
kind,  I  fear  would  be  troublesome  to  the  and  those  of  the  better  sort,  being  some 
reader,  and  therefore  I  will  omit  them  and  hundred  and  fifty  brave  horses,  or  rather 
conclude  that  both  for  health,  good  air,  more,  began  to  present  themselves.  But 
pleasure,  and  riches  I  am  resolved  it  can-  45  our  small  shot  played  upon  them,  which 
not  be  equaled  by  any  region  either  in  the  were  so  sustained  with  good  proportion 
east  or  west.  Moreover  the  country  is  so  of  pikes  in  all  parts,  as  they,  finding  no 
healthful,  as  of  an  hundred  persons  and  part  of  our  troop  unprepared  to  receive 
more  (which  lay  without  shift  most  slut-  them,  (for  you  must  understand  they 
tishly,  and  were  every  day  almost  melted  50  viewed  all  round  about),  they  were  thus 
with  heat  in  rowing  and  marching,  and  driven  to  give  us  leave  to  proceed  to- 
suddenly  wet  again  with  great  showers,  wards  the  two  gates  of  the  town,  which 
and  did  eat  of  all  sorts  of  corrupt  fruits,  were  the  next  to  the  seaward.  They  had 
and  made  meals  of  fresh  fish  without  manned  them  both,  and  planted  their  ord- 
seasoning,  of  tortugas,  of  lagartos  or  croc-  55  nance  for  that  present  and  sudden  alarm 
odiles,  and  of  all  sorts  good  and  bad.  with-  without  the  gate,  and  also  some  troops  of 
out  either  order  or  measure,  and  besides  small  shot  in  ambuscade  upon  the  highway 
lodged  in  the  open  air  every  night)    we      side.     We  divided  our  whole  force,  being 


DRAKE  IN  CALIFORNIA  loi 

I      some    thousand    or   twelve    hundred   men,      into  our  hands;  who  without  all  order  or 
I      into  two  parts,  to  enterprise  both  the  gates      reason,  and  contrary   to  that  good  usage 
i      at  one  instant,  the  lieutenant  general  hav-      wherewith  we  had  entertained  their  mes- 
'  '      ing  openly  vowed  to  Captain  Powel  (who      sengers,    furiously    struck    the    poor    boy 
led  the  troop  that  entered  the  other  gate )    5  through  the  body  with  one  of  their  horse- 
that  with  God's  good  favor  he  would  not      men's  staves;  with  which  wound  the  boy 
j     rest  until  our  meeting  in  the  market  place.      returned  to  the  general,  and  after  he  had 
Their    ordnance    had    no     sooner    dis-      declared    the    manner    of    this    wrongful 
!     charged    upon    our    near    approach    and      cruelty,    died    forthwith    in    his    presence, 
i     made  some  execution  amongst  us,  though  10  Wherewith  the  general  l)eing  greatly  pas- 
■  ;     not  much,  but  the  lieutenant  general  be-      sioned,  commanded  the  provost  martial,  to 
•,j     gan  forthwith  to  advance  both  his  voice      cause   a  couple  of  friars,   then  prisoners, 
»|i     of  encouragement,  and  pace  of  marching,      to  be  carried  to  the  same  place  where  the 
o||    the  first  man  that  was  slain  with  the  ord-      boy  was   struck,   accompanied   with    suffi- 
nance  being  very  near  unto  himself:  and  15  cicnt  guard  of  our  soldiers,  and  there  pres- 
thereupon  hasted  all  that  he  might  to  keep      cntly    to    be    hanged,    dispatching    at    the 
them    from   the   re-charging   of   the   ord-      same  instant  another  poor  prisoner,  with 
nance.     And    notwithstanding    their    am-      this  reason  wherefore  this  execution  was 
buscades,   we   marched,   or   rather   ran   so      done,  and  with  this  message  further,  that 
roundly  into  them,  as  pell  mell  we  entered  20  until   the   party   who   had   thus   murdered 
the  gates,  and  gave  them  more  care  every      the   general's    messenger    were    delivered 
man  to  save  himself  by  flight  than  reason      into  our  hands,  to  receive  condign  punish- 
to  stand  any  longer  to  their  broken  fight,      ment,  there  should  no  day  pass,  wherein 
We    forthwith    repaired    to    the    market      there  should  not  two  prisoners  be  hanged, 
place :  but  to  be  more  truly  understood,  a  25  until  they  were  all  consumed  which  were 
place  of  very  fair  spacious  square  ground,      in  our  hands. 

whither  also  came,  as  had  been  agreed.  Whereupon,  the  day  following,  he  that 

Captain  Powel  with  the  other  troop ;  which  had  been  captain  of  the  king's  galley, 
place  with  some  part  next  unto  it,  we  brought  the  offender  to  the  town's  end,  of- 
strengthened  with  barricades,  and  there,  3°  fering  to  deliver  him  into  our  hands;  but 
j  as  the  most  convenient  place,  assured  our-  it  was  thought  to  be  a  more  honorable 
selves,  the  city  being  far  too  spacious  for  revenge  to  make  them  there  in  our  sight 
so  small  and  weary  a  troop  to  undertake  to  perform  the  execution  themselves, 
to  guard.  Somewhat  after  midnight,  they  which  was  done  accordingly. 
who  had  the  guard  of  the  castle,  hearing  3s  *     *     ^k 

us  busy  about  the  gates  of  the  said  castle, 
abandoned    the    same,    some    being   taken 

prisoners,  and  some  fleeing  away  by  the  DRAKE  IN  CALIFORNIA 

help   of   boats   to   the   other   side   of   the 

haven,  and  so  into  the  country.  40       (From  '  the  famous  voyage  of  Sir  Fran- 

The  next  day  we  quartered  a  little  more      cis  Drake  into  the  South  Sea,  and  there- 
at large,  but  not  into  the  half  part  of  the      hence  about  the  whole  globe  of  the  earth, 
town,  and  so  making  substantial  trenches,      begun  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,   1577.') 
and  planting  all  the  ordnance   that   each  The  fifth  day  of  June,  being  in  43  de- 

part was  correspondent  to  other,  we  held  45  grees  towards  the  pole  Arctic,  we  found 
this  town  the  space  of  one  month.  the  air  so  cold  that  our  men,  being  griev- 

In  the  which  time  happened  some  acci-  ously  pinched  with  the  same,  conijjlaincd 
dents,  more  than  are  well  remembered  for  of  the  extremity  thereof;  and  the  further 
the  present,  but  amongst  other  things,  we  went,  the  more  the  cold  increased  upon 
it  chanced  that  the  general  sent  on  his  50  us.  Whereupon  we  thought  it  best  for 
message  to  the  Spaniards  a  negro  boy  with  that  time  to  seek  the  land,  and  did  so, 
a  flag  of  white,  signifying  truce,  as  is  the  finding  it  not  mountainous,  but  low  plain 
Spaniards'  ordinary  manner  to  do  there,  land,  till  we  came  within  38  degrees  to- 
when  they  approach  to  speak  to  us.  wards  the  Line.  In  which  height  it 
Which  boy  unhappily  was  first  met  withal  55  pleased  God  to  send  us  into  a  fair  and 
by  some  of  those  who  had  been  belonging  good  bay,  with  a  good  wind  to  enter  the 
as  oflicers  for  the  king  in  the  Spanish  gal-  same, 
ley,  which  with  the  town  was  lately  fallen  In  this  bay  we  anchored,  and  the  people 


I02  IIAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 


of  the  country,  having  their  houses  close  and  amongst  them  the  king  hiiuscll",  a  man 
by  the  water's  side,  showed  themselves  of  goodly  stature  and  comely  personage, 
unto  us,  and  sent  a  present  to  our  gen-  with  many  other  tall  and  warlike  men ;  be- 
eral.  fore  whose  coming  were  sent  two  ambas- 

When  they  came  unto  us,  they  greatly  5  sadors  to  our  general  to  signify  that  their 
wondered  at  the  things  that  we  brought,  king  was  coming,  in  doing  of  which  mes- 
but  our  general  (according  to  his  natural  sage  their  speech  was  continued  al)out 
and  accustomed  humanity)  courteously  half  an  hour.  This  ended,  they  by  signs 
entreated  them,  and  liberally  bestowed  on  requested  our  general  to  send  some  thing 
them  necessary  things  to  cover  their  10  by  their  hand  to  their  king  as  a  token  that 
nakedness,  whereupon  they  supposed  us  his  coming  might  be  in  peace,  wherein  our 
to  be  gods,  and  would  not  be  persuaded  to  general  having  satisfied  them,  they  re- 
the  contrary.  The  presents  which  they  turned  with  glad  tidings  to  their  king,  who 
sent  to  our  general  were  feathers  and  marched  to  us  with  a  princely  majesty, 
cauls  of  network.  'S  the  people  crying  continually  after  their 

Their   houses   are   digged   round   about      manner ;  and  as  they  drew  near  unto  us, 
with  earth,  and  have  from  the  uttermost      so  did   they   strive   to   behave   themselves 
brims  of  the  circle  clifts  of  wood  set  upon      in  their  actions  with  comeliness, 
them,   joining   close   together   at   the   top  In  the  fore-front  was  a  man  of  goodly 

like  a  spire  steeple,  which  by  reason  of  20  personage,  who  bore  the  scepter  or  mace 
that   closeness   are   very  warm.  before    the    king,    whereupon    hung    two 

Their  beds  is  the  ground  with  rushes  crowns,  a  less  and  a  bigger,  with  three 
strewed  on  it,  and  lying  about  the  house,  chains  of  a  marvelous  length.  The 
have  the  fire  in  the  midst.  The  men  go  crowns  were  made  of  knit  work  wrought 
naked,  the  women  take  bulrushes  and  ^5  artificially  with  feathers  of  divers  colors; 
comb  them  after  the  manner  of  hemp,  the  chains  were  made  of  a  bony  substance, 
and  thereof  make  their  loose  garments,  and  few  be  the  persons  among  them  that 
which  being  knit  about  their  middles,  hang  are  admitted  to  wear  them ;  and  of  that 
down  about  their  hips,  having  also  about  number  also  the  persons  are  stinted,  as 
their  shoulders  a  skin  of  deer  with  the  3o  some  ten,  some  twelve,  and  so  forth, 
hair  upon  it.  These  women  are  very  obe-  Next  unto  him  which  bare  the  scepter  was 
dient  and  serviceable  to  their  husbands.  the  king  himself  with  his  guard  about  his 

After  they  were  departed  from  us,  they  person,  clad  with  coney  skins,  and  other 
came  and  visited  us  the  second  time  and  skins.  After  them  followed  the  naked 
brought  with  them  feathers  and  bags  of  35  common  sort  of  people,  everyone  having 
tobacco  for  presents.  And  when  they  his  face  painted,  some  with  white,  some 
came  to  the  top  of  the  hill  (at  the  bottom  with  black,  and  other  colors,  and  having 
whereof  we  had  pitched  our  tents)  they  in  their  hands  one  thing  or  another  for  a 
stayed  themselves,  where  one  appointed  present,  not  so  much  as  their  children,  but 
for  speaker  wearied  himself  with  making  40  they  also  brought  their  presents. 
a  long  oration,  which  done,  they  left  their  In  the  meantime  our  general  gathered 

bows  upon  the  hill,  and  came  down  with  his  men  together  and  marched  within  his 
their  presents.  fenced    place,    making    against    their    ap- 

In  the  meantime  the  women,  remaining  proaching  a  very  warlike  show.  They  be- 
on  the  hill,  tormented  themselves  lamen-  45  ing  troo])ed  together  in  their  order  and  a 
tably,  tearing  their  flesh  from  their  cheeks,  general  salutation  being  made,  there  was 
whereby  we  perceived  that  they  were  presently  a  general  silence.  Then  he  that 
about  a  sacrifice.  In  the  meantime  our  bare  the  scepter  before  the  king,  being  in- 
general  with  his  company  went  to  prayer  formed  by  another,  whom  they  assigned 
and  to  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  at  which  50  to  that  office,  with  a  manly  and  lofty 
exercise  they  were  attentive,  and  seemed  voice  proclaimed  that  which  the  other 
greatly  to  be  affected  with  it.  But  when  spoke  to  him  in  secret,  continuing  half  an 
they  were  come  unto  us,  they  restored  hour;  which  ended,  and  a  general  amen, 
again  unto  us  those  things  which  before  as  it  were,  given,  the  king  with  the  whole 
we  bestowed  upon  them.  55  number    of    men    and    women    (the    chil- 

The  news  of  our  being  there  being  dren  excepted)  came  down  without  any 
spread  through  the  country,  the  people  weapon  ;  who  descending  to  the  foot  of  the 
that   inhabited   round   about   came   down,      hill,  set  themselves  in  order. 


DRAKE  IN  CALIFORNIA  103 

In  coming  towards  our  bulwarks  and  ointments,  agreein.^  to  the  state  of  their 
tents,  the  scepter-bearer  began  a  song,  griefs,  beseeching  God  to  cure  their  dis- 
observing  his  measures  in  a  dance,  and  eases.  Every  third  day  they  brought 
that  with  a  stately  countenance ;  whom  the  their  sacrifices  to  us,  until  they  under- 
king  with  his  guard,  and  every  degree  of  5  stood  our  meaning  that  we  had  no  pleas- 
persons,  following,  did  in  like  manner  ure  in  them.  Yet  they  could  not  be  long 
sing  and  dance,  saving  only  the  women,  al^sent  from  us,  but  daily  frequented  our 
which  danced  and  kept  silence.  The  gen-  company  to  the  hour  of  our  departure, 
eral  permitted  them  to  enter  within  our  which  d'eparture  seemed  so  grievous  unto 
bulwark,  where  they  continued  their  song  10  them  that  their  joy  was  turned  into  sor- 
and  dance  a  reasonable  time.  When  they  row.  They  entreated  us  that  being  ab- 
had  satisfied  themselves,  they  made  signs  sent  we  would  remember  them,  and  by 
to  our  general  to  sit  down,  to  whom  the  stealth  provided  a  sacrifice,  which  we  mis- 
king  and  divers  others  made  several  ora-      liked. 

tions,  or  rather  supplications,  that  he  15  Our  necessary  business  being  ended, 
would  take  their  province  and  kingdom  our  general  with  his  company  traveled  up 
into  his  hand,  and  become  their  king,  mak-  into  the  country  to  their  villages,  where 
ing  signs  that  they  would  resign  unto  him  we  found  herds  of  deer  by  1000  in  a 
their  right  and  title  of  the  whole  land,  and  company,  being  most  large  and  fat  of 
become   his   subjects.     In   which,    to   per- 20  body. 

suade    us    the    better,    the    king    and   the  We   found  the  whole  country  to  be  a 

rest  with  one  consent  and  with  great  rev-  warren  of  a  strange  kind  of  conies,  their 
erence,  joyfully  singing  a  song,  did  set  bodies  in  bigness  as  be  the  Barbary 
the  crown  upon  his  head,  enriched  his  conies,  their  heads  as  the  heads  of  ours, 
neck  with  all  their  chains,  and  offered  25  the  feet  of  a  want,  and  the  tail  of  a  rat, 
unto  him  many  other  things,  honoring  being  of  great  length.  Under  her  chin 
him  by  the  name  of  Hioh,  adding  there-  is  on  either  side  a  bag,  into  the  which  she 
unto,  as  it  seemed  a  sign  of  triumph,  which  gathereth  her  meat,  when  she  hath  filled 
thing  our  general  thought  not  meet  to  re-  her  belly  abroad.  The  people  eat  their 
ject,  because  he  knew  not  what  honor  and  3°  I^odies  and  make  great  account  of  their 
profit  it  might  be  to  our  country.  Where-  skins,  for  their  king's  coat  was  made  of 
fore  in  the  name  and  to  the  use  of  her      them. 

Majesty  he  took  the  scepter,  crown,  and  Our  general  called  this   country   Nova 

dignity  of  the  said  country  into  his  hands,  Albion,  and  that  for  two  causes :  the  one 
wishing  that  the  riches  and  treasure  35  in  respect  of  the  white  banks  and  clilTs 
thereof  might  so  conveniently  be  trans-  which  lie  towards  the  sea;  and  the  other 
ported  to  the  enriching  of  her  kingdom  because  it  might  have  some  affinity  with 
at  home,  as  it  aboundeth  in  the  same.  our    country    in    name,    which    sometime 

The  common  sort  of  people  leaving  the      was  so  called. 
king    and    his    guard    with    our    general,  40      There   is   no   part   of  earth  here  to  be 
scattered   themselves   together   with   their      taken  up,  wherein  there  is  not  some  prob- 
sacrifices  among  our  people,  taking  a  dili-      able  show  of  gold  or  silver. 
gent  view  of  every  person;  and  such  as  At    our    departure    hence    our    general 

pleased  their  fancy,  (which  were  the  set  up  a  monument  of  our  being  there, 
youngest)  they,  inclosing  them  about,  45  as  also  of  her  Majesty's  right  and  title 
offered  their  sacrifices  unto  them  with  to  the  same,  namely  a  plate,  nailed  upon 
lamentable  weeping,  scratching,  and  tear-  a  fair  great  post,  whereupon  was  en- 
ing  the  flesh  from  their  faces  with  their  graven  her  Majesty's  name,  the  day  and 
nails,  whereof  issued  abundance  of  blood,  year  of  our  arrival  there,  with  the  free 
But  we  used  signs  to  them  of  disliking  50  giving  up  of  the  province  and  people  into 
this,  and  stayed  their  hands  from  force,  her  Majesty's  hands,  together  with  her 
and  directed  them  upwards  to  the  living  highness'  picture  and  arms  in  a  piece  of 
God,  whom  only  they  ought  to  worship.  six  pence  of  current  English  money  un- 
They  showed  unto  us  their  wounds,  and  der  the  plate,  whereunder  was  also  writ- 
craved  help  of  them  at  our  hands,  where-  55  ten  the  name  of  our  general, 
upon  we  gave  them  lotions,  plasters,  and  *     *    * 


EDMUND  SPENSER  (  i55-'-i599) 


Although  Siionser's  fatlier  was  'a  gentleman  by  biiHi.'  he  seems  to  have  lacked  adequate 
resources  for  bringiug  up  his  sou.  In  spite  of  insufficient  means,  however,  Spenser  received 
a  thoroughly  good  education,  first  as  a  'poor  scholar'  in  the  Merchant  Tailors'  School  in 
London,  under  Richard  Mulcaster,  and  later,  during  seven  years,  as  a  sizar,  or  needy  student, 
at  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge.  At  the  university  he  gained  not  only  a  high  standing  in 
classical  studies,  but  also  the  permanent  friendship  of  Gabriel  Harvey,  Fellow  of  I'embroke, 
the  Hobbinol  of  Spenser's  pastoral  verse.  After  leaving  the  university,  in  irtTO,  Spenser 
seems  to  have  retired  for  a  year  or  so  into  the  country,  where,  according  to  a  persistent  tradi- 
tion, he  met  the  Rosalind  of  the  Shepherd's  Calendar.  He  began  his  active  career  as  a  private 
secretary,  first,  perhaps,  to  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  in  Ireland,  certainly  to  Birliop  Young  of 
Rochester,  in  1578,  and  finally  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  in  1579.  In  this  last  position  he  met 
Leicester's  nephew.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  Sir  Edward  Dyer,  with  both  of  whom  he  formed 
an  intimate  literary  and  personal  friendship.  His  friendship  with  Sidney,  Spen.ser  recorded 
in  Astrophel:  A  Pastoral  Elegy  (1595).  Under  Leicester's  roof  was  completed  the  Shepherd's 
Calendar,  published  in  1579.  The  enthusiastic  reception  of  the  poem  among  men  of  letters 
promptly  established  Spenser  as  the  chief  of  English  poets  then  living.  In  1580,  Spenser  went 
to  Ireland  as  secretary  to  the  lord  deputy,  Arthur  Grey,  and,  except  for  two  visits  to  England, 
he  remained  in  Ireland  until  a  month  before  his  death.  In  1581,  he  became  clerk  of  the 
faculties  in  the  Court  of  Chancery,  and  in  the  succeeding  years  prospered  sufficiently  to  acquire 
land  and  to  buy  the  office  of  clerk  of  the  council  of  Munster,  in  1588,  when,  probably,  he 
began  to  reside  upon  his  new  estate  at  Kilcolman  Castle.  In  1589,  Sir  \Yalter  Raleigh 
visited  Spenser,  who  showed  him  the  first  three  books  of  the  Faery  Queen,  and  who  departed 
with  his  eminent  visitor  during  that  same  year  for  London,  there  to  present  his  work  to  the 
queen  and  to  publish  it.  If  the  poet  expected  reward  in  the  form  of  a  government  office  in 
London,  he  was  disappointed,  for  in  1591,  after  obtaining  a  pension  of  fifty  pounds,  he  returned 
home.  Raleigh's  visit  and  the  sojourn  in  London  are  reflected  in  Colin  Cloufs  Come  Home 
Again  (1595).  After  his  return  to  Ireland,  Spenser  seems  to  have  worked  assiduously  upon 
the  Faery  Queen,  for  the  second  three  books  were  completed  before  June  11,  1594,  when  he 
married  Elizabeth  Boyle,  the  inspiration  of  the  Amoretti  and  of  Epithalamion.  In  1596, 
Spenser  again  visited  London,  to  publish  Books  IV-VI  of  the  Faery  Queen,  and,  no  doubt,  to 
seek  office, —  once  more  unsuccessfully.  To  this  London  visit  is  assigned  the  writing  of  the 
Four  Hymns,  the  Prothalamion,  and  the  prose  tract.  View  of  the  Present  State  of  Ireland. 
In  this  iast  work  the  poet  vigorously  records  his  contempt  for  the  Irish,  a  contempt  that  must 
have  grown  into  bitter  hatred  when,  in  1598,  Irish  rebels  burned  Kilcolman  Castle  and  drove 
Spenser  and  his  family  to  Cork.  After  having  prepared  for  the  queen  an  account  of  the 
situation  in  Ireland,  Spenser  set  out  with  dispatches  for  London,  where  he  died,  January  10, 
1599. 


From  THE  SHEPHEARDES 
CALENDAR 

FEBRUARIE 

.^GLOGA    SECUNDA 
CUDDIE.       THENOT. 

Cud.  Ah    for    pittie !    wil    rancke    winters 

rage 
These  bitter  blasts   never  ginne  tasswage? 
The   kene   cold    blowes   through    my   beaten 

Hyde, 
All  as  I  were  through  the  body  gryde. 
My  ragged  routes  all  shiver  and  shake,         s 


As  doen  high  towers  in  an  earthquake: 
They  wont   in   the  wind  wagge  their  wrigle 

tailcs, 
Perke  as  peacock :  but  nowe  it  avales. 

The.  Lewdly      complainest      thou,      laesie 

ladde, 
Of   winters  wracke,   for  making  thee   sadde. 
Must   not   the   world   wend   in    his   commun 

course,  u 

From    good   to   badd,    and    from   badde   to 

worse, 
From  worse  unto  that  is  worst  of  all. 
And  then  returne  to  his  former  fall? 
Who  will  not  suffer  the  stormy  time,  *5 


THE  SHEPHEARDES  CALENDAR 


105 


Where  will  he  live  tyll  the  lusty  prime? 
Sclfe     have     I     worne     out    thrise    threttie 

yeares, 
Some  in  much  joy,  many  in  many  teares ; 
Yet  never  complained  of  cold  nor  heate, 
Of  sommers  flame,  nor  of  winters  threat;  20 
Ne  ever  was  to  fortune  focman, 
But  gently  tooke  that  ungently  came : 
And  ever  my  flocke  was  my  chiefe  care; 
Winter  or  sommer  they  mought  well  fare. 
Cud.  No    marveile,    Thenot,    if    thou    can 

beare  ^5 

Cherefully  the  winters  wrathfull  cheare : 
For  age  and  winter  accord  full  nie. 
This  chill,  that  cold,  this  crooked,  that  wrye; 
And  as  the  lowring  wether  lookes  downe. 
So  semest  thou  like  Good  Fryday  to  frowne. 
But  my  flowring  youth  is  foe  to  frost,         31 
My  shippe  unwont  in  stormes  to  be  tost. 
The.  The    soveraigne    of    seas    he    blames 

in  vaine. 
That,  once  seabeate,  will  to  sea  againc. 
So  loytring  live  you   little  heardgroomes,  35 
Keeping  your  beastes  in  the  budded  brnomes  : 
And  when  the  shining  sunne  laugheth  once. 
You  deemen  the  spring  is  come  attonce. 
Tho    gynne    you,    fond    flyes,    the    cold    to 

scorne. 
And    crowing    in     pypes    made    of    greene 

corne,  4° 

You  thinken  to  be  lords  of  the  ycare. 
But    eft,    when    ye    count    you    freed    from 

feare. 
Comes    the    breme    winter    with    chamfred 

browes, 
Full  of  wrinckles  and  frostie  furrowes, 
Drerily  shooting  his   stormy  darte,  45 

Which    cruddles   the    blood,   and    pricks   the 

harte. 
Then  is  your  carelesse  corage  accoied, 
Your    carefull    heards    with    cold    bene    an- 

noied : 
Then  paye  you  the  price  of  your  surquedrie. 
With  weeping,  and  wayling,  and  misery,     so 
Cud.  Ah,    foolish   old   man !    I    scorne   thy 

skill, 
That  wouldest  me  my  springing  youngth  to 

spil. 
I  deeme  thy  braine  emperished  bee 
Through   rusty  elde,   that  hath   rotted  thee: 
Or  sicker  thy  head  veray  tottie  is,  55 

So  on  thy  corbe  shoulder  it  leanes  amisse. 
Now  thy  selfe  hast  lost  both  lopp  and  topp. 
Als    my    budding    braunch    thou    wouldest 

cropp : 
But    were   thy  yeares   greene,   as   now   bene 

myne. 
To  other  delights  they  would  cnclinc.  60 


Tho  wouldest  thou  learnc  to  caroU  of  love, 

And  hery  with  hymnes   thy  lasses  glove : 

Tho  wouldest  thou  pypc  of   Phyllis  prayse : 

But   Phyllis   is   myne   for   many  dayes : 

I  wonne  her  with  a  grydle  of  gelt,  65 

Embost  with  buegle  about  the  belt : 

Such  an  one  shepeheards  woulde  make  full 

faine. 
Such     an    one    would     make     thee    younge 

againe. 
The.  Thou  art  a  fon,  of  thy  love  to  boste ; 
All  that  is  lent  to  love  wyll  be  lost.  7° 

Cud.  Seest     howe     brag     yond     bullocke 

beares, 
So  smirke,  so  smoothe,  his  pricked  eares? 
His    homes    bene    as    broade    as    rainebowe 

bent, 
His  dewelap  as  lythe  as  lasse  of  Kent. 
See  howe  he  venteth  into  the  wynd.  75 

Weenest  of  love  is  not  his  mynd? 
Seemeth  thy  flocke  thy  counsell  can, 
So   lustlesse   bene   they,   so   weakc,   so   wan, 
Clothed  with  cold,   and  hoary  wyth   frost. 
Thy  flocks  father  his  corage  hath  lost :       80 
Thy  ewes,  that  wont  to  have  blowen  bags, 
Like  wailefuU  widdowes  hangen  their  crags : 
The  rather  lambes  bene  starved  with  cold. 
All  for  their  maister  is  lustlesse  and  old. 

The.  Cuddie,  I  wote  thou  kenst  little  good, 
So  vainely  tadvaunce  thy  headlessehood.  86 
For    youngth    is    a    bubble    blown    up    with 

breath, 
Whose   witt   is    weakenesse,   whose   wage    is 

death. 
Whose     way    is     wildernesse,    whose     ynne 

penaunce. 
And  stoopegallaunt  age,  the  hoste  of  gree- 

vaunce.  90 

But  shall  I  tel  thee  a  tale  of  truth, 
Which  I  cond  of  Tityrus  in  my  youth, 
Keeping  his  sheepe  on  the  hils  of  Kent? 
Cud.  To  nought   more,   Thenot,  my  mind 

is  bent, 
Then  to  heare  novells  of  his  devise:  9S 

They  bene  so  well  thewed,  and  so  wise, 
What  ever  that  good  old  man  bespake. 
The.  Many    meete    tales    of   youth   did    he 

make. 
And  some  of  love,  and  some  of  chevalrie: 
But   none  fitter  then  this  to  applie.  100 

Now   listen   a  while,   and   hearken   the  end. 

There  grewe  an  aged  tree  on  the  greene, 
A  goodly  Oake  sometime  had  it  bene, 
With    amies    full    strong    and    largely    dis- 

playd. 
But  of  their  leaves  they  were  disarayde:  »o5 
The  bodie  bigge,  and  mightely  pight. 
Throughly  rooted,  and  of  wonderous  hight: 


io6 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


VVhilome  had  bene  the  king  of  the  field, 
And  mochell  mast  to  the  husband  did  yielde, 
And  with  his  nuts  larded  many  swine.       "o 
But   now   the   gray  mosse   marred   his   rinc, 
His      bared      boughs      were      beaten      with 

stormes, 
His     toppe     was     bald,     and     wasted     with 

wormes, 
His  honor  decayed,  his  braunches  sere.       ih 
Hard  by  his  side  grewe  a  bragging  Brere, 
Which  proudly  thrust  into  thclement, 
And  seemed  to  threat  the  firmament. 
Yt  was  embellisht   with  blossomes   fayre. 
And  thereto  aye  wonncd  to  repayre  H9 

The  shepheards  daughters,  to  gather  flowres, 
To  peinct  their  girlonds  with  his  colowres : 
And  in  his  small  bushes  used  to  shrowde 
The  sweete  nightingale  singing  so  lowde : 
Which    made    this    foolish    Brere    wexe    so 

bold, 
That  on  a  time  he  cast  him  to  scold  1-5 

And  snebbe  the  good  Oake,  for  he  was  old. 
'  Why     standst     there,'     quoth     he,     '  thou 

brutish  blocke? 
Nor  for  fruict  nor  for  shadowe  serves  thy 

stocke. 
Seest  how  fresh  my  flowers  bene  spredde, 
Dyed  in  lilly  white  and  cremsin  redde,       '30 
With  leaves  engrained  in  lusty  greene 
Colours  meete  to  clothe  a  mayden  queene? 
Thy  wast  bignes  but  combers  the  grownd, 
And    dirks    the    beauty    of    my    blossomes 

round. 
The  mouldie  mosse,  which  thee  accloieth. 
My   sinamon    smell   too   much    annoieth.  136 
Wherefore  soone,  I  rede  thee,  hence  remove. 
Least    thou    the    price    of    my    displeasure 

prove.' 
So    spake    this   bold    Brere    with   great    dis- 

daine : 
Little  him  answered  the  Oake  againe,         mo 
But  yielded,  with  shame  and  greefe  adawed. 
That  of  a  weede  he  was  overawed. 

Yt  chaunced  after  upon  a  day. 
The  husbandman  selfe  to  come  that  way. 
Of  custome  for  to  survewe  his  grownd,     '45 
And  his  trees  of  state  in  compasse  rownd. 
Him  when  the  spitefull  Brere  had  espyed, 
Causlesse  complained,  and  lowdly  cryed 
Unto  his  lord,  stirring  up  sterne  strife : 

'O  my  liege  Lord,  the  god  of  my  life,  150 
Pleaseth  you  ponder  your  suppliants  plaint. 
Caused  of  wrong,  and  cruell  constraint. 
Which  I  your  poore  vassall  dayly  endure : 
And  but  your  goodnes  the  same  recure, 
Am  like   for  desperate  doole  to  dye,  J55 

Through  fclonous  force  of  mine  enemie.' 
Greatly  aghast  with  this  piteous  plea, 


Him  rested  the  goodman  on  the  lea, 

And  badde  the  Brere  in  his  plaint  proceede. 

With    painted    words    tho    gan    this    proude 

weede  '^° 

(As  most  usen  ambitious  folke) 
His  colowred  crime   with  craft   to   cloke. 

'  Ah  my  soveraigne,  lord  of  creatures  all, 
Thou  placer  of  plants  both  humble  and  tall. 
Was  not  I  planted  of  thine  owne  hand,   165 
To  be  the  primrose  of  all  thy  land. 
With    flowring    blossomes    to     furnish    the 

prime. 
And  scarlot  berries  in  sommer  time? 
How  falls  it  then,  that  this  faded  Oake, 
Whose  bodie  is   sere,  whose   braunches 

broke,  "7o 

Whose   naked  amies   stretch   unto   the    fyre, 
Unto  such  tyrannic  doth  aspire ; 
Hindering  with  his  shade  my  lovely  light, 
And  robbing  me  of  the  swete  sonnes  sight? 
So  beate  his  old  boughes  my  tender  side,  '75 
That  oft  the  bloud  springeth   from  wounds 

wyde : 
Untimely  my  flowres  forced  to  fall. 
That  bene  the  honor  of  your  coronall. 
And  oft  he  lets  his  cancker  wormes   light 
Upon    my    braunches,    to    worke    me    more 

spight :  '8° 

And  oft  his  hoarie  locks  downe  doth  cast, 
Where  with  my  fresh  flowretts  bene  defast. 
For  this,  and  many  more  such  outrage. 
Craving  your  goodlihead  to  aswage 
The   ranckorous  rigour  of  his  might,         '^s 
Nought  aske  I,  but  onely  to  hold  my  right; 
Submitting  me  to   your   good   sufferance, 
And  praying  to  be  garded  from  greevance.' 

To  this  the  Oake  cast  him  to  replie 
Well  as  he  couth:  but  his  enemie  "9° 

Had  kindled  such  coles  of  displeasure. 
That  the  good  man  noulde  stay  his  leasure, 
But  home  him  hasted  with   furious   heatc. 
Encreasing  his  wrath  with  many  a  threatc. 
His  harmefull  hatchet  he  hent  in  hand,     195 
(Alas,  that  it  so  ready  should  stand!) 
And  to  the  field  alone  he  speedeth, 
(Ay  little  helpe  to  harme  there  needeth.) 
Anger  nould  let  him  speake  to  the  tree, 
Enaunter  his  rage  mought  cooled  bee;       200 
But  to   the   roote  bent  his   sturdy  stroke, 
And  made  many  wounds  in  the  wast  Oake. 
The  axes  edge  did  oft  turne  againe. 
As  halfe  unwilling  to  cutte  the  graine: 
Semed,  the  sencelcsse  yron  dyd  feare,       205 
Or  to  wrong  holy  eld  did  forbeare. 
For  it  had  bene  an  auncient  tree. 
Sacred  with  many  a  mysteree, 
And   often   crost   with   the   priestes   crewe. 
And  often  halowed  with  holy  water  dewe. 


THE  SHEPHEARDES  CALENDAR 


107 


But   sike   fancies   vveren    foolerie,  211 

And  broughten  this  Oake  to  this  miserye. 
For  nought  mought  they  quitten  him   from 

decay : 
For  fiercely  the  goodman  at  him  did  laye. 
The  blocke  oft  groned  under  the  blow,      215 
And  sighed  to  see  his  neare  overthrow. 
In  fine,  the  Steele  had  pierced  his  pitth : 
Tho  downe  to  the  earth  he  fell  forthwith  : 
His  wonderous  weight  made  the  grounde  to 

quake, 
Thearth  shronke  under  him,  and  seemed  to 

shake.  --° 

There  lyeth  the  Oake,  pitied  of  none. 

Now  stands  the  Brere  like  a  lord  alone, 
Pu fifed  up  with  pryde  and  vaine  pleasaunce : 
But  all  this  glee  had  no  continuaunce. 
For  eftsoncs  winter  gan  to  approche,         225 
The  blustring  Boreas  did  encroche, 
And  beate  upon  the  solitarie  Brere : 
For  nowe  no  succoure  was  scene  him  ncrc. 
Now  gan  he  repent  his  pryde  to   late  : 
For  naked   left  and  disconsolate,  -3'^ 

The  byting  frost  nipt  his  stalke  dead. 
The   watrie  wette   weighed   downe  his  head. 
And  heaped  snowe  burdned  him  so  sore. 
That  nowe  upright  he  can  stand  no  more : 
And  being  downe,  is  trodde  in  the  durt     235 
Of  cattcll,  and  bronzed,  and  sorely  hurt. 
Such  was  thend  of  this  ambitious  Brere, 
For  scorning  eld  — 

Cud.  Now   I   pray  thee,   shepheard,   tel    it 

not  forth: 
Here  is  a  long  tale,  and  little  worth.  -40 

So  longe  have  I  listened  to  thy  speche, 
That  graffed  to  the  ground  is  my  breche: 
My   hartblood   is   welnigh    frorne,   I    feele, 
And  my  galage  growne  fast  to  my  heele : 
But  little  ease  of  thy  lewd  tale  I  tasted.  245 
Hye  thee  home,  shepheard,  the  day  is  nigh 

wasted. 

THENOTS   EMBLEME. 

Iddio,  pcrche  e  vecchio, 
Fa  suoi  al  siio  csscinpio. 

CUDDIES    EMBLEME. 

Nhino  vecchio 
Spavcnta  Iddio. 


OCTOBER 

.l^GLOGA   DECIMA 
PIERCE.      CUDDIE. 

Piers.  Cuddie,    for    shame!    hold    up    thy 
heavye  head. 
And  let  us  cast  with  what  delight  to  chace 
And  weary  thys  long  lingring  Phoebus  race. 


VVhilome   thou    wont    the    shepheards    laddes 

to  leade 
In  rymes,  in  ridles,  and  in  bydding  base:     5 
Now   they   in    thee,    and   thou    in    sleepc   art 

dead. 

Cud.  Piers,  I  have  pyped  erst  so  long  with 

payne. 
That    all    mine    oten    reedes    bene    rent    and 

wore : 
And  my  poore  Muse  hath  spent  her  spared 

store, 
Yet    little    good    hath    got,    and   much    lesse 

gayne.  'o 

Such    pleasaunce    makes    the    grashopper    so 

poore. 
And    ligge    so    layd,    when    winter    doth    her 

straine. 

The  dapper  ditties  that  I  wont  devise, 
To    feede    youthes    fancie    and    the    flocking 
fry, 

Delighten  much:  what  I  the  bett  for  thy?  i5 
They  han  the  pleasure,   I  a  sclender  prise: 
I  beate  the  bush,  the  byrds  to  them  doe  flye : 
What  good  thereof  to  Cuddie  can  arise? 
Piers.  Cuddie,    the    prayse    is    better    then 
the  price, 
The  glory  eke  much  greater  then  the  gayne: 
O  what  an  honor  is  it,  to  restraine  21 

The   lust  of   lawlesse  youth   with   good  ad- 
vice. 
Or    pricke    them    forth    with    pleasaunce    of 

thy    vaine, 
Whereto   thou    list    their   trayned    willes    en- 
tice ! 

Soone  as   thou  gynst  to   sette  thy  notes   in 

frame,  25 

O  how  the  rurall  routes  to  thee  doe  cleave ! 
Seemeth    thou    doest    their    soule    of    sense 

bereave, 
All  as  the  shepheard,  that  did  fetch  his  dame 
From     Plutoes     balefull     bowre     withouten 

leave : 
His    musicks    might    the   hellish    hound    did 

tame.  3° 

Cud.  So  praysen  babes  the  peacoks  spotted 

traine, 
And  wondren  at  bright  Argus  blazing  eye; 
But  who  rewards  him  ere  the  more  forthy? 
Or  feedes  him  once  the  fuller  by  a  graine? 
Sike   prayse   is   smoke,   that   sheddeth   in   the 

skye,  35 

Sike  words  bene  wynd,  and  wasten  soone  in 

vayne. 


io8 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Piers.  Abandon    then    the    base    and    viler 
clowne  : 
Lyft  up  thy  selfe  out  of  the  lowly  dust, 
And  sing  of  bloody  Mars,  oi  wars,  of  s^iusts: 
Turne   thee    to    those    that    weld    the    awful 
crowne,  '♦'^ 

To   doubted   knights,   whose   woundlesse   ar- 
mour rusts, 
And  helnics   unbruzed  wexen  dayly  browne. 

There   may   thy   Muse   display   her    fiutlryng 

wing. 
And  stretch  her  selfe  at  large  from  east  to 

west: 
Whither  thou   list  in   fayre   Elisa  rest,      45 
Or  if  thee  please  in  bigger  notes  to  sing, 
Advaunce    the    worthy    whome    shee    loveth 

best, 
That  first  the   white  beare  to  the  stake  did 

bring. 

And  when  the  stubborne  stroke  of  stronger 

stounds 
Has     somewhat     slackt    the    tenor    of    thy 

string,  50 

Of  love  and  lustihead  tho  niayst  thou  sing, 
And    carrol    lowde,    and    leade    the    myllers 

rownde, 
All  were  Elisa  one  of  thilke  same  ring. 
So    mought    our    Cuddies    name    to    heaven 

sownde. 

Cud.  Indeede      the      Romish     Tityrus,     I 

heare,  S5 

Through  his  Mecoenas  left  his  oaten  reede, 
Whereon   he   earst  had   taught   his  flocks   to 

feede. 
And  laboured  lands  to  yield  the  timely  eare. 
And    eft    did    sing    of    warres    and    deadly 

drede. 
So   as   the  heavens  did  quake  his  verse   to 

here.  60 

But  ah !     Meccenas  is  yclad  in  claye, 
And  great  Augustus  long  ygoe  is  dead, 
And  all  the  worthies  liggen  wrapt  in  leade, 
That  matter  made  for  poets  on  to  play: 
For,  ever,  who  in  derring  doe  were  dreade, 
The  loftie  verse  of  hem  was  loved  aye.     66 

But  after  vertue  gan  for  age  to  stoupe, 
And   mighty   manhode   brought   a   bedde   of 

ease. 
The  vaunting  poets   found   nought   worth   a 

pease 
To  put  in  preace  emong  the  learned  troupe. 
Tho  gan  the  streames  of  flowing  wittes  to 

cease,  ^i 

And  sonnebright  honour  pend  in  shamefull 

coupe. 


And  if  that  any  buddes  of  poosie 
Yet  of  the  old  stocke  gan  to  shoote  agayne, 
Or  it  mens  follies  mote  be  forst  to  fayne,  75 
And   rolle  with  rest   in   rymes  of   rybaudrye, 
Or,  as  it  sprong,  it  wither  must  agayne : 
Tom  Piper  makes  us  better  melodie. 

Piers.  O    picrlesse    Poesye,   where  is  then 

thy  place? 
If  nor  in  princes  pallace  thou  doe  sitt,      80 
(And  yet  is  princes  pallace  the  most  fitt) 
Nc  brest  of  baser  birth  doth  thee  embrace. 
Then    make   thee   winges   of   thine   aspyring 

wit. 
And,    whence    thou    camst,    flye    backe    to 

heaven  apace. 

Cud.  Ah,    Percy!    it   is   all    to   weake   and 

wanne,  85 

So  high  to  sore,  and  make  so  large  a  flight ; 

Her  peeced  pyneons  bene  not  so  in  plight: 

Her     Colin    fittes     such     famous     tiight     to 

scanne: 
He,  were  he  not  with  love  so  ill  bedight. 
Would  mount  as  high  and  sing  as  soote  as 
swanne.  90 

Piers.  Ah,    fon !    for  love  does  teach  him 

climbe  so  hie. 
And    lyftes    him    up    out    of    the    loathsome 

myre : 
Such  immortall  mirrhor  as  he  doth  admire 
Would    rayse   ones   mynd    above   the    starry 

skie, 
And  cause  a  caytive  corage  to  aspire;        95 
For  lofty  love  doth  loath  a  lowly  eye. 

Cud.  All     otherwise     the     state     of     poet 
stands : 
For  lordly  Love  is  such  a  tyranne  fell. 
That,  where  he  rules,  all  power  he  doth  ex- 
pell. 
The  vaunted  verse  a  vacant  head  demaundes, 
Ne    wont    with    crabbed    Care    the    Muses 
dwell:  'o' 

Unwisely  weaves,  that  takes  two  webbes  in 
hand. 

Who  ever  casts  to  compasse  weightye  prise. 
And   thinks  to  throwe  out  thondring  words 

of  thrcate, 
Let   powre   in   lavish   cups   and   thriftie   bitts 

of  meate;  '°5 

For  Bacchus  fruite  is  frend  to  Phcebus  wise. 
And  when   with   wine  the  braine  begins  to 

sweate. 
The   nonibcrs   flowe   as    fast   as    spring   doth 

ryse. 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


109 


Thou    kenst    not,     Percie,    howe    the    ryme 

should  rage. 
O  if  my  temples  were  distaind  with  wine, 
And  girt  in  girlonds  of  wild  yvie  twine,     '" 
How    I    could    reare    the    Muse    on    stately 

stage, 
And  teache  her  tread  aloft  in  buskin  fine, 
With  queint  Bellona  in  her  equipage ! 

But  ah !  my  corage  cooles  ere  it  be  warme ; 
Forthy  content  us  in  thys  humble  shade,  us 
Where    no    such    troublous    tydes    han    us 

assayde. 
Here     we    our    slender    pipes    may     safely 

charme. 
Piers.  And  when  my  gates  shall  han  their 

bellies   layd, 
Cuddic     shall     have    a     kidde    to     store     his 

farme. 

CUDDIES   EMBLEME. 

Agitantc  calesctmus  illo,  &c. 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 

THE  FIRST  BOOKE  OF  THE  FAERIE  QUEENE, 
CONTAYNING  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  KNIGHT 
OF   THE   RED   CROSSE   OR   OF   HOLINESSE 


Lo!    I   the   man,   whose    muse   whylome   did 

maske. 
As    time    her    taught,    in    lowly    shephards 

weeds. 
Am  now  enforst,  a  farre  unfitler  taske. 
For  trumpets  sterne  to  chaunge  mine  oaten 

reeds, 
And     sing    of    knights    and     ladies     gentle 
deeds ;  5 

Whose  praises  having  slept   in   silence   long, 
Me,  all  too  meane,  the  sacred  Muse  areeds 
To     blazon     broade     emongst     her     learned 

throng: 
Fierce  warres  and  faith  full  loves  shall  mor- 
alize  my   song.  9 

II 

Helpe  then,   O  holy  virgin,  chiefe  of  nyne. 
Thy  weaker  novice  to  performe  thy  will ; 
Lay  forth  out  of  thine  everlasting  scryne 
The  antique   rolles,  which   there   lye  hidden 

still. 
Of  Faerie  knights,  and  fayrest  Tanaquill, 
Whom    that    most    noble    Briton    Prince    so 

long  15 

Sought  through  the  world,  and  suffered  so 

much  ill. 


That  1  must  rue  his  undeserved  wrong: 
O    helpe   thou   my   weake   wit,   and    sharpen 
my  dull   tong. 


And    thou,    most    dreaded    impe    of    highest 

Jove, 
Faire    Venus    sonne,    that    with    thy    cruell 

dart  20 

At    that    good    knight    so    cunningly    didst 

rove, 
That  glorious  fire  it  kindled  in  his  hart, 
Lay  now  thy  deadly  heben  bowe  apart, 
And   with   thy  mother  mylde  come  to  mine 

ayde : 
Come  both,  and  with  you  bring  triumphant 

}*rart,  25 

In  loves  and  gentle  jollities  arraid, 
.\fter  his  murdrous  spoyles  and  bloudie  rage 

allayd. 


And   with   them   eke,   O    Goddesse   heavenly 

bright, 
Mirrour  of  grace  and  majestic  divine. 
Great    Ladie    of    the    greatest    Isle,    whose 

light  30 

Like    Phoebus    lampe   throughout    the    world 

doth   shine. 
Shed  thy  faire  beames  into  my  feeble  eyne. 
And    raise    my    thoughtes,    too    humble    and 

too  vile. 
To    thinke    of    that    true .  glorious    type    of 

thine. 
The  argument  of  mine  afflicted  stile:         35 
The    which   to   heare   vouchsafe,    O    dearest 

dread,  a  while. 


CANTO  I 

The  patrone  of  true  Holinesse 
Foule   Errour  doth   defeate: 

Hypocrisie,   him  to  entrappe. 
Doth  to  his  home  entreate. 


A     gentle     knight     was     pricking     on     the 

plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde. 
Wherein    old    dints    of    deepe    woundes    did 

remaine. 
The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde; 
Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield: 
His    angry    steede    did    chide    his     foming 

bitt,  6 

.\s  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield : 
Full   jolly   knight   he.  §e^md,    and    faire   did 

sitt, 


no 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


As   one    for   knightly   giusts   and   fierce   en- 
counters fitt. 


But  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore,  'o 
Tlie  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  swecte  sake  that  glorious  badge 

he  wore, 
And  dead  as  living  ever  him  ador'd : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For   soveraine  hope,  which   in  his  helpe  he 

had:  'S 

Right    faithfull    true   he   was    in   deede   and 

word, 
But   of   his   cheere   did    secmc   too    solemne 

sad; 
Yet    nothing    did    he    dread,    but    ever    was 

ydrad. 


Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond. 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave,  20 

That     greatest     glorious     queene     of     Faery 

Lond, 
To   winne  him   worshippe,  and  her  grace  to 

have. 
Which   of   all    earthly   thinges   he   most   did 

crave ; 
And  ever  as  he  rode  his  hart  did  earne 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave      25 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne ; 
Upon  his  foe,  a  dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 


IV 
A  lovely  ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  more  white  then  snow. 
Yet    she    much    whiter,    but    the    same    did 

hide  30 

Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low, 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw  : 
As  one  that  inly  niournd,  so  was  she  sad. 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow: 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had ; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milkewhite  lambe 

she  had.  36 


So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe. 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore, 
And  by  descent  from  royall  lynage  came 
Of  ancient  kinges  and  queenes,  that  had  of 
yore  40 

Their   scepters    stretcht    from    east   to   west- 
erne    shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held, 
Till  that  in  f email  feend  with  foule  uprore 


Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld: 

Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  knight  from 

far  compeld.  45 


Bf-hind  her  farre  away  a  dvvarfe  did  lag, 

That  lasic  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 

Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 

Of   needments   at  his   backe.     Thus   as  they 

past. 
The   day   with   cloudes    was    suddeine   over- 
cast, 50 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  pourc  into  his  lemans  lap  so  fast, 
That    everie    wight    to    shrowd    it    did    con- 
strain. 
And  this   faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  them- 
selves were  fain. 


Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide,  s6 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand: 
Whose     loftie    trees,    yclad     with     sommers 

pride. 
Did   spred  so  broad,  that  heavens   light  did 

hide. 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr ;     60 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide. 
With    footing    worne,    and    leading    inward 

farr : 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seemes,  so  in  they 

entred  ar. 


And    foorth   they   passe,  with   pleasure    for- 
ward led. 
Joying    to     heare     the    birdes     sweete     har- 
mony, 65 
Which,   therein   shrouded    from   the  tempest 

drcd, 
Seemd    in    their    song   to    scorne    the   cruell 

sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight 

and  by. 
The  sayling  pine,  the  cedar  proud  and  tall, 
The  vine-propp  elme,  the  poplar  never  dry, 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all. 
The  aspine  good  for  staves,  the  cypresse 
funerall,  7- 


The  laurell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage,  the  firre  that   wecpeth  still, 
The  willow  worne  of  fnrlorne  paramours, 
The  eugh  obedient  to  the  benders  will,      76 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


III 


The    birch    for    shaftes,    the    sallow    for    the 

mill, 
The    mirrhe    sweete    bleeding    in    the    bitter 

wound, 
The  warlike  beech,  the  ash   for  nothing  ill. 
The  fruit  full  olive,  and  the  platane  round,  80 
The    carver    holme,    the    maple    seeldoni    in- 
ward  sound. 


Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way, 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne ; 
When,  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did 

stray. 
They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first  was 

showne,  85 

But  wander  too  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne. 
Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  neerest 

weene. 
That   makes   them  doubt,  their  wits  be  not 

their   owne : 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  scene, 
That    which    of    them    to    take,    in    diverse 

doubt  they  been.  90 


At  last  resolving  forward  still  to  fare. 
Till  that  some  end  they  finde,  or  in  or  out, 
That  path  they  take,  that  beaten  seemd  most 

bare, 
And  like  to  lead  the  labyrinth  about ; 
Which     when     by    tract    they    hunted    had 

throughout,  95 

At    length    it    brought    them    to    a    hoUowe 

cave, 
Amid    the    thickest    woods.     The    champion 

stout 
Eftsoones     dismounted     from     his     courser 

brave, 
And   to    the    dwarfe   a   while   his   needlesse 

spere  he  gave. 


'  Be  well  aware,'  quoth  then  that  ladie  milde, 
'  Least  suddaine  mischiefe  ye  too  rash  pro- 
voke:  lOI 
The   danger    hid,    the   place   unknowne    and 

wilde, 
Breedes  dreadfull   doubts:   oft  fire  is  with- 
out  smoke, 
And    perill    without    show:    therefore    your 

stroke. 
Sir    knight,    with-hold,    till     further     tryall 
made.'  105 

'  Ah,  ladie,'  sayd  he,  '  shame  were  to  revoke 
The  forward  footing  for  an  hidden  shade : 
Vertue  gives  her  selfe  light,  through  darke- 
nesse  for  to  wade.' 


'  Yea,    but,'    quoth    she,    '  the    perill    of    this 

place 
I    better    wot    then   you ;    though   nowe    too 

late  "0 

To  wish  you  backe  returne  with  foule  dis- 
grace. 
Yet  wisedome  warnes,  whilest  foot  is  in  the 

gate, 
To  stay  the  steppe,  ere  forced  to  retrate. 
This    is    the    wandring    wood,    this    Errours 

den, 
A  monster  vile,   whom   God  and  man   does 

hate  :  1 '  5 

Therefore  I  read  beware.'     '  Fly,  fly !  '  quoth 

then 
The   fearefuU  dwarfe:  'this  is  no  place  for 

living  men.' 


But  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment. 

The   youth  full   knight   could   not    for   ought 

be  staide. 
But  forth  unto  the  darksom  hole  he  went,  120 
And  looked  in :  his  glistring  armor  made 
A  litle  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade. 
By  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plaine, 
Halfe  .like  a  serpent  horribly  displaide. 
But  th'  other  halfe  did   womans   shape   re- 

taine,  125 

Most  lothsom,  filthie,  foule,  and  full  of  vile 

disdaine. 


XV 

And  as  she  lay  upon  the  durtie  ground, 
Her  huge  long  taile  her  den  all  overspred. 
Yet   was    in   knots   and   many   boughtes   up- 
wound. 
Pointed    with    mortall    sting.     Of    her    there 
bred  130 

A  thousand  yong  ones,  which  she  dayly  fed, 
Sucking  upon  her  poisnous  dugs,  eachone 
Of  sundrie  shapes,  yet  all  ill  favored: 
Soone    as    that    uncouth    light    upon    them 

shone, 
Into  her  mouth  they  crept,  and  suddain  all 
were  gone.  i33 


Their  dam  upstart,  out  of  her  den  effraide, 
And  rushed  forth,  hurling  her  hideous  taile 
About    her    cursed    head,    whose    folds    dis- 

plaid 
Were  stretcht  now  forth  at  length  without 

entraile. 
She  lookt  about,  and  seeing  one  in  mayle, 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Armed    to    point,    sought    backe    to    turne 
againe;  '•♦' 

For  light  she  hated  as  the  deadly  bale, 
Ay  wont  in  desert  darknes  to  rcniaine, 
Where    plain    none    might    her    see,    nor    she 
see   any   plaine. 


Which   when   the   valiant   elfe   perceiv'd,   he 
lept  ■'^s 

As  lyon  fierce  upon  the  flying  pray. 
And    with    his    trenchand    blade    her    boldly 

kept 
From  turning  backe,  and  forced  her  to  stay : 
Therewith  enrag'd  she  loudly  gan  to  bray, 
And    turning   fierce,    her    speckled   taile    ad- 
vannst,  '5') 

Threatning    her    angrie    sting,    him    to    dis- 
may: 
Who.   nought   aghast,   his   mightie   hand   en- 

haunst : 
The   stroke   down    from   her   head   unto   her 
shoulder  glaunst. 


Much  daunted  with  that  dint,  her  sence  was 

dazed, 
Yet    kindling    rage    her    selfe    she    gathered 

round,  '55 

And  all  attonce  her  beastly  bodie   raizd 
With  doubled  forces  high  above  the  ground : 
The,     wrapping     up     her     wrethed     sterne 

arownd, 
Lept   fierce   upon   his   shield,   and   her   huge 

traine 
All  suddenly  about  his  body  wound,  i6o 

That    hand    or    foot    to    stirr    he    strove    in 

vaine : 
God    helpe    the    man    so    wrapt    in    Errours 

endlesse  traine. 


His  lady,  sad  to  see  his  sore  constraint, 
Cride    out,    '  Now,    now,    sir    knight,    shew 

what  ye  bee ; 
Add    faith    unto    your    force,    and    be    not 

faint:  '65 

Strangle    her,    els    she    sure    will    strangle 

thee.' 
That  when  he  heard,  in  great  perplexitie, 
His  gall  did  grate   for  griefe  and  high  dis- 

daine ; 
And    knitting   all   his    force,    got    one    hand 

free, 
Wherewith  he  grypt  her  gorge  with  so  great 

paine,  '^"^ 

That   soone  to  loose  her  wicked  bands  did 

her  constraine. 


Therewith  she  spewd  out  of  her  filthie  maw 

A  floud  of  poyson  horrible  and  blacke. 

Full    of    great    lumps    of    flesh    and    gobbets 

raw, 
Which    stunck    so    vildly,    that    it    forst   him 

slackc  175 

His  grasping  hold,  and  from  her  turne  him 

backe : 
Her  vomit  full  of  bookes  and  papers  was, 
With   loathy    frogs   and   toades,   which   eyes 

did  lacke, 
And  creeping  sought  way  in  the  weedy  gras : 
Her    filthie    parbreake    all    the    place    defiled 

has.  "S-^ 


As  when  old  father  Nilus  gins  to  swell 
With  timely  pride  above  the  Aegyptian  vale, 
His  fattie  waves  doe   fertile  slime  outwell, 
And  overflow  each  plaine  and  lowly  dale : 
But  when  his  later  spring  gins  to  a  vale,     '85 
Huge    heapes    of    mudd    he    leaves,    wherin 

there  breed 
Ten    thousand    kindes    of    creatures,    partly 

male 
And  partly  femall,  of  his   fruitful  seed; 
Such    ugly    monstrous    shapes    elswher    may 

no  man  reed. 


The  same  so  sore  annoyed  has  the  knight,  190 
That,  welnigh  choked  with  the  deadly  stinke, 
His  forces  faile,  ne  can  no  lenger  fight. 
Whose  corage   when    the    feend   perceivd   to 

shrinke. 
She  poured   forth  out  of  her  hellish  sinke 
Her     fruitfull    cursed     spawne    of     serpents 

small,  19.S 

Deformed    monsters,    fowle,    and    blacke    as 

inke. 
Which  swarming  all  about  his  legs  did  crall. 
And    him    encoml)red    sore,    but    could    not 

hurt  at   all. 


As  gentle  shepheard  in  sweete  eventide. 
When   ruddy  Phebus  gins  to  welke  in  west. 
High  on  an  hill,  his  flocke  to  vewen  wide,  201 
Markcs   which   doe   byte   their   hasty   supper 

best ; 
A   cloud  of  cumbrous  gnattes  doe  him  mo- 
lest, 
All  striving  to  infixe  their  feeble  stinges. 
That   from   their   noyance   he   no   where  can 
rest,  205 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


113 


But    with    his    clownish    hands   their    tender 

wings 
He   brusheth    oft,    and    oft    doth    mar    their 

murmurings. 


XXIV 

Thus    ill    bestedd,    and    fearefull    more    of 

shame 
Then  of  the  certeine  perill  he  stood  in, 
Halfe  furious  unto  his  foe  he  came,  210 

Resolvd  in  minde  all  suddenly  to  win. 
Or  soone  to  lose,  before  he  once  would  lin ; 
And   stroke   at   her   with  more   then   manly 

force, 
That  from  her  body,  full  of  filthie  sin. 
He    raft    her    hatefull    heade    without    re- 
morse: 215 
A  streame  of  cole  black  blood  forth  gushed 
from  her  corse. 


Her   scattred   brood,    soone   as   their   parent 

deare 
They  saw  so  rudely  falling  to  the  ground, 
Groning     full     deadly,     all     with     troublous 

feare, 
Gathred   themselves   about  her  body  round. 
Weening    their    wonted    entrance    to    have 
found  221 

At  her  wide  mouth :  but  being  there  with- 
stood, 
They  flocked  all  about  her  bleeding  wound, 
And  sucked  up  their  dying  mothers  bloud, 
Making  her  death  their  life,  and  eke  her 
hurt  their  good.  -^-5 

XXVI 

That  detestable  sight  him  much  amazde. 
To   see   th'   unkindly   impes,   of   heaven    ac- 
curst, 
Devoure  their  dam ;  on  whom   while   so  he 

gazd, 
Having  all  satisfide  their  bloudy  thurst, 
Their   bellies    swolne   he    saw   with    fulnesse 
burst,  230 

And  bowels  gushing  forth ;  well  worthy  end 
Of  such  as  drunke  her  life,  the  which  them 

nurst! 
Now  needeth  him  no  lenger  labour  spend ; 
His  foes  have  slaine  themselves,  with  whom 
he    should   contend. 


His    lady,    seeing    all    that    chaunst,    from 
farre.  235 

Approcht  in  hast  to  greet  his  victorie, 


And  saide,  '  Faire  knight,  borne  under  hap- 

pie  starre, 
Who    see   your    vanquisht    foes   before    you 

lye, 
Well  worthie  be  you  of  that  armory, 
Wherein    ye   have    great    glory    wonne    this 

day,  240 

And  proov'd  your  strength  on  a  strong  eni- 

mie. 
Your  first  adventure :  many  such  I  pray, 
And  henceforth  ever  wish  that  like  succeed 

it  may.' 


Then  mounted  he  upon  his  steede  againe, 
And    with    the    lady    backward    sought    to 

wend ;  24s 

That  path  he  kept   which  beaten   was  most 

plaine, 
Ne  ever  would  to  any  by  way  bend, 
But  still  did  follow  one  unto  the  end, 
The   which   at   last   out   of   the   wood   them 

brought.  249 

So  forward  on  his  way  (with  God  to  frend) 
He  passed  forth,  and  new  adventure  sought : 
Long  way  he  traveiled,  before  he  heard  of 

ought. 


At   length   they  chaunst   to   meet   upon   the 

way 
An  aged  sire,  in  long  blacke  weedes  yclad, 
His    feete    all    bare,    his    beard    all    hoarie 

gray,  -55 

And  by  his  belte  his  booke  he  hanging  had ; 
Sober  he  seemde,  and  very  sagely  sad. 
And  to  the  ground  his  eyes  were  lowly  bent. 
Simple  in  shew,  and  voide  of  malice  bad, 
And  all  the  way  he  prayed  as  he  went,  260 
And  often  knockt  his  brest,  as  one  that  did 

repent. 


He   faire  the  knight   saluted,  louting  low. 
Who    faire    him    quited,    as    that    courteous 

was ; 
And  after  asked  him,  if  he  did  know 
Of    straunge   adventures,   which   abroad   did 

pas.  265 

'  Ah  !  my  dear  sonne,'  quoth  he.  '  how  should, 

alas! 
Silly  old  man.  that  lives  in  hidden  cell. 
Bidding  his  beades  all  day  for  his  trespas. 
Tydings  of  warre  and  worldly  trouble  tell? 
With  holy  father  sits  not  with  such  thinges 

to  mell.  270 


114 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


XXXI 

'  But  if  of  dauiigcr,  which  hereby  doth  dwell, 
And  homebredd  evil  ye  desire  to  heare, 
Of  a  straunge  man   1   can  you  tidings  tell, 
That    wasteth    all     his    counlric     tarrc    and 

neare." 
'  Of   such;   saide   he,   '  1   chielly  doe   inquere, 
And    shall    you    well    rewarde    to    shew    the 

place,  -7^ 

In  which  that   wicked  wight  his  dayes  doth 

weare : 
For  to  all  knighthood  it  is  foule  disgrace. 
That  such  a  cursed  creature  lives  so  long  a 

space.' 


'  Far  hence,'  quoth  he,  '  in  wastfull  wilder- 

nesse,  ~^° 

His  dwelling  is,  by  which  no  living  wight 
May    ever    passe,    but    thorough    great    dis- 

tresse.' 
'  Now,'    saide    the    ladie,    '  draweth    toward 

night, 
And  well  I  wote,  that  of  your  later  fight 
Ye  all  f orwearied  be :  for  what  so  strong,  285 
But,  wanting  rest,  will  also  want  of  might? 
The    Sunne,    that   measures    heaven    all    day 

long. 
At   night   doth  baite   his    steedes   the   ocean 

waves   emong. 

XXXIII 

'Then  with  the  Sunne  take,  sir,  your  timely 

rest. 
And  with  new  day  new  worke  at  once  be- 
gin :  -90 
Untroubled    night,    they    say,    gives    counsell 

best.' 
'  Right    well,    sir    knight,    ye    have    advised 

bin,' 
Quoth    then    that    aged    man ;    '  the    way    to 

win 
Is  wistly  to  advise :  now  day  is  spent ; 
Therefore    with    me   ye   may   take   up   your 

in  _  -'95 

For  this  same  night.'    The  knight  was  well 

content : 
So  with  that  godly  father  to  his  home  they 

went. 

XXXIV 

A  litle  lowly  hermitage  it  was,  • 
Downe  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forests  side. 
Far  from  resort  of  people,  that  did  pas      300 
In  traveill  to  and  froe:  a  litle  wyde 
There  was  an  holy  chappell  edifyde. 


Wherein  the  her  mite  dewly  wunt  to  say 
His  holy  thinges  each  morne  and  even-tyde : 
'{hereby  a  christall  streame  did  gently  play. 
Which      from     a     sacred     fountaine     welled 
forth  alway.  306 

XXXV 

Arrived   there,  the  little  house  they   fill, 
Nc    looke    for    entertainement,    where    none 

was  : 
Rest  is  their   feast,  and   all  thinges  at   their 

will ; 
The     noblest     mind     the     best     contentment 

has.  310 

With    faire    discourse    the    evening    so    they 

pas: 
For  that  olde  man  of  pleasing  wordes  had 

store. 
And   well   could   file   his   tongue   as    smooth 

as   glas : 
He    told    of    saintes    and    popes,    and    ever- 
more 314 
He  strowd  an  Ave-Mary  after  and  before. 

XXXVI 

The  drouping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them 

fast, 
And  the  sad  humor  loading  their  eye  liddes. 
As  messenger  of  Alorpheus,  on  them  cast 
Sweet    slombring   deaw,   the   which   to   sleep 

them  biddes : 
Unto    their    lodgings    then    his    guestes    he 

riddes :  3-'o 

Where    when    all    drown.d    in    deadly    slecpe 

he    nndes. 
He  to  his  studie  goes,  and  there  amiddes 
His    magick    bookes    and    artes    of    sundrie 

kindes. 
He   seekes   out   mighty   charmes,   to   troulile 

sleepy   minds. 

XXXVII 

Then   choosing   out    few   words   most   horri- 
ble, 3-'5 
(Let    none   them    read)    thereof    did   verses 

frame ; 
With  which  and  other  spelles  like  terrible. 
He  bad  awake  blacke  Plutoes  griesly  dame, 
And    cursed    heven,    and    spake    reproachful 
shame  3-^9 

Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light: 
A  bold  bad  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great   Gorgon,   prince   of   darknes   and   dead 

night, 
At   which   Cocytus   quakes,   and    Styx   is   pm 
to   flight. 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


115 


XXXVIII 

And    forth    he   cald    out    of    deepe    darknes 

dredd 
Legions    of    sprights,    the    which,    Hke    litle 

flyes  335 

Fluttring  about  his  ever  damned  hedd, 
Awaite   whereto  their  service  he  applyes, 
To  aide  his  friendes,  or  fray  his  enimies  : 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  twoo, 
And   fittest   for  to   forge   true-seeming  lyes ; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  too,  341 
The  other  by  him  selfe  staide,  other  worke 

to    doo. 


He,    making    speedy    way    through    spersed 

ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and 

deepe. 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire.  34S 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  stcepe, 
And    low,    where    dawning   day   doth    never 

peepe. 
His   dwelling   is ;   there   Tethys   his    wet   bed 
Doth    ever    wash,    and    Cynthia    still    doth 

steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed,        350 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black 

doth  spred. 


Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast, 
The  one  faire  fram'd  of  burnisht  yvory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast; 
And  wakeful  dogges  before  them  farre  doe 

lye,  355 

Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enimy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe. 
By  them  the  sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly. 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned 

deepe 
In    drowsie    fit    he    findes :    of    nothing    he 

takes  keepe.  360 

XLI 

And  more,  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A    trickling   streame    from    high    rock   tum- 
bling downe, 
And  ever  drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt   with    a    murmuring  winde,   much   like 

the  sowne 
Of    swarming    bees,     did    cast    him    in     a 

swowne : 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes. 
As  still  are  won  t'annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might   there  be  heard :   but  carelesse   Quiet 
lyes. 


Wrapt   in    eternall    silence    farrc    from   eni- 
myes. 


The  messenger  approching  to  him  spake,    370 
But   his   waste   wordes  retourned   to  him   in 

vaine  : 
So  sound  he  slept,  that  nought  mought  him 

awake. 
Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  pusht  with 

paine. 
Whereat  he  gan  to  stretch:  but  he  againe 
Shooke    him    so    hard,    that    forced    him    to 

speake.  375 

As  one  then  in  a  dreame,  whose  dryer  braine 
Is    tost    with    troubled    sights    and    fancies 

weake, 
He    mumbled    soft,    but    would    not    all    his 

silence  breake. 

XLIII 

The    sprite    then    gan    more    boldly    him    to 

wake, 
And  threatened  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Hecate:  whereat  he  gan  to  quake,  381 

And,  lifting  up  his  lompish  head,  with  blame 
Halfe  angrie  asked  him,  for  what  he  came. 
'  Hcther,'  quoth  he,  '  me  Archimago  sent. 
He    that    the    stubborne    sprites    can    wisely 

tame;  385 

He  bids  thee  to  him   send   for  his  intent 
A    fit    false    dreame,    that    can    delude    the 

sleepers  sent.' 

XLIV 

The  god  obayde,  and  calling   forth  straight 

way 
A  diverse  dreame  out  of  his  prison   darke. 
Delivered  it  to  him,  and  downe  did  lay    390 
His  heavie  head,  devoide  of  careful  carke ; 
Whose    sences    all    were    straight    benumbd 

and   Starke. 
He,  backe  returning  by  the  yvorie  dore. 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  cheareful  larke, 
And  on  his  litle  winges  the  dreame  he  bore 
In    hast    unto   his    lord,    where    he    him    left 

afore.  396 


Who  all  this  while,  with  charmes  and  hid- 
den artes, 
Had  made  a  lady  of  that  other  spright. 
And  fram'd  of  liquid  ayre  her  tender  partes, 
So  lively  and  so  like  in  all  mens  sight,      4°° 
That  weaker  sence  it  could  have  ravisht 

quight : 
The  maker  selfe,  for  all  his  wondrous  witt, 


ii6 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Was  nigh  beguiled  with  so  goodly  sight: 
Her  all  in  white  he  clad,  and  over  it 
Cast  a  black  stole,   most  like  to  seemc    for 
Una  fit.  405 


Now    when    that    ydle    dreame    was    to    him 

brought. 
Unto  that   Elfin   knight  he  bad  him   fly, 
Where  he  slept  soundly,  void  of  evil  thought. 
And  with   false   shewcs  abuse  his   fantasy, 
In  sort  as  he  him  schooled  privily:  41° 

And   that   new  creature,   borne   without   her 

dew. 
Full    of    the    makers   guyle,   with   usage    sly 
He  taught  to  imitate  that  lady  trew, 
Whose     semblance     she     did     carrie     under 

feigned  hew. 

XLVII 

Thus    well    instructed,   to   their    worke    they 

haste,  415 

And    comming    where    the    knight    in    slom- 

ber  lay, 
The  one   upon  his  bardie  head  him  plaste. 
And   made   him   dreame   of   loves   and   lust- 
full  play. 
That  nigh  his  manly  hart  did  melt  away, 
Bathed  in  wanton  blis  and  wicked  joy.      420 
Then  seemed  him  his  lady  by  him  lay. 
And  to  him  playnd,  how  that   false  winged 

boy 
Her    chaste    hart    had    subdewd    to    learne 
Dame  Pleasures  toy. 

XLVIII 

And    she    her    selfe,    of    beautie    soveraigne 
queene,  424 

Fayre  Venus,  seemde  unto  his  bed  to  bring 
Her,  whom  he,  waking,  evermore  did  weene 
To    bee    the    chastest    flowre    that    aye    did 

spring 
On  earthly  braunch,  the  daughter  of  a  king. 
Now  a  loose  leman  to  vile  service  bound: 
And  eke  the  Graces  seemed  all  to  sing    430 
Hymen  id  Hymen,  dauncing  all  around, 
Whylst  freshest  Flora  her  with  yvie  girlond 
crownd. 

XLIX 

In  this  great  passion  of  unwonted  lust. 
Or  wonted  feare  of  doing  ought  amis. 
He  started  up,  as  seeming  to  mistrust     435 
Some  secret  ill,  or  hidden  foe  of  his: 
Lo!  there  before  his   face  his  ladie  is. 
Under  blacke  stole  hyding  her  bayted  hooke. 
And  as  halfe  blushing  oflfred  him  to  kis, 
With  gentle  blandishment  and  lovely  looke. 


Most    like   that  virgin    true,    which    for   her 
knight  him  took.  441 


All  cleane  dismayd  to  see  so  uncouth  sight, 
And  halfe  enraged  at  her  shamelesse  guise, 
He  thought  have  slaine  her  in  his  fierce  de- 

spight ; 
But    hastie    heat    tempring    with    sufferance 
wise,  445 

He   stayde  his  hand,  and   gan  himself e  ad- 
vise 
To  prove  his  sense,  and  tempt  her  faigned 

truth. 
Wringing    her    hands    in    wemens    pitteous 

wise, 
Tho  can  she  weepe,  to  stirre  up  gentle  ruth. 
Both     for    her    noble    blood,    and    for    her 
tender  youth.  450 

LI 

And   sayd,   '  Ah  sir,   my  liege  lord  and  my 

love. 
Shall   I  accuse  the  hidden  cruell    fate. 
And     mightie    causes     wrought     in    heaven 

above, 
Or  the  blind  god,  that  doth  me  thus  amate, 
For  hoped  love  to  winne  me  certaine  hate? 
Yet  thus  perforce  he  bids  me  do,  or  die  456 
Die  is  my  dew:  yet  rew  my  wretched  state 
You,  whom  my  hard  avenging  destinie 
Hath  made  judge  of'  my  life  or  death  in- 
differently. 

LII 

'  Your  owne  deare  sake  forst  me  at  first  to 
leave  460 

My  fathers  kingdom ' —  There  she  stopt 
with  teares ; 

Her  swollen  hart  her  speech  seemed  to  be- 
reave ; 

And  then  againe  begonne :  '  My  weaker 
yeares, 

Captiv'd  to  fortune  and  frayle  worldly 
feares,  464 

Fly  to  your  fayth  for  succour  and  sure  ayde : 

Let  me  not  die  in  languor  and  long  teares.' 

'  Why,  dame,'  quoth  he,  '  what  hath  ye  thus 
dismayd  ? 

What  frayes  ye.,  that  were  wont  to  comfort 
me  affrayd  ?  ' 

LIII 

'Love  of  your  selfe,'  she  saide,  'and  deare 

constraint, 

Lets    me   not    sleepe,   but   waste  the   wearie 

night  470 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


117 


In  secret  anguish  and  unpittied  plaint, 
Whiles  you   in  careless   sleepe  are  drowned 

quight.' 
Her   doubtfull    words   made    that   redoubted 

knight 
Suspect  her  truth :  yet  since  no'  untruth  he 

knew, 
Her    fawning    love    with    foule    disdainefull 

spight  475 

He  would  not  shend,  but  said,  '  Deare  dame, 

I  rew, 
That    for    my    sake    unknowne    such    griefe 

unto  you  grew. 


*  Assure  your  selfe,  it  fell  not  all  to  ground ; 

For  all  so  deare  as  life  is  to  my  hart, 

I  deeme  your  love,  and  hold  me  to  you 
bound ;  480 

Ne  let  vaine  feares  procure  your  needlessc 
smart, 

Where  cause  is  none,  but  to  your  rest  de- 
part.' 

Not  all  content,  yet  seemd  she  to  appease 

Her  mournfull  plaintes,  beguiled  of  her 
art, 

And  fed  with  words,  that  could  not  chose 
but  please ;  485 

So  slyding  softly  forth,  she  turnd  as  to  her 
ease. 


Long  after  lay  he  musing  at  her  mood, 
Much  griev'd  to  thinke  that  gentle  dame  so 

light. 
For  whose  defence  he  was  to  shed  his  blood. 
At  last  dull  wearines  of  former  fight        490 
Having  yrockt  a  sleepe  his  irkesome  spright. 
That    troublous    dreame    gan    freshly    tosse 

his    braine 
With    bowres,    and    beds,    and    ladies    deare 

delight : 
But  when  he  saw  his  labour  all  was  vaine, 
With   that   misformed   spright   he   backe   re- 

turnd  againe. 


1 


CANTO  n 


The   guilefull   great  enchaunter   parts 
The   Redcrosse  Knight  from  Truth: 

Into   whose   stead   faire   Falshood   steps, 
And   workes   him   woefull   ruth. 


By  this  the  northerne  wagoner  had  set 
His     sevenfold    teme     behind    the     stedfast 
starre. 


That  was  in  ocean  waves  yet  never  wet. 
But    firme    is    fixt,    and    sendeth    light    from 

farre 
To  al  that  in  the  wide  deepe  wandring  arre: 
And    chearefull    Chaunticlere   with   his   note 

shrill  6 

Had  warned  once,  that  Phoebus  fiery  carre 
In  hast  was  climbing  up  the  easterne  hill. 
Full   envious  that  night   so  long  his  roome 

did  fill: 


When  those  accursed  messengers  of  hell,  jo 
That  feigning  dreame,  and  that  faire-forged 

spright. 
Came  to   their  wicked  maister,  and  gan   tel 
Their   bootelesse   paines,   and   ill    succeeding 

night : 
Who,  all   in  rage  to  see  his  ski! full  might 
Deluded  so,  gan  threaten  hellish  paine       is 
And    sad    Proserpines    wrath,    them    to    af- 
fright. 
But    when    he    saw   his   threatning    was    but 

vaine, 
He  cast  about,  and  searcht  his  baleful  bokes 
againe. 


Eftsoones  he  tooke  that  miscreated  faire, 
And   that    false  other  spright,  on  whom  he 

spred  20 

A   seeming  body  of  the  subtile  aire. 
Like  a  young  squire,  in  loves  and  lustyhed 
His  wanton  daies  that  ever  loosely  led, 
Without  regard  of  armes  and  dreaded  fight : 
Those  twoo  he  tooke,  and  in  a  secrete  bed,  25 
Covered     with     darkenes     and     misdeeming 

night. 
Them    both    together    laid,    to   joy   in    vaine 

delight. 

IV 

Forthwith  he  runnes  with   feigned   faithfull 

hast 
Unto  his  guest,  who,  after  troublous  sights 
And  dreames,  gan  now  to  take  more  sound 

repast ;  30 

Whom     suddenly    he    wakes    with      fearful 

frights, 
As     one     aghast    with     feends    or     damned 

sprights. 
And     to     him     cals :     '  Rise,     rise,     unhappy 

swaine. 
That  here  wex  old  in  sleepe,  whiles  wicked 

wights 
Have    knit    themselves    in    Venus    shameful 

chaine;  .  35 


ii8 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Coinc   sec,    where   your    false    lady   doth   her 
lionor  staine.' 


All  in  amaze  he  suddenly  up  start 

With  sword  in  hand,  and  with  the  old  man 

went ; 
Who  soone  him  brought  into  a  secret  part, 
Where   that    false    couple   were    full    closely 

ment  4° 

In   wanton  lust  and  lend  cnbracement : 
Which   when  he  saw,  he  burnt  with  gealous 

fire, 
The  eie  of  reason  was  with  rage  yblent. 
And  would  have  slaine  them  in  his  furious 

ire, 
But    hardly    was    restreined    of    that    aged 

sire.  4  5 


Retourning  to  his  bed  in  torment  great. 

And  bitter  anguish  of  his  guilty  sight, 

He   could   not   rest,  but   did   his    stout   heart 

eat. 
And    wast   his   inward   gall    with   deepe    de- 

spight, 
Yrkesome    of    life,    and    too    long    lingring 

night.  50 

At  last   faire  Hesperus  in  highest  skie 
Had    spent    his    lampe,    and    brought    forth 

dawning  light ; 
Then  up  he  rose,  and  clad  him  hastily; 
The  dwarfe  him  brought  his  steed:  so  both 

away  do  fly. 


Now   when   the   rosy  fingred    Morning   faire, 
Weary  of  aged  Tithones  saffron  bed,  56 

Had   spred   her   purple   robe   through   deawy 

aire, 
And  the  high  hils  Titan  discovered, 
The   royall  virgin   shooke  of  drousyhed. 
And  rising  forth  out  of  her  baser  bowre,  6o 
Lookt    for  her   knight,   who    far   away    was 

fled. 
And  for  her  dwarfe,  that  wont  to  wait  each 

howre : 
Then  gan   she  wail  and   weepe,   to   see   that 

woeful   stowre. 


And    after    him    she    rode    with  so    much 

specde, 

As   her   slowe  beast   could   make ;  but   all    in 

vaine :  '^'^ 

For    him    so    far    had    borne    his  light-foot 

steede, 


Pricked    with    wrath    and    fiery    fierce    dis- 

daine, 
'I'hat  him  to  folluw  was  but   fruitlesse  paine; 
\'ct  she  her  weary  linibes  would  never  rest, 
But    every    hil    and    dale,    each    wood    and 

plaine,  70 

Did  search,  sore  grieved  in  her  gentle  brest, 
He   so  ungently  left  her,   whome  she  loved 

best. 

IX 

But  subtill  Archimago,  when  his  guests 
He  saw  divided  into  double  parts,. 
And  Una  wandring  in  woods  and  forrests, 
Th'   end   of   his   drift,    he   praisd   his   divel- 

ish  arts,  76 

That    had    such    might    over    true    meaning 

harts : 
Yet    rests    not    so,    but    other    meanes    doth 

make. 
How  he  may  worke  unto  her  further  smarts:       ] 
For  her  he  hated  as  the  hissing  snake,        80 
And  in  her  many  troubles  did  most  pleasure 

take. 


He  then  devisde  himselfe  how  to  disguise; 
For  by  his  mighty  science  he  could  take 
As    many    formes    and    shapes    in    seeming 

w^ise, 
As  ever  Proteus  to  himselfe  could  make:  8s 
Sometime  a  fowle,  sometime  a -fish  in  lake, 
Now  like  a   foxe,  now   like  a  dragon   fell, 
That   of   himselfe   he  ofte   for    feare   would 

quake. 
And  oft   would   flie   away.     O   who   can   tell 
The  hidden   powre  of  herbes,  and   might  of 

magick  spel  ?  9° 


But  now  seemde  best,  the  person  to  put  on 
Of  that  good  knight,  his  late  beguiled  guest: 
In  mighty  amies  he  was  yclad  anon, 
And  silver  shield ;  upon  his  coward  brest 
A  bloody  crosse,  and  on  his  craven  crest    95 
A  bounch  of  heares  discolourd  diversly: 
Full    jolly   knight    he    seemde,   and   wel    ad- 

drest. 
And  when   he  sate  uppon  his   courser   free, 
Saint     George     himselfe     ye     would     have 

deemed  him  to  be. 


But  he,  the  knight  whose  semblaunt  he  did 
beare,  'o° 

The  true  Saint  George,  was  wandred  far 
away, 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


119 


Still   flying   from  his   thoughts   and   gealous 

feare ; 
Will    was    his    guide,    and    griefe    led    him 

astray. 
At  last  him  chaunst  to  meete  upon  the  way 
A  faithlesse  Sarazin,  all  armdc  to  point,     105 
In  whose  great  shield  was  writ  with  letters 

gay 
Sans   foy:    full    large    of    limbe    and    every 

joint 
He  was,  and  cared  not  for  God  or  man  a 

point. 


Hee  had  a  faire  companion  of  his  way, 
A  goodly  lady  clad  in  scarlot  red,  no 

Purfled  with  gold  and  pearle  of  rich  assay; 
And  like  a  Persian  mitre  on  her  hed 
Shee    wore,    with    crowns   and   owches    gar- 
nished, 
The  which  her  lavish  lovers  to  her  gave : 
Her  wanton  palfrey  all  was  overspred       I'S 
With  tinsell  trappings,  woven  like  a  wave, 
Whose    bridle    rung    with    golden    bels    and 
bosses    brave. 


With    faire   disport   and   courting  dalliaunce 

She   intertainde  her  lover  all  the  way: 

But    when    she    saw    the    knight    his    speare 

advaunce,  i-o 

Shee   soone   left  of  her  mirth   and   wanton 

play,  ■ 
And   bad   her   knight    addresse   him   to    the 

fray  : 
His  foe  was  nigh  at  hand.     He,  prickte  with 

pride 
And   hope   to    winne   his   ladies   hearte   that 

day. 
Forth    spurred    fast :    adownc    his    coursers 

side  1-^5 

The  red  bloud  trickling  staind  the  way,   as 

he  did  ride. 


The  Knight  of  the  Redcrosse,  when  him  he 
spide 

Spurring  so  bote  with  rage  dispiteous, 

Gan  fairely  couch  his  speare,  and  towards 
ride: 

Soone  meete  they  both,  both  fell  and  furi- 
ous, 130 

That,  daunted   with  theyr   forces  hideous, 

Their  steeds  doe  stagger,  and  amazed  stand, 
!   And  eke  themselves,  too  rudely   rigorous, 

Astonied  with  the  stroke  of  their  owne 
hand. 


Doe  backe  rebutte,  and  ech  to  other  yealdeth 
land.  135 

XVI 

As    when    two    rams,    stird    with    ambitious 

pride. 
Fight  for  the  rule  of  the  rich  fleeced  flocke. 
Their    horned     fronts    so    fierce    on    either 

side 
Doe    meete,    that,    with    the    terror    of    the 

shocke 
Astonied,  both  stand  sencelesse  as  a  blocke, 
Forgetfull  of  the  hanging  victory:  141 

So  stood  these  twaine,  unmoved  as  a  rocke, 
Both  staring  fierce,  and  holding  idely 
The  broken  reliques  of  their  former  cruelty. 


The  Sarazin,  sore  daunted  with  the  buffe, 
Snatcheth    his    sword,    and    fiercely    to    him 

flies;  146 

Who   well   it  wards,   and  quyteth  cuff  with 

cuff: 
Each   others   equall   puissaunce   envies, 
And    through    their    iron    sides    with    cruell 

spies 
Does     seeke     to     perce :     repining     courage 

yields  150 

No  foote  to  foe.     The  flashing  fier  flies, 
As     from    a     forge,    out    of    their    burning 

shields. 
And  streams  of  purple  bloud  new  dies  the 

verdant  fields. 


'  Curse  on  that  Crosse,'  quoth  then  the  Sara- 
zin, 
'  That  keepes  thy  body  from  the  bitter  fitt ! 
Dead  long  ygoe,  I  wote,  thou  haddest  bin. 
Had  not  that  charme   from  thee  forwarned 
itt:  157 

But  yet  I  warne  thee  now  assured  sitt. 
And    hide    thy    head.'     Therewith    upon    his 

crest 
With  rigor  so  outrageous  he  smitt,  160 

That  a  large  share  it  hewd  out  of  the  rest. 
And  glauncing  downe  his  shield,  from  blame 
him   fairely  blest. 


Who  thereat   wondrous  wroth,  the   sleeping 

spark 
Of   native   vertue   gan   eftsoones  revive. 
And    at    his    haughty   helmet    making   mark. 
So  hugely  stroke,  that  it  the  Steele  did  rive. 
And    cleft    his    head.     He,    tumbling   downe 

alive,  167 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Willi    bloudy    mouth    his    mother    earth    did 

kis, 
Greeting  his  grave:  his  grudging  ghost  did 

strive 
With  the  fraile  flesh ;  at  last  it  flitted  is, 
Whether  the  soules  doe  fly  of  men  that  live 


The  lady,  when  she  saw  her  champion  fall, 
Like  the  old  ruines  of  a  broken  towre, 
Staid  not  to  waile  his  woefull  funerall, 
But  from  him  fled  away  with  all  her  powre ; 
Who  after  her  as  hastily  gan  scowre,  '76 
Bidding  the  dwarfe  with  him  to  bring  away 
The   Sarazins   shield,   signe   of   the   conquer- 

oure. 
Her  soone  he  overtooke,  and  bad  to  stay, 
For  present   cause   was   none  of   dread   her 

to   dismay.  '^° 


Shee,    turning    backe    with    ruefull    counte- 

naunce, 
Cride,     '  Mercy,    mercy,    sir,    vouchsafe    to 

showe 
On  silly  dame,  subject  to  hard  mischaunce, 
And  to  your  mighty  wil ! '    Her  humblesse 

low. 
In    so    ritch    weedes    and    seeming    glorious 
show,  '^S 

Did  much  emmove  his  stout  heroicke  heart. 
And  said,  '  Deare  dame,  your  suddein  over- 
throw 
Much  rueth  me;  but  now  put  feare  apart. 
And  tel,  both  who  ye  be,  and  who  that  tooke 
your    part.' 


Melting    in    teares,   then    gan    shee   thus    la- 
ment: "90 
'  The  wreched  woman,  whom  unhappy  howre 
Hath  now  made  thrall   to  your  commande- 

ment. 
Before  that  angry  heavens   list  to  lowre, 
And    Fortune    false    betraide    me    to    your 
powre,  '94 

Was,  (O  what  now  availeth  that  I  was?) 
Borne  the  sole  daughter  of  an  emperour, 
He  that  the  wide  west  under  his  rule  has, 
And  high  hath  set  his  throne  where  Tiberis 
doth  pas. 


'  He,  in  the  first  flowre  of  my  freshest  age, 
Betrothed   me  unto  the  onely  haire  200 

Of  a  most  mighty  king,  most  rich  and  sage; 


Was  never  prince  so  faith  full  and  so  faire, 
Was  never  prince  so  meekc  and  debonaire ; 
But  ere  my  hoped  day  of  spousall  shone. 
My    dearest    lord    fell     from    high    honors 

staire,  205 

Into  the  hands  of  hys  accursed  fone. 
And    cruelly    was    slaine,    that    shall    I    ever 

mone. 


'  His  blessed  body,  spoild  of  lively  breath. 
Was  afterward,  I  know  not  how,  convaid 
And    fro   me  hid:   of   whose   most  innocent 

death  210 

When   tidings  came  to  mee,  unhappy  maid, 
O  how  great  sorrow  my  sad  soule  assaid ! 
Then  forth  I  went  his  woefull  corse  to  find. 
And   many   yeares   throughout    the   world    I 

straid, 
A  virgin  widow,  whose  deepe  wounded  mind 
With    love,    long   time    did    languish    as    the 

striken   hind.  216 


'  At  last  it  chaunced  this  proud  Sarazin 
To   meete  me   wandring;    who   perforce  me 

led 
With  him  away,  but  yet  could  never  win 
The    fort,    that    ladies    hold    in    soveraigne 

dread.  220 

There    lies    he    now    with    foule    dishonor 

dead, 
Who,    whilse    he    livde,    was    called    proud 

Sansfoy : 
The  eldest  of  three  brethren,  all  three  bred 
Of  one  bad  sire,  whose  youngest  is  Sansjoy, 
And  twixt  them  both  was  born  the  bloudy 

bold    Sansloy.  --5 


'  In  this  sad  plight,  friendlesse,  unfortunate. 
Now  miserable  I  Fidessa  dwell. 
Craving  of  you,  in  pitty  of  my  state. 
To  doe  none  ill,  if  please  ye  not  doe  well.' 
He  in  great  passion  al  this  while  did  dwell, 
More   busying   his   quicke   eies,   her   face   to 

view,  231 

Then  his  dull  eares,  to  heare  what  shee  did 

tell; 
And   said,   '  Faire  lady,  hart  of   flint  would 

rew 
The    undeserved    woes    and    sorrows    which 

ye   shew. 


Henceforth    in    safe    assuraunce    may    yc 
rest,  23. s 


THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 


21 


Having    both    found    a    new    friend    you    to 

aid, 
And  lost  an  old  foe,  that  did  you  molest : 
Better  new   friend  then  an  old  foe  is  said.' 
With  chaunge  of  chear  the  seeming  simple 

maid 
Let  fal  her  eien,  as  shamefast,  to  the  earth, 
And  yeelding  soft,  in  that  she  nought  gain- 
said, 241 
So    forth    they    rode,    he    feining    seemely 

merth, 
And   shoe  coy  lookes:  so  dainty,  they  say, 
maketh   derth. 

XXVIII 

Long  time  they  thus  together  traveiled. 
Til,   weary  of   their  way.   they   came   at   last 
Where    grew    two    goodly    trees,    that    faire 
did   spred  246 

Their  armes  abroad,  with  gray  mosse  over- 
cast. 
And    their    greene    leaves,    trembling    with 

every  blast, 
Made    a    calme    shadowe    far    in    compasse 
round :  249 

The  fearefull  shepheard,  often  there  aghast. 
Under  them  never  sat,  ne  wont  there  sound 
His  merry  oaten  pipe,  but  shund  th"  unlucky 
ground. 

XXIX 

But  this  good  knight,  soone  as  he  them  can 

spie. 
For  the  coole  shade  him  thither  hastly  got : 
For  golden  Phoebus,  now  ymounted  hie,  255 
From  fiery  wheeles  of  his  faire  chariot 
Hurled   his   beame   so   scorching  cruell   hot. 
That  living  creature  mote  it  not  abide ; 
And  his  new  lady  it  endured  not. 
There    they    alight,    in    hope    themselves    to 

hide  -60 

From  the  fierce  heat,  and   rest  their  weary 

limbs  a  tide. 


Faire     seemely     pleasaunce     each     to     other 

makes. 
With  goodly  purposes,  there  as  they  sit : 
And  in  his  falsed  fancy  he  her  takes 
To  be  the  fairest  wight  that  lived  yit ;       265 
Which  to  expresse,  he  bends  his  gentle  wit. 
And  thinking  of  those  braunches  greene  to 

frame 
A  girlond  for  her  dainty  forehead  fit. 
He  pluckt  a  bough ;  out  of  whose  riftc  there 

came 
Smal    drops    of    gory    bloud,    that    trickled 

down  the  same.  27° 


Therewith  a  piteous  yelling  voice  was  heard. 
Crying,  '  O  spare  with  guilty  hands  to  teare 
My  tender  sides  in  this  rough  rynd  em- 
bard  : 
But  {\y,  ah !  fly  far  hence  away,  for  feare 
Least  to  you  hap  that  happened  to  me 
heare,  275 

And  to  this  wretched  lady,  my  deare  love ; 
O   too   deare   love,   love  bought   with   death 

too  deare ! ' 
Astond  he  stood,  and  up  his  heare  did  hove, 
And    with    that    suddein    horror    could    no 
member  move. 


At  last,  whenas  the  dreadfull  passion 
Was   overpast,   and   manhood   well    awake. 
Yet  musing  at  this  straunge  occasion,       282 
And   doubting   much   his   sence,  he   thus   be 

spake : 
'  What  voice  of  damned  ghost  from  Limbo- 
lake, 
Or  guilefull  spright  wandring  in  empty  aire. 
Both  which  fraile  men  doe  oftentimes  mis- 
take, 286 
Sends  to  my  doubtful  eares  these  speaches 

rare, 
And    ruefull    plaints,    me    bidding    guiltlesse 
blood   to    spare  ?  ' 


Then  groning  deep :  '  Nor  damned  ghost,' 
quoth   he. 

'  Nor  guileful  spirite  to  thee  these  words 
doth    speake,  290 

But  once  a  man,  Fradubio,  now  a  tree; 

Wretched  man,  wretched  tree !  whose  na- 
ture weake 

A  cruell  witch,  her  cursed  will  to  wreake, 

Hath  thus  transformd,  and  plast  in  open 
plaines, 

Where  Boreas  doth  blow  full  bitter  bleake. 

And  scorching  sunne  does  dry  my  secret 
vaines :  296 

For  though  a  tree  I  seme,  yet  cold  and  heat 
me   paines.' 


'  Say  on,  Fradubio,  then,  or  man  or  tree,' 
Quoth    then    the    knight ;    '  by    whose    mis- 
chievous arts 
Art  thou  misshaped  thus,  as  now  I  see? 
He   oft   finds   med'cine   who   his   griefe   im- 
parts: 301 
But  double  griefs  affikt  concealing  harts, 
As  raging  flames  who  striveth  to  suppresse.' 


[22 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


he. 


all    my 


'  The    author    then,"    said 

smarts, 
Is  one  Duessa,  a  false  sorceresse,  305 

That    many   errant   knights    hath    broght   to 

wretchcdnesse. 


'In   prime   of  youthly  yearcs,   when   corage 

hott 
The  fire  of  love  and  joy  of  chevalree 
First  kindled  in  my  brest,  it  was  my  lott 
To  love  this  gentle  lady,  whome  ye  see  310 
Now  not  a  lady,  but  a  seeming  tree; 
With   whome   as   once   I   rode   accompanyde. 
Me  chaunced  of  a  knight  encountred  bee. 
That  had  a  like  faire  lady  by  his  syde ; 
Lyke    a    faire    lady,    but    did    fowle    Duessa 

hyde.  31s 

XXXVI 

'  Whose  forged  beauty  he  did  take  in  hand 
All  other  dames  to  have  exceded  farre ; 
I  in  defence  of  mine  did  likewise  stand, 
Mine,    that   did   then   shine   as   the   morning 

starre: 
So  both  to  batteill  fierce  arraunged  arre ; 
In  which  his  harder  fortune  was  to  fall     3-i 
Under  my  speare ;  such  is  the  dye  of  warre : 
His  lady,  left  as  a  prise  martiall, 
Did   yield   her   comely   person,   to   be   at   my 

call. 


*  So  doubly  lov'd  of  ladies  unlike  faire,    3^5 
Th'   one    seeming    such,   the   other    such    in- 

deede. 
One  day  in  doubt  I  cast  for  to  compare. 
Whether   in   beauties   glorie   did   exceede ; 
A    rosy  girlond   was   the   victors   meede. 
Both  seemde  to  win,   and  both  seemde  won 

to  bee,  330 

So  hard  the  discord  was  to  be  agreede : 
Frselissa  was  as  faire  as   faire  mote  bee. 
And  ever  false  Duessa   seemde  as   faire   as 

shee. 

XXXVIII 

'  The    wicked    witch,    now    seeing    all    this 

while  334 

The   doubtfull   ballaunce   equally  to   sway. 
What    not    by    right,    she    cast    to    win    by 

guile  ; 
And    by   her    hellish    science    raisd    streight 

way 
A   foggy  mist,   that  overcast   the   day. 
And    a    dull    blast,    that,    breathing    on    her 

face. 


Dimmed   her   former  beauties   shining  ray, 
And    with    foule    ugly    forme    did    her    dis- 
grace :  341 
Then   was  she   fayre  alone,  when  none  was 
faire   in   place. 


'  Then   cridc   she  out,   "  Fye,   fyc !   deformed 

wii^ht, 
Whose     borrowed     beautie     now     appcareth 

plaine 
To  have  before  bewitched  all  mens  sight; 

0  leave    her    soone,    or    let    her    soone    l)e 

slaine."  346 

Her  loathly  visage  viewing  with  disdainc, 
Eftsoones    I    thought    her    such    as    she    me 

told, 
And  would  have  kild  her ;  but  with   faigned 

paine 
Tlie     false    witch    did    my    wrath  full    hand 

with-hold :  350 

So    left    her,    where    she    now    is    turnd    to 

treen  mould. 

XL 

'  Thensforth  I  tooke  Duessa  for  my  dame. 
And  in  the  witch  unweeting  joyd  long  time, 
Ne  ever  wist  but  that  she  was  the  same  : 
Till  on  a  day  (that  day  is  everie  prime,  355 
When  witches  wont  do  penance  for  their 
crime) 

1  chaunst  to  see  her  in  her  proper  hew, 
Bathing  her   selfe   in   origane   and   thyme: 
A   filthy  foule  old  woman   I  did  vew. 
That  ever  to  have  toucht  her  I  did  deadly 

rew.  360 


'Her  neather  partes  misshapen,  monstruous, 
Were  hidd  in  water,  that  I  could  not  see. 
But  they  did  seeme  more  foule  and  hideous. 
Then  womans  shape  man  would  beleeve  to 

bee. 
Thensforth     from    her    most    beastly    com- 

panie  36s 

I  gan  refraine,  in  minde  to  slipp  away, 
Soone  as  appeard  safe  opportunitie: 
For  danger  great,  if  not  assurd  decay, 
I  saw  before  mine  eyes,  if  I   were  knowne 

to   stray. 


'  The    divelish     hag,     by  chaunges     of    my 

cheare,  37° 

Perceiv'd  mj'  thought ;  and  drownd  in 
slecpie   night, 


AMORETTI 


123 


With  wicked  herbes  and  oyntments  did  be- 

smeare 
ATy  body  all,  through  charmes  and  magicke 

might, 
That  all  my  senses  were  bereaved  quight : 
Then  brought  she  me  into  this  desert  waste, 
And  by  my  wretched  lovers  side  me  pight. 
Where    now    enclosd    in    wooden    wals    full 

faste,  ^T^ 

Banisht     from    living    wights,     our    wearie 

daies  we  waste.' 


'  But    how    long    time,'    said    then    the    Elfin 

knight, 
'  Are     you     in     this     misformed     hous     to 

dwell?'  380 

'We  may  not  chaunge,'  quoth  he,  'this  evill 

plight 
Till  we  be  bathed  in  a  living  well ; 
That   is  the  terme  prescribed  by  the   spell' 
■Q    how,'    sayd   he,    'mote    I    that    well    out 

find,  3S4 

That  may  restore  you  to  your  wonted  well  ? ' 
'  Time  and  suffised   fates  to   former  kynd 
Shall  us  restore ;  none  else  from  hence  may 

us  unbynd.' 


The   false  Duessa,  now  Fidessa  hight. 
Heard   how   in    vaine    Fradubio   did   lament, 
And  knew  well  all  was  true.     But  the  good 

knight  390 

Full  of  sad  feare  and  ghastly  dreriment. 
When    all    this    speech    the    living   tree    had 

spent, 
The    bleeding    bough    did    thrust    into    the 

ground. 
That  from  the  blood  he  might  be  innocent, 
And   with   fresh  clay  did  close  the  wooden 

wound :  395 

Then   turning  to  his  lady,  dead   with    feare 

her  fownd. 

XLV 

Her   seeming  dead   he    fownd   with    feigned 

feare. 
As   all   unweeting   of  that   well   she  knew, 
And    paynd    himself e    with    busie    care    to 

reare 
Her  out   of  carelesse   swowne.     Her  eyelids 

blew,  400 

And    dimmed    sight,    with    pale    and    deadly 

hew, 
At    last    she    up    gan    lift :    with    trembling 

cheare 
Her  up  he  tooke,  too  simple  and  too  trew, 


And    oft    her    kist.     At    length,    all    passed 

feare, 
He    set    her    on    her    steede,    and    forward 

forth   did  beare.  40S 


AMORETTI 


Happy  ye  leaves  !  when  as  those  lilly  hands, 
Which    hold    my    life    in    their    dead    doing 

might. 
Shall    handle    you,    and    hold    in    loves    soft 

bands, 
Lyke  captives  trembling  at  the  victors  sight. 
And    happy    lines !    on    which,    with    starry 

light,  S 

Those    lamping   eyes    will    deigne    sometimes 

to  look, 
And     reade     the     sorrowes     of     my     dying 

spright. 
Written  with  teares  in  harts  close  bleeding 

book. 
And    happy    rymes !    bath'd    in    the    sacred 

brooke 
Of  Helicon,  whence  she  derived  is,  1° 

When  ye   behold  that  angels  blessed  looke, 
IMy   soules    long   lacked    foode,   my   heavens 

blis. 
Leaves,     lines,     and     rymes,     seeke    her     to 

please  alone. 
Whom  if  ye  please,  I  care   for  other  none. 


More  then  most  faire,  full  of  the  living 
fire 

Kindled  above  unto  the   Maker  neere : 

No  eies,  but  joyes,  in  which  al  powers  con- 
spire, 

That  to  the  world  naught  else  be  counted 
deare: 

Thrugh  your  bright  beams  doth  not  the 
blinded  guest  5 

Shoot  out  his  darts  to  base  affections 
wound ; 

But  angels  come,  to  lead  fraile  mindes  to 
rest 

In  chast  desires,  on  heavenly  beauty  bound. 

You  frame  my  thoughts,  and  fashion  me 
within, 

You  stop  my  toung,  and  teach  my  hart  to 
speake,  10 

You  calme  the  storme  that  passion  did  be- 
gin. 

Strong  thrugh  your  cause,  but  by  your  ver- 
tue  weak. 


124 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Dark  is  the  world  where  your  light  shined 

never ; 
Well  is  he  borne  that  may  behold  you  ever. 


When  I  behold  that  beauties  wonderment, 
And  rare  perfection  of  each  goodly  part, 
Of  Natures   skill  the  onely  complement, 
I  honor  and  admire  the  Makers  art. 
But  when  I  feele  the  bitter  balefulle  smart  5 
Which  her    fayre   eyes   unwares   doe   worke 

in  mee, 
That  death  out  of  theyr  shiny  beames  doe 

dart, 
I  thinke  that  I  a  new  Pandora  see; 
Whom  all  the  gods  in  councell  did  agree, 
Into    this    sinfull    world    from    heaven    to 

send,  '° 

That  she  to   wicked  men   a  scourge   should 

bee, 
For    all    their    faults    with    which    they    did 

offend. 
But  since  ye  are  my  scourge,  I  will  intreat 
That  for  my  faults  ye  will  me  gently  beat. 


Lyke   as    a    ship,    that    through    the    ocean 

wyde 
By    conduct    of    some    star    doth    make    her 

way, 
Whenas    a    storme    hath    dimd    her    trusty 

guyde. 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray; 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright 

ray  5 

Me  to  direct,  with  cloudes  is  overcast. 
Doe  wander  now  in  darknesse  and  dismay. 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  plast. 
Yet  hope   I   well,   that  when  this   storme  is 

past, 
My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  lyfe,  lo 

Will  shine  again,  and  looke  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  cleare  my  cloudy  grief. 
Till  then  I  wander  carefuU  comfortlesse. 
In  secret  sorrow  and  sad  pensivenesse. 


After  long  stormes  and  tempests  sad  assay, 
Which  hardly  I  endured  heretofore, 
In    dread    of    death,    and    daungerous    dis- 
may, 
With  which  my  silly  barke  was  tossed  sore, 
I  doe  at  length  descry  the  happy  shore,       5 
In  which  I  hope  ere  long  for  to  arryve: 
Fayre  soyle  it  seemes  from  far,  and  fraught 

with  store 
Of  all  that  deare  and  daynty  is  alyve. 


Most  happy  he  that  can  at  last  atchyve 
The  joyous  safety  of  so  sweet  a  rest;        >o 
Whose  least  delight  sufficeth  to  deprive 
Remembrance  of  all   paines   which  him  op- 

prest. 
All  paines  are  nothing  in  respect  of  this, 
All  sorrowes  short  that  gaine  eternall  blisse. 


Fresh    Spring,   the   herald    of   loves   mighty 

king, 
In  whose  cote-armour  richly  are  displayd 
All  sorts  of  flowers  the  which  on  earth  do 

spring, 
In    goodly   colours   gloriously   arrayd, 
Goe    to    my    love,    where    she    is    carelesse 

layd,  5 

Yet  in  her  winters  bowre,  not  well  awake; 
Tell  her  the  joyous  time  wil  not  be  staid, 
Unlesse  she  doe  him  by  the  forelock  take: 
Bid    her    therefore    her    selfe    soone    ready 

make. 
To  wayt  on  Love  amongst  his  lovely  crew,  '<> 
Where    every    one    that    misseth    then    her 

make 
Shall  be  by  him  amearst  with  penance  dew. 
Make  hast  therefore,  sweet  love,  whilest  it 

is  prime; 
For  none  can  call  againe  the  passed  time. 

LXXII 

Oft  when  my  spirit  doth  spred  her  bolder 

winges. 
In  mind  to  mount  up  to  the  purest  sky, 
It   down   is   weighd   with   thoght   of   earthly     j 

things,  j 

And  clogd  with  burden  of  mortality : 
Where,  when  that  soverayne  beauty  it  doth 

spy,  _  s 

Resembling  heavens  glory  in  her  light, 
Drawne   with   sweet  pleasures  bayt,   it  back 

doth   fly. 
And  unto  heaven  forgets  her  former  flight. 
There  my  fraile  fancy,  fed  with  full  delight. 
Doth   bath  in   blisse,  and   mantleth  most   at 

ease;  i° 

Ne  thinks  of  other  heaven,  but  how  it  might 
Her    harts    desire    with    most    contentment 

please. 
Hart  need  not  wish  none  other  happinesse, 
But    here    on    earth    to    have    such    hevens 

blisse. 


Men  call  you   fayre,  and  you   doe  credit  it, 
For    that    your    selfe    ye    dayly    such    doe 


EPITHALAMION 


125 


But  the  trew  fayre,  that  is  the  gentle  wit 
And   vertuous   mind,   is   much   more   praysd 

of  me. 
For  all  the  rest,  how  ever  fayre  it  be,  S 

Shall  turne  to  nought  and  loose  that  glori- 
ous hew : 
But  oncly  that  is  permanent,  and  free 
From   frayle  corruption,  that  doth  flesh  en- 
sew. 
That   is  true  beautie :   that  doth   argue  you 
I  o  be  divine,  and  borne  of  heavenly  seed,  10 
Deriv'd   from  that   fayre  Spirit  from  whom 

al   true 
And  perfect  beauty  did  at  first  proceed. 
He    onely    fayre,    and    what   he    fayre    hath 

made ; 
All  other  fayre,  lyke  flowres,  untymely  fade. 


EPITHALAMION 

Ve  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes 

Beene  to  me  ayding,  others  to  adorne. 

Whom  ye  thought  worthy  of  your  grace  full 
rymes. 

That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly 
scorne 

To  heare  theyr  names  sung  in  your  simple 
layes,  s 

But  joyed  in  theyr  praise; 

And  when  ye  list  your  owne  mishaps  to 
mourne, 

Which  death,  or  love,  or  fortunes  wreck 
did    rayse, 

Your  string  could  soone  to  sadder  tenor 
turne. 

And  teach  the  woods  and  waters  to  la- 
ment 10 

Your   dolefull   dreriment: 

Now  lay  those  sorrowfuU  complaints  aside, 

And  having  all  your  heads  with  girland 
crownd, 

Helpe  me  mine  owne  loves  prayses  to  re- 
sound; 

Ne  let  the  same  of  any  be  envide:  is 

So  Orpheus  did  for  his  owne  bride : 

So  I  unto  my  selfe  alone  will  sing; 

The  woods  shall  to  me  answer,  and  my 
eccho  ring. 

Early,  before  the  worlds  light  giving  lampe 
His  golden  beame  upon  the  hils  doth  spred, 
Having     disperst     the     nights     unchearefull 
dampe,  21 

Doe  ye   awake,  and,  with    fresh  lustyhed, 
Go  to  the  bowre  of  my  beloved  love. 
My  truest  turtle  dove : 


Bid  her  awake;  for  Hymen  is  awake,        25 
And    long   since    ready    forth   his   maske   to 

move, 
With  his  bright  tead  that  flames  with  many 

a    flake, 
And  many  a  bachelor  to  waite  on  him. 
In  theyr  fresh  garments  trim. 
Bid    her    awake    therefore,    and    soone    her 

dight,  30 

For  lo !  the  wished  day  is  come  at  last. 
That  shall,  for  al  the  paynes  and  sorrowes 

past. 
Pay  to  her  usury  of  long  delight : 
And  whylest  she  doth  her  dight, 
Doe  ye  to  her  of  joy  and  solace  sing,       35 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 

eccho  ring. 

Bring  with   you   all  the  nymphes  that  you 

can  heare. 
Both  of  the  rivers  and  the  forrests  greene. 
And    of    the    sea    that    neighbours    to    her 

neare, 
Al  with  gay  girlands  goodly  wel  beseene.    40 
And  let  them  also  with  them  bring  in  hand 
Another   gay  girland, 

For  my  fayre  love,  of  lillyes  and  of  roses. 
Bound    truelove    wize    with    a    blew    silke 

riband. 
And   let  them  make  great   store  of  bridale 

poses,  45 

And    let    them    eeke    bring    store    of    other 

flowers. 
To  deck  the  bridale  bowers. 
And  let  the  ground  whereas  her  foot  shall 

tread, 
For  feare  the  stones  her  tender  foot  should 

wrong. 
Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along. 
And  diapred  lyke  the  discolored  mead.  51 
Which  done,  doe  at  her  chamber  dore  awayt. 
For  she  will  waken  strayt ; 
The  whiles  doe  ye  this  song  unto  her  sing, 
The   woods   shall  to  you  answer,  and  your 

eccho    ring.  55 

Ye  nymphes  of  Mulla,  which  with  carefull 

heed 
The  silver  scaly  trouts  doe  tend  full  well, 
And  greedy  pikes  which  use  therein  to  feed, 
(Those  trouts  and  pikes  all  others  doo  ex- 
cell) 
And  ye  likewise  which  keepe  the  rushy  lake, 
Where  none  doo  fishes  take,  61 

Bynd  up  the  locks  the  which  hang  scatterd 

light,_ 
And  in  his  waters,  which  your  mirror  make, 


126 


h-UMUWU  brUJNblLK 


Behold  your  faces  as  the  christall  bright, 
That  when  you  come  whereas  my  love  doth 

He,  .  '' 

No  blemish  she  may  spie. 
And    eke   ye    light  foot    mayds    which    kecpe 

the  dere 
That  on  the  hoary  mountayne  use  to  towre, 
And   the    wylde    wolves,    which    seeke   them 

to    devnure, 
With  your  Steele  darts  doo  chacc  from  com- 

ming  neer,  ''° 

Be  also  present  heere, 

To  helpe  to  decke  her,  and  to  help  to  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 

eccho  ring. 

Wake  now,  my  love,  awake!  for  it  is  time: 
The   rosy    Morne    long   since    left    Tithones 

bed,  75 

All  ready  to  her  silver  coche  to  clyme, 
And  Phcebus  gins  to  shew  his  glorious  hed. 
Hark   how    the    chcercfull    birds    do    chaunt 

thcyr  laies. 
And  Carroll  of  loves  praise! 
The  merry  larke  hir  mattins  sings  aloft,     8° 
The     thrush     replyes,     the     mavis     descant 

playes, 
The  ouzell  shrills,  the  ruddock  warbles  soft. 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 
To  this  dayes  merriment. 
Ah !  my  deere  love,  why  doe  ye  sleepe  thus 

long,  ^5 

When    meeter    were    that    ye    should    now 

awake, 
T  'awayt  the  comming  of  your  joyous  mate, 
And  hearken  to  the  birds  love-learned  song. 
The  dcawy  leaves  among? 
For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you   sing, 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr 

eccho   ring.  9i 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreame. 

And  her  fayre  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed 
were 

With  darksome  cloud,  now  shew  theyr  good- 
ly beams 

More  bright  then  Hesperus  his  head  doth 
rere.  95 

Come  now,  ye  damzels,  daughters  of  de- 
light, 

Helpe  quickly  her  to  dight. 

But  first  come  ye.  fayre  Houres,  which 
were   begot. 

In  Joves  sweet  paradice,  of  Day  and  Night, 

Which  doe  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot,  loo 

And  al  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fayre 

Do  make  and  still  repayrc. 

And  ye  three  handmayds  of  the  Cyprian 
Queene, 


The    which    doe    still    adorne    her    beauties 
pride,  '"^ 

Hclpc   to   addornc   my  beautifullest  bride: 
And   as  ye   her   array,   still   throw   betweene 
Some  graces  to   be   scene : 
And  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing. 
The  whiles  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  your 
eccho  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come:  "o 
Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  awayt. 
And    ye    fresh    boyes,    that    tend    upon    her 

groome. 
Prepare    your    selves,    for    he    is    comming 

strayt. 
Set  all  your  things  in  seemely  good  aray, 
Fit  for  so  joy  full  day,  ''5 

The  joyfulst  day  that  ever  sunne  did  see. 
Faire   Sun,   shew   forth   thy   favourable   ray. 
And  let  thy  lifull  heat  not  fervent  be. 
For  feare  of  burning  her  sunshyny  face, 
Her  beauty  to  disgrace.  '^o 

O  fayrest  Phcebus,  father  of  the  Muse, 
If   ever   I   did   honour   thee   aright. 
Or   sing  the   thing   that   mote   thy   mind   de- 
light, 
Doe   not   thy  servants   simple  boone  refuse, 
But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day  be  myne. 
Let  all  the  rest  be  thine.  '^^ 

Then  I  thy  soverayne  prayses  loud  wil  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  theyr 
eccho  ring. 

Harke  how  the  minstrels  gin  to  shrill  aloud 
Their    merry    musick    that    resounds     from 

far,  130 

The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  croud. 
That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  jar. 
But  most  of  all  the  damzels  doe  delite. 
When  they  their  tymbrels  smyte. 
And  thereunto  doe  daunce  and  carrol  sweet. 
That  all  the  sences  they  doe  ravish  quite,  136 
The   whyles    the   boyes    run   up   and   downe 

the  street, 
Crying  aloud  with  strong  confused  noyce. 
As   if  it  were  one  voyce. 
'  Hymen.  lo  Hymen,  Hymen,'  they  do  shout. 
That    even    to    the    heavens    theyr    shouting 

shrill  UJ 

Doth  reach,  and  all  the  firmament  doth  fill ; 
To  which  the  people,  standing  all  about. 
As  in  approvance  doe  thereto  applaud. 
And  loud  advaunce  her  laud,  '45 

And   evermore  they  '  Hymen,   Hymen '   sing. 
That  al  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr 

eccho  ring. 

Loe !    where    she    comes    along    with    portly 
pace. 


Lyke  Phcehe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  east, 
Arysing  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race,  'So 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seemes  a  virgin  best. 
So    well    it    her    beseemes,    that    ye    would 

weene 
Some  angoll  :-iie  had  beene. 
Her    long    loose    yellow    locks    lyke    golden 

wyre, 
Sprinckled    with    perle,    and    perling   flowres 

atweene,  '55 

Doe  lyke  a  golden   mantle  her  attyre. 
And  being  crowned  with  a  girland  greene, 
Seeme  lyke  some  mayden  quecnc. 
Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare,  »6o 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are; 
Ne   dare   lift  up  her  countenance   too  bold, 
But    blush    to    heare    her    prayses    sung    so 

loud, 
So    farre    from   being   proud. 
Nathlesse    doe    ye    still    loud    her    prayses 

sing,  >^s 

That  all   the   woods  may  answer,  and   your 

eccho  ring. 

Tell    me,    ye    merchants    daughters,    did    ye 

see 
So   fayre  a   creature  in  your  towne  before, 
So   sweet,   so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 
Adornd    with    beautyes    grace    and    vertues 

store?  170 

Her     goodly     eyes     lyke     saphyres     shining 

bright, 
Her  forehead  yvory  white, 
Her  cheekes  lyke  apples  which  the  sun  hath 

rudded. 
Her    lips    lyke    cherryes    charming    men    to 

byte. 
Her  brest  like  to  a  bowle  of  creame  uncrud- 

ded,  175 

Her  paps  lyke  lyllies  budded. 
Her  snowie  necke  lyke  to  a  marble  towre, 
And  all  her  body  like  a  pallace  fayre. 
Ascending  uppe,  with  many  a  stately  stayre, 
To  honors  seat  and  chastities  sweet  bowre. 
Why  stand  ye  still,  ye  virgins,  in  amaze,  'S' 
Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 

Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing. 
To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your 

eccho  ring. 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see. 
The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright,   '86 
Garnisht   with   heavenly  guifts   of   high   de- 
gree, 
Much  more  then   would  ye  wonder  at  that 

sight. 
And    stand    astonisht    lyke    to    those    which 
red 


Medusaes  mazeful  hed.  190 

There  dwels  sweet  Love  and  constant  Chas- 
tity, 
Unspotted   Fayth,   and   comely   Womanhood, 
Regard  of  Honour,  and  mild  Modesty; 
There    Vertue    raynes    as    queene    in    royal 

throne. 
And  giveth  lawes  alone,  '95 

The  which  the  base  affections  doe  obay. 
And  yeeld  theyr  services  unto  her  will ; 
Ne  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approch  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  scene  these  her  celestial  threa- 
sures,  200 

And  unrevealed  pleasures, 
Then    would    ye    wonder,    and    her    prayses 

sing. 
That  al  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love. 
Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in,    205 
And  all  the  postes  adorne  as  doth  behove, 
xA.nd  all  the  pillours  deck  with  girlands  trim, 
For  to  receyve  this  saynt  with  honour  dew, 
That  commeth  in  to  you. 
With    trembling    steps    and    humble    rever- 
ence, 210 
She  commeth  in  before  th'  Almighties  vew : 
Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learne   obedience, 
When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 
To  humble  your  proud    faces. 
Bring    her    up    to    th'    high    altar,    that    she 
may  215 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake. 
The  which  do  endlesse  matrimony  make; 
And  let  the  roring  organs  loudly  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes, 
The  whiles  with  hollow  throates  220 
The  choristers  the  joyous  antheme  sing. 
That  al  the  woods  may  answere,  and  their 
eccho  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speakes, 
And     blesseth     her     with     his     two     happy 

hands,  225 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheekes. 
And    the    pure    snow    with    goodly    vermill 

stayne. 
Like  crimsin'  dyde  in  grayne : 
That  even  th'  angels,  which  continually 
About   the   sacred   altare  doe   remaine,       23c 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 
Ofte  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seemes  more 

fayre. 
The   more   they  on   it   stare. 
Put    her     ?ad    eyes,    still     fastened    on    the 

ground. 


128 


iLUiViUi\JJ  CiriiiN:?!!.!^. 


Are  governed   with   t^oodly   modesty,  235 

That  sufifers  not  one  louke  to  glaunce  awry, 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsownd. 
Why    blush    ye.    love,    to    give    to    me    your 

hand. 
The  pledge   of  all   our  band? 
Sing,  ye   sweet   angels,   Alleluya  sing,       ~^^ 
That  all  the  woods  may  answere,  and  your 

eccho  ring. 

Now    al    is    done;    bring    home    the    bride 

againe. 
Bring  home  the  triumph  of   our  victory. 
Bring    home    with    you    the    glory    of    her 

gaine, 
With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity.  245 
Never  had  man  more  joy  full  day  then  this, 
Whom  heaven   would  heape   with  blis. 
Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live  long 

day; 
This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is; 
Poure    out    the    wine    without    restraint    or 

stay,  ^50 

Poure  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  belly   full, 
Poure  out   to  all  that  wull. 
And   sprinkle  all  the  postes  and  wals   with 

wine, 
That  they  may  sweat,  and  drunken  be  with- 

all. 
Crowne   ye    God    Bacchus   with    a   coronall. 
And   Hymen  also  crowne  with  wreathes  of 

vine;  ^56 

And  let  the  Graces  daunce  unto  the  rest. 
For  they  can  doo  it  best : 
The   whiles   the   maydens  doe   theyr   carroll 

sing, 
The  which  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  theyr 

eccho   ring.  ^^° 

Ring    ye    the    bels,    ye    yong    men    of    the 

towne, 
And  leave  your  wonted  labors  for  this  day: 
This  day  is  holy;  doe  ye  write  it  downe, 
That  ye  for  ever  it  remember  may. 
This  day  the  sunne  is  in  his  chiefest  hight. 
With   Barnaby  the  bright,  266 

From   whence   declining   daily   by  degrees. 
He  somewhat  loseth  of  his  heat  and  light, 
When    once    the    Crab    behind    his    back    he 


But  for  this  time  it  ill  ordained  was,  270 

To  chose  the  longest  day  in  all  the  yeare, 
And     shortest     night,    when     longest     fitter 

weare : 
Yet  never  day  so  long,  but  late  would  passe. 
Ring  ye  the  bels.  to  make  it  weare  away, 
And  bonefires  make  all  day,  -7S 

And    daunce    about    them,    and    about    them 

sing: 


That   all  the   woods  may  answer,   and   your 
eccho  ring. 

Ah!    when    will   this    long   weary   day   have 

end, 
And    lende    me    leave    to    come    unto    my 

love  ? 
How    slowly  do   the  houres   theyr   numbers 

spend !  280 

How    slowly    does    sad    Time    his    feathers 

move ! 
Hast  thee,  O  fayrest  planet,  to  thy  home 
Within    the    westerne    f ome : 
Thy  tyred  steedes  long  since  have  need  of 

rest. 
Long  though  it  be,  at  last  I  see  it  gloome, 
And    the    bright    evening    star    with    golden 

creast  ^^^ 

Appeare  out  of  the  east. 
Fayre   childe   of   beauty,   glorious   lampe   of 

love. 
That  all  the  host  of  heaven  in  rankes  doost 

lead, 
And    guydest    lovers    through    the    nightes 

dread,  290 

How       chearefully      thou       lookest       from 

above, 
And  seemst  to  laugh  atweene  thy  twinkling 

light, 
As  joying  in  the  sight 
Of    these    glad    many,    which    for    joy    doe 

sing. 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their 

echo  ring!  295 

Now  ceasse,  ye  damsels,  your  delights  fore- 
past  ; 
Enough  is  it  that  all  the  day  was  youres: 
Now    day    is    doen,    and    night    is    nighing 

fast: 
Now     bring    the    bryde    into    the    brydall 

boures. 
The  night  is  come,  now  soone  her  disaray, 
And  in  her  bed  her  lay;  301 

Lay  her  in  lillies  and  in  violets. 
And   silken  courteins  over  her  display. 
And  odourd  sheetes,  and  Arras  coverlets. 
Behold  how   goodly  my  faire  love  does  ly. 
In   proud  humility  !  3o6 

Like  unto  Maia,  when  as  Jove  her  tooke 
In   'i'empe,  lying  on  the  flowry  gras, 
Twixt    sleepe    and    wake,    after    she    weary 

was 
With   bathing  in  the  Acidalian  brooke.     310 
Now  it  is  night,  ye  damsels  may  be  gon. 
And  leave  my  love  alone. 
And  leave  likewise  your  former  lay  to  sing: 
The  woods  no  more  shal  answere,  nor  your 
echo    ring. 


Now    welcome,    night !    thou    night    so    long 

expected, 
That    long    daies    labour    doest    at    last    de- 
fray. 
And    all    my   cares,   which   cruell   Love   col- 
lected, 
Hast  sumd  in  one,  and  cancelled  for  aye : 
Spread   thy   broad    wing  over   my   love   and 

me. 
That  no  man  may  us  see,  320 

And  in   thy   sable   mantle  us  enwrap, 
From  feare  of  perrill  and  foule  horror  free. 
Let  no   false  treason   seeke  us  to  entrap. 
Nor   any   dread    disquiet   once   annoy 
'{"he    safety   of   our   joy :  3^5 

But  let  the  night  be  calme  and  quietsome. 
Without   tempestuous   storms  or   sad  a  fray: 
Lyke    as    when    Jove    with    fayre    Alcmena 

lay. 
When      he     begot     the     great      Tirynthian 

groome  : 
Or    lyke      as    when    he    with    thy    selfe    did 
lie,  330 

And    begot    Majesty. 
And   let   the   mayds   and  yongmen   cease   to 

sing: 
Ne  let  the   woods  them  answer,  nor   theyr 
eccho  ring. 

Let  no  lamenting  cryes,  nor  dolefull  teares, 
Be  heard  all  night  within,  nor  yet  without : 
Ne     let     false     whispers,     breeding     hidden 

feares,  336 

Breake     gentle     sleepe     with     misconceived 

dout. 
Let     no     deluding     dreames,     nor     dreadful 

sights, 
Make  sudden   sad  affrights ; 
Ne  let  house-fyres,  nor  lightnings   helplesse 

harmes,  340 

Ne  let  the  Pouke,  nor  other  evill  sprights, 
Ne     let     mischivous     witches     with     theyr 

charmes, 
Ne  let  hob  goblins,  names  whose  sense  we 

see   not. 
Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not. 
Let  not  the  shricch  oule,  nor  the  storke  be 

heard,  345 

Nor  the  night  raven  that  still  deadly  yels, 
Nor    damned    ghosts    cald    up    with    mighty 

spels, 
Nor  griesly  vultures  make  us  once  affeard : 
Ne    let    th'   unpleasant   quyre   of    frogs    still 

croking 
Make  us  to  wish  theyr  choking.  3So 

Let     none     of     these    theyr     drery     accents 

sing; 
Ne   let   the    woods   them   answer,   nor    theyr 

eccho   ring. 
g 


But     let     stil     Silence     trew     night     watches 

keepe, 
That  sacred   Peace  may  in  assurance   rayne. 
And     tymely     Sleep,     when     it     is     tynie     to 

sleepe,  355 

May  poure  his  limbs  forth  on  your  pleasant 

playne, 
The  whiles  an   hundred   little   winged   loves. 
Like  divers  fethercd  doves. 
Shall  fly  and  flutter  round  about  our  bed, 
And  in  the  secret  darke,  that  none  reproves. 
Their     prety     stealthcs     shall     worke,     and 

snares   shal    spread  361 

To  filch  away  sweet  snatches  of  delight, 
Conceald  through  covert  night. 
Ye   sonnes   of   Venus,    play  your    sports    at 

will: 
For  greedy  Pleasure,  careless  of  your  toyes, 
Thinks   more   upon   her  paradise  of  joyes. 
Then  what  ye  do,  albe  it  good  or  ill.        367 
All  night  therefore  attend  your  merry  play. 
For   it  will   soone   be   day : 
Now  none  doth  hinder  you,  that  say  or  sing, 
Ne    will    the    woods    now   answer,   nor   your 

eccho   ring.  371 

Who    is    the    same    which    at    my    window 

peepes? 
Or  whose  is  that   faire   face  that  shines   so 

bright  ? 
Is  it  not  Cinthia,   she  that  never   sleepes. 
But  walkes  about  high  heaven  al  the  night? 
O    fayrest  goddesse,   do  thou   not  envy    3"6 
My  love  with  me  to  spy: 
For    thou    likewise    didst    love,   though    now 

unthought, 
And   for  a  fleece  of  woll,  which   privily 
The     Latmian     shephard     once     unto     thee 

brought,  380 

His  pleasures  with 'thee  wrought. 
Therefore  to  us  be  favorable  now; 
And    sith    of    wemens    labours    thou    hast 

charge. 
And  generation  goodly  dost  enlarge, 
Encline  thy  will  t'  effect  our  wishful!   vow. 
And   the   chast   wombe   in  forme   with  timely 

seed,  386 

That  may  our  comfort  breed: 
Till  which  we  cease  our  hopefull  hap  to  sing, 
Ne  let  the  woods  us  answere,  nor  our  eccho 

ring. 

And    thou,    great    Juno,    which    with    awful 
might  390 

The  lawes  of  wedlock  still  dost  patronize. 
And  the  religion   of  the   faith  first  plight 
With  sacred  rites  hast  taught  to  solemnize. 
And  eeke  for  comfort  often  called  art 
Of  women  in  their  smart,  39S 


130 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Eternally   bind   tliuu   this  lovely  band, 
Anil   all  thy  blcshings  unto  us  inii)art. 
And  llioii,  glad  Genius,  in  whose  gentle  hand 
The  bridale  bowrc  and  geniall  bed  remaine, 
Without    blemish    or    staine.  4oo 

And    the    sweet     pleasures    of    theyr    loves 

delight 
With   secret   ayde  docst  succour  and  supply, 
Till  they  bring   forth  the  fruit  full  progeny, 
Send  us  the  timely  fruit  of  this  same  night. 
And    thou,    fayre    Hebe,    and    thou,    Hymen 

free,  4^5 

Grant  that  it  may  so  be. 
Til  which   we  cease  your  further  prayse  to 

sing. 
Ne  any  woods  .shal  answer,  nor  your  eccho 


And    ye    high    heavens,    the    temple    of    the 

gods,  409 

In  which  a  thousand  torches  flaming  bright 
Doe  burnc,  that  to  us  wretched  earthly  clods 
In   dreadful   darknesse   lend   desired   light. 
And  all   ye   powers   which   in   the   same  re- 

mayne, 
More  then  we  men  can  fayne, 
Poure  out  your  blessing  on  us  plentiously, 
And  happy  influence  upon  us  raine,  416 

That  we  may  raise  a  large  posterity. 
Which    from    the    earth,    which    they    may 

long  possesse 
With  lasting  happinesse, 

Up  to  your  haughty  pallaces  may  mount,  420 
And  for  the  guerdon  of  theyr  glorious  merit, 
May  heavenly  tabernacles  there  inherit, 
Of  blessed  saints  for  to  increase  the  count. 
So  let  us  rest,  sweet  love,  in  hope  of  this, 
And  cease  till  then  our  tymely  joyes  to  sing : 
The    woods    no    more    us    answer,    nor    our 

eccho  ring.  '  4^6 

Song,  made  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments 
With  which  my  love  should  duly  have  bene 

dect, 
Which  cutting  off  through  hasty  accidents, 
Ye  would  not  stay  your  dew  time  to  expect. 
But  promist  both  to  recompens,  431 

Be  unto  her  a  goodly  ornament. 
And  for  short  time  an  endlesse  moniment. 


PROTHALAMION 

Calme  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trem- 
bling ayrc 
Sweete  breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play, 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titans  beames,  which  then  did  glyster 
fayre : 


When  T,  whom  sullein  care,  5 

Through    discontent    of    my    long    fruitlesse 

stay 
In  princes  court,  and  expectation  vayne 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away, 
Like  empty  shaddowes,  did  aflict  my  brayne, 
Walkt  forth  to  ease  my  payne  10 

Along     the     shoare     of     silver     streaming 

Themmes ; 
Whose    rutty    banckc,    the    wliich    his    river 

hcmmes. 
Was  paynted  all  with  variable  flowers, 
And    all    the    meades    adornd    with    daintie 

gemmes. 
Fit  to  decke  maydens  bowres,  'S 

And  crowne  their  paramours, 
Against  the  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song. 

There,  in  a  meadow,  by  the  rivers  side, 
A  flocke  of  nymphes  I  chaunced  to  espy,    2< 
All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby. 
With  goodly  greenish  locks  all  loose  untyde. 
As  each  had  bene  a  bryde: 
And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 
Made  of  fine  twigs  entrayled  curiously,      25 
In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their 

flasket; 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously 
The  tender  stalkes  on  hye. 
Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  meadow  grew, 
They  gathered  some ;  the  violet  pallid  blew, 
The  little  dazie,  that  at  evening  closes,      3» 
The  virgin  lillie,  and  the  primrose  trew. 
With    store   of  vermeil   roses. 
To  decke  their  bridegromes  posies 
Against  the  brydale  day,  which  was  not 

long :  35 

Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song. 

With   that   I   saw  two   swannes   of   goodly 

hewe 
Come    softly    swimming    downe    along    the 

lee; 
Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see: 
The    snow   which    doth   the    top   of    Pindus 

strew  40 

Did  never  whiter  shew. 
Nor  Jove  himselfe,  when  he  a  swan  would 

be 
For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear : 
Yet  Leda  was,  they  say,  as  white  as  he, 
Yet    not    so    white    as    these,    nor    nothing 

nearer  45 

So  purely  white  they  were, 
That    even    the    gentle    streame,    the    which 

them  bare, 


Seem'cl  foule  to  them,  and  bad  his  billowes 

spare 
To    wet    their    silken     feathers,    least    they 

might 
Soyle  their  fayre  plumes  with  water  not  so 

fayre,  _  so 

And  marre  their  beauties  bright, 
That  shone  as  heavens  light. 
Against   their   brydale   day,    which   was    not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song. 

Eftsoones    the    nymphes,    which    now    had 

flowers  their  fill,  ss 

Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood, 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  christal  flood  ; 
Whom   when  they  sawe,  they  stood  amazed 

still. 
Their  wondring  eyes  to  fill. 
Them    seem'd    they    never    saw    a    sight    so 

fayre,  60 

Of    fowles    so    lovely,    that    they    sure    did 

deeme 
Them   heavenly   borne,   or   to   be   that    same 

payre 
Which  through  the  skie  draw  Venus  silver 

teeme ; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seeme 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seede,  65 

But  rather  angels  or  of  angels  breede : 
Yet    were    they   bred    of    Somers-heat,    they 

say, 
In    sweetest   season,   when   each   flower   and 

weede 
The  earth  did  fresh  aray ; 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day,  70 

Even   as  their  brydale  day,   which  was  not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song. 

Then    forth    they    all    out   of   their    baskets 

drew 
Great   store   of   flowers,   the  honour   of   the 

field. 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield. 
All    which    upon    those    goodly    birds    they 

threw,  76 

And  all  the  waves  did  strew. 
That     like     old     Peneus     waters     they     did 

seeme. 
When    downe    along    by    pleasant    Tempes 

shore, 
Scattred     with     flowres,     through     Thessaly 
they  streeme,  80 

That  they  appeare,  through  lillies  plenteous 

store. 
Like  a  brydes  chamber  flore. 


Two   of   those   nymphes,   meane    while,   two 

garlands  bound 
Of    freshest    flowres    which    in    that    mead 

they   found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array,       85 
Their    snowie    foreheads    therewithall    they 

crownd, 
Whil'st  one  did  sing  this  lay, 
Prepar'd  against  that  day, 
Against    their   brydale    day,    which   was   not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song.  90 

'  Ye  gentle  birdes,  the  worlds  faire  orna- 
ment. 

And  heavens  glorie,  whom  this  happie 
hower 

Doth  leade  unto  your  lovers  blissfull  bower, 

Joy  may  you  have  and  gentle  hearts  con- 
tent 

Of  your  loves  couplement:  9S 

And  let  faire  Venus,  that  is  Queene  of 
Love, 

With  her  heart-quelling  sonne  upon  you 
smile, 

Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  vertue  to 
remove 

All  loves  dislike,  and  friendships  faultie 
guile 

For  ever  to  assoile.  100 

Let  endlesse  peace  your  steadfast  hearts 
accord. 

And  blessed  plentie  wait  upon  your  lord ; 

And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chast 
abound. 

That   fruitfull   issue   may  to  you   afford, 

Which  may  your   foes  confound,  '05 

And  make  your  joyes  redound. 

Upon  your  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  run  softlie,  till  I  end 
my  song.' 

So  ended  she ;  and  all  the  rest  around 

To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong,       no 

Which    said,   their   bridale   daye    should   not 

be  long. 
And     gentle     Eccho     from     the     neighbour 

ground 
Their  accents  did  resound. 
So  forth  those  joyous  birdes  did  passe  along, 
Adowne    the    lee,    that    to    them    murmurde 

low,  115 

As    he    would    speake,   but    that    he    lackt    a 

tong, 
Yeat  did  by  signes  his  glad  affection  show, 
Making  his  streame  run   slow. 
And   all    the    foule    which    in    his    flood    did 

dwell 


^ 

Gan  Hock  about  these   twaiiic,  that  did  ex- 
cell  '-•" 

The  rest  so  far  as  Cyntliia  dotli   shend 
The  lesser  starres.     So  they,  cnraiiged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend, 
And  their  best  service  lend, 
Against   their   wedding  day,   which  was  not 
long:  »2s 

Swecte    Themnics,    run    softly,   till    I    end 
my  song. 

At   length   they  all  to  nicry  London  came, 
To  inory   London,  my  most   kyndly  nurse. 
That     to    me    gave    this     lifcs    first     native 

sourse: 
Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 
An  house  of  auncient  fame.  '.'■ 

There     when     they     came,     whereas     tliose 

bricky  towres, 
The  which   on   Themmes  brodc  aged  backc 

doe  ryde, 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their 

bowers. 
There   whylome  wont  the  Templer  Knights 

to  byde,  135 

Till  they  decayd  through  pride : 
Next     whereunto    there     standes    a    stately 

place. 
Where  oft  I  gayned  giftes  and  goodly  grace 
Of   that   great   lord   which   therein    wont    to 

dwell, 
Whose     want     too     well     now     feeles     my 

freendles  case:  14° 

But  ah !  here  fits  not  well 
Olde  woes,  but  joyes  to  tell, 
Against  the  bridale  daye,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song. 

Yet  therein,  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer, 
Great  Englands  glory  and  the  worlds  wide 

wonder,  146 

Whose    dread  full     name    late    through     all 

Spaine  did  thunder. 
And   Hercules  two  piJlors  standing  neere 
Did  make  to  quake  and  feare. 


CL-'iviuiM-'   ojrr:-iNC)i:,r\. 


Faire  branch  of  honor,  flower  of  chevalric. 
That     fillest    England    with    thy    triumphes 

fame,  'S' 

Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victorie, 
And     endlesse     happinesse    of    thine    owne 

name 
That  promiseth  the  same: 
That   through   thy  prowesse   and   victorious 

armes  i5S 

Thy   country    may    be    freed    from    forraine 

harmes  ; 
And  great  Elisaes  glorious  name  may  ring 
'ilirough   al   the  world,   fil'd   with   thy  wide 

alarmes. 
Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 
'I'o  ages   following,  160 

Upon  the  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song. 

Erom    those    high    towers    this    noble    lord 

issuing, 
Like  radiant  Hesper  when  his  golden  hayre 
In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fayre, 
Descended  to  the  rivers  open  vewing,       166 
With  a  great  traine  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  bee  scene 
Two    gentle    knights    of    lovely    face    and 

feature,  169 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  anie  queene, 
With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  nature. 
Fit  for  so  goodly  stature : 
That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in 

sight. 
Which  decke  the  bauldricke  of  the  heavens 

bright. 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  rivers  side. 
Received  those  two  faire  brides,  their  loves 

delight,  176 

Which,  at  th'  appointed  tyde. 
Each  one  did  make  his  bryde. 
Against    their    brydale    day,    which    is    not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 
my  song.  180 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 

As  a  whole,  the  brilliant  lyrical  pffluence  of  the  Elizabethan  period  may  fairly  be  regarded 
as  the  product  of  English  courtly  life,  and  particulnrly,  in  its  beginning,  the  product  of  the 
Renaissance  court  of  Henry  VIII.  Wyatt  and  Surrey  were  conspicuous  courtiers,  and 
scarcely  one  of  the  contributors  to  Tottd's  Miscellanij  (1557)  was  free  from  court  influence. 
An  inevitable  result  of  courtliness  in  literature  is  convention,  a  too  conscious  refinement,  and, 
often,  a  baffling  veil  of  literary  pretence.  These  qualities  are  salient  and  inherent  in  the 
Elizabethan  sonnet.  After  its  introduction  into  English  literature  by  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  and 
after  its  chastening  in  the  hands  of  Surrey  and  others,  this  poetical  form  was  first  used  in 
masterly  fashion  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney  in  his  AstropJicl  and  .S'fd/a,  the  earliest  sonnet  sequence 
in  English,  composed  a  goo<l  while  before  its  publication  in  1591.  During  the  decade  1590- 
1000,  the  sonnet  was,  apparently,  the  prevailing  literary  fashion,  a  fashion  to  which  Shakspere 
submitted  without  restraint.  Of  the  total  number  of  these  sonn(>ts, —  which  'far  exceeds  two 
thousand,' — the  larger  proportion  are  found  in  sonnet  collections,  or  sonnet  sequences,  of 
which  the  most  important,  after  those  of  Shakspere  and  Sidney,  are  the  following:  Delia 
(1592).  by  Samuel  Daniel;  Idea  (1.594),  by  Michael  Drayton;  and  Amoretti  (1595),  by 
Edmund  Spenser.  With  few  exceptions,  these  sonnets,  like  those  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey,  are 
imitations  of  Continental  models. 

But  since  lyric  is  essentially  the  expression  of  personal  emotion,  the  lyrist  inevitably  breaks 
out,  at  times,  into  a  frank,  intimate,  and  spontaneous  utterance  which  is  of  all  sorts  of  expres- 
sion the  most  immediately  pleasurable.  Free,  fresh,  and  various  are  the  lyrics  found  in  the 
series  of  miscellanies  which  began  with  TottcVs  MisceUani/,  and  continued  with  The  Paradise 
of  Dainty  Dericcs  (157G),  .1  Goryeous  Gallery  of  Gallant  Inventions  (1578),  A  Handful  of 
Pleasant  Delights  (15S4).  The  Phoenix'  Xcst  (1.59.3),  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  (1599),  Eng- 
land's Helicon  (1000),  and  Francis  Davison's  Poetical  Rhapsody  (1002).  In  one  or  other 
of  these  collections  are  represented  the  chief  lyrical  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  period. 

In  a  group  apart  from  the  lyrical  miscellanies,  though  not  conspicuously  different  from  some 
of  them  in  content,  may  be  reckoned  the  Elizabethan  song  books.  William  Byrd's  Psalms, 
i^onnets,  and  Songs  of  Sadness  and  Piety  (1.587)  and  Songs  of  Sundry  Natures  (1589)  were 
followed,  during  the  next  decade  or  two,  by  some  scores  of  similar  collections,  such  as  John 
Dowland's  The  First  Book  of  Songs  or  Airs  (1597),  and  Thomas  Campion's  A  Book  of  Airs 
(1(;01).  Along  with  the  songs  in  song  books  should  be  mentioned  those  that  delightfully 
enliven  many  of  the  plays  of  the  period,  eminently  those  of  Lyly  and  of  Shakspere. 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

(1525?-!  577) 

A  STRANGE  PASSION  OF  A  LOVER 

Amid  my  bale  I  bathe  in  bliss, 

I  swim  in  heaven,  I  sink  in  hell : 

I  find  amends  for  every  miss. 

And  yet  my  moan  no  tongue  can  tell. 

I  live  and  love,  what  would  you  more?        5 

As  never  lover  lived  before. 

I  laugh  sometimes  with  little  lust, 

So  jest  I  oft  and  feel  no  joy; 

Aline  eye  is  builded  all  on  trust, 

And  yet  mistrust  breeds  mine  annoy.  'c 


T  live  and  lack,  I  lack  and  have ; 
I   have  and  miss  the  thing  I  crave. 

These  things  seem  strange,  yet  are  they  true. 
Believe  me,  sweet,  my  state  is  such, 
One  pleasure   which   I   would   eschew,         is 
Both  slakes  my  grief  and  breeds  my  grutch. 
So  doth  one  pain  which  I  would  shun, 
Renew  my  joys  where  grief  begun. 

Then  like  the  lark  that  passed  the  night 
In  heavy  sleep  with  cares  opprest ;  20 

Yet  when  she  spies  the  pleasant  light. 
She  sends  sweet  notes  from  out  her  breast. 
So  sing  I  now  because  I  think 
How  joys  approach,  when  sorrows  shrink. 


^33 


134 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 


And  as  fair  Philomene  again  -5 

Can  watch  and  sing  when  others  sleep ; 

And  taketh  pleasure  in  her  pain, 

To  wray  the   woe  tliat  makes  her  weep. 

So  sing  I  now  for  to  bewray 

The  loathsome  life  I  lead  alway.  3o 

The  which  to  thee,  dear  wench,  I  write. 
That  know'st  my  mirth,  but  not  my  moan  : 

1   pray  God  grant  thee  deep  delight, 

To  live  in  joys  when  I  am  gone. 

I  cannot  live;  it  will  not  be:  3S 

I  die  to  think  to  part  from  thee. 


SIR  EDWARD  DYER  (i55o?-i6o7) 
MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 
Such  present  joys  therein  I  find 

That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That   earth   affords   or  grows  by  kind  : 

Though    much    I    want    which    most    would 
have,  5 

Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to   feed  a  loving  eye;  ^° 

To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall : 
For  why?     My  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  [surfeits]  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall ; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft  'S 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 

They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear : 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice ;  20 

I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies : 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king. 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  crave ;     2s 
I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 

They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have. 
And  I  am  rich  with  little  store: 

They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 

They  lack,  I  leave ;  they  pine,  I  live.  30 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  pain ; 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss ; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain : 
I   fear  no  foe,  I   fawn  no   friend ;  35 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end. 


Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust, 
Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will; 

Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust; 
A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill:      4° 

But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find 

Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease ; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence; 
I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please,  4S 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence: 
Thus  do  I  live;  thus  will  I  die; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 

(i552?-i6i8) 

THE  SILENT  LOVER 


Passions    are    likened    best    to    floods    and 
streams: 
The    shallow    murmur,    but    the    deep    are 
dumb. 
So,  when  affection  yields  discourse,  it  seems 
The   bottom   is   but    shallow   whence   they 
come. 
They  that  are  rich  in  words,  in  words  dis- 
cover 5 
That  they  are  poor  in  that  which  makes  a 
lover. 

11, 

Wrong  not,  sweet  empress  of  my  heart, 

The  merit  of  true  passion, 
With  thinking  that  he  feels  no  smart. 

That  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Silence  in  love  bewrays  more  woe  5 

Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty: 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know, 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  heart. 
My  true,  though  secret  passion;  10 

He  smarteth  most  that  hides  his  smart. 
And  sues  for  no  compassion. 


HIS  PILGRIMAGE 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet. 
My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon. 

My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet, 
My  bottle  of  salvation. 

My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gauge: 

And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 


Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer  ; 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given; 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  a  quiet  palmer, 

Traveleth  towards  the  land  of  heaven,     lo 
Over  the  silver  mountains, 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains. 
There  will  I  kiss 
The  bowl  of  bliss ; 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill  i5 

Upon  every  milken  hill. 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before ; 
But,  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 

Then  by  that  happy  blissful  day 

More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see, 

That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 

And  walk  appareled  fresh  like  me. 

I  '11  take  them  first, 

To  quench  their  thirst  24 

And  taste  of  nectar  suckets. 

At  those  clear  wells 

Where  sweetness  dwells. 
Drawn  up  by  saints   in  crystal  buckets. 

And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 
Are  filled  with  immortality,  30 

Then  the  blessed  paths  we  '11  travel, 
Strowed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel ; 
Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors, 
High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers. 

From  thence  to  heaven's  bribeless  hall. 
Where   no   corrupted  voices  brawl ; 
No   conscience  molten   into   gold ; 
No  forged  accuser  bought  or  sold ; 
No  cause  deferred,  no  vain-spent  journey, 
For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  attorney. 
Who  pleads  for  all,  without  degrees,  41 

And  he  hath  angels  but  no  fees. 

And  when  the  grand  twelve  million  jury 
Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury. 
Against  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 
Christ  pleads  his   death;   and  then  we  live. 

Be  Thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader ! 
Unblottcd   lawyer  !  true  proceeder  ! 
Thou  giv'st  salvation,  even   for  alms, 
Not  with  a  bribed   lawyer's  palms.  50 

And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 
To  him  that  made  heaven  and  earth  and  sea : 
That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon. 
And  want   a  head  to  dine  next  noon. 
Just  at  the  stroke,  when  my  veins  start  and 

spread. 
Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head!  56 

Then  am  I  ready,  like  a  palmer  fit. 
To  tread  those  blest  paths;  which  before  I 
writ. 


A   VISION    UPON    THIS    CONCEIT 
OF   THE  FAERY   QUEEN 

Methought    I    saw   the   grave   where   Laura 

lay. 
Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was   wont   to   burn:    and,   passing   by  that 

way. 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame. 
Whose    tomb    fair   Love    and    fairer    Virtue 

kept,  5 

All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen; 
At    whose    approach    the    soul    of    PetrarcH 

wept. 
And  from  thenceforth  those  graces  were  not 

seen, 
For    they    this    queen    attended ;    in    whose 

stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
Hereat    the    hardest    stones    were    seen    to 

bleed,  " 

And   groans    of   buried    ghosts    the   heavens 

did  pierce : 
W^here   Homer's    sprite   did   tremble   all    for 

grief. 
And  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 


THE  CONCLUSION 

Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust 

Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave. 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways,       S 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days : 
But   from   this  earth,  this   grave,  this   dust. 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 


GEORGE  PEELE  (i558?-i597?) 

SONG   FROM    THE    ARRAIGNMENT    OF 
PARIS 

CEnone.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair. 
As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 
A  love  for  any  lady. 
Paris.       Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair,     S 
As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone. 
And  for  no  other  lady. 
CEn.         My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay, 

As    fresh    as  bin   the   flowers   in 
May,  10 

And  of  my  love  my  roundelay. 
My  merry,  merry  roundelay. 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 


•  Tlicy  tlial  do  cliaiigc  old  love  for 
new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse !  ' 

Ambosimul.     They  that  do  change,  etc. 

CEn.         Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Par.         Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Thy  love  is  fair,  etc. 

CEn.  My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing. 

My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing. 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry  roundelays, 

Anicn  to  Cupid's  curse,— 
'They  that  do  change,'  etc.  =5 

Par.         They  that  do  change,  etc. 

Ambo.       Fair  and  fair,  etc. 


HARVESTMEN  A-SINGING 

From   THE   OLD   WIVES'   TALE 

All  ye  that  lovely  lovers  be, 

Pray  you  for  me : 

Lo,  here  we  come  a-sowing,  a-sowing, 

And  sow  sweet  fruits  of  love; 

In  your  sweet  hearts  well  may  it  prove  !     5 

Lo,  here  we  come  a-reaping,  a-reaping. 
To  reap  our  harvest-fruit ! 
And  thus  we  pass  the  year  so  long. 
And  never  be  we  mute. 


ROBERT  GREENE  (i56o?-i592) 

SONG  FROM   THE  FAREWELL  TO 
FOLLY 

Sweet  are   the  thoughts   that   savor   of   con- 
tent ; 
The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown ; 

Sweet    are    the    nights    in    careless    slumber 
spent ; 
The    poor    estate    scorns    fortune's    angry 
frown : 

Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep, 
such  bliss,  5 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbors  quiet  rest ; 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care ; 
The   mean    that    'grees    with    country    music 
best ; 
The   sweet  consort   of   mirth   and   music's 
fare;  '"' 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss: 
A    mind    content    both    crown    and   kingdom 
is. 


PHILOMELA'S  ODE 

From   PHILOMELA 

Sitting  by  a  river's  side. 

Where  a  silent  stream  did  glide, 

Muse  I  did  of  many  things 

That   the  mind   in   quiet  brings. 

I   gan  think  how  some  men  deem 

Gold  their  god ;  and  some  esteem 

Honor  is  the  chief  content 

That  to  man  in  life  is  lent. 

And   some  others  do  contend. 

Quiet  none  like  to  a  friend.  i° 

Others  hold  there  is  no  wealth 

Compared  to  a  perfect  health. 

Some  man's  mind  in  quiet  stands, 

When  he  is  lord  of  many  lands. 

But  I  did  sigh,  and  said  all  this 

Was  but  a  shade  of  perfect  bliss; 

And   in  my  thoughts  I   did  approve. 

Naught  so  sweet  as  is  true  love. 

Love    'twixt    lovers   passeth   these. 

When  nrouth  kisscth  and  heart  'grees,         -° 

With  folded  arms  and  lips  meeting. 

Each    soul   another    sweetly  greeting; 

For  by  the  breath  the  soul  fleeteth, 

And  soul  with  soul  in  kissing  meeteth. 

If  love  be  so  sweet  a  thing. 

That  such  happy  bliss  doth  bring, 

Happy  is  love's   sugared  thrall, 

But    unhappy   maidens    all, 

Who    esteem   your   virgin   blisses 

Sweeter   than   a  wife's   sweet  kisses.  3o 

No  such  quiet  to  the  mind 

As  true  love  with  kisses  kind ; 

But  if  a  kiss  prove  unchaste, 

Then  is  true  love  quite  disgraced. 

Though  love  be  sweet,  learn  this  of  me 

No  sweet  love  but  honesty. 


SONG  FROM  MENAPHON 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee. 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 
Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 
Father's   sorrow,   father's   joy; 
When  thy  father  first  did  see  S 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 
He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 
Fortune   changed  made  him   so, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy 
Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy.  '<> 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
Wlun  tlinn  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 


Streaming   tears   that   never   stint, 
Like  pearl-drops  from  a  flint, 
Fell  by  course   from  his  eyes,  '5 

That  one  another's  place  supplies : 
Thus   he  grieved   in   every  part. 
Tears  of  blood   fell   from  his  heart, 
When   he   left  his  pretty  boy. 
Father's   sorrow,   father's   joy.  -o 

Weep     not,     my    wanton,     smile    upon    my 

knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 
The  wanton   smiled,    father  wept, 
Mother  cried,  baby  leapt : 
More   he   crowed,   more   he   cried,         25 
Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide: 
He   must  go,  he  must  kiss 
Child   and  mother,  baby  bless. 
For  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 
Father's    sorrow,    father's   joy.  30 

Weep    not,     my    wanton,     smile     upon     my 

knee. 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 


SONG  FROM  MENAPHON 

Some   say  Love, 
Foolish    Love, 

Doth    rule   and   govern   all   the   gods : 
I  say  Love, 
Inconstant  Love,  s 

Sets  men's   senses   far  at  odds. 
Some  swear  Love, 
Smooth-faced  Love, 

Is  sweetest  sweet  that  men  can  have : 
I  say  Love,  'o 

Sour    Love, 

Makes   virtue  yield  as  beauty's   slave. 
A  bitter  sweet,  a   folly  worst  of  all. 
That   forceth  wisdom  to  be   folly's  thrall. 

Love  is  sweet,  '5 

Wherein   sweet  ? 

In    fading  pleasures  that   do  pain. 
Beauty  sweet : 
Is    that    sweet 

That  yieldeth  sorrow  for  a  gain?         20 
If   Love's   sweet, 
Herein    sweet. 

That   minutes'   joys   are   monthly   woes : 
'Tis  not  sweet. 
That   is   sweet  -5 

Nowhere   but    where    repentance   grows. 
Then  love  who  list,  if  beauty  be  so  sour ; 
Labor  for  me.  Love  rest  in  prince's  bower. 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    WIFE'S    SONG 

From  THE  MOURNING  GARMENT 

Ah,  what  is  love?     It  is  a  pretty  thing. 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king; 

And    sweeter    too : 
For    kings    have    cares    that    wait    upon    a 

crown, 
And   cares    can   make  the   sweetest   love    to 
frown. 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded,  he  comes  home  at 
night. 

As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight ;  "> 

And  merrier  too: 

For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  re- 
quire. 

Where  shepherds  careless  carol  by  the  fire. 
Ah   then,   ah  then. 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do 
gain,  15 

What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 
His  cream  and  curds  as  doth  the  king  his 

meat ; 

And    blither    too: 
For  kings   have  often   fears  when  they  do 

sup,  20 

Where   shepherds  dread  no  poison  in  their 

cup. 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain? 

To  bed  he  goes,  as  wanton  then,  I  ween,  25 
As  is  a  king  in  dalliance  with  a  queen; 

More  wanton  too : 
For  kings  have  many  griefs  affects  to  move. 
Where  shepherds  have  no  greater  grief  than 
love. 

Ah   then,  ah  then,  30 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain? 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound, 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  bed  of  down ; 

More   sounder  too  :  35 

For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to 

spill. 
Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their 
fill. 

Ah  then,   ah  then. 


If     country  loves     such     sweet    desires     do 

gain,  •^'' 

What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd 
swain? 

Thus   with  his   wife   he   spends  the  year,   as 

blithe 
As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  sithc; 

And    Mithcr   too : 
For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take   in 

hand 
When    shepherds    laugh    and    love   upon    the 

land. 

Ah   then,  ah   tlicn,  46 

If    country    loves     such     sweet     desires    do 

gain, 
What     lady     would     not     love     a     shepherd 

swain  ? 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 

(1561?-! 595) 

THE  BURNING   BABE 

As   I  in   hoary  winter's   night   stood   shiver- 
ing in  the  snow, 
Surprised    I    was    with    sudden    heat    which 

made  my  heart  to  glow  ; 
And   lifting  up   a  fearful  eye  to  view   what 

fire  was   near. 
A    pretty   babe,    all    burning    bright,    did    in 

the   air   appear. 
Who    scorched    with    exceeding    heat    such 

floods  of  tears  did  shed,  5 

As    though    his    floods    should    quench    his 

flames  with  what  his  tears  were  fed ; 
'  Alas !  '  quoth   he,  '  but  newly  born  in   fiery 

heats  I   fry, 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts  or 

feel   my   fire  but   I ! 
My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  is,  the  fuel 

wounding    thorns ; 
Love   is  the   fire   and   sighs  the   smoke,  the 

ashes  shame  and  scorns ;  10 

The     fuel    Justice    layeth     on,    and    Mercy 

blows  the  coals; 
The    metal    in    this     furnace    wrought    are 

men's  defiled   souls ; 
For  which,  as  now  on   fire   I   am,  to   work 

them   to   their  good, 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath,  to  wash  them  in 

my  blood :  ' 
With    this    he    vanished    out    of    sight,    and 

swiftly   shrunk   away,  '5 

And    straight    T    called    unto    mind    that    it 

was    Chrii-f mas-day. 


SAMUEL  DANIEL  (i 562-1619) 

SONNETS  FROM   DELIA 


Restore  thy  treasure  to  the  golden  ore ; 
Yield  Cytherea's  son  those  arcs  of  love: 
Bequeath  the  heavens  the  stars  that  I  adore ; 
And  to  the  orient  do  thy  pearls  remove. 
Yield     thy     hands'     pride     unto     the     ivory 

white ;  5 

To  Arabian  odors  give  thy  breathing  sweet ; 
Restore  thy  blush  unto  Aurora  bright ; 
To  Thetis  give  the  honor  of  thy  feet. 
Let  Venus  have  the  graces  she  resigned ; 
And    thy    sweet    voice   yield   to    Hermonius' 

spheres :  lo 

But  yet  restore  thy  fierce  and  cruel  mind 
To  Hyrcan  tigers  and  to  ruthless  bears. 
Yield  to  the  marble  thy  hard  heart  again ; 
So    shalt    thou    cease   to    plague    and    I    to 

pain. 


False  Hope  prolongs  my  ever  certain  grief, 
Traitor  to  me,  and   faithful  to  my  Love. 
A   thousand  times  it  promised  me  relief, 
Yet  never  any  true  effect   I   prove. 
Oft,  when  I  find  in  her  no  truth  at  all,     s 
I  banish  her,   and  blame  her  treachery: 
Yet,  soon  again,  I  must  her  back  recall. 
As   one  that  dies  without  her  company. 
Thus  often,  as  I  chase  my  Hope  from  me, 
Straightway,    she    hastes    her    unto    Delia's 

eyes:  i" 

Fed  with  some  pleasing  look,  there  shall  she 

be; 
And    so    sent   back.     And    thus   my    fortune 

lies. 
Looks   feed  my  Hope,  Hope   fosters  me  in 

vain; 
Hopes  are  unsure,  when  certain  is  my  pain. 


Oft  do  I  marvel,  whether  Delia's  eyes 

Are    eyes,    or    else    two    radiant    stars    that 

shine? 
For  how  could   Nature  ever  thus  devise 
Of   earth,  on   earth,  a  substance  so  divine? 
Stars,    sure,    they    are,    whose    motions    rule 
desires ;  5 

And  calm  and  tempest  follow  their  aspects : 
Their   sweet   appearing  still   such   power   in- 
spires. 
That    makes    the    world    admire    so    strange 

effects. 
Yet    whether   fixed   or   wandering   stars   are 
they. 


Whose   influence   rules   the   orb  of   my   poor 

heart?  lo 

Fixed,   sure,  they  are,   but   wandering,   make 

me    stray 
In  endless  errors,  whence  I  cannot  part. 
Stars,     then,     not     eyes,     move     you,     with 

milder   view. 
Your    sweet    aspect    on    him    that    honors 

you! 

XXXVIII 

Thou  canst  not  die,  whilst  any  zeal  abound 
In    feeling    hearts,    that    can    conceive    these 

lines : 
Though    thou,    a    Laura,    hast    no    Petrarch 

found ; 
In  base  attire,  yet,  clearly,  Beauty  shines. 
And   I,  though  born   within  a  colder  clime, 
Do  feel  mine  inward  heat  as  great,  I  know 

it.  6 

He    never    had    more    faith,    although    more 

rime : 
I  love  as  well,  though  he  could  better  show 

it. 
But  I  may  add  one  feather  to  thy  fame, 
To    help    her    flight    throughout    the    fairest 

Isle;  10 

And    if    my    pen    could    more    enlarge    thy 

name. 
Then    should'st    thou    live    in    an    immortal 

style. 
For  though  that  Laura  better  limned  be. 
Suffice,  thou  shalt  be  loved  as  well  as  she ! 


Care.-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to   Death,   in   silent   darkness   born : 
Relieve   my   anguish,   and   restore   the   light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return  ! 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn    5 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn. 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires. 
To   model    forth   the   passions   of   the   mor- 
row ;  10 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars. 
To    add    more   grief   to   aggravate   my    sor- 
row. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain ; 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 


Let  others  sing  of  Knights  and  Paladins 
In   aged    accents   and   untimely   words ; 
Paint    shadows   in   imaginary   lines 
Which    well    the    reach    of   their    high    wits 
records : 


But  I  must  sing  of  thee,  and  those  fair 
eyes  s 

Authentic   shall   my  verse   in  time   to  come ; 

When  yet  th'  unborn  shall  say,  '  Lo,  where 
she   lies 

Whose  beauty  made  him  speak  that  else 
was  dumb.' 

These  are  the  arcs,  the  trophies  I  erect. 

That   fortify  thy  name  against  old  age ;     >o 

And  these  thy  sacred  virtues  must  pro- 
tect 

Against  the  dark,  and  Time's  consuming 
rage. 

Though  the  error  of  my  youth  in  them  ap- 
pear, 

Suffice  they  show  I  lived  and  loved  thee 
dear. 


MTCHAEL  DRAYTON  (i 563-1631) 
SONNETS  FROM  IDEA 

TO    THE    READER    OF    THESE    SONNETS 

Into  these  loves,  who  but  for  passion  looks, 
At   this    first   sight,   here   let   him   lay   them 

by, 
And  seek  elsewhere  in  turning  other  books, 
Which  better  may  his  labor  satisfy. 
No    far-fetched    sigh   shall   ever   wound   my 

breast;  s 

Love    from    mine    eye    a    tear    shall    never 

wring ; 
Nor    in    '  Ah    me's  I '    my    whining    sonnets 

drest ! 
A  libertine!    fantasticly  I  sing! 
My  verse   is  the  true  image  of  my  mind. 
Ever  in  motion,  still  desiring  change ;         lo 
And    as   thus,   to   variety   inclined. 
So  in  all  humors  sportively  I  range ! 
My  Muse  is  rightly  of  the  English  strain. 
That  cannot  long  one   fashion  entertain. 


Bright  Star  of  Beauty,  on  whose  eyelids  sit 
A     thousand     nymph-like     and      enamored 

Graces, 
The  Goddesses  of  IMemory  and  Wit, 
Which    there    in    order    take    their    several 

places ; 
In  whose  dear  bosom,   sweet  delicious  Love 
Lays   down   his   quiver,    which   he   once   did 

bear,  6 

Since  he  that  blessed  paradise  did  prove; 
And   leaves   his   mother's   lap,   to   sport   him 

there. 
Let  others  strive  to  entertain  with  words! 
My  soul  is  of  a  braver  mettle  made :  lo 


140 


liLlZ,A15illliAi\    LYKH^b 


I   hold   that    vile,   wliiili    vulgar  wit   affords; 

in  me 's  that  failh  which  lime  catinot  in- 
vade ! 

Let  what  1  praise  he  still  made  good  hy 
you ! 

Be  you  most  worthy,  whilst  I  am  most 
true ! 


As  other  men,  so  I  myself,  do  muse 
Why    in    this    sort    I    wrest    invention    so? 
And  why   these   giddy  metaphors   I   use, 
Leaving  the  path  the  greater  part  do  go? 
I   will   resolve  you.     I   am   lunatic !  5 

And   ever  this  in   madmen  you   shall   find, 
What  they  last  thought  of,  when  the  brain 

grew   sick. 
In     most     distraction,     they     keep     that     in 

mind. 
Thus   talking  idly,   in   this   Bedlam  fit. 
Reason  and  I,  you  must  conceive,  are  twain; 
'Tis   nine   years   now,    since    first    I    lost    my 

wit.  II 

Bear  with   me,  then,  though  troubled  be  my 

brain  ! 
What    diet   and    correction,    men   distraught. 
Not    too    far    past,    may    to    their    wits    be 

brought. 


An    evil    Spirit    (your   Beauty)    haunts    me 

still, 
Wherewith,  alas,  I  have  been  long  possest ; 
Which   ceaseth   not   to   attempt    me   to    each 

ill. 
Nor   give  me   once,   but   one   poor   minute's 

rest. 
In  me  it  speaks,  whether  I  sleep  or  wake;  s 
.\nd  when  by  means  to  drive  it  out  I  try, 
With  greater  torments  then  it  me  doth  take, 
And  tortures  me  in  most  extremity. 
Before  my   face,  it  lays  down  my  despairs. 
And  hastes  me  on  unto  a  sudden  death;     lo 
Now  tempting  me  to  drown  myself  in  tears, 
And  then  in  sighing  to  give  up  my  breath. 
Thus   am   I   still   provoked   to   every  evil, 
By    this    good-wicked    Spirit,    sweet    Angel- 
Devil. 


Whilst  thus  my  pen  strives  to  eternize  thee, 
Age    rules    my    lines    with    wrinkles    in    my 

face. 
Where,  in  the  map  of  all  my  misery, 
Is  modeled  out  the  world  of  my  disgrace; 
Whilst  in  despite  of  tyrannizing  times,         S 
Medea-like,    I  make  thee  young  again. 


Proudly  thou   scorn'st  my   world-outwearing 

rimes, 
And    murdcr'st     Virtue    with    thy    coy    dis- 
dain ! 
And    though    in    youth    my    youth    untimely 

perish 
To  keep  thee  from  oblivion  and  the  grave, 
Ensuing  ages  yet  my  rimes  shall  cherish, 
Where    I    entombed,    my    better    part    shall 
save ;  12 

And  though  this  earthly  body  fade  and  die, 
]\Iy  name  shall  mount  upon  Eternity! 


Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and 

part! 
Nay,    I    have    done;    you    get    no    more    of 

me! 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad,  with  all  my  heart, 
That   thus   so   cleanly   I  myself   can   free. 
Shake     hands     for     ever!     Cancel     all     our 

vows ! 
And  when   we  meet  at  any  time  again,       5 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows, 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain! 
Now    at    the    last    gasp    of    Love's    latest 

breath, 
When,  his  pulse   failing,   Passion   speechless 

lies;  10 

When    Faith    is    kneeling    by    his    bed    of 

death, 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, — 
Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given 

him   over, 
From   death   to   life   thou   might'st   him   yet 

recover ! 


ODE    XI 

TO  THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE 

You  brave  heroic  minds. 
Worthy  .your  country's  name, 

That  honor  still  pursue; 

Go  and  subdue ! 
Whilst   loitering  hinds 
Lurk  here  at  home  with  shame. 

Britons,    you    stay    too    long ; 

Quickly  aboard  bestow  you ! 
And    with   a   merry   gale 
Swell  your   stretched   sail. 

With  vows  as  strong 

As  the  winds  that  blow  you! 

Your  course  securely  steer, 
West-and-by-south    forth   keep! 


Rocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals, 

IS 

A  poet's  brows                                         65 

When    Eolus   scowls, 

To  crown,  that  may  sing  there. 

You  need  not  fear. 

So  absolute  the  deep. 

Thy  Voyages  attend. 
Industrious  Hakluyt ! 

And,  cheerfully  at  sea, 

Whose  reading  shall  inflame 

Success  you   still  entice, 

20 

Men  to  seek  fame ;                                7° 

To  get  the  pearl  and  gold; 

And   much  commend 

And  ours  to  hold, 

To  after  times  thy  wit. 

Virginia, 

Earth's  only  Paradise. 

ODE  XII 

Where  Nature  hath  in  store 

25 

Fowl,  venison,  and  fish  ; 

TO   THE   CAMBRO-BRITONS    AND 

And  the  fruit ful'st  soil, — 

THEIR  HARP  HIS  BALLAD 

Without  your  toil, 

OF  AGINCOURT 

Three  harvests  more. 

All  greater  than  your  wish. 

30 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance ; 

And  the  ambitious  vine 

Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Crowns  with  his  purple  mass 

Longer  will  tarry; 

The  cedar  reaching  high 

But  putting  to  the  main,                          5 

To  kiss  the  sky, 

At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 

The  cypress,  pine. 

35 

With  all  his  martial  train 

And  useful  sassafras. 

Landed   King  Harry. 

To  whom,  the  Golden  Age 

And  taking  many  a   fort. 

Still  Nature's  laws  doth  give: 

Furnished   in   warlike  sort,                        1° 

Nor  other  cares  attend, 

Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

But  them  to  defend 

40 

In  happy  hour; 

From  winter's  rage. 

Skirmishing,  day  by  day. 

That  long  there  doth  not  live. 

With  those  that  stopped  his  way. 
Where  the  French  general  lay               is 

When  as  the  luscious  smell 

With  all  his  power. 

Of  that  delicious  land. 

Above  the  seas  that  flows, 

45 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 

The  clear  wind  throws. 

King  Henry  to  deride, 

Your  hearts  to  swell. 

His  ransom  to  provide. 

Approaching  the  dear  strand. 

To  the  King  sending;                           2« 
Which  he  neglects   the   while. 

In  kenning  of  the  shore 

As  from  a  nation  vile. 

(Thanks  to  God  first  given!) 

SO 

Yet,  with  an  angry  smile. 

0  you,  the  happiest  men. 

Their  fall  portending. 

Be   frolic  then  ! 

Let  cannons  roar. 

And  turning  to  his  men,                        aS 

Frightening  the  wide  heaven! 

Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then: 
'  Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

And  in  regions  far, 

55 

Be  not  amazed ! 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth 

Yet  have  we  well  begun: 

As  those  from  whom  we  came! 

Battles   so  bravely  won                           3o 

And   plant  our   name 

Have  ever  to  the  sun 

Under  that  star 

By  Fame  been  raised! 

Not  known  unto  our  North! 

6o 

'  And  for  myself,'  quoth  he, 

And  as  there  plenty  grows 

'  This  my  full  rest  shall  be : 

The  laurel  everywhere. 

England  ne'er  mourn   for  me,              35 

Apollo's  sacred  tree 

Nor  more  esteem  me ! 

You  may  it  see 

Victor  I  will  remain, 

142 


111^1/-^  nc  1  rnriiN    i^  i  xviv^o 


Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain : 
Never  shall  she  sustain 
Loss  to   redeem   me ! 

'  Poitiers  ami   Crcssy  tell. 

When    most    their    pride   did    swell, 

Under   our   swords    they    fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is. 
Than   when   our  (jrandsirc  great, 
ClaimiuR   the   resjal   scat, 
By   many   a    warlike    feat 

Lopped   the   French   lilies.' 

The   Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager   vanward   led ; 
With   the  main,  Henry   sped 

Amongst    his   henchmen ; 
Exeter  had  the   rear, 
A   braver   man   not  there ! 
O   Lord,   how   hot   they  were 

On  the   false   Frenchmen! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone; 
Armor  on  armor   shone; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan  : 

To   hear,   was   wonder; 
That,   with  the  cries   they  make. 
The   very   earth    did    shake ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake; 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well   it   thine   age  became, 
O   noble   Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ! 
When,    from    a   meadow   by. 
Like   a   storm   suddenly. 
The  English  archery 

Stuck   the   French   horses. 

With   Spanish  yew  so   strong; 
Arrows   a  cloth-yard   long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing   the   weather. 
None   from  his   fellow  starts; 
But,   playing   manly   parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilboes  drew. 
And  on  the   French   they  flew: 

Not  one  w-as  tardy. 
Arms   were    from    shoulders    sent. 
Scalps   to  the  teeth   were   rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went : 

Our   men   were   hardy. 


This   while   our   noble    King, 
His  broad   sword  brandishing. 
Down   the    French   host   did   ding. 

As  to  o'erwhelm   it. 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent ; 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
.\nd   many  a   cruel   dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,    that    duke    so    good. 
Next   of   the   royal   blood, 
For   famous   England   stood 

With  his  brave  brother. 
Clarence,   in   steel   so  bright. 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that   furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another ! 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade; 
Oxford,  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply; 
Beaumont   and    Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily; 

Ferrers,  and  Fanhopc. 

Upon   Saint   Crispin's   Day 
Fought  was  this  noble   fray; 
Which    Fame   did   not   delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O,  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such   a    King   Harry? 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

(1 564- 1 593) 

HERO  AND  LEANDER 

From   THE  FIRST  SESTLA.D 

On   Hellespont,  guilty  of  true  love's  blood, 
In  view  and  opposite  two  cities  stood. 
Sea-borderers,       disjoined       by       Neptune's 

might ; 
The  one  Abydos,  the  other  Sestos  bight. 
At  Sestos  Hero  dwelt;  Hero  the  fair,  s 

Whom  young  Apollo  courted   for  her  hair. 
And  offered  as  a  dower  his  burning  throne. 
Where  she  should  sit,  for  men  to  gaze  upon. 
The  outside  of  her  garments  were  of  lawn. 
The     lining     purple     silk,     with     gilt     stars 

drawn ;  10 


«^nKi:5  lumnK  makluwh 


143 


Her  wide  sleeves  green,  and  bordered  with 

a  grove, 
Where  Venus  in   her  naked  glory  strove 
To  please  the  careless  and  disdainful  eyes 
Of  proud  Adonis,  that  before  her  lies; 
Her  kirtle  blue,  whereon  was  many  a   stain, 
Made    with    the    blood    of    wretched    lovers 

slain.  16 

Upon  her  head  she  ware  a  myrtle  wreath, 
From     whence     her     veil     reached     to     the 

ground  beneath ; 
Her  veil  was  artificial  flowers  and  leaves, 
Whose    workmanship    both    man    and    beast 

deceives.  20 

Many  would  praise  the   sweet  smell   as   she 

past. 
When  'twas  the  odor  which  her  breath  forth 

cast : 
And   there,    for   honey,   bees  have   sought   in 

vain, 
And,   beat    from   thence,   have   lighted   there 

again. 
About    her    neck    hung    chains    of    pebble- 
stone, 25 
Which,    lightened    by    her    neck,    like    dia- 
monds shone. 
She    ware   no   gloves ;    for   neither    sun    nor 

wind 
Would    burn    or    parch    her    hands,    but,    to 

her  mind. 
Or   warm  or  cool  them,    for  they  took  de- 
light 
To    play    upon    those   hands,    they    were    so 

white.  30 

Buskins  of  shells,  all  silvered,  used  she, 
And    branched    with    blushing    coral    to    the 

knee ; 
Where    sparrows    perched    of    hollow    pearl 

and  gold. 
Such  as  the  world  would  wonder  to  behold : 
Those   with   sweet  water   oft  her  handmaid 

f^lls,  35 

Which  as  she  went,  would  chirrup  through 

the  bills. 
Some  say,  for  her  the  fairest  Cupid  pined. 
And,    looking    in    her    face,    was    strooken 

blind. 
But  this  is  true ;  so  like  was  one  the  other. 
As   he   imagined   Hero   was   his   mother;     4° 
And  oftentimes  into  her  bosom  flew. 
About  her  naked  neck  his  bare  arms  threw, 
And  laid  his  childish  head  upon  her  breast. 
And,  with  still  panting  rock,  there  took  his 

rest. 
So  lovely- fair  was  Hero,  Venus'  nun,  45 

As   Nature  wept,   thinking   she   was   undone. 
Because  she  took  more   from  her  than   she 

left. 
And  of  such  v/ondrous  beauty  her  bereft : 


Therefore,     in     sign     her    treasure     suffered 

wrack. 
Since  Hero's  time  hath  half  the  world  been 

black.  50 

.Amorous    Leander,    beautiful    and   young 
( A\'hose   tragedy   divine   Musseus   sung). 
Dwelt    at    Abydos ;    since    him    dwelt    there 

none 
For    whom    succeeding    times    make    greater 

moan. 
His  dangling  tresses,  that  were  never  shorn. 
Had  they  been  cut,  and  unto  Colchos  borne. 
Would  have  allured  the  venturous  youth  of 

Greece  57 

To  hazard  more  than  for  the  golden  fleece. 
Fair  Cynthia  wished  his  arms  might  be  her 

sphere ; 
Grief    makes    her    pale,    because    she    moves 

not  there.  60 

His  body  was  as  straight  as  Circe's  wand ; 
Jove   might   have   sipt   out   nectar   from   his 

hand. 
Even  as  delicious  meat  is  to  the  taste, 
So  was  his  neck  in  touching,  and  surpast 
The  white  of  Pelops'  shoulder:  I  could  tell 

ye,  65 

How  smooth  his  breast  was,  and  how  white 

his  belly; 
And  whose  immortal  fingers  did  imprint 
That    heavenly    path    with    many    a    curious 

dint 
That  runs  along  his  back;  but  my  rude  pen 
Can  hardly  blazon  forth  the  loves  of  men, 
Much   less   of   powerful   gods :    let   it   suffice 
That    my    slack    Muse    sings    of    Leander's 

eyes ;  72 

Those  orient  cheeks  and  lips,  exceeding  his 
That  leapt  into  the  water  for  a  kiss 
Of  his  own   shadow,  and,  despising  many, 
Died  ere  he  could  enjoy  the  love  of  any.  76 
Had   wild   Hippolytus   Leander   seen. 
Enamored  of  his  beauty  had  he  been. 
His  presence  made  the  rudest  peasant  melt, 
That  in  the  vast  uplandish   country  dwelt ; 
The     barbarous     Thracian     soldier,     moved 

with  naught,  81 

Was    moved    with    him,    and    for    his    favor 

sought. 
Some  swore  he  was  a  maid  in  man's  attire. 
For  in  his  looks  were  all  that  men  desire. — 
A  pleasant-smiling  cheek,  a  speaking  eye.  85 
A  brow  for  love  to  banquet  royally; 
And   such   as   knew   he   was   a   man,    would 

say, 
'Leander.  thou  art  made  for  amorous  play; 
Why  art  thou  not  in  love,  and  loved  of  all? 
Though   thou  be   fair,  yet  be  not  thine  own 

thrall.'  90 

The  men  of  wealthy  Sestos  every  year. 


144 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 


For    his    sake    whom    their   goddess   held    so 

dear, 
I'iose-chceked   Adonis,  kept  a   soleniii   feast. 
I  hither  resorted  many  a  wandering  guest 
To   meet  their   loves;   such  as   had   none   at 

all,  95 

Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival ; 
For  every  street,  like  to  a  firmament, 
Glistered   with   hreathing   stars,  who,   where 

they  went, 
Frighted      the      melancholy      earth,      which 

deemed 
Eternal  heaven  to  burn,  for  so  it  seemed  'oo 
As  if  another  Phaeton  had  got 
The  guidance  of  the  sun's  rich  chariot. 
But,   far  above  the  loveliest.  Hero   shincd, 
And  stole  away  th'  enchanted  gazer's  mind ; 
For    like    sca-nymphs'    inveigling    harmony, 
So  was  her  beauty  to  the  standers  by;      >o6 
Nor  that  night-wandering,  pale,  and  watery 

star 
(When   yawning   dragons   draw   her  thirling 

car 
From  Latmus'  mount  up  to  the  gloomy  sky. 
Where,    crowned     with    blazing    light     and 

majesty,  no 

She  proudly  sits)   more  over-rules  the  flood 
Than  she  the  hearts  of  those  that  near  her 

stood. 
Even    as,    when    gaudy   nymphs    pursue    the 

chase. 
Wretched    Ixion's   shaggy-footed    race. 
Incensed  with  savage  heat,  gallop  amain  n5 
From    steep    pine-bearing   mountains   to   the 

plain. 
So  ran  the  people  forth  to  gaze  upon  her. 
And  all  that  viewed  her  were  enamored  on 

her. 
And  as,  in   fury  of  a  dreadful  fight. 
Their  fellows  being  slain  or  put  to  flight. 
Poor    soldiers     stand    with     fear    of    death 

dead-strooken,  121 

So  at  her  presence  all  surprised  and  tooken. 
Await  the  sentence  of  her  scornful  eyes; 
He  whom  she  favors  lives;  the  other  dies. 
There    might    you    see    one    sigh ;    another 

rage;  i-^s 

And  some,  their  violent  passions  to  assuage. 
Compile   sharp   satires;   but,   alas,   too   late! 
For   faithful   love   will   never   turn   to  hate. 
And     many,      .seeing     great      princes      were 

denied, 
Pined    as    they    went,    and    thinking    on    her 

died.  I. so 

On     this     feast-day  — O     cursed     day     and 

hour ! — 


Went     Hero     thorough     Sestos,     from     her 

tower 
'I'o   Venus'   lenii)ie,   where   unhappily, 
.'\s     after     clianeed,     they     did     each     (jther 

spy. 
So  fair  a  church  as  this  had  Venus  none : 
The  walls  were  of  discolored  jasper-stone. 
Wherein     was     Proteus    carved ;    and    over- 
head '37 
A   lively  vine  of  green   sea-agate   spread, 
Where    by   one    hand    light-headed    Bacchus 

hung, 
And   with  the  other   wine   from  grapes   out- 
wrung.  140 
Of  crystal   shining   fair  the  pavement   was; 
The  town  of  Sestos  called  it  Venus'  glass: 
There    might    you    see    the    gods    in    sundry 

shapes, 
Committing  heady   riots,   incest,   rapes: 
*     *     * 

Blood-quaffing      Mars,      heaving      the      iron 

net,  14.=; 

Which  limping  Vulcan  and  his  Cyclops  set : 
Love   kindling   fire,   to   burn    such   towns   as 

Troy: 
Silvanus  weeping   for  the  lovely  boy 
That  now  is  turned  into  a  cypress-tree. 
Under    whose     shade    the    wood-gods    love 

to  be.  ISO 

And  in  the  midst  a  silver  altar  stood : 
There  Hero,  sacrificing  turtles'  blood. 
Vailed    to    the    ground,    veiling    her    eyelids 

close; 
And  modestly  they  opened  as  she  rose. 
Thence   flew  Love's  arrow   with  the  golden 

head;  iSS 

And  thus  Leander  was  enamored. 
Stone-still  he  stood,  and  evermore  he  gazed, 
Till    with    the    fire    that    from    his    counte- 
nance blazed 
Relenting  Hero's   gentle  heart   was   strook: 
Such    force    and    virtue    hath    an    amorous 

look.  160 

It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-ruled  by   fate. 
When    two    are    stript    long    ere    the    course 

begin. 
We    wish    that    one    should    lose,    the    other 

win  ; 
And  one  especially  do  we  affect  165 

Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect: 
The  reason  no  man  knows,  let  it   suffice. 
What   we   behold   is   censured   by  our   eyes. 
Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is   slight: 
Who    ever    loved,    that    loved    not    at    first 

sight?  170 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 
(1564-1616) 

From  VENUS  AND  ADONIS 

Lo,   here   the   gentle   lark,   weary   of   rest, 
From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high. 
And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver 

breast 
The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty; 
Who  doth  the  world  so  glorious  behold     s 
That  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem  burnished 
gold. 

Venus  salutes  him  with  this  fair  good-mor- 
row: 
'  O  thou  clear  god,  and  patron  of  all  light, 
From    whom    each    lamp    and    shining    star 

doth  borrow 
The    beauteous    influence    that    makes    him 
bright,  10 

There  lives  a  son  that  sucked  an  earthly 

mother, 
May  lend  thee  light,  as  thou  dost  lend  to 
other. 

This  said,  she  hasteth  to  a  myrtle  grove. 

Musing  the  morning  is  so  much  o'erworn. 

And  yet  she  hears  no  tidings  of  her  love:  '5 

She    hearkens    for   his   hounds    and   for   his 

horn : 

Anon    she    hears   them    chant   it    lustily, 

And  all  in  haste  she  coasteth  to  the  cry. 

And  as  she  runs,  the  bushes  in  the  way 
Some  catch  her  by  the  neck,  some  kiss  her 
face,  20 

Some    twine   about   her   thigh   to   make   her 

stay: 
She   wildly  breaketh    from   their   strict   em- 
brace. 
Like    a    milch    doe,    whose    swelling    dugs 

do  ache, 
Hasting   to    feed   her   fawn   hid   in    some 
brake. 

By  this,  she  hears  the  hounds  are  at  a  bay; 

Whereat    she   starts,   like  one   that   spies   an 

adder  26 

Wreathed  up  in  fatal  folds  just  in  his  way. 

The  fear  whereof  doth  make  him  shake  and 

shudder ; 

Even     so    the    timorous     yelping    of    the 

hounds 
Appals    her    senses    and    her    spirit    con- 
founds. 30 

For  now  she  knows  it  is  no  gentle  chase. 
But    the    blunt    boar,    rough    bear,    or    lion 
proud. 


Because  the  cry  remaineth  in  one  place. 
Where    fearfully  the   dogs   exclaim   aloud : 
Finding  their   enemy  to  be   so   curst,       35 
They    all    strain    courtesy    who    shall    cope 
him  first. 

This  dismal  cry  rings  sadly  in  her  ear, 
Through    which    it    enters    to    surprise    her 

heart ; 
Who,  overcome  by  doubt  and  bloodless  fear. 
With   cold-pale   weakness   numbs   each    feel- 
ing part :  40 
Like    soldiers,    when    their    captain    once 

doth  yield. 
They    basely    fly    and    dare    not    stay    the 
field. 

Thus  stands  she  in  a  trembling  ecstasy ; 
Till,  cheering  up  her  senses  all  dismayed. 
She  tells  them  'tis  a  causeless  fantasy,       45 
And  childish  error,  that  they  are  afraid; 
Bids  them   leave  quaking,  bids   them   fear 

no  more : — 
And  with  that  word  she  spied  the  hunted 
boar. 

Whose    frothy    mouth,    bepainted    all    with 

red. 
Like  milk  and  blood  being  mingled  both  to- 
gether, 50 
A     second     fear     through     all     her     sinews 

spread. 
Which    madly    hurries    her    she    knows    not 
whither : 
This  way  she  runs,  and  now  she  will   no 

further, 
But    back    retires    to    rate    the    boar    for 
murther. 

A    thousand    spleens    bear    her    a    thousand 
ways :  55 

She  treads  the  path  that  she  untreads  again; 
Her  more  than  haste  is  mated  with  delays. 
Like  the  proceedings  of  a  drunken  brain. 
Full    of    respects,    yet    naught    at    all    re- 
specting ; 
In    hand    with    all    things,    naught    at    all 
effecting.  60 

Here    kenneled     in     a    brake     she    finds     a 

hound. 
And  asks  the  weary  catitiff  for  his  master, 
And  there  another  licking  of  his  wound. 
'  Gainst    venomed    sores    the    only    sovereign 
plaster : 
And  here  she  meets  another  sadly  scowl- 
ing 65 
To  whom  she  speaks,  and  he  replies  with 
howling. 


I40 


ELlZABElJriAN    LYKlLb 


When    he    hath    ceased    his    ill-resounding 

noise, 
Another    llap-inouthcd    mourner,    black    and 

grim. 
Against   the  welkin  volleys  out  his  voice. 
Another  and  another  answer  him,  7° 

Clapping   their   proud   tails   to   the   ground 

below, 
Shaking  their  scratched  ears,  bleeding  as 
they  go. 

Look,    how    the    world's    poor    people    are 

amazed 
At   apparitions,  signs,  and  prodigies, 
Whereon  with   fearful  eyes  they  long  have 
gazed,  75 

Infusing  them  with  dreadful  prophecies; 
So   she   at  these   sad   signs  draws  up   her 

breath 
y\nd  sighing  it  again,  exclaims  on  Death. 

'  Hard-favored  tyrant,  ugly,  meager,  lean. 
Hateful   divorce  of  love/ — thus   chides   she 
Death,—  80 

'  Grim-grinning    ghost,    earth's    worm,    what 

dost  thou  mean 
To  stifle  beauty  and  to  steal  his  breath. 
Who     when     he     lived,     his     breath     and 

beauty  set 
Gloss  on  the  rose,  smell  to  the  violet? 

'If  he  be  dead, —  O  no,  it  cannot  be,        85 
Seeing   his   beauty,  thou    shouldst    strike    at 

it:— 
O  yes,  it  may;  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see, 
But  hatefully  at  random  dost  thou  hit. 
Thy  mark  is  feeble  age,  but  thy  false  dart 
Mistakes    that    aim    and    cleaves    an    in- 
fant's heart.  90 


'Hadst  thou  but   bid   beware,  then  he  had 

spoke. 
And,   hearing  him,  thy  power  had   lost  his 

power. 
The     Destinies     vi^ill     curse    thee     for    this 

stroke ; 
They  bid  thee  crop  a  weed,  thou  pluck'st  a 
flower : 
Love's  golden  arrow  at  him  should  have 
fled,  95 

And  not  Death's  ebon  dart,  to  strike  him 
dead. 

'  Dost  thou  drink  tears,  that  thou  provok'st 

such  weeping? 
What  may  a  heavy   groan   advantage   thee? 
Why  hast  thou  cast  into  eternal  sleeping 
Those    eyes    that    taught    all    other    eyes    to 


Now    Nature    cares    not    for    thy    mortal 

vigor. 
Since   her   best   work   is   ruined   with   thy 

rigor.' 

Here  overcome,  as  one  full  of  despair, 
She    vailed    her    eyelids,    who,    like    sluices, 

St  opt 
The   crystal   tide  that   from   her   two   cheeks 
fair  '"5 

In   the   sweet  channel  of  her  bosom  dropt ; 
But    through    the    flood-gates    breaks    the 

silver   rain, 
And    with    his   strong   course    opens   them 
again. 

O,   how   her   eyes   and   tears  did   lend   and 

borrow ! 
Her  eyes  seen  in  the  tears,  tears  in  her  eye; 
Both     crystals,     where     they     viewed     each 

other's   sorrow, 
Sorrow    that    friendly   sighs    sought    still   to 
dry:  ''^ 

But    like    a   stormy  day,   now    wind,    now 

rain. 
Sighs   dry   her   cheeks,   tears   make   them 
wet  again. 

Variable  passions  throng  her  constant  woe, 
As    striving    who    should    best    become    her 
grief;  "^ 

All  entertained,  each  passion  labors  so. 
That  every  present   sorrow   seemeth  chief. 
But   none   is   best :    then   join   they   all   to- 
gether. 
Like    many    clouds    consulting    for    foul 
weather.  i^o 

By  this,    far  off'   she  hears   some  huntsman 

hallo; 
A   nurse's    song   ne'er   pleased    her   babe    so 

well : 
The  dire   imagination   she   did    follow 
This  sound  of  hope  doth  labor  to  expel ; 
For  now  reviving  joy  bids  her  rejoice,  '-5 
And  flatters  her  it   is  Adonis'  voice. 

Whereat  her  tears  began  to  turn  their  tide, 
Being    prisoned    in    her    eye    like    pearls    in 

glass ; 
Yet  sometimes  falls  an  orient  drop  beside, 
Which     her     cheek     melts,     as     scorning     it 
should  pass,  u^ 

To    wash    the    foul    face    of    the    sluttish 

ground. 
Who    is    hut    drunken    when    she    seemeth 
drowned. 


0  hard-believing  love,  how  strange  it  seems 
Not  to  believe,  and  yet  too  credulous ! 

Thy    weal    and    woe   are   both   of   them   ex- 
tremes; 135 
Despair  and   hope  makes  thee  ridiculous : 
The  one  doth  flatter  thee  in  thoughts  un- 
likely, 
In    likely    thoughts    the    other    kills    thee 
quickly. 

Now   she   unweaves  the  web  that    she   hath 

wrought ; 
Adonis  lives,  and  Death  is  not  to  blame; 
It  was  not  she  that  called  him  all  to  naught: 
Now  she  adds  honors  to  his  hateful  name ; 
She  clepes  him  king  of  graves  and  grave 
for  kings,  '43 

Imperious  supreme  of  all  mortal  things. 

'  No,    no,'   quoth    she,    '  sweet    Death,    I    did 
but  jest;  i4S 

Yet  pardon  me  I  felt  a  kind  of  fear 
When-as  I  met  the  boar,  that  bloody  beast, 
Which  knows  no  pity,  but  is  still  severe ; 
Then,  gentle  shadow, —  truth   I  must  con- 
fess,— 
I   railed   on   thee,    fearing   my   love's   de- 
cease. 150 

"Tis  not  my  fault:  the  boar  provoked  my 

tongue ; 
Be  wreaked  on  him,  invisible  commander ; 
'Tis  he,   foul  creature,  that  hath  done  thee 

wrong ; 

1  did  but  act,  he's  author  of  thy  slander; 
Grief     hath     two     tongues,     and     never 

woman  yet  '5S 

Could  rule  them  both  without  ten  women's 
wit.' 

Thus  hoping  that  Adonis  is  alive, 
Her  rash   suspect  she  doth  extenuate ; 
And  that  his  beauty  may  the  better  thrive. 
With  Death  she  humbly  doth  insinuate;  160 
Tells  him  of  trophies,  statues,  tombs,  and 

stories; 
His     victories,     his     triumphs,     and     his 
glories. 

'  O  Jove,'  quoth  she,  '  how  much  a  fool  was 

I 
To  be  of  such  a  weak  and  silly  mind 
To  wail  his  death  who  lives  and  must  not 
die  i6s 

Till  mutual  overthrow  of  mortal  kind ! 
For    he    being   dead,    with   him    is   beauty 

slain. 
And,    beauty    dead,    black    chaos    comes 
again. 


'  Fie,  fie,  fond  love,  thou  art  as  full  of  fear 

As   one   with   treasure   laden,   hemmed   with 

thieves;  170 

Trifles,  unwitnessed  with  eye  or  ear. 

Thy    coward    heart    with     false    bethinking 

grieves.' 

Even    at    this    word    she    hears    a    merry 

horn. 
Whereat  she  leaps  that  was  but  late  for- 
lorn. 

As  falcon  to  the  lure,  away  she  flies;  '75 
The    grass    stoops    not,    she   treads   on    it   so 

light ; 
And  in  her  haste  unfortunately  spies 
The    foul   boar's    conquest   on   her    fair   de- 
light ; 
Which   seen,   her   eyes,  as   murdered   with 

the  view. 
Like    stars    ashamed    of    day,    themselves 
withdrew;  i8o 

Or,  as  the  snail,  whose  tender  horns  being 

hit, 
Shrinks    backward    in    his    shelly   cave    with 

pain. 
And  there,  all  smothered  up,  in  shade  doth 

sit, 
Long  after  fearing  to  creep  forth  again ; 
So,  at  his  bloody  view,  her  eyes  are  fled 
Into  the  deep  dark  cabins  of  her  head:  186 

Where    they    resign    their    office    and    their 

light 

To  the  disposing  of  her  troubled  brain ; 

Who  bids  them  still  consort  with  ugly  night. 

And    never    wound    the    heart    with    looks 

again ;  190 

Who,  like  a  king  perplexed  in  his  throne, 

By  their  suggestion  gives  a  deadly  groan, 

Whereat   each  tributary   subject   quakes; 
As     when     the     wind,     imprisoned     in     the 

ground. 
Struggling    for    passage,    earth's    foundation 
shakes,  '95 

Which   with   cold   terror   doth   men's   minds 
confound. 
This  mutiny  each  part  doth  so  surprise 
That    from    their    dark    beds    once    more 
leap  her  eyes ; 

And,  being  opened,  threw  unwilling  light 
Upon    the    wide    wound    that    the    boar   had 

trenched  -^oo 

In  his  soft  flank;  whose  wonted  lily  white 
With    purple    tears,    that    his    wound    wept, 

was  drenched. 


148 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 


No  flower  was  nigh,  no  grass,  herb,  leaf, 

or  weed, 
But  stole  his  blood  and  scorned  with  him 

to  bleed.  -04 

This  solemn  sympathy  poor  Venus  noteth ; 
Over  one  shoulder  doth  she  hang  her  head ; 
Dumbly   she   passions,    franticly   she   doteth ; 
She  thinks  he  could  not  die,  he  is  not  dead: 
Her   voice    is    stopt,    her   joints    forget   to 

bow ; 
Her   eyes   are   mad    that    they   have    wept 
till  now.  210 

Upon  his  hurt  she   looks  so  steadfastly, 
That   her   sight   dazzling  makes   the   wound 

seem  three; 
And  then  she  reprehends  her  mangling  eye. 
That   makes   more  gashes   where   no   breach 
should  be: 
His    face   seems   twain,   each   several   limb 
is  doubled;  215 

For  oft   the   eye   mistakes,    the   brain   be- 
ing troubled. 

'  My    tongue    cannot    express    my   grief    for 

one, 
And    yet,'    quoth    she,    '  behold    two    Adons 

dead ! 
My    sighs    are    blown    away,    my    salt    tears 

gone. 
Mine  eyes   are   turned  to  fire,   my  heart   to 
lead :  -'-'o 

Heavy    heart's    lead,    melt    at    mine    eyes' 

red  fire  ! 
So  shall  I  die  by  drops  of  hot  desire. 

'  Alas,  poor  world,  what  treasure  hast  thou 

lost! 
What    face    remains   alive   that's    worth    the 

viewing? 

Whose    tongue    is    music    now?    what    canst 

thou  boast  225 

Of  things  long  since,  or  anything  ensuing? 

The  flowers  are  sweet,  their  colors  fresh 

and  trim ; 
But  true-sweet  beauty  lived  and  died  with 
him. 

'  Bonnet    nor    veil    henceforth    no    creature 

wear ! 
Nor  sun  nor  wind  will   ever   strive  to  kiss 
you :  230 

Having  no  fair  to  lose,  you  need  not  fear; 
The  sun  doth  scorn  you  and  the  wind  doth 
hiss  you  : 
But    when    Adonis    lived,    sun    and    sharp 
air 


Lurked    like   two   thieves,   to   rob   him   of 
his  fair. 

'  And  therefore  would  he  put  his  bonnet  on, 

Under    whose    brim    the    gaudy    sun    would 

peep ;  236 

The    wind    would    blow    it    of?    and,    being 

gone, 
Play    with    his    locks :    then    would    Adonis 
weep ; 
And  straight,  in  pity  of  his  tender  years, 
They  both   would  strive   who   first  should 
dry  his  tears.  240 

'  To  see  his  face  the  lion  walked  along 
Behind   some   hedge,   because   he   would  not 

fear  him ; 
To  recreate  himself  when  he  hath  sung. 
The  tiger   would   be   tame   and   gently   hear 
him ; 
If  he  had  spoke,  the  wolf  would  leave  his 
prey  245 

And  never  fright  the  silly  lamb  that  day. 

'  When  he  beheld  his  shadow  in  the  brook. 
The  fishes  spread  on  it  their  golden  gills ; 
When    he   was   by,   the   birds   such   pleasure 

took, 
That  some  would  sing,  some  other  in  their 
bills  250 

Would  bring  him  mulberries  and  ripe-red 

cherries ; 
He    fed    them    with    his    sight,    they    him 
with  berries. 

'  But    this    foul,    grim,    and    urchin-snouted 

boar, 
Whose    downward    eye    still    looketh    for    a 

grave. 
Ne'er  saw  the  beauteous  livery  that  he  wore ; 
Witness  the  entertainment  that  he  gave:  256 
If  he  did  see  his  face,  why  then  I  know 
He  thought  to  kiss  him,  and  hath   killed 
him  so. 

'  'Tis  true,  'tis  true ;  thus  was  Adonis  slain : 
He  ran  upon  the  boar  with  his  sharp  spear. 
Who  did  not  whet  his  teeth  at  him  again. 
But  by  a  kiss  thought  to  persuade  him 
there;  262 

And    nuzzling    in    his    flank,    the    loving 

swine 
Sheathed    unaware    the    tusk   in    his    soft 
groin. 

'  Had  I  been  toothed  like  him,  I  must  con- 
fess, 265 

With  kissing  him  I  should  have  killed  him 
first: 


But  he  is  dead,  and  never  did  he  bless 
My  youth  with  his;  the  more  am  I  accurst.' 
With   this,    she    falleth    in    the   place    she 

stood, 
And   stains   her   face   with   his   congealed 
blood.  270 

She  looks  upon  his  lips,  and  they  are  pale ; 
She  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  that  is  cold ; 
She  whispers  in  his  ears  a  heavy  tale, 
As  if  they  heard  the  woeful  words  she  told; 
She  lifts  the  coffer-lids  that  close  his 
eyes,  275 

Where,  lo,  two  lamps,  burnt  out,  in  dark- 
ness  lies; 

Two  glasses,  where  herself  herself  beheld 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  no  more  re- 
flect ; 
Their  virtue  lost,  wherein  they  late  excelled, 
And  every  beauty  robbed  of  his  effect :  280 
'  Wonder  of  time,'  quoth  she,  '  this  is  my 

spite. 
That,  thou  being  dead,  the  day  should  yet 
be  light. 

'Since  thou  art  dead,  lo,  here  I  prophesy: 
Sorrow  on   love   hereafter   shall   attend : 
It  shall  be  waited  on  with  jealousy,  285 

Find    sweet   beginning,   but   unsavory   end. 
Ne'er   settled   equally,   but   high    or   low, 
That   all    love's   pleasure    shall    not   match 
his    woe. 

'  It  shall  be  fickle,  false,  and  full  of  fraud, 
Bud  and  be  blasted  in  a  breathing-while ;  290 
The  bottom  poison,  and  the  top  o'erstrawed 
With  sweets  that  shall  the  truest  sight  be- 
guile : 
The    strongest    body    shall    it    make    most 

weak, 
Strike  the  wise  dumb  and  teach  the  fool 
to  speak. 

'It  shall  be  sparing  and  too  full  of  riot    29s 
Teaching  decrepit  age  to  tread  the  measures ; 
The  staring  ruffian  shall  it  keep  in  quiet, 
Pluck  down  the  rich,   enrich  the  poor  with 
treasures ; 
It  shall  be  raging-mad   and   silly-mild, 
Make    the    young   old,    the   old   become    a 
child.  300 

'  It  shall  suspect  where  is  no  cause  of  fear ; 

It  shall  not  fear  where  it  should  most  mis- 
trust ; 

It  shall  be  merciful  and  too  severe. 

And  most  deceiving  when  it  seems  most 
just; 


Perverse  it  shall  be  where  it  shows  most 

toward ;  305 

Put  fear  to  valor,  courage  to  the  coward. 

'  It  shall  be  cause  of  war  and  dire  events, 
And  set  dissension  'twixt  the  son  and  sire ; 
Subject  and  servile  to  all  discontents, 
As  dry  combustious  matter  is  to  fire:         310 
Sith    in    his    prime    Death    doth    my    love 

destroy. 
They  that  love  best  their  loves  shall  not 
enjoy.' 

By  this,  the  boy  that  by  her  side  lay  killed 

Was  melted   like  a  vapor  from  her  sight, 

And    in    his   blood    that   on    the   ground    lay 

spilled,  31S 

A   purple   flower   sprung  up,  chequered   with 

white, 

Resembling   well   his   pale  cheeks   and   the 

blood 
Which  in   round   drops  upon  their  white- 
ness   stood. 

She  bows  her  head,  the  new-sprung  flower 

to    smell. 
Comparing  it  to  her   Adonis'  breath,         320 
And  says,  within  her  bosom  it  shall  dwell, 
Since  he  himself  is  reft  from  her  by  death: 
She  crops  the  stalk,  and  in  the  breach  ap- 
pears 
Green  dropping  sap,  which   she  compares 
to    tears. 

'  Poor    flower,'    quoth    she,    '  this    was    thy 
father's  guise —  325 

Sweet  issue  of  a  more  sweet-smelling  sire  — 
For  every  little  grief  to  wet  his  eyes : 
To  grow  unto  himself  was  his  desire. 
And  so  'tis  thine ;  but  know,  it  is  as  good 
To  wither  in  my  breast  as  in  his  blood. 

'  Here    was    thy    father's    bed,    here    in    my 

breast;  331 

Thou    art    the   next   of   blood,    and    'tis   thy 

right : 
Lo,  in  this  hollow  cradle  take  thy  rest. 
My  throbbing  heart  shall  rock  thee  day  and 

night ; 
There    shall    not    be    one    minute    in    an 

hour  335 

\Vherein  I  will   not   kiss  my  sweet  love's 

flower.' 

Thus  weary  of  the  world,  away  she  hies, 
And  yokes  her  silver  doves;  by  whose  swift 

aid 
Their  mistress  mounted  through  the  empty 

skies 


ISO 


ELIZABETHAN   LYKlLb 


Tn  her  light  chariot  quickly  is  conveyed;  34o 
Holding    their    course    to    I'aphos,    where 

their  queen 
Means  to  imnuire  herself  and  not  be  seen. 


SONNETS 


When   do   I   count   the   clock  that   tells   the 

time, 
And    see    the    brave    day    sunk    in    hideous 

night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silvered  o'er  with  white; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves,     s 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And     summer's     green     all     girded     up     in 

sheaves 
Borne   on   the   bier   with   white   and   bristly 

beard. 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make. 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must 

go, 
Since    sweets    and    beauties    do    themselves 

forsake 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow ; 
And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make 

defence 
Save   breed,   to   brave   him   when   he   takes 

thee  hence. 


XV 

When   I  consider  every  thing  that  grows 
Holds  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  stage  presenteth  naught  but 

shows 
Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  com- 
ment ; 
When    I    perceive    that    men    as    plants    in- 
crease, 5 
Cheered  and  checked  even  by  the  self-same 

sky, 
Vaunt   in   their  youthful   sap,  at  height   de- 
crease, 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory : 
Then  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets    you    most    rich    in    youth    before    my 
sight,  10 

Where  wasteful  Time  dcbateth  with  Decay, 
To    change    your    day    of    youth    to    sullied 

night ; 
And  all  in  war  with  Time  for  love  of  you. 
As  he  takes    from  you,   I   engraft  you  new. 


Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of 

May, 
.And    sunmier's    lease    hath    all    too    short    a 

(late  : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines. 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  de- 
clines, 7 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  un- 

trimmed  ; 
Ikit  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor     lose     possession     of     that     fair     thou 

owest ;  '° 

Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his 

shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest : 
So    long   as   men    can   breathe    or    eyes    can 

see. 
So    long    lives    this    and    this    gives    life    to 

thee. 


Let  those  who  are  in  favor  with  their  stars 
Of  public  honor  and  proud  titles  boast, 
Whilst    L    whom    fortune    of    such    triumph 

bars. 
Unlooked    for  joy  in  that   I  honor   most. 
Great    princes'    favorites    their    fair    leaves 

spread  5 

But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye. 
And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 
For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 
The  painful  warrior  famoused   for  fight, 
After  a  thousand   victories  once   foiled,     '«> 
Is  from  the  book  of  honor  razed  quite, 
And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toiled : 
Then   happy   I,  that  love  and  am  beloved 
Where  I  may  not  remove  nor  be  removed. 


When    in   disgrace   with    fortune   and   men's 

eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless 

cries 
And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured    like    him,    like    him    with    friends 

possessed,  6 

Desiring    this    man's    art    and    that    man's 

scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 


Yet    in    these    thoughts    myself    almost    de- 
spising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising     u 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 

gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth 

brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with 
kings. 

XXX 

When     to     the     sessions     of     sweet     silent 

thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's 

waste : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow,  5 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless 

night. 
And    weep    afresh    love's    long    since    can- 
celed woe. 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished 

sight : 
Then   can   I  grieve  at  grievances   foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er       lo 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 


Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter    the    mountain-tops    with    sovereign 

eye. 
Kissing     with     golden     face     the     meadows 

green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit   the  basest  clouds  to   ride       5 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial   face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide. 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow ; 
But  out,  alack !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine ; 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me 

now.  12 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  wit  disdaineth ; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's 

sun  staineth. 


O,   how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous 

seem 
By  that   sweet  ornament   which   truth   doth 

give ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 


For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses,  6 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When    summer's   breath   their   masked   buds 

discloses  ; 
But,   for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show. 
They  live  unwooed  and  unrcspected  fade,  lo 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 
Of    their    sweet    deaths    are    sweetest    odors 

made : 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth. 
When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distills  your 

truth. 


Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rime; 
But   you    shall    shine   more    bright   in   these 

contents 
Than  unswept  stone  besmeared  with  sluttish 

time. 
When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn,  5 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry. 
Nor    Mars   his    sword   nor   war's   quick   fire 

shall    burn 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst    death    and    all-oblivious    enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth;  your  praise  shall  still 

find   room  lo 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That    wear    this    world    out    to    the    ending 

doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise. 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 


Like     as     the     waves     make     towards     the 

pebbled   shore. 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 
Each    changing  place   with   that  which   goes 

before. 
In   sequent  toil  all   forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light,  5 

Crawls      to      maturity,      wherewith      being 

crowned. 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight. 
And    Time    that    gave    doth    now    his    gift 

confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth 
And   delves  the   parallels   in  beauty's  brow. 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth,     u 
And    nothing   stands   but    for   his    scythe   to 

mow : 
And   yet   to   times    in   hope   my   verse    shall 

stand. 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 


152 


ELlZABh.lrtAi\    i.YKiL.:5 


When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  de- 
faced 
The    rich    proud    cost    of    outworn    buried 

age ; 
When    sometime    lofty   towers   I    see   down- 
razed 
And  brass  eternal   slave  to  mortal   rage; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain    5 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing    store    with    loss    and    loss    with 

store ; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay;  1° 

Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate, 
That    Time    will    come    and    take    my    love 

away. 
This   thought   is    as   a   death,   which    cannot 

choose 
But   weep    to   have    that    which   it    fears    to 
lose. 


Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  bound- 
less sea, 

But    sad    mortality    o'er-sways    their    power, 

How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a 
plea. 

Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower? 

O,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold 
out  5 

Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering 
days. 

When    rocks   impregnable   are   not   so   stout. 

Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  de- 
cays? 

O  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack. 

Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest 
lie   hid?  'o 

Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift 
foot  back? 

Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can   forbid? 

O.  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might. 

That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine 
bright. 

LXVI 

Tired    with    all    these,    for    restful    death    I 

cry, — 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimmed  in  jollity. 
And   purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn. 
And   gilded  honor   shamefully  misplaced,     5 
And   maiden   virtue   rudely   strumpeted. 
And    right   perfection    wrongfully   disgraced, 
And    strength   by   limping   sway   disal)led. 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority. 


And   folly  doctor-like  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscalled  simplicity, 
And   captive   good   attending  captain   ill : 
Tired    with    all    these,    from   these    would 

be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 


No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surlcy  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to 

dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not     5 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so 
That    I    in    your    sweet    thoughts    would    be 

forgot 
If   thinking   on   me   then    should    make   you 

woe. 
O,  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay. 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  re- 
hearse, " 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay. 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your 

moan 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

LXXIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When   yellow   leaves,   or    none,   or    few,   do 

hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the 

cold. 
Bare    ruined    choirs,    where    late    the    sweet 

birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west,  6 

Which    by    and    by    black    night    doth    take 

away. 
Death's    second    self,    that    seals    up    all    in 

rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie.     "> 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire. 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love 

more   strong. 
To    love   that   well    which    thou   must   leave 

ere  long. 

LXXVI 

Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride. 
So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change? 
Why  with  the  time  do  I  not  glance  aside 
To   new-found   methods   and    to   compounds 
strange? 


Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same,     5 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed, 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name, 
Showing    their    birth    and    where    they    did 

proceed  ? 
O,    know,    sweet    love,    I    always    write    of 

you, 
And  you  and  love  are  still  my  argument ;  lo 
So  all  my  best  is  dressing  old  words  new. 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent : 
For  as  the  sun  is  daily  new  and  old, 
So  is  my  love  still  telling  what  is  told. 

XCVII 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days 

seen  ! 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere! 
And   yet   this    time   removed   was    summer's 
time,  5 

The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime. 
Like  widowed  wombs  after  their  lord's  de- 
cease : 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seemed  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans  and  unfathered  fruit; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee. 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute;  i^ 
Or,  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter  's 
near. 

XCVIII 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When   proud-pied    April    dressed   in    all    his 

trim 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with 

him. 
Yet    nor    the    lays    of    birds    nor    the    sweet 
smell  5 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where 

they  grew ; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white. 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose; 
They    were    but    sweet,    but    figures    of    de- 
light, 1 1 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away. 
As  with  your  shadow,  I  with  these  did  play. 


The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide : 
Sweet    thief,    whence    didst    thou    steal    thy 
sweet   that   smells, 


If  not  from  my  love's  breath?     The  purple 

pride 
Which    on    thy    soft    cheek    for    complexion 

dwells 
In    my    love's    veins    thou    hast    too    grossly 

dyed.  s 

The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stol'n  thy  hair. 
The   roses    fearfully  on   thorns   did   stand. 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair; 
A   third,   nor   red   nor   white,   had   stol'n   of 

both  10 

And  to  his  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath ; 
But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see 
But  sweet  or  color  it  had  stol'n  from  thee. 


To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed. 
Such    seems   your   beauty   still.     Three   win- 
ters  cold 
Have    from    the    forests    shook    three    sum- 
mers' pride. 
Three   beauteous   springs   to  yellow   autumn 
turned  s 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
Three    April    perfumes    in    three    hot    Junes 

burned 
Since  first  I  saw  you   fresh,  which  yet  are 

green. 
Ah !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand. 
Steal  from  his  figure  and  no  pace  perceived ; 
So    your    sweet    hue,    which    methinks    still 
doth   stand,  n 

Hath  motion  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived : 
For   fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  un- 
bred: 
Ere    you    were    born    was    beauty's    summer 
dead. 


When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I   see   descriptions  of  the   fairest   wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rime 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights. 
Then,     in     the     blazon     of     sweet    beauty's 
best,  s 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I    see    their    antique    pen    would    have    ex- 
pressed 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring:         '« 
And,    for    they    looked    but    with    divining 

eyes. 
They   had   not   skill    enough   your   worth    to 
sing: 


154 


lLJ^l/./\DiLi  tl/\iN     l^ll\.i»^0 


For    wc,    which    now   behold    these    present 

days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  hut    'ack   tongues   to 

praise. 

CVII 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the   wide  world  dreaming  on   things  to 

come. 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Supposed  as  forfeit  to  a  confined  doom, 
'i'he  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endured 
And   the   sad   augurs   mock   their   own   pre- 
sage ;  6 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assured 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now    with    the    drops    of    this    most    balmy 

time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me  sub- 
scribes, '° 
Since,    spite   of  him,   I  '11    live   in   this   poor 

rime, 
While   he   insults   o'er   dull    and    speechless 

tribes : 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument, 
When    tyrants'    crests   and   tombs   of   brass 
are  spent. 

cix 
O,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
Though  absence  seemed  my  flame  to  qual- 
ify. 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth 

lie: 
That  is  my  home  of  love:  if  I  have  ranged. 
Like  him  that  travels  I  return  again,  6 

Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  ex- 
changed, 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reigned 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood. 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stained, 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call,  '3 
Save  thou,  my  rose;  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 


Alas,  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what 

is   most  dear. 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new; 
Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  looked  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely;  but,  by  all  above,     6 
These     blenches     gave     my     heart     another 

youth. 
And  worse  essays  proved  thee  my  best   of 

love. 


Now  all   is  done,  have  what  shall  have  no 

end: 
Mine  appetite  T  never  more  will  grind         'o 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 
A  god  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confined. 
Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the 

best. 
Even    to    thy   pure    and    most    most    loving 

breast. 

CXI 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds. 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than    public    means    which    public    manners 

breeds 
Thence  comes   it  that  my  name   receives   a 
brand,  5 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 
Pity  me  then  and  wish  I  were  renewed ; 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,   I   will   drink 
Potions    of    eisel    'gainst    my    strong    infec- 
tion; JO 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think. 
Nor   double   penance,   to   correct   correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

cxvi 
Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which   alters  when   it  alteration  finds. 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 
O,  no !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark  5 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark. 
Whose     worth 's     unknown,     although     his 

height  be  taken. 
Love 's    not    Time's    fool,   though    rosy    lips 

and   cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 
Love    alters   not   with    his   brief   hours    and 

weeks,  '  • 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears. 
Distilled   from  limbecks   foul  as  hell  within. 
Applying  fears  to  hopes  and  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win! 
What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  com- 
mitted. 
Whilst    it    hath    thought    itself    so    blessed 

never ! 
How   have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres 
been  fitted 


In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever! 

0  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true 

That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better;       lo 
And  ruined  love,  when  it  is  built  anew, 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far 

greater. 
So  I  return  rebuked  to  my  content, 
And   gain  by  ills  thrice  more  than   I   have 

spent. 

CXXVIII 

How    oft,    when    thou,    my    music,    music 

play'st, 
Upon     that    blessed     wood     whose    motion 

sounds 
With    thy   sweet   fingers,   when   thou    gently 

sway'st 
The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds, 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks  that  nimble  leap     5 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand, 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  har- 
vest reap. 
At    the    wood's    boldness    by   thee   blushing 

stand ! 
To   be   so  tickled,  they  would  change  their 

state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips,     i" 
O'er    whom    thy    fingers    walk    with    gentle 

gait, 
Making  dead  wood  more  blest  than   living 

lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this. 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss. 

cxxx 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun ; 
Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red ; 
If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are 

dun ; 
Tf  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her 

head. 

1  have  seen  roses  damasked,  red  and  white, 
But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks;       6 
And   in   some   perfumes   is  there   more   de- 
light 

Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress 

reeks. 
T  love  to  hear  her  speak,  yet  well  I  know 
That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing  sound ; 
I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go;  'o 

My  mistress,  when  she  walks,  treads  on  the 

ground : 
.\nd  yet,  by  heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

CXLVI 

Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth. 
Thrall    to    these    rebel    powers    that    thee 
array. 


Why    dost    thou     pine     within     and     suffer 

dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall   worms,   inheritors   of  this   excess,       7 
Eat  up  thy  charge?  is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss. 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store;  lo 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more : 
So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on 

men, 
And    Death    once    dead,    there 's    no    more 

dying  then. 


SONGS  FROM  THE  PLAYS 
From  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall. 
And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail. 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall. 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 

When  blood  is  nipped  and  ways  be  foul. 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl. 
Tu-whit,  tu-who !  '  a  merry  note. 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

A\'hcn  all   aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

.And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw. 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl. 
Then   nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
■  Tu-whit,  tu-who !  '  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot 


From  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 

Who  is  Silvia?  what  is  she. 
That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 
The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her. 

That  she  might  admired  be.  S 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there.  »o 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That   Silvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring.  »S 


156 


ELiZAKtlHAiN    l.YKH^:5 


From   THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 

Reply,  reply. 
It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes,  S 

With  gazing  fed;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies: 
Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 
I  '11  begin  it,—  Ding-dong,  bell. 

Ding,    dong,   bell.  lo 

From  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 

tinder  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
LInto  the   sweet  bird's  throat. 
Come  hither  !  come  hither  !   come  hither  !     s 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  lo 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets. 
Come  hither  !  come  hither  !  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy  'S 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

From   AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 

Blow,   blow,   thou    winter   wind ! 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen,  5 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh   ho!   sing,  heigh  ho!   unto  the  green 

holly: 
Most    friendship    is    feigning,    most    loving 
mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly.  'o 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky! 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits   forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp  '5 

As   friend   remembered   not. 

Heigh  ho !  sing,  heigh  ho !  etc. 

From    MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more! 
Men  were  deceivers  ever. 


One  foot  in  sea  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never: 

Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go,        5 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 

Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny! 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  moe 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy !  'o 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 

Since  summer  first  was  leafy: 
Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 

And   be  you  blithe  and   bonny. 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe       "S 

Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny ! 

From    TWELFTH    NIGHT 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love's  coming. 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low : 
Trip   no    further,   pretty   sweeting. 
Journeys  end   in   lovers  meeting,  s 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty;  lo 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth  's  a  stufif  will  not  endure. 

From   MEASURE  FOR   MEASURE 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away. 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn: 
But  my  kisses  bring  again,  5 

Bring  again; 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain, 

Sealed  in  vain! 

From  CYMBELINE 

Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phcebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 

And    winking   IMary-buds   begin  5 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes : 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise ! 
Arise,  arise! 

From  CYMBELINE 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  th'  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 

Tiiou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 


Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must,  s 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  th'  great; 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak:  lo 

The  Scepter,  Learning,  Physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash. 
Nor  th'  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash;  'S 

Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan : 

All   lovers  young,   all   lovers   must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee! 

Nor   no   witchcraft   charm   thee!  20 

Ghost  unlaid   forbear  thee! 

Nothing  ill  come  near  thee ! 
Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave ! 


From  THE  TEMPEST 
ARIEL'S  SONG 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies: 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes; 
Nothing  of  him   that   doth   fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change  5 

Into  something  rich   and  strange. 

Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Ding-dong ! 

Hark!  now  I  hear  them, —  Ding-dong,  bell! 

ENGLAND'S  HELICON   (1600) 

PHYLLIDA  AND  CORYDON 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

In  a  riiorn  by  break  of  day, 

Forth  I  walked  by  the  wood-side,  • 

When  as  May  was  in  her  pride: 

There  I  spied  all  alone,  5 

Phyllida  and  Corydon. 

Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot ! 

He  would  love  and  she  would  not. 

She  said,  never  man  was  true; 

He  said,  none  was  false  to  you.  1° 

He  said,  he  had  loved  her  long; 

She  said,  love  should  have  no  wrong. 

Corydon   would  kiss  her  then; 

She  said,  maids  must  kiss  no  men. 

Till  they  did  for  good  and  all;  '5 

Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 

All  the  heavens  to  witness  truth : 

Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 


Thus  with  many  a  pretty  oath, 

Yea  and  nay,  and   faith  and  troth,  20 

Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 

When  they  will  not  love  abuse. 

Love  which  had  been  long  deluded. 

Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded  ; 

And   Phyllida,  with  garlands  gay,  25 

Was  made  the  Lady  of  the  May. 

N.  Breton 

AS  IT  FELL  UPON  A  DAY 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day, 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade. 

Which  a  group  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing,  5 

Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring. 

Everything  did  banish  moan. 

Save  the  nightingale  alone; 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn. 

Leaned  her  breast  against  a  thorn,  'o 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  dity, 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

'  Fie,  fie,  fie ! '  now  would  she  cry ; 

'  Teru,  teru  ! '  by-and-by. 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain  'S 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah,  thought   I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain. 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain.  20 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee ; 

Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  thee; 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead. 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead; 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing,  23 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing; 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee, 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

Ignoto 

TO  COLIN  CLOUT 

Beauty  sat  bathing  in  a  spring. 

Where    fairest    shades   did   hide    her; 
The  winds  blew  calm,  the  birds  did  sing. 

The  cool  streams  ran  beside  her. 
My  wanton  thoughts  enticed  mine  eye,        5 

To  see  what  was  forbidden. 
But  better  memory  said,  fie : 

So,  vain  desire  was  chidden. 

Hey  nonny,  nonny,  etc. 

Into  a  slumber  then  I  fell,  10 

When  fond  Imagination 
Seemed  to  see,  but  could  not  tell, 

Her  feature  or  her  fashion. 
But  even  as  babes  in  dreams  do  smile, 

And   sometimes   fall   a-weeping,  '5 


158                                                  ELIZABETHAN   LYKICS 

So  I  awaked,  as  wise  this  while 

Whereon  her   foot  she  sets. 

As  when  1  fell  a-sleeping. 

Virtuous  she  is,  for  we  find 

Hey  nonny,  nonny,  etc. 

In  body  fair  beauteous  mind. 

50 

Shepherd  Tony 

Live  fair  Amargana  still 
Extolled 

HAPPY    SHEPHERDS,    SIT    AND    SEE 

In  all  my  rime ; 
Hand  want  art,  when  I  want  will 

Happy  shepherds,  sit  and  see, 
With   joy, 
The  peerless  wight 
For  whose  sake  Pan  keeps  from  yc 
Annoy, 
And  gives  delight. 

5 

T'  unfold 
Her  worth  divine. 
But  now  my  muse  doth  rest, 
Despair  closed  in  my  breast. 
Of  the  valor  I  sing; 

55 

Weak     faith     that     no     hope     doth 
bring. 

W.  P 

6o 

Blessing  this  pleasant  spring. 

Her  praises  must  I  sing; 

List,  you  swains,  list  to  me, 

The  whiles  your  flocks  feeding  be. 

lO 

THE    SHEPHERD'S    COMMENDATION 

First,  her  brow  a  beauteous  globe 

OF  HIS  NYMPH 

I  deem, 

What  shepherd  can  express 

And  golden  hair; 

The  favor  of  her  face. 

And  her  cheek  Aurora's  robe 

To  whom  in  this  distress 

Doth   seem, 

IS 

I  do  appeal  for  grace? 

But  far  more  fair. 

A  thousand   Cupids  fly 

S 

Her  eyes  like  stars  are  bright, 

About  her  gentle  eye. 

And  dazzle  with  their  light ; 

Rubies  her  lips  to  see, 

From  which  each  throws  a  dart 

But  to  taste  nectar  they  be. 

20 

That  kindleth  soft  sweet  fire 
Within  my  sighing  heart. 

Orient  pearls  her  teeth,  her  smile 

Possessed  by  desire; 

xo 

Doth  link 

No  sweeter  life  I  try 

The  Graces  three; 

Than  in  her  love  to  die. 

Her  white  neck  doth  eyes  beguile 

The  lily  in  the  field. 

To  think 

25 

That  glories  in  his  white. 

It   ivory. 

For  pureness  now  must  yield. 

IS 

Alas !  her  lily  hand 

And  render  up  his  right; 

How  it  doth  me  command ! 

Heaven  pictured  in  her  face 

Softer  silk  none  can  be, 

Doth  promise  joy  and  grace. 

And  whiter  milk  none  can  see. 

30 

Fair  Cynthia's  silver  light. 

Circe's  wand  is  not  so  straight 

That  beats  on  running  streams, 

20 

As  is 

Compares  not  with  her  white, 

Her  body  small ; 

Whose  hairs  are  all  sunbeams. 

But  two  pillars  bear  the  weight 

So  bright  my  nymph  doth  shine 

Of  this 

35 

As  day  unto  my  eyne. 

Majestic  hall. 

With  this  there  is  a  red, 

25 

Those  be,  I  you  assure, 

Of  alabaster  pure. 

Polished  fine  in  each  part; 

Ne'er  Nature  yet  showed  like  art. 

Exceeds  the  damask-rose. 

40 

Which  in  her  cheeks  is  spread. 
Where  every  favor  grows; 
In  sky  there  is  no  star, 

How  shall  I  her  pretty  tread 

But  she  surmounts  it  far. 

30 

Express, 

When  Phcebus  from  the  bed 

When  she  doth  walk? 

Of  Thetis  doth  arise, 

Scarce  she  does  the  primrose  head 

The  morning  blushing  red, 

Depress, 

45 

In   fair   carnation-wise, 

Or  tender  stalk 

He  shows  in  my  nymph's  face. 

35 

Of  blue-veined  violets, 

As  queen  of  every  grace. 

This  pleasant  lily  white, 

This  taint  of  roseate  red, 

This  Cynthia's  silver  light, 

This  sweet   fair   Dea  spread,  40 

These  sunbeams  in  mine  eye, 
These  beauties  make  me  die. 

Earl   of   Oxford 

THE  HERDMAN'S  HAPPY  LIFE 

What  pleasure  have  great  princes 
More  dainty  to  their  choice 

Than  herdmen  wild,  who  careless 
In  quiet  life  rejoice? 

And  fortune's   fate  not  fearing,  5 

Sing  sweet  in  summer  morning. 

Their  dealings  plain  and  rightful, 

Are  void  of  all  deceit; 
They  never  know  how  spiteful 

It  is  to  kneel  and  wait  'o 

On  favorite  presumptuous, 
Whose  pride  is  vain  and  sumptuous. 

All  day  their  flocks  each  tendeth, 
At  night  they  take  their  rest, 

More  quiet  than  who  sendeth  is 

His  ship  into  the  east. 

Where  gold  and  pearl  are  plenty. 

But  getting  very  dainty. 

For  lawyers  and  their  pleading. 

They  'steem  it  not  a  straw ;  20 

They  think  that  honest  meaning. 
Is  of  itself  a  law; 

Where  conscience  judgeth  plainly, 

They  spend  no  money  vainly. 

Oh,  happy  who  thus  liveth !  25 

Not  caring  much  for  gold; 

With  clothing  which  sufficeth, 
To  keep  him  from  the  cold. 

Though  poor  and  plain  his  diet, 

Yet  merry  it  is  and  quiet.  30 

Out  of  Mr.  Bird's  Set  Songs 

A  NYMPH'S  DISDAIN  OF  LOVE 

'  Hey,  down,  a  down ! '  did  Dian  sing, 
Amongst  her  virgins   sitting; 

'  Than  love  there  is  no  vainer  thing. 
For  maidens  most  unfitting.' 

And  so  think  I,  with  a  down,  down,  derry. 

When  women  knew  no  woe,  6 

But  lived  themselves  to  please. 

Men's    feigning  guiles  they  did  not  know. 
The  ground  of  their  disease. 

Unborn  was  false  suspect,  10 

No  thought  of  jealousy ; 

From  wanton  toys  and  fond  affect. 


The  virgin's  life  was  free. 
*  Hey,  down,  a  down ! '  did  Dian  sing,  etc. 

At  length  men  used  charms,  is 

To  which  what  maids  gave  ear, 
Embracing  gladly  endless  harms. 

Anon   enthralled  were. 
Thus  women  welcomed  woe. 

Disguised  in  name  of  love,  20 

A  jealous  hell,  painted  show: 

So  shall  they  find  that  prove. 
'  Hey,  down,  a  down ! '  did  Dian  sing. 

Amongst  her   virgins   sitting; 
'  Than  love  there  is  no  vainer  thing,  25 

For  maidens  most  unfitting.' 
And  so  think  I,  with  a  down,  down,  derry. 

Ignoto 

ROSALIND'S  MADRIGAL 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest,  5 

His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 

Ah,  wanton,  will  ye? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he,  10 

With  pretty  slight. 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee. 

The  livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string; 
He  music  plays  if  I  but  sing;  'S 

He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing; 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting. 

Whist,  wanton,  still  ye ! 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  ship  ye  hence,  20 

And  bind  ye,  when  ye  long  to  play. 

For  your  oflfence. 
I  '11  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  ye  in, 
I  '11  make  you   fast  it  for  your  sin, 
I  '11  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin,     25 
Alas !  what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod? 
He  will   repay  me  with  annoy,  30 

Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee. 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee. 
O  Cupid !  so  thou  pity  me,  35 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 

Thom.-\s  Lodge 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 

Among  the  lyrics  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  one  discerns,  somewhat 
clearly,  at  least  three  poetical  manners,  which  emanated,  respectively,  from  Edmund  Spenser. 
Ben  Jonson,  and  John  Donne.  The  sensuous  beauty,  playful  imagery,  and  fluent  melody  of 
Spenser  are  clearly  present  in  the  poems  of  William  Browne  and  George  Wither.  The  fine 
finish,  i)oise.  and  chastened  sweetness  of  Jonson  are  a  refining  influence  in  the  shorter  lyrics 
of  Robert  Ilerrick,  Thomas  Carew,  John  Suckling,  and  Richard  Lovelace.  In  John  Donne, 
incisive  and  subtle  thinking  finds  fantastic,  and  sometimes  harsh,  expression  in  far-fetched 
analogies,  mystifying  metaphors,  and  dimly  suggestive  images.  The  poetical  apparatus  of 
Donne,  often,  and  his  fancy,  still  more  often,  are  essential  in  the  passionate,  soaring,  and 
mystical  outbursts  of  George  Herbert,  Richard  Oashaw,  and  Henry  Vaughan.  One  no- 
tices, however,  that  Spenser,  Jonson,  and  Donne  did  not  exclusively  dominate  the  poetical 
output  of  their  conscious  or  unconscious  disciples. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  century  appears  a  new  influence  in  poetical  form,  the  '  heroic'  or 
'closed.'  couplet,  practiced  by  Edmund  Waller.  John  Denham.  Abraham  Gowley.  and  Andrew 
Marvell.  This  verse-form,  best  adapted  to  epic  and  satire,  had  no  important  influence  upon 
lyric,  except,  indirectly,  through  repression. 


THOMAS  CAMPION  (d.  1619) 
CHANCE  AND  CHANGE 

What  if  a  day,  or  a  month,  or  a  year, 
Crown  thy  delights,  with  a  thousand  sweet 
contentings ! 

Cannot  a  chance  of  a  night,  or  an  hour. 
Cross  thy  desires,  with  as  many  sad  torment- 

ings? 
Fortune,  honor,  beauty,  youth,  5 

Are  but  blossoms  dying! 
Wanton  pleasure,  doting  love. 

Are  but  shadows  flying! 
All  our  joys  are  but  toys; 

Idle   thoughts  deceiving!  'o 

None  have  power,  of  an  hour, 

In  their  life's  bereaving. 


but  a  point  to  the  world;  and  a 
point    to    the    world's    compared 


Earth  's 
man 
Is    but    a 
center ! 

Shall  then,  a  point  of  a  point  be  so  vain 
As  to  triumph  in  a  silly  point's  adventure ! 
All  is  hazard  that  we  have!  ' 

There  is  nothing  biding! 
Days  of  pleasure  are  like  streams, 

Throut,di   fair  meadows  gliding!  2 

Weal  and  woe.  Time  doth  go! 

Time  is  never  turning! 
Secret  fates  guide  our  states; 

Both  in  mirth  and  mourning! 


BASIA 

Turn  back,  you  wanton  flyer, 
And  answer  my  desire 

With  mutual  greeting. 
Yet  bend  a  little  nearer, — 
True  beauty  still  shines  clearer 

In  closer  meeting! 
Hearts   with   hearts  delighted 
Should  strive  to  be  united, 
Each  other's  arms  with  arms  enchaining,- 

Hearts  with  a  thought. 
Rosy  lips  with  a  kiss  still  entertaining. 

What  harvest  half  so  sweet  is 
As  still  to  reap  the  kisses 

Grown  ripe  in  sowing? 
And  straight  to  be  receiver 
Of  that  which  thou  art  giver, 

Rich  in  bestowing? 
There  's  no  strict  observing 
Of  times'  or  seasons'  swerving. 
There  is  ever  one  fresh  spring  abiding; — 
Then  what  we  sow  with  our  lips 
Let  us   reap,   love's  gains   dividing. 


A  RENUNCIATION 

Thou  art  not  fair,  for  all  thy  red  and  white, 

For  all  those  rosy  ornaments  in  thee, — 
Thou   art  not   sweet,  though  made  of  mere 
delight, 


160 


Nor    fair,    nor    sweet  —  unless    thou    pity 

me! 
I    will    not    soothe    thy    fancies ;    thou    shalt 

prove  5 

That  beauty  is  no  beauty  without  love. 

Yet  love  not  me,  nor  seek  not  to  allure 
My   thoughts    with    beauty,    were   it   more 
divine: 

Thy  smiles  and  kisses  I  cannot  endure, 
I  '11  not  be  wrapped  up  in  those  arms  of 
thine:  lo 

Now     show     it,     if     thou     be     a     woman 
right  — 

Embrace    and    kiss    and    love    me,    in    de- 
spite ! 


SIC  TRANSIT 

Come,  cheerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to  me ; 
For  while  thou  view'st  me  with  thy  fading 
light 
Part  of  my  life  doth  still  depart  with  thee. 
And    I    still    onward    haste    to    my    last 
night : 
Time's  fatal  wings  do  ever  forward  fly —  s 
So  every  day  we  live  a  day  we  die. 

But  O  ye  nights,  ordained  for  barren  rest. 
How    are    my    days    deprived    of    life    in 
you 

When  heavy  sleep  my  soul  hath  dispossest, 
By  feigned  death  life  sweetly  to  renew ! 

Part  of  my  life  in  that,  you  life  deny:       u 

So  every  day  we  live,  a  day  we  die. 


BEN  JONSON  (i573?-i637) 
SONG  TO  CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not   so   much   honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe. 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear. 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


SONG:     TO  CELIA 

Come,  my  Celia,  let  us  prove. 

While  we  can,  the  sports  of  love. 

Time  will  not  be  ours  for  ever; 

He,  at  length,  our  good  will  sever; 

Spend  not  then  his  gifts  in  vain.  S 

Suns  that  set  may  rise  again ; 

But  if  once  we  lose  this  light, 

'T  is  with  us  perpetual  night. 

Why   should   we   defer   our   joys? 

Fame  and  rumor  are  but  toys.  lo 

Cannot  we  delude  the  eyes 

Of  a  few  poor  household  spies? 

Or   his   easier   ears   beguile. 

Thus  removed  by  our  wile?  . 

'T  is  no  sin  love's   fruits  to  steal ;         iS 

But  the   sweet  theft  to   reveal. 

To  be  taken,  to  be  seen. 

These  have  crimes  accounted  been. 


TO  HEAVEN 

Good   and   great   God!   can    I   not  think  of 

thee, 
But  it  must  straight  my  melancholy  be? 
Is  it  interpreted  in  me  disease. 
That,  laden   with  my  sins,  I  seek  for  ease? 

0  be    thou    witness,    that    the    reins    dost 

know  5 

And  hearts  of  all,  if  I  be  sad   for  show; 

And  judge  me  after,  if  I  dare  pretend 

To  aught  but  grace,  or  aim  at  other  end. 

As  thou  art  all,  so  be  thou  all  to  me. 

First,  midst,  and  last,  converted  One  and 
Three!  lo 

My  faith,  my  hope,  my  love;  and,  in  this 
state, 

My  judge,  my  witness,  and  my  advocate ! 

Where  have  I  been  this  while  exiled  from 
thee. 

And  whither  rapt,  now  thou  but  stoop'st 
to  me? 

Dwell,  dwell  here  still !  O,  being  every- 
where, IS 

How  can  I  doubt  to  find  thee  ever  here? 

1  know   my   state,   both   full   of   shame   and 

scorn, 
Conceived  in  sin,  and  unto  labor  born. 
Standing  with  fear,  and  must  with  horror  fall. 
And   destined   unto   judgment,   after  all.     2° 
I    feel    my   griefs   too,    and   there    scarce   is 

ground 
Upon  my  flesh  t'  inflict  another  wound ; 
Yet  dare  I  not  complain  or  wish  for  death, 
With    holy    Paul,    lest    it    be    thought    the 

breath 
Of  discontent;  or  that  these  prayers  be     25 
For  weariness  of  life,  not  love  of  thee. 


1 62 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF   CHARIS 

See  the  chariot  at  liand  hero  of  Love, 

Wherein   my   Lady   ridcth ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And    well    tho   car    Love   guideth. 
As  she  R(Ks.  all  hearts  do  duty  5 

Unto   her   beauty; 
And  enamored,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy   such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side. 
Through   swords,   through   seas,   whither   she 
would    ride.  '° 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All    that    Love's    world   compriseth ! 
Do  but   look  on   her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As   Love's   star   when   il   riseth ! 

Do  but  mark,  her   forehead's  smoother       "5 

Than    words    that    soothe    her ; 

And    from   her   arched   brows,   such   a   grace 

Sheds    itself    through    the    face 

As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements' 

strife.  -° 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before   rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
Have  you  marked  but  the   fall  of  the   snow 

Before   the    soil   hath    smutched   it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver?       ^s 

Or   swan's   down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  of  the  briar? 

Or  the   nard   in   the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 
Oh  so  white!     Oh  so  soft!     Oh  so  sweet  is 
she !  30 


AN   EPITAPH   ON   SALATHIEL   PAVY 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story: 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
'Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive  5 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  heaven  and  nature  seemed  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 
Years   he   numbered   scarce   thirteen 

When   fates  turned  cruel,  '" 

Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The   stage's   jewel ; 
And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan. 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As,  soth,  the  Parcae  thought  him  one,       '5 

He   played   so   truly. 
So,  by  error,  to  his   fate 

They  all  consented ; 


But   viewing  him   since,   alas,   too   late ! 

They  have  repented ; 
And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth. 

In   baths  to  steep  him ; 
But  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth. 

Heaven    vows   to   keep   him. 


EPITAPH    ON    ELIZABETH,    L.    H. 

Would'st  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 
In    a    little?     Reader,    stay. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As    much   beauty   as  could   die: 
Which   in   life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  virtue  than   doth   live. 

If  at  all   she  had  a   fault. 
Leave   it  buried  in  this  vault. 
One    name    was    Elizabeth, 
The  other,  let  it   sleep  with  death ! 
Fitter,  where  it  died,  to  tell. 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED, 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

To  draw  no  envy,   Shakspere,  on  thy  name. 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book   and   fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As   neither  man,   nor  muse,   can   praise   too 

much. 
'Tis     true,     and     all     men's     suffrage.     But 

these   ways  5 

Were    not    the    paths    I    meant    unto    thy 

praise; 
For   silliest   ignorance  on   these  may  light, 
Which,  when   it   sounds   at   best,  but  echoes 

right ; 
Or    blind    affection,    which    doth    ne'er    ad- 
vance 
The    truth,    but   gropes,    and    urgeth    all    by 

chance ;  'o 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend   this   praise. 
And    think    to    ruin,    where    it    seemed    to 

raise. 
These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd  or  whore 
Should   praise  a  matron.     What   could   hurt 

her  more?  ■■♦ 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed. 
Above  the  ill   fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore   will   begin.     Soul   of  the   age! 
The    applause,    delight,    the    wonder    of    our 

stage ! 
My   Shakspere,  rise !     I  will   not  lodge  thee 

by 
Chaucer,   or    Spenser,   or   bid    Beaumont   lie 


A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room :       21 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live 
And    we   have    wits   to    read    and    praise    to 

give. 
That    I    not    mix    thee    so,    my    brain    ex- 
cuses, 25 
I     mean     with     great,     but     disproportioned 

Muses ; 
For    if    I    thought    my    judgment    were    of 

years, 
I   should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  out- 
shine. 
Or     sporting     Kyd,     or     Marlowe's     mighty 

line.  30 

,\nd  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less 

Greek, 
From    thence    to    honor    thee,    I    would    not 

seek 
For     names ;     but     call     forth     thundering 

.^schylus, 
Fnripides,  and   Sophocles  to  us ; 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead,     35 
To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread. 
And  shake  a  stage;  or,  when  thy  socks  were 

on. 
Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 
Of    all  .  that     insolent    Greece    or    haughty 

Rome 
Sent    forth,   or   since   did    from   their   ashes 

come.  40 

Triumph,    my    Britain,    thou    hast    one    to 

show 
To    whom    all    scenes    of    Europe    homage 

owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time ! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm !       46 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs 
And    joyed    to    wear    the    dressing    of    his 

lines! 
Which   were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven   so 

fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes,  si 

Neat     Terence,     witty     Plautus,     now     not 

please; 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 
As  they  were  not  of   Nature's   family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art,    55 
My  gentle  Shakspere,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion  ;  and,  that  he 
Who    casts    to    write    a    living    line,    must 

sweat, 
(Such  as  thine  are)    and   strike  the  second 

heat  60 


Upon  the  Muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same 
(And    himself    with    it)    that    he    thinks    to 

frame. 
Or,  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 
For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 
And    such    wert    thou !     Look   how    the    fa- 
ther's   face  65 
Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of   Shakspere's  mind  and  manners  brightly 

shines 
In  his  well  turned,  and  true  filed  lines; 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.     70 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear. 
And   make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of 

Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere        75 
Advanced,  and   made  a  constellation   there! 
Shine    forth,   thou    Star  of  poets,   and   with 

rage 
Or    influence,    chide    or    cheer    the    drooping 

stage. 
Which,    since    thy    flight    from    hence,    hath 

mourned    like   night. 
And    despairs    day,    but    for    thy    volume's 

light.  80 


A    PINDARIC   ODE 

To  the  immortal  memory  and  friendship  of 
that  noble  pair,  Sir  Lucius  Gary  and  Sir 
H.    Morison. 


The  Strophe,  or  Turn 
Brave  infant  of  Saguntum,  clear 
Thy  coming  forth  in  that  great  year, 
When  the  prodigious  Hannibal  did  crown 
His   rage   with   razing  your  immortal   town. 
Thou  looking  then  about,  5 

Ere  thou  wert  half  got  out, 
Wise  child,  didst  hastily  return. 
And  mad'st  thy  mother's  womb  thine  urn.  ■ 
How  summed  a  circle  didst  thou  leave  man- 
kind 
Of  deepest  lore,  could  we  the  center  find !  1° 

The    Antistrophe.    or    Counter-Turn 
Did   wiser  nature  draw  thee  back. 
From   out   the  horror  of   that  sack; 
Where   shame,    faith,   honor,   and   regard   of 

right, 
Lay  trampled   on  ?  the   deeds   of   death   and 
night 
Urged,  hurried   forth,  and  hurled       ^i 
Upon  the  affrighted   world; 


164 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Fire,  famine,  and   fell   fury  met, 

And  all  on  utmost  ruin  set : 
As,  could   they  hut   life's  miseries   foresee. 
No    douht     all     infants    would     return     like 
thee.  -° 

The  Epode,  or  Stand 
For  what  is  life,  if  measured  by  the  space, 

Not   by   the   act? 
Or  masked  man,  if  valued  by  his  face, 
Above   his   fact? 
Here  's  one  outlived  his  peers  25 

And  told  forth  fourscore  years: 
He    vexed    time,    and    busied    the    whole 
state: 
Troubled  both    foes  and   friends; 
But  ever  to  no  ends: 
What  did  this  stirrer  but  die  late?         30 
How  well  at  twenty  had  he  fallen  or  stood ! 
For  three  of  his  four  score  he  did  no  good. 


The  Strophe,  or  Turn 
He  entered  well  by  virtuous  parts, 
Got  up,  and  thrived  with  honest  arts. 
He  purchased   friends,  and   fame,  and  hon- 
ors  then,  35 
And    had    his    noble    name    advanced    with 
men ; 
But   weary   of   that    flight. 
He   stooped   in   all   men's   sight 
To   sordid   flatteries,   acts  of   strife, 
And  sunk  in  that  dead  sea  of  life,  4° 
So  deep,  as  he  did  then  death's  waters  sup. 
But  that  the  cork  of  title  buoyed  him  up. 

The    Antistrophe,    or    Counter-Turn 
Alas!  but   Morison  fell  young! 
He   never    fell,— thou    fall'st,   my    tongue. 
He  stood  a  soldier  to  the  last  right  end,    45 
A  perfect  patriot  and  a  noble  friend ; 
But   most,  a   virtuous   son. 
All  ofifices  were  done 
By  him,  so  ample,  full,  and  round, 
In  weight,  in  measure,  number,  sound,   so 
As,  though  his  age  imperfect  might  appear. 
His  life  was  of  humanity  the  sphere. 

The  Epode,  or  Stand 
Go  now,  and  tell  our  days  summed  up  with 
fears. 
And   make  them  years ; 
Produce  thy  mass  of  miseries  on  the  stage, 
To  swell  thine  age;  56 

Repeat  of  things  a  throng, 
To  show  thou  hast  been   long. 
Not  lived:  for  life  doth  her  great  actions 
spell 


By  what  was  done  and  wrought  60 

In  season,  and  so  brought 
To  light :  her  measures  are,  how  well 
Each    syllabe    answered,    and    was    formed, 

how  fair: 
These   make   the    lines    of    life,   and   that's 
her  air! 


The  Strophe,  or  Turn 
It   is  not  growing  like   a  tree  65 

In   bulk,  doth  make  men   better  be; 
Or    standing    long    an    oak,    three    hundred 

year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear : 
A   lily   of   a   day, 
Is  fairer  far,  in   May,  70 

Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night; 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In    small   proportions   we   just  beauties   see; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

The    Antistrophe,    or    Counter-Turn 
Call,   noble   Lucius,   then,    for   wine,         75 
And  let  thy  looks  with  gladness  shine; 
Accept   this   garland,   plant   it   on   thy  head. 
And    think,    nay    know,    thy    Morison 's    not 
dead. 
He  leaped  the  present  age, 
Possest    with    holy    rage,  80 

To  see  that  bright  eternal  day; 
Of  which  we  priests  and  poets  say 
Such  truths  as   we  expect    for  happy  men ; 
And     there     he     lives     with     memory     and 
Ben 

The  Epode,  or  Stand 
Jonson,  who  sung  this  of  him,  ere  he  went, 
Himself,  to   rest,  86 

Or  taste  a  part  of  that  full  joy  he  meant 
To  have  exprest. 
In  this  bright  asterism  ;  — 
Where  it  were  friendship's  schism,  90 
Were    not    his    Lucius    long    with    us    to 
tarry, 
To   separate  these  twi- 
Lights,   the   Dioscuri ; 
And  keep  the  one  half  from  his  Harry. 
But  fate  doth  so  alternate  the  design,        95 
Whilst   that   in   heaven,   this   light   on   earth 
must    shine, — 

IV 

The  Strophe,  or  Turn 
And  shine  as  you  exalted  are; 
Two   names   of   friendship,  but  one   star: 
Of    hearts    the    union,    and    those    not    by 
chance 


JUJrliN    UUJNJNH 


it)5 


Made,  or  indenture,  or  leased  out  t'  advance 
The   profits    for   a   time.  'oi 

No  pleasures  vain  did  chime, 
Of  rimes,  or  riots,  at  your  feasts. 
Orgies  of  drink,  or  feigned  protests ; 
But   simple  love  of  greatness  and  of  good, 
That  knits  brave  minds  and  manners   more 
than    blood.  106 

The    Antistrophc,    or    Counter-Turn 
This  made  you  first  to  know  the  why 
You  liked,  then  after,  to  apply 
That    liking;    and    approach    so    one    the    t' 

other. 
Till  either  grew  a  portion  of  the  other;     "o 
Each  styled  by  his  end. 
The  copy  of  his  friend. 
You  lived  to  be  the  great  sir-names 
And  titles  by  which  all  made  claims 
Unto  the  Virtue:  nothing  perfect  done,    i'5 
But  as  a  Cary  or  a  Morison. 

The  Epode,  or  Stand 
And  such  a   force  the   fair  example  had. 

As    they  that   saw 
The   good    and   durst   not   practise   it,    were 
glad 
That   such   a   law  120 

Was  left  yet  to  mankind; 
Where  they  might  read  and  find 
Friendship,    indeed,    was    written    not    in 
words  ; 
And  with  the  heart,  not  pen, 
Of  two  so  early  men,  125 

Whose  lines  her  rolls  were,  and  records; 
Who,    ere    the    first    down    bloomed    on    the 

chin. 
Had   sowed   these   fruits,  and  got  the  har- 
vest in. 


JOHN  DONNE  (1573-1631) 

SONG 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star, 

Get   with   child   a    mandrake    root, 
Tell  me  where  all  past  years  are, 

Or  who  cleft  the  devil's  foot; 
Teach  me  to  hear  mermaids   singing, 
to   keep   off   envy's   stinging. 
And  find 
What    wind 
Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

If  thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights. 

Things   invisible   go   see. 
Ride   ten    thousand    days   and    nights 

Till  .Age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee; 


Thou,   when   thou   return'st,   wilt   tell   me 
All   strange  wonders  that  befell   thee,         'S 

And    swear 

No    where 
Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know; 

Such  a  pilgrimage   were  sweet.  20 

Yet  do  not ;   I  would  not  go. 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her. 
And   last   till   you  write  your  letter, 

Yet  she  25 

Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 


THE    INDIFFERENT 

T  can  love  both  fair  and  brown ; 

Her  whom  abundance  melts,  and  her  whom 

want   betrays ; 
Her  who  loves  loneness  best,  and  her  who 

masks   and  plays; 
Her  whom  the  country  formed,  and  whom 

the  town ; 
Her  who  believes,  and  her  who  tries;         5 
Her  who  still  weeps  with  spongy  eyes. 
And  her  who  is  dry  cork  and  never  cries. 
I  can  love  her,  and  her,  and  you,  and  you; 
I  can  love  any,  so  she  be  not  true. 

Will   no  other  vice  content  you?  1° 

Will   it   not    serve  your   turn   to   do   as   did 

your    mothers? 
Or   have  you   all   old   vices   spent   and   now 

would   find   out   others? 
Or  doth   a   fear  that  men  are  true  torment 

you? 
O  we  are  not,  be  not  you  so : 
Let    me  —  and   do   you  —  twenty   know;      '5 
Rob  me,   but   bind  me  not,   and  let  me   go. 
Must  I,  who  came  to  travel  thorough  you. 
Grow   your   fixed   subject,   because   you    are 

true? 

Venus  heard  me  sigh  this  song; 

And  by  love's  sweetest  part,  variety,  she 
swore,  20 

She  heard  not  this  till  now;  it  should  be 
so  no  more. 

She  went,  examined,  and  returned  ere  long. 

And   said,  '  Alas !   some  two  or  three 

Poor  heretics  in  love  there  be, 

Which  think  to  stablish  dangerous  con- 
stancy. 25 

But  I  have  told  them,  "  Since  you  will  be 
true. 

You  shall  be  true  to  them  who  're  false  to 
you." ' 


i66 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


THE   CANONIZATION 

For   God's   sake   Iiold   your  tongue,   and    lot 
me   love ; 
Or  chide  my  palsy,  or  my  gout ; 
My    five    gray    hairs,    or    ruined     fortune 
limit  ; 
With    wealth    your    state,    your    mind    with 
arts    improve; 
Take  you  a  course,  get  you  a  place,     5 
Observe  his  Honor,  or  his  Grace; 
Or  the  king's  real,  or  his  stamped  face 
Contemplate ;    what    you    will,    approve, 
So  you  will   let  me  love. 

Alas!  alas!  who's  injured  by  my  love?       '" 
What    merchant's    ships    have    my    sighs 

drowned  ? 
Who   says   my   tears   have   overflowed   his 
ground  ? 
When   did    my  colds   a    forward    spring    re- 
move ? 
When  did  the  heats  which  my  veins  fill 
Add   one   more   to   the   plaguy   bill?     '5 
Soldiers    find    wars,    and    lawyers    find    out 
still 
Litigious  men,  which  quarrels  move. 
Though  she  and  I  do  love. 

Call 's  what  you  will,  we  are  made  such  by 
love  ; 
Call   her   one,   me   another   fly,  ^o 

We  're   tapers   too,   and   at   our   own   cost 
die, 
And  we  in  us  find  th'  eagle  and  the  dove. 
The   phoenix   riddle  hath   more  wit 
By  us ;  we  two  being  one,  are  it ; 
So,  to  one  neutral  thing  both   sexes   fit.     25 
We  die  and  rise  the  same,  and  prove 
Mysterious  by  this  love. 

We  can  die  by  it,  if  not  live  by  love, 
And  if  unfit  for  tomb  or  hearse 
Our  legend  be,  it  will  be  fit  for  verse ;  3© 
And   if   no  piece  of  chronicle   we   prove, 
We  '11  build   in   sonnets   pretty  rooms ; 
As  well  a  well-wrought  urn  becomes 
The  greatest  ashes,  as  half-acre  tombs, 
And  by  these  hymns  all  shall  approve    35 
Us   canonized    for   love ; 

And  thus  invoke  us,  '  You,  whom   reverend 
love 
Made  one  another's  hermitage; 
You,   to   whom   love   was   peace,   that    now 
is    rage; 
Who   did    the    whole    world's    suul    contract, 
and    drove  40 

Into  the   glasses  of  your   eyes; 
So  made  such  mirrors,  and   such   spies, 


That  they  did  all  to  you  epitomize  — 

Countries,   towns,   courts   beg   from    above 
A  pattern  of  your  love.'  45 


THE    DREAM 

Dear  love,  for  nothing  less  than  thee 

Would   I  have  broke  this  happy  dream ; 
It    was   a   theme 

h^or  reason,  much  too  strong  for  fantasy. 

Therefore   thou   waked'st   me  wisely;   yet     5 

My  dream  thou  brok'st  not,  but  continued'st 
it. 

Thou  art  so  true  that  thoughts  of  thee  suf- 
fice 

To    make    dreams    truths    and    fables    his- 
tories ; 

Enter  these  arms,   for   since  thou  thought'st 
it    best 

Not   to   dream   all    my   dream,   let  's   act   the 
rest.  "• 

As  lightning,  or  a  taper's  light. 

Thine  eyes,  and  not  thine  noise,  waked  me ; 

Yet   I   thought  thee — 
For    thou    lov'st    truth  —  an    angel,    at    first 

sight ; 
But  when   I  saw  thou  saw'st  my  heart,       '5 
And  knew'st  my  thoughts  beyond  an  angel's 

art. 
When    thou    knew'st    what    I    dreamt,    when 

thou    knew'st    when 
Excess   of  joy   would   wake   me,   and   cam'st 

then, 
I    must   confess   it   could   not   choose   but   be 
Profane  to  think  thee  anything  but  thee.    2° 

Coming    and    staying    showed    thee    thee. 
But  rising  makes  me  doubt  that   now 

Thou  art  not  thou. 
That   love   is   weak  where    fear 's   as   strong 

as  he ; 
'T  is  not  all  spirit  pure  and  brave  25 

If  mixture  it  of  fear,  shame,  honor  have. 
Perchance  as  torches,  which  must  ready  be. 
Men  light  and  put  out,  so  thou  deal'st  with 

me. 
Thou  cam'st  to  kindle,  go'st  to  come  :  then  I 
Will  dream  that  hope  again,  but  else  would 

die.  30 


LOVE'S   DEITY 

I   long  to   talk   with    some   old   lover's   ghost 
Who    died    before    the    god    of    love    was 
born. 
I  cannot  think  that  he  who  then  loved  most 


Sunk    so    low    as    to    love   one    which    did 
scorn. 
But   since  this  god  produced  a  destiny,       5 
And  that  vice-nature,  custom,  lets  it  be, 

I  must  love  her  that  loves  not  me. 

Sure  they  which  made  him  god,  meant  not 
so   much, 
Nor  he  in  his  young  godhead  practised  it. 
But    when    an    even    flame    two    hearts    did 
touch,  'o 

His  office  was  indulgently  to  fit 
Actives    to    passives.     Correspondency 
Only   his   subject   was ;    it   cannot  be 
Love  till  I  love  her  who  loves  me. 

But  every  modern  god  will  now  extend  "5 
His  vast  prerogative  as  far  as  Jove. 

To  rage,  to  lust,  to  write  to,  to  commend. 
All  is  the  purlieu  of  the  god  of  love. 

O  !  were  we   wakened  by  this  tyranny 

To  ungod  this  child  again,  it  could  not  be 
I   should  love  her  who  loves  not  me.     ^'■ 

Rebel  and  atheist  too,  why  murmur   I, 
As    though    I    felt    the    worst    that    love 
could    do? 
Love  may  make  me  leave  loving,  or  might 
try 
A    deeper   plague,   to   make    her   love   me 
too ;  25 

Which,  since  she  loves  before,  I  'm  loth  to 

see. 
Falsehood    is    worse    than    hate ;    and    that 
must    be. 
If  she  whom  I  love,  should  love  me. 


THE  FUNERAL 

Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm 

Nor  question  much 
That  subtle  wreath  of  hair  about  mine  arm ; 
The  mystery,  the  sign  you  must  not  touch, 

For   't  is   my  outward   soul,  5 

Viceroy    to    that    which,    unto    heav'n    being 
gone, 

Will   leave  this  to   control 
And   keep  these  limbs,  her   provinces,    from 
dissolution. 

For  if  the  sinewy  thread  my  brain  lets  fall 

Through   every  part  'o 

Can   tie   those   parts,   and   make   me  one   of 

all; 
Those     hairs,     which     upward     grew,     and 
strength  and  art 
Have    from   a  better  brain. 
Can  better  do  't :  except  she  meant  that  I 

By  this  should  know  my  pain,  '5 


As     prisoners     then     are     manacled,     when 
they  're  condemned  to  die. 

Whate'er    she  meant  by  't,   bury   it   with  me, 

For   since  I   am 
Love's   martyr,  it   might  breed   idolatry 
If  into  other  hands  these  reliques  came.    20 

As  't  was  humility 
T'  afford  to  it  all  that  a  soul  can  do. 

So  't  is  some  bravery 
That,  since  you  would  have  none  of  me,   I 
bury   some   of   you. 


THE    COMPUTATION 

For  my  first  twenty  years,   since  yesterday, 
I  scarce  believed  thou  couldst  be  gone  away; 
For  forty  more  I  fed  on  favors  past. 
And  forty  on  hopes,  that  thou  wouldst  they 

might   last ; 
Tears  drowned  one  hundred,  and  sighs  blew 

out   two  ;  S 

A  thousand   I  did  neither  think  nor  do. 
Or  not  divide,  all  being  one  thought  of  you ; 
Or  in  a  thousand  more,   forgot  that  too. 
Yet  call  not  this  long  life;  but  think  that  I 
Am,    by   being   dead,   immortal ;   can    ghosts 

die?  ic 


FORGET 

If  poisonous  minerals,  and  if  that  tree 
Whose  fruit  threw  death  on  else  immortal  us, 
If  lecherous  goats,  if  serpents  envious 
Cannot  be  damned,  alas !  why  should  I  be  ? 
Why  should  intent  or  reason,  born  in  me,  S 
]\Iake  sins,  else  equal,  in  me  more  heinous? 
And,   mercy   being   easy   and   glorious 
To  God,   in  his   stern   wrath  why  threatens 

he? 
But  who  am  I,  that  dare  dispute  with  thee? 

0  God,   O !   of   thine  only  worthy  blood     10 
And    my    tears    make    a    heavenly    Lethean 

flood. 
And  drown  in  it  my  sin's  black  memory. 
That   thou   remember   them,    some   claim   as 

debt; 

1  think  it  mercy  if  thou   wilt   forget. 


DEATH 

Death,    be    not    proud,    though    some    have 

called   thee 
Mighty  and  dreadful,   for  thou  art  not  so; 
For    those    whom    thou    think'st    thou    dost 

overthrow 
Die    not.    poor    Death ;    nor    yet    canst    thou 

kill    me. 


16« 


SEVEN  1 1'.liJN  IH   L-ll-INlUKY    LYKH^:5 


From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture 

be,  5 

Much  pleasure;  then  from  thee  much  more 

must    flow ; 
And    soonest    our    best    men    with    thee    do 

go  — 
Rest  of  their  bones  and  souls'  delivery! 
Thou'rt    slave    to    fate,    chance,    kings,    and 

desperate   men, 
And    dost    with    poison,    war,    and    sickness 

dwell; 
And    poppy   or    charms    can    make   us    sleep 

as    well 
And   better   than   thy   stroke.     Why   swell'st 

thou    then  ? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And   Death   shall  be  no  more :   Death,  thou 

shalt    die! 


A   HYMN   TO   GOD   THE  FATHER 

Wilt  thou   forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 
Which  was  my  sin,  though   it  were  done 
before? 
Wilt   thou    forgive   that   sin   through    which 
I   run, 
And   do    run    still,   though    still   I   do   de- 
plore? 
When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done ; 
For  I  have  more.  6 

Wilt   thou    forgive    that    sin    which    I    have 

won 
Others    to    sin,    and    made    my    sins    their 

door? 

Wilt    thou    forgive    that    sin    which    I    did 

shun 

A  year  or  two,  but  wallowed  in  a  score? 

When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done; 

For    I    have    more.  12 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I  've  spun 
My    last    thread,    I    shall    perish    on    the 
shore ; 
But   swear  by  thyself  that  at  my  death  thy 
Son  >  s 

Shall   shine  as  he  shines  now  and  hereto- 
fore ; 
And   having  done  that,  thou  hast   done ; 
I   fear  no  more. 


JOHN   FLETCHER    (1579-1625) 
LOVE'S  EMBLEMS 


Now  the  lusty  spring  is  seen : 
Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blv 
Daintily  invite  the  view, 


Everywhere  on  every  green, 

Roses  blushing  as  they  blow,  5 

And  enticing  men  to  pull 

Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow, 

Woodbines  of  sweet  honey  full : 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
'  Ladies,   if   not   plucked,   we  die.'     >o 

Yet  the  lusty  spring  hath  stayed ; 
Blushing  red  and  purest  white 
Daintily    to    love    invite 

Every   woman,    every   maid. 

Cherries   kissing  as  they  grow,  'S 

And   inviting  men   to  taste. 

Apples  even   ripe  below, 

Winding  gently  to  the  waist: 
All   love's   emblems,   and  all   cry, 
'Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die.'       20 


MELANCHOLY 

Hence,   all   you   vain   delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly! 
There  's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
H  man  were  wise  to  see't,  S 

But  only  melancholy; 

O   sweetest  melancholy! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A   sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that 's  fastened  to  the  ground,         10 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound ! 
Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves. 
Places   which   pale   passion   loves! 
Moonlight    walks,    when   all   the    fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls!     'S 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 
These   are   the   sounds   we   feed   upon. 
Then    stretch    our    bones    in    a    still    gloomy 

valley; 
Nothing  's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melan- 
choly. 


SONG  TO  BACCHUS 

God    Lyaeus,    ever    young. 

Ever  honored,   ever   sung; 

Stained  with  blood  of  lusty  grapes. 

In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes. 

Dance  upon  the  mazer's  brim,  S 

In   the  crimson   liquor   swim ; 

From  thy  plenteous  hand  divine 

Let  a  river  run  with  wine ; 

God  of  youth,  let  this  day  here 

Enter  neither  care  nor   fear!  10 


BEAUTY  CLEAR  AND  FAIR 

Beauty  clear  and  fair, 
Where  the  air 

Rather  like  a  perfume  dwells; 
Where  the  violet  and  the  rose 
Their  blue  veins  and  blush  disclose, 

And  come  to  honor  nothing  else. 

Where  to  live  near, 

And   planted  there. 
Is  to   live,   and   still   live   new; 

Where  to  gain  a  favor  is 

More  than  light,  perpetual  bliss, — 
Make   me   live  by  serving  you. 

Dear,  again  back  recall 
To  this  light 

A  stranger  to  himself  and  all ; 
Both  the  wonder  and  the  story 
Shall  be  yours,  and  eke  the  glory: 

I  am  your  servant,  and  your  thrall. 

WEEP  NO  MORE 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 
Sorrow  calls  no  time  that 's  gone ; 
Violets  plucked  the  sweetest  rain 
Makes  not  fresh  nor  grow  again; 
Trim   thy   locks,   look  cheerfully; 
Fate's  hid  ends  eyes  cannot  see; 
Joys  as  winged  dreams  fly  fast, 
Why  should  sadness  longer  last? 
Grief  is  but  a  wound  to  woe; 
Gentlest  fair,  mourn,  mourn  no  mo. 


ASPATIA'S   SONG 

Lay   a   garland   on   my  hearse 

Of  the   dismal  yew; 
Maidens,    willow    branches   bear; 

Say,  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 
From  my  hour  of  birth. 

Upon  my  buried  body  lie 
Lightly,   gentle  earth ! 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT 

(1584-1616) 

ON  THE  LIFE  OF  MAN 

Like  to  the   falling  of  a  star. 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are. 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue. 

Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew. 


Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood : 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to  night: 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies. 
The  spring  intombed  in  autumn  lies  ; 
The   dew  's  dried  up,  the   star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man   forgot. 


LINES  ON  THE  TOMBS  IN 
WESTMINSTER 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear! 
What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  this  heap  of  stones; 
Here  they  lie  had  realms  and   lands, 
Who     now     want     strength     to     stir 

hands; 
Where     from     their     pulpits     sealed 

dust 
They  preach,  '  In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 
Here  's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest  royal'st  seed 
That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in. 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin  ; 
Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 
'  Though     gods     they     were,    as     men 

died.' 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings. 
Here  's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state. 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


5 
their 


with 


the} 


GEORGE  WITHER  (1588-1667) 
THE  LOVER'S   RESOLUTION 

Shall   I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die,  because  a  woman's  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day. 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Should  my  heart  be  grieved  or  pined, 

'  Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 

Turtle  dove,  or  pelican  ! 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 


l/U 


isilVHiN  1  H-rLiN  1  n  v^niN  1  urti    L.irtiv^o 


Shall  a  woman's   virtues  move 

Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 

Or  her  well   deserving  known, 

Make  me  quite   forget  mine  own?  ^o 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 

Which  may  gain  her,  name  of  best ! 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

'Cause  her   fortune   socnis   too  high,  25 

Shall  I  play  the  fool,  and  die? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind. 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find. 
Think  '  What,  with  them,  they  would  do 
That,  without  them,  dare  to  woo !  '  30 

And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  though  great  she  be? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 

I  will   ne'er  the  more  despair ! 

If  she   love   me    (this   believe!)  35 

I  will  die,  ere  she  shall  grieve! 

If  she  slight  me,  when  I  woo, 

I  can   scorn,   and  let  her  go ! 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be?  40 


WHEN  WE  ARE  UPON  THE  SEAS 

From  HALLELUJAH 

On  those  great  waters  now  I  am. 

Of   which    I   have   been   told, 

That    whosoever    thither    came 

Should   wonders   there   behold. 

In   this  unsteady  place  of   fear,  S 

Be  present.  Lord,  with  me ; 

For   in  these  depths  of  water  here, 

I  depths  of  danger  see. 

A  stirring  courser  now  I  sit, 

A  headstrong  steed  I  ride,  10 

That  champs  and  foams  upon  the  bit 

Which   curbs   his   lofty   pride. 

The    softest    whistling   of   the   winds 

Doth  make  him   gallop   fast ; 

And  as  their  breath  increased  he  finds       is 

The  more  he  maketh  haste. 


Take  thou.  Oh  Lord !  the  reins  in  hand, 

Assume  our  Master's  room  ; 

Vouchsafe  thou  at  our  helm  to  stand, 

And  pilot  to  become. 

Trim  thou  the  sails,  and  let  good  speed 

Accompany  our  haste ; 

Sound  thou  the  channels  at  our  need 

And  anchor  for  us  cast. 


A  fit  and   favorable  wind  25 

To  further  us,  provide ; 

And  let  it  wait  on  us  behind. 

Or  lackey   by  our  side. 

From     sudden    gusts,     from     storms,     from 

sands. 
And   from   the  raging  wave ;  30 

From   shallows,   rocks,  and  pirates'  hands. 
Men,  goods,  and  vessel  save. 

Preserve  us  from  the  wants,  the   fear, 

.And  sickness  of  the  seas; 

Hut  chiefly  from  our  sins,  which  are  35 

A  danger  worse  than  these. 

Lord !   let  us,  also,  safe  arrive 

Where   we   desire  to  be; 

And   for  thy  mercies  let  us  give 

Due  thanks  and  praise  to  thee.  40 

THE  PRAYER  OF  OLD  AGE 

From  HALLELUJAH 

As  this  my  carnal  robe  grows  old. 
Soiled,  rent,  and  worn  by  length  of  j'ears, 
Let  me  on  that  by  faith  lay  hold 
Which   man    in    life    immortal    wears: 

So   sanctify   my  days   behind,  5 

Do  let  my  manners  be  refined, 
That  when  my  soul  and  flesh  must  part, 
There  lurk  no  terrors  in  my  heart. 

So  shall  my  rest  be  safe  and  sweet 
When  I  am  lodged  in  my  grave;  10 

And   when   my   soul   and   body  meet, 
A   joyful   meeting   they   shall   have ; 

Their  essence,  then,  shall  be  divine. 
This   muddy   flesh    shall    starlike   shine, 
And   God  shall  that   fresh  youth   restore     i5 
Which  will  abide  for  evermore. 


WILLIAM  BROWNE  (1591-1643) 

BRITANNIA'S    PASTORALS 

From   BOOK  II,   SONG  I 

Glide  soft,  ye  silver  floods, 

And   every  spring : 

Within  the  shady  woods 

Let  no  bird  sing! 

Nor    from   the   grove   a   turtle-dove  5 

Be  seen  to  couple  with  her  love. 

But  silence  on  each  dale  and  mountain 
dwell. 

Whilst  Willy  bids  his  friend  and  joy  fare- 
well. 


WILLIAM    tJKUWJNlS 


171 


But,  of  great  Thetis'  train, 

Ye  mermaids  fair  10 

That  on  the  shores  do  plain 

Your  sea-green  hair, 

As  ye  in  trammels  knit  your  locks, 

Weep  ye;  and  so  enforce  the  rocks 

In  heavy  murmurs  through  the  broad  shores 
tell.  15 

How  Willy  bade  his  friend  and  joy  fare- 
well. 

Cease,  cease  ye  murd'ring  winds. 
To  move  a  wave  ; 
But  if  with  troubled  minds 
You  seek  his  grave,  -o 

Know  't  is  as  various  as  yourselves 
Now  in  the  deep,  then  on  the  shelves. 
His  coffin   tossed  by  fish  and  surges   fell. 
Whilst   Willy  weeps,  and  bids  all   joy   fare- 
well. 

Had  he,  Arion-like  25 

Been  judged  to  drown. 

He  on  his  lute  could  strike 

So  rare  a  sown, 

A  thousand   dolphins  would  have  come 

And  jointly  strive  to  bring  him  home.       3° 

But  he   on   shipboard   died,   by  sickness   fell. 

Since  when  his  Willy  paid  all  joy  farewell. 

Great  Neptune,  hear  a  swain ! 
His  coffin  take. 

And  with  a  golden  chain  35 

For  pity  make 

It  fast  unto  a  rock  near  land ! 
Where  ev'ry  calmy  morn  I  'II  stand. 
And  ere  one  sheep  out  of  my  fold  I  tell, 
Sad   Willy's  pipe  shall  bid  his   friend   fare- 
well. 40 


From  BOOK  II,  SONG  V 

Now  was  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May 
Meeting  the  May-pole  at  the  break  of  day. 
And  Cselia,  as  the  fairest  on  the  green, 
Not     without     some     maids'     envy     chosen 

queen. 
Now  was  the  time  com'n,  when  our  gentle 

swain  5 

Must  in  his  harvest,  or  lose  all  again. 
Now    must    he    pluck    the    rose    lest    other 

hands, 
Or  tempests  blemish  what  so  fairly  stands : 
And  therefore,  as  they  had  before  decreed. 
Our    shepherd    gets    a    boat,    and    with    all 

speed,  10 


In  night,  that  doth  on   lovers'  actions  smile, 
Arrived  safe  on  Mona's  fruitful  isle. 

Between    two    rocks     (immortal,    without 

mother), 
That  stands  as  if  out-facing  one  another. 
There  ran  a  creek  up,  intricate  and  blind,  '5 
As  if  the  waters  hid  them  from  the  wind; 
Which  never   washed  but  at  a  higher  tide 
The   frizzled  coats  which  do  the  mountains 

hide ; 
Where  never  gale  was  longer  known  to  stay 
Than    from   the   smooth   wave   it   had   swept 

away  20 

The    new    divorced    leaves,   that    from    each 

side 
Left  the  thick  boughs  to  dance  out  with  the 

tide. 
At  further  end  the  creek  a  stately  wood 
Gave  a  kind  shadow  to  the  brackish  fiood 
Made  up  of  trees,  not  less  kenned  by  each 

skiff  25 

Than  that  sky-scaling  peak  of  Teneriffe, 
Upon    whose    tops    the    hernshaw    bred    her 

young. 
And  hoary  moss  upon  their  branches  hung; 
Whose  rugged  rinds  sufficient  were  to  show. 
Without   their   height,   what   time  they   'gan 
to  grow  ;  30 

And  if  dry  eld  by  wrinkled  skin  appears. 
None    could    allot    them    less    than    Nestor's 

years. 
As     under     their     command     the     thronged 

creek 
Ran    lessened    up.     Here    did    the    shepherd 

seek 
Where  he  his  little  boat  might  safely  hide, 
Till  it  was  fraught  with  what  the  world  be- 
side 36 
Could  not  outvalue ;  nor  give  equal  weight 
Though  in  the  time  when  Greece  was  at  her 
height. 
The  ruddy  horses  of  the  rosy  Morn 
Out  of  the  eastern  gates  had  newly  borne  40 
Their  blushing  mistress  in  her  golden  chair, 
Spreading   new   light   throughout   our   hemi- 
sphere, 
When  fairest  Caelia  with  a  lovelier  crew 
Of  damsels  than  brave  Latmus  ever  knew 
Came    forth    to    meet    the    youngsters,    who 
had  here                                                      45 
Cut  down  an  oak  that  long  withouten  peer 
Bore   his   round   head   imperiously  above  • 
His  other  mates  there,  consecrate  to  Jove. 
The  wished  time  drew  on :  and  Caelia  now. 
That   had    the    fame    for    her   white    arched 
brow,                                                             so 
While  all  her  lovely  fellows  busied  were 
In  picking  off  the  gems  from  Tellus'  hair, 


172 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Made  tow'rds  the  creek,  where  Philocel,  uii- 

spied 
Of  maid  or  shepherd  that  their  May-games 

plied, 
Received    his    wishcd-for    Ccxlia,   and    begun 
To   steer  his  boat  contrary  to  the  sun,       5^ 
Who    could    have    wished    another    in    his 

place 
To  guide  the  car  of  light,  or  that  his  race 
Were  to  have   end    (so  he  might   bless  his 

hap) 
In  C.-elia's  bosom,  not  in  Thetis'  lap.  60 

The   boat    oft    danced    for    joy   of    what    it 

held: 
The    hoist-up     sail     not     quick    but    gently 

swelled, 
And    often    shook,    as    fearing    what    might 

fall. 
Ere  she  delivered  what   she   went   withal. 
Winged   Argestes,    fair   Aurora's   son,         65 
Licensed   that  day  to   leave  his  dungeon, 
Meekly  attended  and  did  never  err, 
Till    Caelia   graced    our    land,   and   our   land 

her. 
As    through    the    waves    their    love-fraught 

wherry  ran, 
A  many  Cupids,  each  set  on  his  swan,        7o 
Guided  with  reins  of  gold  and  silver  twist 
The     spotless    birds    about    them    as    they 

list: 
Which   would  have   sung  a   song  'ere  they 

were  gone 
Had  unkind   Nature  given  them  more  than 

one; 
Or  in  bestowing  that  had  not  done  wrong, 
And  made  their  sweet  lives  forfeit  one  sad 

song.  76 


ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER  OF 
PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse: 
Sidney's   sister,    Pembroke's   mother : 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair  and  learned  and  good  as  she,        5 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

Marble  piles  let  no  man  raise 
To  her  name:  for  after  days 
Some   kind   woman,  born  as  she, 
Reading   this,   like   Niobe  "o 

Shall  turn  marble,  and  become 
Both  her  mourner  and  her  tomb. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  (1591-1674) 

CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

Get    up,    get    up    for    shame,    the    blooming 

morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted   colors  through   the  air: 
Get   up,   sweet  slug-a-bcd,  and   see         s 
The  dew   bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  toward  the 

east 
Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  not  dressed ; 
Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said     '» 
And    sung    their    thankful    hymns,    't  is 

sin. 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,    sooner    than    the    lark,    to    fetch    in 
May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come   forth,   like  the   spring-time,    fresh 
and  green,  '^ 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels   for  your  gown  or  hair : 
Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  :  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept. 
Against   you   come,    some   orient   pearls   un- 
wept ; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill  ^s 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief 

in  praying: 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-May- 
ing. 

Come,     my     Corinna,     come;     and,     coming 

mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a 
park  30 

Made    green    and    trimmed    with    trees; 

see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or   branch :   each   porch,   each  door   ere 

this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is. 
Made  up  of  white-thorn,  neatly  interwove; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street        37 
And  open  fields  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we  '11  abroad ;  and  let 's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May:        40 


And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  stay- 
ing ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let 's  go  a-Maying. 

There  's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 

But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come         45 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some   have   despatched    their   cakes   and 

cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 
And     some     have     wept,     and     wooed,     and 

plighted   troth. 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off 
sloth :  _  50 

Many  a  green-gown  has   been   given ; 
Many  a  kiss,   both   odd   and   even : 
Many  a  glance  too  has  been   sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying     55 
This  night,  and  locks  picked,  yet  we  're  not 
a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  arc  in  our  prime ; 

And  take  the  harmless   folly  of   the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before    we   know    our    liberty.  6o 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun ; 

And,  as  a  vapor  or  a  drop  of  rain, 

Once  lost,  can  ne  'er  be  found  again. 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made  65 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 

Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  de- 
caying, 69 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come  let 's  go  a-Maying. 


UPON  JULIA'S  CLOTHES 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,    then,    methinks,    how    sweetly    flows 

The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration,   each   way   free,  J 

O,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me ! 


TO    THE   VIRGINS    TO    MAKE   MUCH 
OF  TIME 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may. 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this   same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the   sun, 

The  higher  he 's  a-getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he  's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first. 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry  ; 

For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 


TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Dafifodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon. 
Stay,    stay, 
Until   the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you. 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay. 
As  you,  or  anything. 
We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to   the   summer's   rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne  'er  to  be  found  again. 


TO  MUSIC 

Charm  me  asleep,  and  melt  me  so 

With  thy  delicious  numbers, 

That  being  ravished,  hence  I  go 

Away  in  easy  slumbers. 

Ease  my  sick  head, 

And  make  my  bed. 

Thou  power  that  canst  sever 

From  me  this  ill ; 

And   quickly   still. 

Though  thou  not  kill 

My  fever. 

Thou  sweetly  canst  convert  the  same 
From  a  consuming  fire. 
Into  a  gentle-licking  flame, 
And  make  it  thus  expire. 
Then   make  me  weep 


\ 


174 


bb-VliJN  1  tiiiiN  Itt    V^jtlNlUKY    i^YKlL.:^ 


My  pains  asleep, 

Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate. 

And  give  me  such  reposes 

Both   void   of   state; 

That  I,  poor  I, 

And   yet   the   threshold   of   my  door 

May  think,  thereby, 

20 

Is    worn   by   th'   poor. 

I   live  and  die 

Who   thither   come   and    freely   get 

15 

'Mongst   roses. 

Good   words,  or   meat. 
Like  as  my  parlor,  so  my  hall 

Fall  on  mo  like  a  silent  dew. 

And    kitchen  's    small ; 

Or  like   those  maiden   showers, 

A   little  buttery,  and  therein 

Which,  by  the  peep  of  day,  do  strew 

25 

A   little   bin. 

20 

A  baptism  o'er  the  flowers. 

Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Melt,  melt  my  pains 

Unchipped,   unflead  ; 

With  thy  soft  strains; 

Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  briar 

That  having  ease  me  given, 

Make  me  a  fire. 

With   full  delight, 

30 

Close  by  whose  living  coal   I   sit, 

25 

I  leave  this   light. 

And  glow  like  it. 

And  take  my  flight 

Lord,  I  confess,  too,  when  I  dine, 

For  heaven. 

The  pulse  is  thine. 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  thee; 

30 

AN    ODE    FOR    BEN    JONSON 

The  worts,  the  purslain,  and  the  mess 

Ah,   Ben! 

Say  how  or   when 

Of   water-cress, 

Which  of  thy  kindness  thou  hast  sent ; 

Shall  we,  thy  guests. 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

And   my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet, 

35 

Made  at  the  Sun, 

5 

To  be  more  sweet. 

The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun; 

'T  is  thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

Where  we  such  clusters  had. 

With  guiltless  mirth. 

As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad? 

And  giv'st  me   wassail  bowls  to  drink, 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine    . 

Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

Spiced   to   the   brink. 

40 

10 

Lord,   't  is   thy  plenty-dropping   hand 

That  soils  my  land. 

My  Ben! 

And  giv'st  me,   for  my  bushel  sown, 

Or  come  again, 
Or  send  to  us 

Twice  ten   for  one ; 
Thou  mak'st  my  teeming  hen  to  lay 

45 

Thy  wit's  great  overplus; 

Her   egg  each   day ; 

But  teach  us  yet 

IS 

Besides  my  healthful  ewes  to  bear 

Wisely  to  husband  it, 

Me  twins  each  year ; 

Lest  we  that  talent  spend ; 

The  while  the  conduits  of  my  kine 

And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 

Run   cream,    for   wine. 

50 

That  precious  stock,  the   store 

All  these,  and  better  thou  dost  send 

Of    such    a    wit    the    world    should    have 

no 

Me,  to  this   end. 

more. 

20 

That    I    should    render,    for   my    part, 
A   thankful   heart, 

Which,  fired  with  incense.  I  resign. 

55 

A  THANKSGIVING  TO  GOD  FOR  HIS 

As   wholly  thine; 

HOUSE 

But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be. 
My  Christ,  by  thee. 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  mc  a  cell 

Wherein  to  dwell. 

A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

GRACE   FOR   A   CHILD 

Is    weather-proof, 

Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

5 

Here,  a  little  child,  I  stand. 

Both  soft  and  dry ; 

Heaving   up   my   either   hand : 

•Where  thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward. 

Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be, 

Hast  set  a  guard 

Here  I   lift  them  up  to  thee. 

Of  harmless  thoughts  to  watch  and  keep 

For  a  benison   to   fall 

Me.  while  I  sleep. 

10 

On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all.     Amen. 

KJ i^\y  ly^Kj  1^    11  jj^iv  jji^iv  ± 


HIS  PRAYER  FOR  ABSOLUTION 

For  those  my  unbaptized  rimes, 

Writ   in   my   wild   unhallowed  times, 

For  every  sentence,  clause,  and  word. 

That 's  not  inlaid  with  thee,  my  Lord 

Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 

Out  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine. 

But  if,  'mongst  all,  thou  find'st  here  one 

Worthy   thy   benediction. 

That  one  of  all  the  rest  shall  be 

The  glory  of  my  work  and  me. 


GEORGE  HERBERT  (1593-1633) 
VIRTUE 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal   of   the   earth   and   sky! 

The  dew   shall   weep  thy    fall   to-night ; 
For   thou    must   die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave,     5 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 

Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where   sweets  compacted  lie, 

Aly  music   shows  ye   have  your   closes. 
And  all   must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like   seasoned   timber,   never  gives ; 

But   though   the   whole   world  turn   to   coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives  '6 


LOVE 

Love  bade  me  welcome ;  yet  my  soul  drew 
back. 
Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 
But    quick-eyed    Love,    observing    me    grow 
slack 
From  my  first  entrance  in, 
Drew  nearer  to  me,  sweetly  questioning,     5 
If   I  lacked  anything. 

'  A  guest,'  I  answered,  '  worthy  to  be  here :  ' 
Love  said,  '  You  sliall  be  he.' 

'I,  the  unkind,  ungrateful?  Ah,  my  dear, 
I  cannot  look  on  thee!'  •« 

Love  took  my  hand  and  smiling  did  reply, 
'  Who  made  the  eyes  but  I  ? ' 

'  Truth,  Lord ;  but  I  have  marred  them :  let 
my   shame 
Go   where  it   doth   deserve.' 


'  And  know  you  not,'  says  Love,  '  who  bore 
the  blame?'  15 

'  My  dear,  then  I  will  serve.' 
'  You  must  sit  down,'  says  Love,  '  and  taste 
my   meat.' 
So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 


THE  COLLAR 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried,  'No  more; 

I  will  abroad ! 
What!  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free;  free  as  the  road. 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store.       5 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial   fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wine  "o 

Before   my    sighs    did    dry    it;    there    was 
corn 
Before  my  tears  did  drown   it ; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me? 
Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it. 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay?  all  blasted,  '5 
All  wasted? 
Not  so,  my  heart,  but  there  is  fruit, 
And   thou   hast   hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures ;  leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not;   forsake  thy  cage,  ^i 

Thy   rope  of   sands 
Which  petty  thoughts  have  made ;  and  made 
to    thee 
Good  cable,   to  enforce  and  draw. 

And  be  thy  law,  25 

While  thou   didst   wink   and   wouldst   not 
see. 
Away!   take  heed; 
I  will   abroad. 
Call    in   thy   death's   head  there,   tie   up   thy 
fears : 
He  that   forbears  3» 

To  suit  and   serve  his  need 
Deserves  his  load.' 
But  as   I   raved,  and   grew  more  fierce  and 
wild 
At    every    word, 
Methought   I   heard   one  calling.   '  Child  ' : 
And  I  replied,  '  My  Lord.'  36 


THE  QUIP 

The  merry  World  did  on  a  day 

With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 

To  meet  together  where  I  lay, 
.And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 


lyb 


SEVENTEENTH  LENIUKY  LYKILS 


First  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose,  5 

Which  when  I  pluckt  not,  '  Sir,'  said  she, 

'Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those?' 
But  Thou  shah  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then   Money  came,  and  chinking  still, 

'What   tunc  is  this,   poor  man?'   said  he: 

'  I  heard  in   Music  you  had  skill ;  '  > ' 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  brave   Glory  puffing  by 
In  silks  that   whistled,  who  but  he! 

He  scarce  allowed  me  half  an  eye;  '5 

But  Thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  quick  Wit  and  Conversation, 
And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be, 

And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration : 

But  Thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me.     20 

Yet  when  the  hour  of  Thy  design 

To  answer  these  fine  things  shall  come, 

Speak  not  at  large ;  say,  '  I  am  Thine,' 
And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 

THE  WORLD 

Love   built   a   stately   house,   where   Fortune 
came ; 
And  spinning  fancies,  she  was  heard  to  say 
That    her    fine    cobwebs    did     support    the 

frame, 
Whereas  they  were  supported  by  the  same; 
But  Wisdom  quickly  swept  them  all  away. 

Then    Pleasure    came,    who,    liking    not    the 
fashion,  6 

Began  to  make  balconies,  terraces. 
Till  she  had  weakened  all  by  alteration ; 
But   reverend   laws,   and   many   a   proclama- 
tion, 
Reformed  all  at  length  with  menaces.     10 

Then   entered   Sin,   and   with   that   sycamore 
Whose    leaves    first    sheltered    man    from 
drought    and   dew, 
Working  and   winding  slily  evermore, 
The    inward   walls   and   summers    cleft    and 
tore; 
But  Grace  shored  these,  and  cut  that  as  it 
grew.  15 

Then    Sin   combined   with   Death   in    a   firm 
band 
To  raze  the  building  to  the  very  floor : 
Which  they  effected,  none  could  them  with- 
stand ; 
But    Love    and    Grace    took    Glory    by    the 
hand, 
And  built  a  braver  palace  than  before.    20 


THE  PULLEY 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessing  standing  by ; 

'  Let    us,'    said   he,    '  pour   on    him    all    we 
can: 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed   lie, 

Contract  into  a  span.'  s 

So  Strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then  Beauty  flowed ;  then  Wisdom,  Honor, 
Pleasure. 
When    almost    all    was   out,    God    made    a 
stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  his  treasure. 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay.  10 

'  For  if  I  should,'  said  he, 
'  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 

He  would   adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And    rest    in    Nature,   not   the    God   of    Na- 
ture ; 

So  both  should  losers  be.  'S 

'  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But   keep    them   with    repining   restlessness; 

Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
n  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast.'  20 


THOMAS  CAREW  (i598?-i639?) 

SONG 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows. 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose. 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These   flowers,   as  in  their   causes,   sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray  5 

The  golden  atoms  of  the  day. 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 

The  nightingale  when  May  is  past,  '° 

For   in   your   sweet   dividing   throat 

She   winters   and   keeps   warm   her    note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night. 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there  is 

Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 

The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest, 

For  unto  you  at  last   she  flies, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies.  20 


SONG 

Would  you  know  what 's  soft  ?     I  dare 
Not  bring  you  to  the  down,  or  air, 
Nor  to  stars  to  show  what 's  bright, 
Nor  to  snow  to  teach  you  white; 

Nor,  if  you  would  music  hear, 
Call  the  orbs  to  take  your  ear; 
Nor,  to  please  your  sense,  bring  forth 
Bruised  nard,  or  what 's  more  worth ; 

Or  on  food  were  your  thoughts  placed. 
Bring  you  nectar  for  a  taste;  i 

Would  you  have  all  these  in  one, 
Name  my  mistress,  and  't  is  done  • 


THE    PROTESTATION 

No  more  shall  meads  be  decked  with  flow- 
ers, 
Nor  sweetness  dwell  in  rosy  bowers. 
Nor  greenest  buds  on  branches   spring. 
Nor  warbling  birds  delight  to  sing, 
Nor  April  violets   paint   the   grove,  5 

If  I  forsake  my  Celia's  love. 

The  fish  shall  in  the  ocean  burn, 

And  fountains  sweet  shall  bitter  turn. 

The  humble  oak  no  flood  shall  know 

When  floods  shall  highest  hills  o'erflow,     lo 

Black  Lethe  shall   oblivion   leave, 

If  e'er  my  Celia  I  deceive. 

Love  shall  his  bow  and  shaft  lay  by. 
And  Venus'  doves  want  wings  to  fly. 
The  Sun  refuse  to  show  his  light,  is 

And  day  shall  then  be  turned  to  night. 
And  in  that  night  no  star  appear, 
If  once  I  leave  my  Celia  dear. 

Love  shall  no  more  inhabit  earth. 

Nor  lovers  more  shall  love  for  worth,        20 

Nor  joy  above  in  heaven  dwell, 

Nor  pain  torment  poor  souls   in  hell. 

Grim  death  no  more  shall  horrid  prove, 

If  e'er  I  leave  bright  Celia's  love. 


PERSUASIONS  TO  JOY:  A  SONG 

If  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye 
Now  languish  and  anon  must  die; 
If  every  sweet  and  every  grace 
Must  fly   from  that   forsaken   face; 


Then,   Celia,   let  us  reap  our  joys         s 
Ere  Time  such  goodly  fruit  destroys. 

Or  if  that  golden  fleece  must  grow 

For  ever  free  from  aged  snow ; 

If   those  bright   suns   must  know   no   shade, 

Nor  your   fresh  beauties   ever   fade;  10 

Then    fear  not,   Celia,  to  bestow 
What,    still    being    gathered,    still    must 
grow. 

Thus  either  Time  his  sickle  brings 
In  vain,  or  else   in  vain  his  wings. 


INGRATEFUL    BEAUTY    THREAT- 
ENED 

Know,  Celia,  since  thou  art  so  proud, 
'T  was  I  that  gave  thee  thy  renown. 

Thou   hadst   in   the   forgotten  crowd 
Of  common  beauties  lived  unknown. 

Had  not  my  verse  extolled  thy  name,  s 

And  with  it  imped  the  wings  of  Fame. 

That  killing  power  is  none  of  thine: 
I  gave  it  to  thy  voice  and  eyes  ; 

Thy  sweets,  thy  graces,  all  are  mine ; 

Thou  art  my  star,  shin'st  in  my  skies;    10 

Then  dart  not  from  thy  borrowed   sphere 

Lightning  on  him   that   fixed   thee  there. 

Tempt  me  with  such  affrights  no  more. 

Lest  what  I  made  I  uncreate ; 
Let  fools  thy  mystic   form  adore,  'S 

I  know  thee  in  thy  mortal  state. 
Wise  poets,  that  wrapt  Truth  in  tales. 
Knew  her  themselves  through  all  her  veils. 


AN  EPITAPH 

This  little  vault,  this  narrow  room, 
Of  love  and  beauty  is  the  tomb; 
The  dawning  beam,  that  'gan  to  clear 
Our  clouded  sky,  lies  darkened  here. 
For  ever  set  to  us :   by  death  s 

Sent  to   enflame  the  world   beneath. 
'T  was  but  a  bud,  yet  did  contain 
More   sweetness   than    shall   spring  again ; 
A  budding  star,  that  might  have  grown 
Into  a   sun   when   it  had  blown.  it> 

This  hopeful  beauty  did  create 
New   life   in   love's  declining  state ; 
But  now  his  empire  ends,  and  we 
From  fire  and  wounding  darts  are  free ; 
His  brand,  his  bow,  let  no  man  fear:       5 
The  flames,  the  arrows,  all   lie  here. 


178 


SEVENTliKNlH    L-t.iMUKY    i.lKlL.:3 


SIR  WILLIAM   DA\  ENANT 
(1606-1668) 

SONG 

The   lark   now  leaves   his   wat'ry   nest, 
And   clinihinn.   shakes   his   dewy   wings. 

He  takes   this   window    for  the   East, 
And   to  implore  your  light   he   sings  — 

Awake,  awake !  the  morn  will  never  rise     s 

Till  she  can  dress  her  heauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 
The   ploughman    from   the   sun   his    season 

takes ; 
But   still    the    lover   wonders   what    they    are 
Who    look    for    day    he  fore    his    mistress 

wakes.  '° 

Awake,    awake !    Iireak    thro'    your    veils    of 

lawn  ! 
And    draw    your    curtains,    and    begin    the 

dawn! 


PRAISE  AND    PRAYER 

Praise  is   devotion   fit    for   mighty  minds, 
The  diff'ring  world's  agreeing  sacrifice ; 

Where   Heaven   divided   faiths  united  finds : 
But    prayer    in     various    discord    upward 
flies. 

For  Prayer  the  ocean  is  where  diversely     5 
Men   steer  their  course,  each  to  a  sev'ral 
coast : 
Where  all  our  interests   so  discordant  be 
That    half    beg    winds    by    which    the    rest 
are    lost. 

By  penitence  when  we  ourselves  forsake, 
'T  is     but     in     wise     design     on     piteous 
Heaven;  '" 

In    praise    we    nobly    give    what    God    may 
take, 
And   are,    without    a   beggar's   blush,    for- 
given. 


EDMUND  WALLER  (160^1687) 

THE  STORY  OF  PHCEBUS  AND 
DAPHNE  APPLIED 

Thyrsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train, 
Fair   Sacharissa   loved,   but   loved   in   vain. 
Like  Phoebus  sung  the  no  less  amorous  boy ; 
Like  Daphne  she,  as  lovely,  and  as  coy ! 
With    numbers    he    the    flying    nymph    pur- 
sues, 5 


With  numbers  such  as  Phuebus'  self  might 
use  ! 

Such  is  tile  chase  when  Love  and  Fancy 
leads 

O'er  craggy  mountains,  and  through  flow- 
ery  meads ; 

Invoked    to   testify   the    lover's   care. 

Or  form  some  image  of  his  cruel  fair.         >" 

Urged   with   his    fury,   like  a   wounded   deer. 

O'er  these  he  tied  ;  and  now  apprcjaching 
near. 

Had  reached  the  nymph  with  his  harmoni- 
ous  lay, 

Whom  all  his  charms  could  not  incline  to 
stay. 

Yet,    what   he   sung    in    his   immortal   strain, 

Though  unsuccessful,  was  not  sung  in  vain ; 

All,  but  the  nymph  that  should  redress  his 
wrong,  17 

Attend    his    passion,    and    approve    his    song. 

Like  Phcebus  thus,  acquiring  unsought 
praise. 

He  catched  at  love,  and  filled  his  arms  with 
bays.  20 

TO  PHYLLIS 

Phyllis  !  why  should  we  delay 
Pleasures  shorter  than  the  day? 
Could  we   (which  we  never  can) 
Stretch  our  lives  beyond  their  span. 
Beauty  like  a   shadow   flies,  5 

And  our  youth   before  us  dies. 
Or  would  youth  and  beauty  stay. 
Love  hath   wings,  and  will  away. 
Love  hath   swifter  wings  than   Time; 
Change  in  love  to  heaven  does  climb.     10 
Gods  that  never  change  their  state. 
Vary   oft    their   love   and    hate. 

Phyllis !   to  this   truth   we  owe 
All  the  love  betwixt  us  two. 
Let  not  you  and  I  inquire  '5 

What  has  been  our  past  desire ; 
On    what    shepherds   you    have    smiled, 
Or  what  nymphs  I  have  beguiled ; 
Leave   it  to  the  planets  too. 
What  we  shall  hereafter  do;  20 

For  the  joys  we  now  may  prove. 
Take  advice  of  present  love. 


ON   A   GIRDLE 

That   which  her  slender  waist  confined, 
Shall   now  my  joyful  temples  bind  ; 
No  monarch   but   would   give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 


OJ.1V       |W±H> 

o»j(^rs.i-,iiNVj                                                                      I 

/y 

It   was   my  heaven's   extremest   sphere,     5 

What  posture  can  we  think  him  in 

IS 

The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer. 

That,  here  unloved,  a.gain 

My  joy,  my  grief,   my  hope,  my  love. 

Departs,  and   's  thither  gone 

Did   all   within   this  circle   move ! 

Where  each   sits  by  his  own? 
Or  how  can  that  Elysium  be 

A   narrow   compass !    and  yet   there 

Where  I  my  mi.stress  still  must  see 

20 

Dwelt   all   that's  good,  and  all  that's   fair; 

Circled   in   other's  arms? 

Give   me   but    what    this    ribband    bound,     n 

Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

For  there  the  judges  all  are  just. 
And  Sophonisba  must 

Be  his  whom   she  held  dear. 

GO  LOVELY  ROSE! 

Not    his    who    loved    her    here. 
The   sweet  Philoclea,  since  she  died. 

25 

Go,   lovely   Rose ! 

Lies  by  her  Piroclcs  his  side, 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 

Not  by  Amphialus. 

That  now   she  knows, 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 

Some  bays,   perchance,   or  myrtle  bough 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be.           5 

For   difference   crowns   the   brow 
Of  those  kind   souls  that  were 

30 

Tell  her  that 's  young. 

The  noble  martyrs  here : 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

And  if  that  be  the  only  odds 

That   hadst  thou   sprung 

(As  who  can   tell?),  ye  kinder  gods. 

In   deserts,  where  no  men  abide. 

Give  me  the  woman   here ! 

35 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died.           1° 

Small    is   the    worth 

THE  CONSTANT  LOVER 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come   forth, 

Out  upon  it,   I   have  loved 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 

Three   whole  days  together! 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired.                  '5 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more. 
If   it   prove    fair   weather. 

Then   die !   that   she 

The  common   fate  of  all  things  rare 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

5 

May  read  in  thee ; 

Ere  he  shall  discover 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

In   the  whole  wide  world  again 

That  are   so   wondrous   sweet  and    fair !     20 

Such  a  constant  lover. 
But  the  spite  on  't  is.  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me: 

10 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  (1609-1642) 

Love  with  me  had  made  no   stays. 
Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

A   DOUBT   OF  MARTYRDOM 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

0    for   some  honest   lover's  ghost. 

And   that    very    face. 

Some   kind   unbodied   post 

There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

15 

Sent    from   the   shades   below ! 

A   dozen    dozen    in    her   place. 

I   strangely   long  to  know 

Whether  the  noble  chaplets  wear,                  s 

Those  that  their  mistress'  scorn  did  bear 

WHY   SO   PALE  AND   WAN? 

Or  those  that  were  used  kindly. 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

For   whatsoe'er  they  tell  us  here 

Prithee,   why   so   pale? 

To  make  those  sufferings  dear, 

Will,   when   looking  well   can't   move   her 

'Twill  there,  I  fear,  be  found                 10 

Looking  ill   prevail? 

That    to    the    being   crowned 

Prithee,   why   so   pale? 

5 

T'   have   loved   alone   will   not   suffice, 

Unless  we  also  have  been  wise 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

And  have  our  loves  enjoyed. 

Prithee,   why  so  mute? 

i«o 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Will,    when   speaking    well   can't   win   her, 
Saying  nothing  do  't  ? 
Prithee,  why  so  mute?  '° 

Quit,  quit  for  shame!     This  will  not  move; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself   she   will   not   love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  devil  take  her!  is 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  (i6i3?-i649) 

IN   THE  HOLY   NATIVITY   OF   OUR 
LORD   GOD 

a  hymn  sung  as  by  the  shepherds 

Chorus 
Come,  we  shepherds,  whose  blest  sight 
Hath  met  Love's  noon  in  Nature's  night ; 
Come,   lift   we  up  our  loftier  song 
And  wake  the  sun  that  lies  too  long. 

To  all  our  world  of  well-stol'n  joy         5 
He  slept,  and  dreamt  of  no  such  thing; 

While   we   found   out   heaven's   fairer   eye 
And  kissed  the  cradle  of  our  King. 

Tell  him  he  rises  now,  too  late 
To   show  us   aught  worth  looking  at.         lo 

Tell  him  we  now  can  show  him  more 
Than  he  e'er  showed  to  mortal  sight ; 

Than   he  himself   e'er   saw   before; 
Which  to  be  seen  needs  not  his  light. 

Tell  him,  Tityrus,  where  th'  hast  been     is 
Tell  him,  Thyrsis,  what  th'  hast  seen. 

Tityrus.     Gloomy  night  embraced  the  place 
Where  the  noble  infant  lay. 

The    babe    looked    up    and    showed 

his    face  ; 

In  spite  of  darkness,  it  was  day.     20 

It  was  thy  day,  sweet  I  and  did  rise 

Not    from    the    east,   but    from    thine 

eyes. 

Chorus.     It  was  thy  day,  sweet,  etc. 

Thyrsis.     Winter  chid  aloud;  and  sent 

The  angry    North  to   wage  his   wars. 
The    North     forgot    his    fierce    in- 
tent ;  26 
And  left  perfumes  instead  of  scars. 
By    those     sweet     eyes'    persuasive 
powers. 
Where    he    meant    frost    he    scattered 
flowers. 


Cho.     By  those  sweet  eyes',  etc.  30 

Both.     We  saw  thee  in  thy  balmy  nest. 
Young  dawn   of  our   Eternal   Day! 
We    saw    thine    eyes    break     from 
their  east 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 
We    saw    thee,    and    we    blest    the 
sight,  35 

We    saw    thee    by    thine    own    sweet 
light. 

Tit.     Poor  World,  said  I,  what  wilt  thou  do 
To  entertain  this  starry  stranger? 

Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow? 

A  cold,  and  not  too  cleanly,  manger? 

Contend,  the  powers  of  heaven  and 

earth,  41 

To  fit  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth ! 

Cho.     Contend    the    powers,    etc. 

Thyr.     Proud    World,    said    I;    cease    your 
contest 
And  let  the  mighty  babe  alone ;        45 
The     phoenix     builds     the     phoenix' 
nest, 
Love's  architecture  is  his  own ; 

The    babe    whose    birth    embraves 
this  morn, 
Made  his  own  bed  e'er  he  was  born. 


Cho.    The  babe  whose,  etc. 


50 


Tit.     I  saw  the  curled  drops,  soft  and  slow. 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's  head ; 
Off'ring     their     whitest     sheets     of 
snow 
To  furnish  the   fair  infant's  bed. 

Forbear,   said   I ;   be   not  too   bold ; 

Your    fleece    is    white,    but    't  is    too 

cold.  s6 

Cho.     Forbear,  said  I,  etc. 

Thyr.     I    saw   the   obsequious    seraphim 
Their  rosy  fleece  of  fire  bestow, 
For  well  they  now  can  spare  their 
wing,  60 

Since    heaven    itself    lies   here    below. 
Well    done,    said    I ;    but    are    you 
sure 
Your   down    so   warm,   will   pass   for 
pure? 


Cho.     Well   done 
Tit 


said    I,   etc. 


No,  no,  your  king  's  not  yet  to  seek  65 
Where  to  repose  his  royal  head; 
See,  see  how  soon  his  new-bloomed 
cheek 


OIK.  j^^niN   iJiii\n/vivi 


'Twixt  's   mother's   breasts   is   gone   to 

bed! 
Sweet  choice,  said  we !  no  way  but 

so 
Not  to  lie  cold,  yet  sleep  in  snow.    70 

Cho.     Sweet  choice,   said   we,   etc. 

Both.     We  saw  thee  in  thy  balmy  nest. 
Bright  dawn  of  our  Eternal  Day! 
We  saw  thine  eyes  break  from  their 
east 
And     chase     the     trembling     shades 
away.  75 

We    saw    thee,    and    we    blest    the 
sight, 
We    saw    thee    by    thine    own    sweet 
light. 

Cho.    We   saw   thee,   etc. 

Full  Chorus 
Welcome  all  wonders  in  one  night ! 
Eternity  shut  in   a  span,  80 

Summer  in   winter,  day  in  night. 
Heaven  in  earth,  and  God  in  man. 

Great     Little     One,    whose    all-embracing 
birth 
Lifts    earth    to    heaven,    stoops    heaven    to 
earth ! 

Welcome,  though  nor  to  gold  nor  silk,  85 
To  more  than  Caesar's  birthright  is ; 

Two  sister-seas  of  virgin-milk 
With  many  a  rarely-tempered  kiss 

That    breathes    at    once    both    maid    and 
mother. 
Warms  in  the  one,  cools  in  the  other.      90 

Welcome,    though   not   to   those    gay   flies 
Gilded   i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings, 

Slippery   souls   in   smiling   eyes, 
But  to  poor   shepherds,  homespun  things. 

Whose   wealth 's   their   flock,   whose   wit 's 
to    be  9S 

Well    read    in    their    simplicity. 

Yet  when  young  April's  husband  showers 
Shall  bless  the  fruitful  Maia's  bed. 

We  '11  bring   the  first-born  of  her  flowers 
To  kiss  thy  feet  and  crown  thy  head.     '0° 

To  thee,  dread  Lamb!   Whose  love  must 
keep 
The  shepherds,  more  than  they  the  sheep. 

To  Thee,  meek  Majesty!  soft  King 
Of  simple  graces  and  sweet  loves! 


Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring,  105 

Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves! 

Till  burnt  at  last  in  fire  of  thy  fair  eyes, 
Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacrifice! 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM   (161 5-1669) 

From  COOPER'S  HILL 

My  eye,  descending    from   the   hill,    surveys 
Where    Thames    amongst    the    wanton    val- 
leys   strays ; 
Thames,  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's 

sons. 
By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs. 
Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea,  5 

Like  mortal   life  to  meet  eternity; 
Though    with    those    streams    he   no    resem- 
blance  hold, 
Whose    foam    is    amber,    and    their    gravel 

gold. 
His   genuine    and   less   guilty   wealth   t'    ex- 
plore, 
Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore, 
O'er   which   he   kindly   spreads   his   spacious 
wing,  11 

And  hatches  plenty  for  th'  ensuing  spring; 
Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay, 
Like  mothers  which  their  infants  overlay. 
Nor,  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave,  '5 
Like  profuse  kings,   resumes  the   wealth   he 

gave; 
No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 
The  mower's  hopes,   nor  mock  the   plough- 
man's  toil. 
But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  flows. 
First   loves   to   do,   then   loves  the   good   he 
does ;  20 

Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  con- 
fined. 
But  free  and  common  as  the  sea  or  wind ; 
When  he  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stores, 
Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 
Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  towers, 
Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies 
ours,  26 

Finds   wealth  where   't  is,  bestows   it   where 

it  wants, 
Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities  plants ; 
So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place  is  strange, 
While    his    fair    bosom    is    the    world's    ex- 
change. 30 
O    could    I    flow    like    thee,    and    make    thy 

stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme ! 


1 82 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Though   deep,  yet  clear,    though  gentle,  yet 

not   dull, 
Strong    without    rage,    without    o'erflowing 

full. 


ON  MR.  ABRAHAM  COWLEY'S  DEATH 
AND  BURIAL  AMONGST  THE  AN- 
CIENT POETS 

Old  Chaucer,  like  the  morning  star, 
To  us  discovers  day  from  far. 
His  light  those  mists  and  clouds  dissolved, 
Which  our  dark  nation  long  involved ; 
But   he   descending  to  the   shades,  5 

Darkness  again   the   age   invades. 
Next,   like  Aurora,   Spenser  rose. 
Whose  purple  blush  the  day  foreshows ; 
The  other  three,  with  his  own  fires 
Phoebus,  the  poets'  god  inspires;  lo 

By   Shakspere's,   Jonson's,    Fletcher's    lines, 
Our  stage's  luster   Rome's  outshines : 
These  poets  near  our  princes  sleep. 
And  in  one  grave  their  mansion  keep ; 
They  lived  to  see  so  many  days,  is 

Till   time  had   blasted  all  their   bays; 
But  cursed  be  the   fatal  hour 
That  plucked  the  fairest,  sweetest  flower 
That  in  the  muses'  garden  grew, 
And    amongst    withered    laurels    threw.      20 
Time,    which    made    them   their    fame    out- 
live. 
To  Cowley  scarce  did  ripeness  give. 
Old   mother   wit,   and    Nature,   gave 
Shakspere  and  Fletcher  all  they  have ; 
In    Spenser,    and    in    Jonson,    Art  25 

Of  slower  Nature  got  the  start ; 
But  both  in  him  so  equal  are, 
None     knows     which     bears     the     happiest 

share ; 
To   him  no  author  was  unknown, 
Yet   what  he  wrote  was  all  his   own;         30 
He  melted  not  the  ancient  gold. 
Nor,  with  Ben  Jonson,  did  make  bold 
To  plunder  all  the  Roman  stores 
Of  poets,  and  of  orators: 
Horace's  wit,  and  Virgil's  state,  35 

He  did  not  steal,  but  emulate: 
And   when   he  would   like  them  appear. 
Their  garb,  but  not  their  clothes,  did  wear : 
He  not  from  Rome  alone,  but  Greece, 
Like  Jason  brought  the  golden  fleece ;         40 
To  him  that  language,  though  to  none 
Of  th'  others,  as  his  own   was  known. 
On  a  stiff  gale,  as  Flaccus  sings. 
The  Theban  swan  extends  his  wings. 
When    through   th'   ethereal   clouds   he   flics. 


To  the  same  pitch  our  swan  doth  rise.         4(> 

Old    Pindar's   flights   by   him   are   reached. 

When  on  that  gale  his  wings  are  stretched. 

His    fancy  and  his  judgment   such. 

Each  to  the  other   seemed   too  much,         so 

His    severe    judgment,    giving   law, 

His   modest    fancy,   kept   in   awe, 

As   rigid   husbands   jealous   are 

When  they  believe  their  wives  too  fair. 


RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658) 
TO  LUCASTA  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell   me  not,   Sweet,   I   am   unkind, 

That   from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms   I   fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now   I  chase,  s 

The  first   foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger   faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As   thou   too   shalt   adore ;  'o 

I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 


TO    ALTHEA,    FROM    PRISON 

When   Love  with   unconfined  wings 

Hovers   within   my  gates. 
And   my  divine   Althea   brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When   I   lie  tangled  in  her  hair  S 

And   fettered  to  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know   no    such    liberty. 

When   flowing  cups   run   swiftly   round 

With   no  allaying  Thames,  >" 

Our   careless   heads   with   roses   bound. 

Our   hearts   with    loyal    flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in   wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free. 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep  'S 

Know    no    such    liberty. 

When,   like  committed   linnets,   I 
With  shriller  throat  will  sing 

The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And   glories   of   my   king;  -o 


When   I   shall   voice  aloud  how  good 
He    is,    how    great    should    be, 

Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 
Know    no    such    liberty. 

Stone    walls   do    not   a    prison   make,      25 

Nor   iron   bars   a   cage; 
Minds   innocent   and   quiet   take 

That    for   an   hermitage ; 
If   I   have   freedom   in   my  love 

And   in  my  soul  am   free,  30 

Angels   alone,  that   soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

THE    ROSE 

Sweet,  serene,  sky-like  flower. 

Haste  to  adorn  her  bower, 
From  thy  long  cloudy  bed 
Shoot  forth  thy  damask  head. 

New-startled  blush  of   Flora,  s 

The  grief  of  pale  Aurora 
(Who  will  contest  no  more). 
Haste,  haste  to  strew  her  floor ! 

Vermilion  ball  that 's  given 
From  lip  to  lip  in  heaven,  1° 

Love's    couch's    coverled. 
Haste,  haste  to  make  her  bed. 

Dear  offspring  of  pleased  Venus 

And   jolly   plump    Silenus, 

Haste,  haste  to  deck  the  hair         'S 
Of  th'  only  sweetly   fair! 

See !   rosy  is   her  bower. 
Her  floor   is  all  this  flower, 

Her  bed  a  rosy  nest 

By  a  bed  of  roses  pressed !  20 

But  early  as   she   dresses, 
Why  fly  you  her  bright  tresses? 
Ah !   I  have  found,  I   fear, — 
Because  her  cheeks  are  near. 


TO  LUCASTA 

Lucasta,    frown,   and   let   me  die ! 

But  smile,  and,  see,  I  live ! 
The   sad   indifference   of   your   eye 

Both   kills    and    doth    reprieve ; 
You  hide  our  fate  within  its  screen ;       5 

We  feel  our  judgment,  e'er  we  hear ; 
So  in  one  picture  I  have  seen 

An  angel  here,  the  devil  there ! 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY  (1618-1667) 

THE  SWALLOW 

Foolish   Prater,  what  do'st  thou 
So  early  at  my  window  do 
With   thy   tuneless   serenade? 
Well  't  had  been  had  Tereus  made 
Thee  as   dumb   as    Philomel:  S 

There  his  knife  had  done  but  well. 
In   thy  undiscovered   nest 
Thou  dost  all  the  winter  rest, 
And  dreamest  o'er  thy  summer  joys, 
Free   from  the   stormy   season's  noise :    'o 
Free  from  th'  ill  thou  'st  done  to  me ; 
Who  disturbs,  or  seeks  out  thee? 
Had'st  thou  all  the  charming  notes 
Of  the  wood's  poetic  throats. 
All  thy  art  could  never  pay  is 

What  thou  'st  ta'en  from  me  away ; 
Cruel   bird,   thou  'st   ta'en   away 
A  dream  out  of  my  arms  to-day, 
A  dream  that  ne'er  must  equaled  be 
By  all  that  waking  eyes  may  see.  20 

Thou  this  damage  to  repair, 
Nothing  half  so  sweet  or  fair. 
Nothing   half    so   good    can'st    bring. 
Though     men     say,     '  Thou     bring'st     the 
spring? ' 


THE  WISH 

Well  then  !     I  now  do  plainly  see 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree. 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 
Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy ; 

And   they,   methinks,   deserve   my   pity  S 
Who   for  it  can   endure  the  stings. 
The    crowd    and    buzz    and    murmurings. 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city. 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave 

May    I    a    small    house    and    large    garden 

have  ; 
.•\nd  a   few   friends,  and  many  books,   both 
true,  II 

Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too ! 

And  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
.\   mistress   moderately   fair. 
And   good   as   guardian   angels  are,  »s 

Only  beloved  and  loving  me. 

O  fountains !  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts  espy? 
O  fields !     O  woods  1  when,  when  shall  I  be 
made 


1 84 


SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade?  ^° 

Here 's    the    spring-head    of    pleasure's 
flood : 

Here's    wealthy    Nature's    treasury, 

Where  all  the  riches  lie  that  she 

Has  coined  and  stamped   for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here  *'5 

Only  in    far-fetched  metaphors  appear; 
Here    naught    but    winds    can    hurtful    mur- 
murs scatter, 
And   naught   but   Echo   flatter. 

The   gods,   when   they  descended,   hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way : 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say  3' 

That  't  is  the  way  too  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die! 
She  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 
In   deserts   solitude.  36 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear : 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures   see. 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me. 

And  so  make  a  city  here.  40 


ANDREW  MARVEL  (1621^1678) 

THE  GARDEN 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze. 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays. 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged   shade       5 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid. 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose! 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 

And   Innocence,   thy  sister  dear?  10 

Mistaken    long,    I   sought  you   then 

In  busy  companies  of  men. 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below. 

Only  among  the   plants   will  grow; 

Society  is  all  but  rude  15 

To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this   lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name.     20 

Little,  alas !  they  know  or  heed. 

How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed! 


Fair  trees !    wheres'e'r  your  barks   I   wound 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be   found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat,        2s 

Love  hither  makes  his  best   retreat. 

The  gods,  that   mortal   beauty  chase, 

Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 

Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so. 

Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow;  30 

And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 

Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead! 

Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 

The   luscious   clusters  of  the  vine  35 

Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 

The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 

Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 

Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 

Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass.       40 

Meanwhile  the  mind,   from  pleasure   less, 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness ; — 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does   straight   its  own   resemblance   find ; 

Yet    it    creates,    transcending    these,  45 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 

Annihilating  all  that 's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 

Or   at   some    fruit-tree's   mossy   root,  5o 

Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 

My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide : 

There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 

Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings. 

And,  till  prepared   for  longer   flight,  55 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 

While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate 

After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet. 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet !  60 

But  't  was  beyond  a  mortal's  share 

To  wander  solitary  there: 

Two  paradises   't  were   in  one, 

To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew  65 

Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  dial  new ; 
Where,   from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,   as   it   works,   the   industrious   bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we !  70 

How     could     such     sweet     and     wholesome 

hours 
Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers? 


TO  HIS  COY  MISTRESS 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time, 

This  coyness,  Lady,  were  no  crime. 

We  would  sit  down  and  think  which  way 

To  walk  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 

Thou  by  the  Indian   Ganges'  side  5 

Shouldst  rubies  find;  I  by  the  tide 

Of   Humber   would  complain.     I   would 

Love  you  ten  years  before  the  Flood, 

And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 

Till   the  conversion  of  the  Jews.  'o 

My  vegetable  love  should  grow 

Vaster  than  empires,  and  more  slow ; 

An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 

Thine  eyes  and  on  thy   forehead  gaze ; 

Two   hundred   to  adore  each   breast,  'S 

But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest ; 

An  age  at  least  to  every  part. 

And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart. 

For,  Lady,  you  deserve  this  state, 

Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate.  20 

But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's   winged   chariot  hurrying  near ; 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found,  25 

Nor,  in  thy  marble  vault,  shall    sound 
My  echoing  song;  then  worms  shall  try 
That  long  preserved  virginity, 
And  your  quaint  honor  turn  to  dust, 
And  into  ashes  all  my  lust :  30 

The  grave  's  a  fine  and  private  place. 
But  none,  I  think,   do  there  embrace. 

Now    therefore,    while    the    youthful    hue 
Sits  on  thy  skin  like  morning  dew. 
And   while   thy  willing   soul   transpires       35 
At  every  pore  with  instant  fires, 
Now  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may, 
And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey, 
Rather  at  once  our  time  devour 
Than   languish   in   his   slow-chapt   power.  40 
Let  us  roll  all  our  strength  and  all 
Our  sweetness  up  into  one  ball. 
And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife 
Thorough  the  iron  gates  of  life: 
Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun       45 
Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN   (1622-1695) 

THE  RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel-infancy! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 


Appointed   for  my  second   race. 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught  S 

But  a   white,  celestial   thought; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 

A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 

And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright   face;     10 

When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 

My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound       >s 

My  conscience   with   a   sinful   sound, 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense, 

A  several  sin  to  every  sense. 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 

Bright   shoots   of   everlastingness.  20 

O,  how  I  long  to  travel  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track, 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain. 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train; 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees     25 
That  shady  city  of  palm  trees. 
But  ah !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a   forward  motion  love. 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move;       3o 
And  when  this  dust   falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


THE  WORLD 

I   saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright ; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days, 
years, 
Driv'n  by  the  spheres  5 

Like   a   vast    shadow   moved ;    in   which   the 
world 
And   all   her  train   were  hurled. 
The  doting  lover   in   his  quaintest   strain 

Did  there   complain  ; 
Near    him,    his     lute,    his     fancy,    and    his 
flights,  10 

Wit's   four  delights. 
With  gloves,  and  knots,  the  silly  snares  of 
pleasure. 
Yet  his  dear  treasure, 
All  scattered  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 
Upon  a  flower.  '5 

The  darksome  statesman,  hung  with  weights 

and  woe. 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog,   moved  there   so 
slow. 
He  did  not  stay,  nor  go ; 


i86 

Condeninii 


SEVEN  I  l<.h:N  1  M   LEN  1  UKY    LYKILS 


like     sad     eclipses, 


;     tliuughts, 
scowl 
Upon  his  soul,  ^° 

And   clouds   of   crying    witnesses   without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout. 
Yet   digged   the   mole,   and   lest   his   ways   be 
found. 
Worked   under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey;   Init  one   did 
see  25 

That  policy ; 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him ;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies ; 
It  rained  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 
Drank  them  as  free.  3° 

The   fearful  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 
Sat    pining    all    his    life    there,    did    scarce 
trust 
His  own  hands  with  the  dust. 
Yet    would   not   place   one   piece   above,    I)ut 
lives 
In   fear  of  thieves.  35 

Thousands    there    were    as    frantic    as    him- 
self, 
And  hugged  each  one  his  pelf; 
The    downright    epicure    placed    heaven    in 
sense, 
And  scorned  pretence ; 
While  others,  slipt  into  a  wide  excess,       4° 

Said  little  less; 
The    weaker    sort,    slight,   trivial    wares    en- 
slave, 
Who  think  them  brave; 
And   poor,   despised   Truth    sat   counting   by 
Their  victory.  45 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  v;eep  and 

sing, 
And    sing    and    weep,    soared    up    into    the 
ring ; 
But  most   would  use  no  wing. 
O    fools,   said    I,   thus   to   prefer   dark   night 
Before  true   light !  50 

To    live   in    grots    and    caves,    and   hate   the 
day 
Because   it   shows   the   way. 
The   way,   which    from   this   dead   and   dark 
abode 
Leads  up  to  God ; 
A  way  there  you  might  tread  the  sun,  and 
be  55 

More  bright  than  he! 
But,  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whispered  thus 
'  This    ring    the    Bridegroom    did    for    none 
provide. 
But    for   his   bride.'  ^" 


DEPARTED  FRIENDS 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast,  s 
Like    stars   upon    some   gloomy   grove, 

Or   those    faint   beams   in   which   this   hill    is 
drcst. 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory. 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days:   'o 

My   days,    which    are   at    best    but    dull    and 
hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope !  and  high   Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed 
them   me,  15 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,    beauteous    Death !    the    jewel    of    the 
just. 

Shining  nowhere,   but   in  the  dark. 
What  mysteries  do  He  beyond  thy  dust. 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark !  -^o 

He  that  hath  found  some,  fledged  bird's  nest, 
may  know 
At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But    what    fair    well    or   grove    he    sings    in 
now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 


And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep,     -^ 

So    some    strange    thoughts    transcend    our 
wonted   themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb. 

The     captive     flames     must     needs     burn 
there ;  3'J 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up,  gives 
room. 
She  '11  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O   Father  of  eternal   life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under   Thee, 
Resume  Thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty.  36 

Either   disperse   these  mists,   which   blot   and 
fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass; 
Or  else  remove  mc  hence  unto  that  hill. 

Where  I  shall  need  no  glass.  4° 


FRANCIS  BACON  (1561-1626) 

Bacon  was  connected  through  both  his  parents  with  the  governing  classes.  His  father  was 
lord  keeper  of  tlie  great  seal,  and  the  queen  used  to  call  the  boy  her  '  young  lord  keeper.'  At 
twelve  he  went  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  as  a  youth  he  studied  law  at  Gray's  Inn. 
He  was  in  the  diplomatic  service  at  Paris  when  his  father  died,  leaving  him  but  ill  provided 
for.  In  1584  he  was  elected  to  the  House  of  Commons,  but  in  spite  of  conspicuous  ability 
and  powerful  connections,  his  political  preferment  was  slow.  He  became  solicitor-general  in 
l(i07,  attorney-general  1013,  privy  councillor  1(J1U,  lord  keeper  1G17,  lord  chancellor  and  baron 
Verulam  1G18,  viscount  St.  Albans  1021.  But  hostile  political  influences  in  this  last  year 
brought  about  his  fall.  He  was  accused  of  bribery,  and  admitted  receiving  gifts,  but  denied 
that  they  had  influenced  him  in  the  administration  of  justice.  He  was  deprived  of  all  his 
offices,  fined  £200,000,  imprisoned,  and  excluded  from  court  and  parliament.  All  the  penalties 
except  the  last  were  immediately  remitted  by  (he  king,  but  he  was  not  allowed  to  return  to 
public  life.  He  retired  to  the  estate  he  had  inherited  from  his  elder  brother,  and  gave  himself 
to  literature  and  philosophy,  which  had  always  occupied  his  leisure.  While  still  a  young  man. 
he  said,  '  I  have  as  vast  contemplative  ends  as  I  have  moderate  civil  ends :  for  I  have  taken  all 
knowledge  to  be  my  province.'  The  Advancement  of  Learning,  published  in  English  in  1005, 
Is  mainly  an  attempt  to  review  what  was  then  known;  the  Novum  Organum  (in  Latin. 
1620)  is  an  exposition  of  the  means  by  which  the  bounds  of  knowledge  may  be  extended. 
His  philosophical  work  was  of  great  influence  on  account  of  the  stress  he  laid  on  observation 
of  facts  and  the  testing  of  hypothesis  by  experiment.  He  met  his  death  through  a  chill  con- 
tracted by  leaving  his  coach  on  a  winter's  day  to  gather  snow  to  stuff  a  fowl  in  order  to  try  the 
effect  of  cold  on  the  preservation  of  meat.  His  History  of  Henry  VII  (1022i  is  an  important 
work,  but  his  most  notable  contribution  to  literature  was  the  Essays  —  a  title  probably  sug- 
gested by  the  French  Essais  of  Montaigne  (1580).  Bacon's  first  edition  of  10  essays  appeared 
in  1597,  an  enlarged  edition,  containing  38,  in  1012,  and  the  final  issue  (58  essays)  in  1025. 
Though  they  reveal  only  at  times  the  philosophical  bent  of  Bacon's  genius,  they  illustrate  fully 
the  extraordinary  keenness  of  his  mind,  his  practical  worldly  wisdom,  and  the  terse  incisive- 
uess  of  his  style. 


ESSAYS  Grecians    examineth    the    matter,    and    is 

at  a  stand  to  think  what  should  be  in  it, 
I. —  OF  TRUTH  that  men  should  love  lies:  where  neither 

they  make  for  pleasure,  as  with  poets; 
'What  is  truth?'  said  jesting  Pilate;  5  nor  for  advantage,  as  with  the  merchant; 
and  would  not  stay  for  an  answer.  Cer-  but  for  the  lie's  sake.  But  I  cannot 
tainly  there  be  that  delight  in  giddiness,  tell :  this  same  truth  is  a  naked  and  open 
and  count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief,  daylight,  that  doth  not  show  the  ma^:ques, 
affecting  free-will  in  thinking,  as  well  as  and  mummeries,  and  triumphs  of  the 
in  acting.  And  though  the  sects  of  lo  world  half  so  stately  and  daintily  as 
philosophers  of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet  candle-lights.  Truth  may  perhaps  come 
there  remain  certain  discoursing  wits  to  the  price  of  a  pearl,  that  showeth 
which  are  of  the  same  veins,  though  there  best  by  day ;  but  it  will  not  rise  to  the 
Ije  not  so  much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  price  of  a  diamond  or  carbuncle,  that 
those  of  the  ancients.  But  it  is  not  only  15  showeth  best  in  varied  lights.  A  mix- 
the  difficulty  and  labor  which  men  take  ture  of  a  He  doth  ever  add  pleasure, 
in  finding  out  of  truth;  nor  again,  that  Doth  any  man  doubt  that  if  there  were 
when  it  is  found,  it  imposeth  upon  men's  taken  out  of  men's  minds  vain  opinions, 
thoughts,  that  doth  bring  lies  in  favor:  flattering  hopes,  false  valuations,  im- 
but  a  natural  though  corrupt  love  of  the  20  aginations  as  one  would,  and  the  like, 
lie  itself.     One  of  the  later  school  of  the      but  it  would  leave  the  minds  of  a  number 

187 


rK/\i\H:5    BAL^UIN 


of  men  pour  shrunken  tliint^s,  full  of  the  belly,  and  nut  upon  the  feet.  There 
melancholy  and  indisposition,  and  nn-  is  no  vice  that  doth  so  cover  a  man  with 
pleasing  to  tiieinscKcs  ?  ( )nc  (jf  the  shame  as  to  he  found  false  and  per- 
fathers,  in  great  severity,  called  poesy  fidious;  and  therefore  Montaigne  saith 
vinum  dacmoniim  |  devils"  \vine|,  because  5  prettily,  when  he  inquired  the  reason 
it  filleth  the  imagination,  and  yet  it  is  but  why  the  word  of  the  lie  should  be  such 
with  the  shadow  of  a  lie.  But  it  is  not  a  disgrace,  and  such  an  odious  charge, 
the  lie  that  passeth  through  the  mind.  '  If  it  be  well  weighed,  to  say  that  a  man 
but  the  lie  that  sinkcth  in  and  settleth  licth,  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  is 
in  it  tliat  dotli  the  hurt,  such  as  we  s])ake  lo  brave  towards  God,  and  a  coward 
of  before.  But  howsoever  these  things  towards  man.'  For  a  lie  faces  God,  and 
are  thus  in  men's  depraved  judgments  shrinks  from  man.  Surely  the  wicked- 
and  affections,  yet  truth,  which  only  ness  of  falsehood  and  breach  of  faith 
doth  judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the  in-  cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  expressed  as 
quiry  of  truth,  which  is  the  love-making.  15  in  that  it  shall  be  the  last  peal  to  call  the 
or  wooing  of  it;  the  knowledge  of  truth,  judgments  of  God  upon  the  generations 
which  is  the  presence  of  it ;  and  the  be-  of  men :  it  being  foretold,  that  when 
lief  of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  Christ  cometh,  '  he  shall  not  find  faith 
it,  is  the  sovereign  good  of  human  upon  the  earth.' 
nature.  The  first  creature  of  God,  in  the  20 
works  of  the  days,  was  the  light  of  the 

sense;  the  last  was  the  light  of  reason;  V.— OF  ADVERSITY 

and  his  Sabbath  work,  ever  since,  is  the 

illumination     of     his     spirit.     First     he  It  was  a  high  speech  of  Seneca,  after 

breathed  light  upon  the  face  of  the  25  the  manner  of  the  Stoics,  that  '  the  good 
matter,  or  chaos ;  then  he  breathed  light  things  which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to 
into  the  face  of  man ;  and  still  he  be  wished,  but  the  good  things  that  be- 
breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into  the  long  to  adversity  are  to  be  admired.' 
face  of  his  chosen.  The  poet,  that  Bona  reruni  sccimdarum  optahilia,  ad- 
beautified  the  sect,  that  was  otherwise  32  vcrsarum  mirabilia.  Certainly  if  mira- 
inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  cles  be  the  command  over  Nature,  they 
well,  '  It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the  appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a 
shore,  and  to  see  ships  tost  upon  the  sea ;  higher  speech  of  his  than  the  other, 
a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a  much  too  high  for  a  heathen,  '  It  is  true 
castle,  and  to  see  a  battle,  and  the  ad-  35  greatness  to  have  in  one  the  frailty  of 
ventures  thereof  below;  but  no  pleasure  a  man  and  the  security  of  a  God'  (Vere 
is  comparable  to  the  standing  upon  the  niagniim,  habere  fragilitateni  hominis, 
vantage  ground  of  truth  (a  hill  not  to  be  sccuritatem  Dei).  This  would  have  done 
commanded,  and  where  the  air  is  always  better  in  poesy,  where  transcendencies 
clear  and  serene),  and  to  see  the  errors,  40  are  more  allowed.  And  the  poets,  in- 
and  wanderings,  and  mists,  and  tempests,  deed,  have  been  busy  with  it ;  for  it  is  in 
in  the  vale  below';  so  always  that  this  effect  the  thing  which  is  figured  in  that 
prospect  be  with  pity,_  and  not  with  strange  fiction  of  the  ancient  poets  which 
swelling  or  pride.  Certainly  it  is  heaven  seemeth  not  to  be  without  mystery;  nay, 
upon  earth  to  have  a  man's  mind  move  45  and  to  have  some  approach  to  the  state 
in  charity,  rest  in  providence,  and  turn  of  a  christian :  that  Hercules,  when  he 
upon  the  poles  of  truth.  went    to    unbind    Prometheus,    by    whom 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philo-  human  nature  is  represented,  sailed  the 
sophical  truth  to  the  truth  of  civil  busi-  length  of  the  great  ocean  in  an  earthen 
ness,  it  will  be  acknowledged,  even  by  50  pot  or  pitcher ;  lively  describing  chris- 
those  that  practice  it  not,  that  clear  and  tian  resolution  that  saileth  in  the  frail 
round  dealing  is  the  honor  of  man's  bark  of  the  flesh  through  the  waves  of 
nature,  and  that  mixture  of  falsehood  is  the  world.  But  to  speak  in  a  mean,  the 
like  alloy  in  coin  of  gold  and  silver,  virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance,  the 
which  may  make  the  metal  work  the  55  virtue  of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which  in 
better,  but  it  embaseth  it ;  for  these  wind-  morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue, 
ing  and  crooked  courses  are  the  goings  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old 
of  the  serpent,  which  goeth  basely  upon      Testament,   adversity    is   the    blessing   of 


the  New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  made  wantons;  but  in  the  midst,  some 
benediction  and  the  clearer  revelation  of  that  are  as  it  were  forgotten,  who,  many 
God's  favor.  Yet,  even  in  the  Old  Testa-  times,  nevertheless,  prove  the  best.  The 
ment,  if  you  listen  to  David's  harp  you  illiberality  of  parents,  in  allowance  to- 
shall  hear  as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  5  wards  their  children,  is  a  harmful  error, 
carols.  And  the  pencil  of  the  Holy  and  makes  them  base,  acquaints  them 
Ghost  hath  labored  more  in  describing  the  with  shifts,  makes  them  sort  with  mean 
afflictions  of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  company,  and  makes  them  surfeit  more 
Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without  many  when  they  come  to  plenty ;  and  there- 
fears  and  distastes,  and  adversity  is  not  10  fore  the  proof  is  best  when  men  keep 
without  comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in  their  authority  towards  their  children, 
needleworks  and  embroideries  it  is  more  but  not  their  purse.  Men  have  a  foolish 
pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad  manner  (both  parents,  and  schoolmasters, 
and  solemn  ground  than  to  have  a  dark  and  servants),  in  creating  and  breeding 
and  melancholy  work  upon  a  lightsome  15  an  emulation  between  brothers  during 
ground.  Judge,  therefore,  of  the  pleas-  childhood,  which  many  times  sorteth  to 
ure  of  the  heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  discord  when  they  are  men,  and  disturb- 
eye.  Certainly  virtue  is  like  precious  eth  families.  The  Italians  make  little 
odors,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  in-  difTerence  between  children  and  nephews, 
censed  or  crushed ;  for  prosperity  doth  20  or  near  kinsfolk ;  but  so  they  be  of  the 
best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best  lump  they  care  not,  though  they  pass  not 
discover  virtue.  through    their    own    body.     And,    to    say 

truth,   in  nature   it  is  much  a  like  mat- 
ter;   insomuch    that    we    see    a    nephew 
VII.—  OF  PARENTS  AND  CHIL-      25  sometimes  resembleth  an  uncle,  or  a  kins- 
DREN  man,   more  than  his  own  parent,  as  the 

blood  happens.  Let  parents  choose  be- 
The  joys  of  parents  are  secret,  and  so  times  the  vocations  and  courses  they 
are  their  griefs  and  fears ;  they  cannot  mean  their  children  should  take,  for  then 
utter  the  one,  nor  they  will  not  utter  the  30  they  are  most  flexible ;  and  let  them  not 
other.  Children  sweeten  labors,  but  they  too  much  apply  themselves  to  the  dispo- 
make  misfortunes  more  bitter ;  they  in-  sition  of  their  children,  as  thinking  they 
crease  the  cares  of  life,  but  they  mitigate  will  take  best  to  that  which  they  have 
the  remembrance  of  death.  The  per-  most  mind  to.  It  is  true,  that  if  the  af- 
petuity  by  generation  is  common  to  35  fection,  or  aptness,  of  the  children  be 
beasts ;  but  memory,  and  merit,  and  noble  extraordinary,  then  it  is  good  not  to  cross 
works  are  proper  to  men;  and  surely  a  it;  but  generally  the  precept  is  good, 
man  shall  see  the  noblest  works  and  Optimum  eligc,  suave  et  facile  illiid  faciei 
foundations  have  proceeded  from  child-  consuctudo  [Choose  the  best;  custom  will 
less  men,  which  have  sought  to  express  40  make  it  pleasant  and  easy].  Younger 
the  images  of  their  minds  where  those  of  brothers  are  commonly  fortunate,  but 
their  bodies  have  failed;  so  the  care  of  seldom  or  never  where  the  elder  are  dis- 
posterity  is  most  in  them  that  have  no  inherited, 
posterity.  They  that  are  the  first  raisers 
of     their     houses     are     most     indulgent  45 

towards  their  children,  beholding  them  VIII.— OF  MARRIAGE  AND  SINGLE 
as    the    continuance,    not    only    of    their  LIFE 

kind,  but  of  their  work,  and  so  both  chil- 
dren and  creatures.  He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath 
The  difference  in  affection  of  parents  50  given  hostages  to  fortune ;  for  they  are 
towards  their  several  children  is  many  impediments  to  great  enterprises,  either 
times  unequal,  and  sometimes  unworthy,  of  virtue  or  mischief.  Certainly  the  best 
especially  in  the  mother;  as  Solomon  works,  and  of  greatest  merit  for  the 
saith,  '  A  wise  son  rejoiceth  the  father,  public,  have  proceeded  from  the  unmar- 
but  an  ungracious  son  shames  the  55  ried  or  childless  men.  which,  both  in 
mother.'  A  man  shall  see,  where  there  affection  and  means,  have  married  and 
is  a  house  full  of  children,  one  or  two  endowed  the  public.  Yet  it  were  great 
of  the  eldest  respected,  and  the  youngest      reason    that    those    that    have    children 


I90  FRANCIS  BACON 


should  have  greatest  care  of  future  times,  jealous.  Wives  arc  young  men's  mis- 
unto  which  they  know  they  must  trans-  tresses,  companions  for  middle  age,  and 
niit  their  dearest   pledges.  old  men's  nurses;  so  as  a  man  may  have 

Some  there  are,  who,  though  they  lead      a   quarrel    to   marry   when   he   will.     But 
a  single   life,   yet   their   thoughts   do   end   5  yet  he  was  reputed  one  of  the  wise  men 
with     themselves,     and     account     future      that  made   answer   to   the   question   when 
times  impertinences ;  nay,  there  are  some      a  man  should  marry,  '  A  young  man  not 
other  that  account  wife  and  children  hut      yet,  an  elder  man  not  at  all.'     It  is  often 
as    bills    of    charges.     Nay,    more,    there      seen   that   bad   husl)ands   have   very   good 
are  some   foolish   rich  covetous  men  that  lo  wives;   whether   it  be  that   it   raiseth   the 
take   a   pride   in   having  no   children,   be-      price   of    their    husband's    kindness    when 
cause  they  may  be  thought  so  much  the      it  comes,  or  that  the  wives  take  a  pride 
richer ;    for,    perhaps,    they    have    heard      in    their    patience ;    but    this    never    fails, 
some  talk.     '  Such  a  one  is  a  great  rich      if   the   bad   husbands   were   of   their   own 
man,'    and    another    except    to    it,    *  Yea.  15  choosing,   against   their   friends'   consent; 
but  he  hath  a  great  charge  of  children,'      for  then  they  will  be  sure  to  make  good 
as  if  it  were  an  abatement  to  his  riches.      their  own  folly. 
But  the  most  ordinary  cause  of  a  single 
life   is   liberty,   especially   in   certain   self- 
pleasing  and  humorous  minds,  which  are  20  X. —  OF  LOVE 
so  sensible  of  every  restraint,  as  they  will 

go   near   to   think   their   girdles   and   gar-  The    stage    is    more    beholden    to    love 

ters  to  be  bonds  and  shackles.  Unmar-  than  the  life  of  man.  For  as  to  the 
ried  men  are  best  friends,  best  masters,  stage  love  is  ever  a  matter  of  comedies 
best  servants,  but  not  always  best  sub-  25  and  now  and  then  of  tragedies,  but  in 
jects;  for  they  are  light  to  run  away,  life  it  doth  much  mischief,  sometimes 
and  almost  all  fugitives  are  of  that  con-  like  a  siren,  sometimes  like  a  fury.  You 
dition.  A  single  life  doth  well  with  may  observe  that  amongst  all  the  great 
churchmen,  for  charity  will  hardly  wa-  and  worthy  persons  whereof  the  memory 
ter  the  ground  where  it  must  first  fill  30  remaineth,  either  ancient  or  recent,  there 
a  pool.  It  is  indifferent  for  judges  and  is  not  one  that  hath  been  transported  to 
magistrates,  for  if  they  be  facile  and  the  mad  degree  of  love,  which  shows 
corrupt  you  shall  have  a  servant  five  that  great  spirits  and  great  business  do 
times  worse  than  a  wife.  For  soldiers,  keep  out  this  weak  passion.  You  must 
I  find  the  generals  commonly,  in  their  35  except,  nevertheless,  Marcus  Antonius, 
hortatives,  put  men  in  mind  of  their  the  half-partner  of  the  empire  of  Rome, 
wives  and  children.  And  I  think  the  and  Appius  Claudius,  the  decemvir  and 
despising  of  marriage  amongst  the  Turks  lawgiver;  whereof  the  former  was  in- 
maketh  the  vulgar  soldier  more  base,  deed  a  voluptuous  man  and  inordinate, 
Certainly,  wife  and  children  are  a  kind  40  but  the  latter  was  an  austere  and  wise 
of  discipline  of  humanity ;  and  single  man ;  and  therefore  it  seems,  though 
men,  though  they  be  many  times  more  rarely,  that  love  can  find  entrance,  not 
charitable,  because  their  means  are  less  only  into  an  open  heart,  but  also  into 
exhaust,  yet,  on  the  other  side,  they  are  a  heart  well  fortified,  if  watch  be  not 
more  cruel  and  hard-hearted,  good  to  45  well  kept.  It  is  a  poor  saying  of  Epi- 
make  severe  inquisitors,  because  their  curus:  Satis  magnum  alter  altcri  thea- 
tenderness  is  not  so  oft  called  upon.  trum  sumus  [We  are  to  each  other  a 
Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and  there-  theater  large  enough],  as  if  man.  made 
fore  constant,  are  commonly  loving  hus-  for  the  contemplation  of  heaven  and  all 
bands;  as  was  said  of  Ulysses,  '  F^^m- 50  noble  objects,  should  do  nothing"  but 
lam  siiam  practidit  immortalitati'  [He  kneel  before  a  little  idol  and  make  him- 
preferred  his  old  wife  to  immortality].  self  subject,  though  not  of  the  mouth. 
Chaste  women  are  often  proud  and  fro-  as  beasts  are,  yet  of  the  eve.  which  was 
ward,  as  presuming  upon  the  merit  of  given  him  for  higher  purposes.  It  is  a 
their  chastity.  It  is  one  of  the  best  55  strange  thing  to  note  the  excess  of  this 
bonds,  both  of  chastity  and  obedience,  passion,  and  how  it  braves  the  nature 
in  the  wife  if  she  think  her  husband  wise,  and  value  of  things  by  this,  that  the 
which  she  will   never  do  if  she  find  him      speaking    in     a     perpetual     hyperbole     is 


comely  in  nothing  but  in  love.  Neither  tion :  question  was  asked  of  Demosthenes, 
is  it  merely  in  the  phrase;  for  whereas  it  what  was  the  chief  part  of  an  orator? 
hath  been  well  said  that  the  arch-flat-  He  answered.  Action:  what  next?  Ac- 
terer,  with  whom  all  the  petty  flatterers  tion:  what  next  again?  Action.  He  said 
have  intelligence,  is  a  man's  self,  cer-  5  it  that  knew  it  best,  and  had  by  nature 
tainly  the  lover  is  more.  For  there  was  himself  no  advantage  in  that  he  com- 
never  proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  mended.  A  strange  thing,  that  that  part 
well  of  himself  as  the  lover  doth  of  the  of  an  orator  which  is  but  superficial, 
person  loved,  and,  therefore,  it  was  well  and  rather  the  virtue  of  a  player,  should 
said  that  it  is  impossible  to  love  and  to  ^°  be  placed  so  high  above  those  other  no- 
be  wise.  Neither  doth  this  weakness  ble  parts,  of  invention,  elocution,  and 
appear  to  others  only,  and  not  to  the  the  rest  —  nay,  almost  alone,  as  if  it  were 
party  loved,  but  to  the  loved  most  of  all  in  all.  But  the  reason  is  plain, 
all,  except  the  love  be  reciprocal.  For  There  is  in  human  nature  generally  more 
it  is  a  true  rule  that  love  is  ever  re- '5  of  the  fool  than  of  the  wise;  and,  there- 
warded  either  with  the  reciproque  or  fore,  those  faculties  by  which  the  fool- 
with  an  inward  and  secret  contempt ;  by  ish  part  of  men's  minds  is  taken  are  most 
how  much  the  more  men  ought  to  beware  potent.  Wonderful  like  is  the  case  of 
of  this  passion,  which  loseth  not  only  boldness  in  civil  business.  What  first? 
other  things  but  itself.  As  for  the  other  2°  —  Boldness.  What  second  and  third? 
losses,  the  poet's  relation  doth  well  fig-  —  Boldness.  And  yet  boldness  is  a 
ure  them,  that  he  that  preferred  Helena  child  of  ignorance  and  baseness,  far  in- 
quitted  the  gifts  of  Juno  and  Pallas;  for  ferior  to  other  parts.  But,  nevertheless, 
whosoever  esteemeth  too  much  of  am-  it  doth  fascinate  and  bind  hand  and  foot 
orous  affection  quitteth  both  riches  and  ^^  those  that  are  either  shallow  in  judg- 
wisdom.  This  passion  hath  its  floods  in  ment  or  weak  in  courage,  which  are  the 
the  very  times  of  weakness,  which  are  greatest  part  —  yea,  and  prevaileth  with 
great  prosperity  and  great  adversity  wise  men  at  weak  times.  Therefore,  we 
(though  this  latter  hath  been  less  ob-  see  it  hath  done  wonders  in  popular 
served),  both  which  times  kindle  love  3o  states,  but  with  senates  and  princes  less; 
and  make  it  more  fervent,  and,  there-  and  more  ever  upon  the  first  entrance 
fore,  show  it  to  be  the  child  of  folly.  of  bold  persons  into  action  than  soon 
They  do  best  who,  if  they  cannot  but  after;  for  boldness  is  an  ill  keeper  of 
admit  love,  yet  make  it  keep  quarter,  and  promise.  Surely,  as  there  are  mounte- 
sever  it  wholly  from  their  serious  af-  35  banks  for  the  natural  body,  so  there  are 
fairs  and  actions  of  life;  for  if  it  check  mountebanks  for  the  politic  body;  men 
once  with  business,  it  troubleth  men's  that  undertake  great  cures,  and  perhaps 
fortunes  and  maketh  men  that  they  can  have  been  lucky  in  two  or  three  experi- 
nowise  be  true  to  their  own  ends.  I  ments,  but  want  the  grounds  of  science, 
know  not  how,  but  martial  men  are  given  40  and  therefore  cannot  hold  out  —  nay,  you 
to  love;  I  think  it  is  but  as  they  are  shall  see  a  bold  fellow  many  times  do 
given  to  wine,  for  perils  commonly  ask  Mahomet's  miracle.  Mahomet  made  the 
to  be  paid  in  pleasures.  There  is  in  people  believe  that  he  would  call  a  hill 
man's  nature  a  secret  inclination  and  to  him,  and  from  the  top  of  it  offer  up 
motion  towards  love  of  others,  which,  if  45  his  prayers  for  the  observers  of  his  law. 
it  be  not  spent  upon  some  one  or  a  few,  The  people  assembled;  Mahomet  called 
doth  naturally  spread  itself  towards  the  hill  to  come  to  him  again  and  again; 
many,  and  maketh  men  become  humane  and  when  the  hill  stood  still  he  was  never 
and  charitable,  as  it  is  seen  sometimes  in  a  whit  abashed,  but  said,  '  If  the  hill  will 
friars.  Nuptial  love  maketh  mankind,  50  not  come  to  IMahomet,  Mahomet  will  go 
friendly  love  perfecteth  it,  but  wanton  to  the  hill.'  So  these  men,  when  they 
love   corrupteth   and  embaseth   it.  have   promised   great   matters,   and   failed 

most    shamefully,    yet,    if    they    have    the 

perfection  of  boldness,  they  will  but  slight 

Xn. —  OF  BOLDNESS  55  it  over,   and   make   a   turn,   and  no   more 

ado.     Certainly    to    men    of    great    judg- 

It    is    a    trivial    grammar-school    text,      ment  bold  persons  are  a  sport  to  behold 

but  yet  worthy  a  wise  man's  considera-      —  nay,   and   to  the   vulgar   also   boldness 


192  l:*KAl\L.i:b    tJAUUi\ 


hath  somewhat  of  the  ridiculous;  for  if  tion  is  the  people;  and  in  all  superstition 
absurdity  be  the  subject  of  laughter,  wise  men  follow  fools ;  and  arguments 
doubt  you  not  but  great  ijoldness  is  sel-  are  fitted  to  practice  in  a  reversed  order, 
dom  without  some  absurdity.  Especially  It  was  gravely  said,  by  some  of  the  prel- 
it  is  a  sport  to  see  when  a  bold  fellow  5  ates  in  the  Council  of  Trent,  where  the 
is  out  of  countenance,  for  that  puts  his  doctrine  of  the  schoolmen  bare  great 
face  into  a  most  shrunken  and  wooden  sway,  that  the  schoolmen  were  like  as- 
posture,  as  needs  it  must,  for  in  bash-  trononiers,  which  did  feign  eccentrics  and 
fulness  the  spirits  do  a  little  go  and  epicycles,  and  such  engines  of  orbs,  to 
come;  but  with  bold  men,  upon  hke  oc- 10  save  the  phenomena,  though  they  knew 
casion,  they  stand  at  a  stay,  like  a  stale  there  were  no  such  things ;  and,  in  like 
at  chess,  where  it  is  no  mate,  but  yet  the  manner,  that  the  schoolmen  had  framed 
game  cannot  stir;  but  this  last  were  fit-  a  number  of  subtle  and  intricate  axioms 
ter  for  a  satire  than  for  a  serious  oh-  and  theorems  to  save  the  practice  of  the 
servation.  This  is  well  to  be  weighed,  15  church.  The  causes  of  superstition  are 
that  boldness  is  ever  blind :  for  it  seeth  pleasing  and  sensual  rites  and  ceremo- 
not  dangers  and  inconveniences.  There-  nies,  excess  of  outward  and  pharisaical 
fore  it  is  ill  in  counsel,  good  in  execu-  holiness,  over-great  reverence  of  tradi- 
tion ;  so  that  the  right  use  of  bold  per-  tions,  which  cannot  but  load  the  church ; 
sons  is  that  they  never  command  in  20  the  stratagems  of  prelates  for  their  own 
chief,  but  be  seconds,  and  under  the  ambition  and  lucre;  the  favoring  too 
direction  of  others.  For  in  counsel  it  is  much  of  good  intentions,  which  openeth 
good  to  see  dangers ;  and  in  execution  not  the  gate  to  conceits  and  novelties ;  the 
to  see  them,  except  they  be  very  great.  taking  an   aim   at  divine   matters  by   hu- 

25  man,    which    cannot    but    breed    mixture 

of    imaginations ;    and,    lastly,    barbarous 
XVII.—  OF  SUPERSTITION  times,    especially    joined    with    calamities 

and  disasters.  Superstition  without  a 
It  were  better  to  have  no  opinion  of  veil  is  a  deformed  thing,  for  as  it  add- 
God  at  all,  than  such  an  opinion  as  is  30  eth  deformity  to  an  ape  to  be  so  like  a 
unworthy  of  him;  for  the  one  is  unbelief,  man,  so  the  similitude  of  superstition  to 
the  other  is  contumely :  and  certainly  religion  makes  it  the  more  deformed, 
superstition  is  the  reproach  of  the  Deity.  And  as  wholesome  meat  corrupteth  to 
Plutarch  saith  well  to  that  purpose :  little  worms,  so  good  forms  and  orders 
'  Surely,'  saith  he,  '  I  had  rather  a  great  35  corrupt  into  a  number  of  petty  observ- 
deal,  men  should  say  there  was  no  such  ances.  There  is  a  superstition  in  avoid- 
a  man  at  all  as  Plutarch,  than  that  they  ing  superstition,  when  men  think  to  do 
should  say  that  there  was  one  Plutarch,  best  if  they  go  farthest  from  the  super- 
that  would  eat  his  children  as  soon  as  stition  formerly  received.  Therefore 
they  were  born';  as  the  poets  speak  of  40  care  would  be  had  that,  as  it  fareth  in 
Saturn.  And  as  the  contumely  is  greater  ill  purgings,  the  good  be  not  taken  away 
towards  God,  so  the  danger  is  greater  with  the  bad,  which  commonly  is  done 
towards  men.  Atheism  leaves  a  man  to  when  the  people  is  the  reformer, 
sense,  to  philosophy,  to  natural  piety,  to 
laws,   to   reputation  —  all   which   may   be  45 

guides  to  an  outward  moral  virtue,  XXIII.— OF  WISDOM  FOR  A  MAN'S 
though    religion    were   not;    but    supersti-  SELF 

tion  dismounts  all  these,  and  erecteth  an 

absolute  monarchy  in  the  minds  of  men.  An   ant   is    a   wise   creature    for   itself, 

Therefore  atheism  did  never  perturb  50  but  it  is  a  shrewd  thing  in  an  orchard 
states ;  for  it  makes  men  wary  of  them-  or  garden ;  and  certainly  men  that  are 
selves,  as  looking  no  further;  and  we  see  great  lovers  of  themselves  waste  the  pub- 
the  times  inclined  to  atheism,  as  the  time  lie.  Divide  with  reason  between  self- 
of  Augustus  C?esar,  were  civil  times ;  but  love  and  society ;  and  be  so  true  to  thy- 
superstition  hath  been  the  confusion  of  55  self  as  thou  be  not  false  to  others, 
many  states,  and  bringcth  in  a  new  pri-  especially  to  thy  king  and  country.  It 
mum  mobile,  that  ravisheth  all  the  spheres  is  a  poor  center  of  a  man's  actions,  him- 
of  government.     The  master  of  supersti-      self.     It    is    right    earth;    for    that    only 


stands  fast  upon  its  own  center;  whereas  their  time  sacrificed  to  themselves,  they 
all.  things  that  have  affinity  with  the  become  in  the  end  themselves  sacrifices 
heavens  move  upon  the  center  of  another,  to  the  inconstancy  of  fortune,  whose 
which  they  benefit.  The  referring  of  all  wings  they  thought  by  their  self-wisdom 
to  a  man's  self  is  more  tolerable  in  a  5  to  have  pinioned, 
sovereign  prince,  because  themselves  are 
not  only  themselves,   but  their  good  and 

evil  is  at  the  peril  of  the  public  fortune:  XXV.— OF  DISPATCH 

but   it   is    a   desperate    evil    in    a    servant 

to  a  prince,  or  a  citizen  in  a  republic ;  lo  Afifected  dispatch  is  one  of  the  most 
for  whatsoever  affairs  pass  such  a  man's  dangerous  things  to  business  that  can  be. 
hands,  he  crooketh  them  to  his  own  ends.  It  is  like  that  which  the  physicians  call 
which  must  needs  be  often  eccentric  to  prcdigcstion,  or  hasty  digestion,  which  is 
the  ends  of  his  master  or  state.  There-  sure  to  fill  the  body  full  of  crudities  and 
fore,  let  princes  or  states  choose  such  15  secret  seeds  of  diseases.  Therefore 
servants  as  have  not  this  mark,  except  measure  not  dispatch  by  the  times  of 
they  mean  their  service  should  be  made  sitting,  but  by  the  advancement  of  the 
but  the  accessory.  That  which  maketh  business.  And  as  in  races,  it  is  not  the 
the  effect  more  pernicious  is  that  all  pro-  large  stride,  or  high  lift,  that  makes  the 
portion  is  lost.  It  were  disproportion  20  speed,  so  in  business,  the  keeping  close 
enough  for  the  servant's  good  to  be  pre-  to  the  matter,  and  not  taking  of  it  too 
ferred  before  the  master's ;  but  yet  it  is  much  at  once,  procureth  dispatch.  It  is 
a  greater  extreme,  when  a  little  good  the  care  of  some,  only  to  come  off  speed- 
of  the  servant  shall  carry  things  against  ily  for  the  time,  or  to  contrive  some  false 
a  great  good  of  the  master's.  And  25  periods  of  business,  because  they  may 
yet  that  is  the  case  of  bad  officers,  seem  men  of  dispatch ;  but  it  is  one  thing 
treasurers,  ambassadors,  generals,  and  to  abbreviate  by  contracting,  another  by 
other  false  and  corrupt  servants,  which  cutting  off;  and  business  so  handled  at 
set  a  bias  upon  their  bowl,  of  their  own  several  sittings  or  meetings  goeth  com- 
petty  ends  and  envies,  to  the  overthrow  30  monly  backward  and  forward  in  an  un- 
of  their  master's  great  and  important  steady  manner.  I  knew  a  wise  man  that 
affairs.  And  for  the  most  part,  the  good  had  it  for  a  byword,  when  he  saw  men 
such  servants  receive  is  after  the  model  hasten  to  a  conclusion,  '  Stay  a  little,  that 
of  their  own  fortune,  but  the  hurt  they  we  may  make  an  end  the  sooner.' 
sell  for  that  good  is  after  the  model  of  35  On  the  other  side,  true  dispatch  is  a 
their  master's  fortune.  And  certainly  rich  thing;  for  time  is  the  measure  of 
it  is  the  nature  of  extreme  self-lovers,  business,  as  money  is  of  wares;  and  busi- 
as  they  will  set  a  house  on  fire  and  it  ness  is  bought  at  a  dear  hand  where 
were  but  to  roast  their  eggs;  and  yet  there  is  small  dispatch.  The  Spartans 
these  men  many  times  hold  credit  with  40  and  Spaniards  have  been  to  be  noted  to 
their  masters,  because  their  study  is  but  be  of  small  dispatch:  Mi  venga  la 
to  please  them,  and  profit  themselves;  muerte  de  Spagna,  'Let  my  death  come 
and  for  either  respect  they  will  abandon  from  Spain,'  for  then  it  will  be  sure  to 
the  good  of  their  affairs.  be  long  in  coming. 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is,  in  many  45  Give  good  hearing  to  those  that  give 
branches  thereof,  a  depraved  thing;  it  the  first  information  in  business;  and 
is  the  wisdom  of  rats,  that  will  be  sure  rather  direct  them  in  the  beginning  than 
to  leave  a  house  somewhat  before  it  interrupt  them  in  the  continuance  of 
fall;  it  is  the  wisdom  of  the  fox,  that  their  speeches;  for  he  that  is  put  out  of 
thrusts  out  the  badger,  who  digged  and  50  his  own  order  will  go  forward  and  back- 
made  room  for  him ;  it  is  the  wisdom  of  ward,  and  be  more  tedious  while  he 
crocodiles,  that  shed  tears  when  they  waits  upon  his  memory,  than  he  could 
would  devour.  But  that  which  is  spe-  have  been  if  he  nad  gone  on  in  his  own 
cially  to  be  noted  is  that  those  which  course.  But  sometimes  it  is  seen  that 
(as  Cicero  says  of  Pompey)  are  .y!<i55the  moderator  is  more  troublesome  than 
amantes    sine    rivali     [lovers     of     them-      the  actor. 

selves   without   a   rival]    are   many  times  Iterations  are  commonly  loss  of  time; 

unfortunate;   and   whereas   they  have  all      but  there  is  no  such  gain  of  time  as  to 


iv.rviN»^xo    ur\.\^\ui\ 


iterate  often  the  state  of  tlie  question;  light,  and  seem  always  to  keep  back 
for  it  chaseth  away  many  a  frivolous  somewhat ;  and  when  they  know  within 
si)eech  as  it  is  coming  fortli.  Long  and  themselves  they  speak  of  that  they  do 
curious  speeches  are  as  fit  for  dispatch  not  well  know  would,  nevertheless,  seem 
as  a  robe  or  mantle  with  a  long  train  is  5  to  others  to  know  of  that  which  they  may 
for  a  race.  Prefaces,  and  passages,  and  not  well  speak.  Some  help  themselves 
excusations,  and  other  speeches  of  refer-  with  countenance  and  gesture,  and  are 
ence  to  tlie  person  are  great  wastes  of  wise  by  signs,  as  Cicero  saith  of  Piso, 
time;  and  though  they  seem  to  proceed  that  when  he  answered  him  he  fetched 
of  modesty,  they  are  bravery.  Yet  be- 10  one  of  his  brows  up  to  his  forehead  and 
ware  of  being  too  material  when  there  bent  the  other  down  to  his  chin  —  re- 
is  any  impediment  or  obstruction  in  men's  spondcs,  altera  ad  frontem  siihlato  altera 
wills;  for  pre-occupation  of  mind  ever  ad  nientum  deprcsso  supercilio,  crudelita- 
requireth  preface  of  speech,  like  a  fomen-  tern  tibi  nan  placere.  Some  think  to  bear 
tation  to  make  the  unguent  enter.  15  it   by    speaking   a   great   word   and   being 

Above  all  things,  order  and  distribu-  peremptory,  and  go  on  and  take  by  ad- 
tion,  and  singling  out  of  parts  is  the  life  mittance  that  which  they  cannot  make 
of  dispatch,  so  as  the  distribution  be  not  good.  Some,  whatsoever  is  beyond  their 
too  subtle ;  for  he  that  doth  not  divide  reach,  will  seem  to  despise  or  make  light 
will  never  enter  well  into  business,  and  he  20  of  it  as  impertinent  or  curious,  and  so 
that  divideth  too  much  will  never  come  would  have  their  ignorance  seem  judg- 
out  of  it  clearly.  To  choose  time  is  to  ment.  Some  are  never  without  a  dififer- 
save  time ;  and  an  unseasonable  motion  ence,  and  commonly,  by  amusing  men 
is  but  beating  the  air.  There  be  three  v^^ith  a  subtlety,  blanch  the  matter,  of 
parts  of  business  —  the  preparation,  iht  21  v^ihom  A.  Gt\\\us  s2l\\.\\,  Hamincm  dclirnm, 
debate,  or  examination,  and  the  perfec-  qui  verbarum  minutiis  reriim  frangit  pon- 
(ion;  whereof,  if  you  look  for  dispatch,  dcra  [a  foolish  man  who  breaks  up  im- 
let  the  middle  only  be  the  work  of  many,  portant  business  with  small  points  about 
and  the  first  and  last  the  work  of  few.  words].  Of  which  kind  also  Plato,  in 
The  proceeding  upon  somewhat  con-  3°  his  Protagoras,  bringeth  in  Prodicus  in 
ceived  in  writing  doth  for  the  most  part  scorn,  and  maketh  him  make  a  speech 
facilitate  dispatch ;  for  though  it  should  that  consisteth  of  distinctions  from  the 
be  wholly  rejected,  yet  that  negative  is  beginning  to  the  end.  Generally,  such 
more  pregnant  of  direction  than  an  in-  men,  in  all  deliberations,  find  ease  to  be 
definite,  as  ashes  are  more  generative  35  of  the  negative  side,  and  affect  a  credit 
than  dust.  to    object    and     foretell    difficulties;     for 

when  propositions  are  denied,  there  is  an 

end  of  them;  but  if  they  be   allowed,   it 

XXVI.— OF  SEEMING  WISE  requireth  a  new  work;  which  false  point 

40  of   wisdom   is   the   bane   of  business.     To 

It  hath  been  an  opinion  that  the  French  conclude,  there  is  no  decaying  merchant, 
are  wiser  than  they  seem,  and  the  Span-  or  inward  beggar,  hath  so  many  tricks 
iards  seem  wiser  than  they  are.  But  to  uphold  the  credit  of  their  wealth,  as 
howsoever  it  be  between  nations,  cer-  these  empty  persons  have  to  maintain 
tainly  it  is  so  between  man  and  man.  45  the  credit  of  their  sufficiency.  Seeming 
For  as  the  Apostle  saith  of  godliness,  wise  men  may  make  shift  to  get  opinion; 
'  having  a  show  of  godliness,  but  deny-  but  let  no  man  choose  them  for  employ- 
ing the  power  thereof,'  so  certainly  there  ment ;  for.  certainly,  you  were  better  take 
arc  in  points  of  wisdom  and  sufficiency  for  business  a  man  somewhat  absurd  than 
that  do  nothing  or  little  very  solemnly  50  over-formal. 
—  magna  canatu  nugas  [trifles  with  great 
effort].     It   is  a  ridiculous  thing,   and   fit 

for  a  satire  to  persons  of  judgment,   to  XXVIII. —  OF  EXPENSE 

see  what  shifts  these  formalists  have,  and 

what  prospectives  to  make  superficies  to  55  Riches  are  for  spending,  and  spending 
seem  body  that  hath  depth  and  bulk.  for  honor  and  good  actions.  Therefore 
Some  are  so  close  and  reserved  as  they  extraordinary  expense  must  be  limited 
will  not  show  their  wares  but  by  a  dark      by   the   worth   of  the   occasion ;   for  vol- 


untary  undoing  may  be  as  well  for  a  discerning  what  is  true;  as  if  it  were  a 
man's  country  as  for  the  kingdom  of  praise  to  know  what  might  be  said,  and 
heaven.  But  ordinary  expense  ought  to  not  what  should  be  thought.  Some 
be  limited  by  a  man's  estate,  and  gov-  have  certain  commonplaces  and  themes, 
erned  with  such  regard  as  it  be  within  5  wherein  they  are  good,  and  want  va- 
his  compass,  and  not  subject  to  deceit  riety;  which  kind  of  poverty  is  for 
and  abuse  of  servants,  and  ordered  to  the  most  part  tedious,  and,  when  it  is 
the  best  show,  that  the  bills  may  be  less  once  perceived,  ridiculous.  The  honor- 
than  the  estimation  abroad.  Certainly,  ablest  part  of  talk  is  to  give  the  occasion; 
if  a  man  will  keep  but  of  even  hand,  10  and  again  to  moderate,  and  pass  to  some- 
his  ordinary  expenses  ought  to  be  but  what  else,  for  then  a  man  leads  the 
to  the  half  of  his  receipts,  and  if  he  think  dance.  It  is  good  in  discourse  and 
'  to  wax  rich,  but  to  the  third  part.  It  is  speech  of  conversation  to  vary  and  inter- 
no  baseness  for  the  greatest  to  descend  mingle  speech  of  the  present  occasion  with 
and  look  into  their  own  estate.  Some  15  arguments,  tales  with  reasons,  asking  of 
forbear  it,  not  upon  negligence  alone,  but  questions  with  telling  of  opinions,  and 
doubting  to  bring  themselves  into  melan-  jest  with  earnest,  for  it  is  a  dull  thing  to 
choly,  in  respect  they  shall  find  it  broken.  tire,  and  as  we  say  now,  to  jade  any- 
But  wounds  cannot  be  cured  without  thing  too  far.  As  for  jest,  there  be 
searching.  He  that  cannot  look  into  his  20  certain  things  which  ought  to  be  privi- 
own  estate  at  all  had  need  both  choose  leged  from  it,  namely,  religion,  matters 
well  them  whom  he  employeth,  and  of  state,  great  persons,  any  man's  present 
change  them  often,  for  new  are  more  business  of  importance,  and  any  case  that 
timorous  and  less  subtle.  He  that  can  deserveth  pity.  Yet  there  be  some  that 
look  into  his  estate  but  seldom,  it  be-  25  think  their  wits  have  been  asleep,  except 
hoveth  him  to  turn  all  to  certainties.  A  they  dart  out  somewhat  that  is  piquant 
man  had  need,  if  he  be  plentiful  in  some  and  to  the  quick:  that  is  a  vein  which 
kind  of  expense,  to  be  as  saving  again  would  be  bridled, 
in   some   other:   as   if   he   be   plentiful   in 

diet,  to  be  saving  in  apparel;  if  he  be  30  Parce,  puer,  stimuHs,  et  fortius  utere  loris. 
plentiful  in  the  hall,  to  be  saving  in  the  [Spare,  boy,  the  whip,  and  tighter  hold  the 

stable;    and    the    like.     For    he    that    is      reins.] 
plentiful    in    expenses    of    all    kinds    will 

hardly  be  preserved  from  decay.  In  And  generally  men  ought  to  find  the 
clearing  of  a  man's  estate,  he  may  as  well  35  difference  between  saltness  and  bitter- 
hurt  himself  in  being  too  sudden,  as  in  ness.  Certainly  he  that  hath  a  satirical 
letting  it  run  on  too  long,  for  hasty  vein,  as  he  maketh  others  afraid  of  his 
selling  is  commonly  as  disadvantageable  wit,  so  he  had  need  be  afraid  of  others' 
as  interest.  Besides,  he  that  clears  at  memory.  He  that  questioneth  much 
once  will  relapse,  for,  finding  himself  out  40  shall  learn  much  and  content  much ;  but 
of  straits,  he  will  revert  to  his  customs ;  especially  if  he  apply  his  questions  to  the 
but  he  that  cleareth  by  degrees  induceth  skill  of  the  persons  whom  he  asketh,  for 
a  habit  of  frugality,  and  gaineth  as  well  he  shall  give  them  occasion  to  please 
upon  his  mind  as  upon  his  estate.  Cer-  themselves  in  speaking,  and  himself  shall 
tainly,  who  hath  a  state  to  repair  may  not  45  continually  gather  knowledge.  But  let 
despise  small  things :  and,  commonly,  it  his  questions  not  be  troublesome,  for  that 
is  less  dishonorable  to  abridge  petty  is  fit  for  a  poser.  And  let  him  be  sure 
charges  than  to  stoop  to  petty  gettings.  to  leave  other  men  their  turns  to  speak. 
A  man  ought  warily  to  begin  charges  Nay,  if  there  be  any  that  would  reign. 
which,  once  begun,  will  continue ;  but  in  5c  and  take  up  all  the  time,  let  him  find 
matters  that  return  not,  he  may  be  more  means  to  take  them  off  and  to  bring 
magnificent.  others  on ;  as  musicians  used  to  do  with 

those    that    danced    too    long    galliards. 

XXXII OF  DISCOITRSF  ^^  ^^"   dissemble   sometimes   your   know- 

55  ledge   of  that  you   are   thought   to   know. 

Some    in   their   discourse   desire    rather      you    shall    be    thought    another    time    to 

commendation    of   wit,    in    being   able    to      know   that   you   know   not.     Speech   of   a 

hold  all  arguments,  than  of  judgment,  in      man's  self  ought  to  be  seldom  and  well 


chosen.  I  knew  one  was  wont  to  say  in  see  what  feigned  prices  are  set  upon 
scorn,  'He  must  needs  l)e  a  wise  man,  httle  stones  and  rarities?  And  what 
he  speaks  so  much  of  himself.'  And  works  of  ostentation  are  undertaken,  be- 
there  is  but  one  case  wherein  a  man  cause  there  might  seem  to  be  some  use 
may  conunend  liimself  with  good  grace,  5  of  great  riches?  But  then  you  will  say, 
and  that  is  in  commending  virtue  in  an-  they  may  be  of  use,  to  buy  men  out  of 
other,  especially  if  it  be  such  a  virtue  dangers  or  troubles.  As  Solomon  saith, 
whereunto  himself  pretendeth.  Speech  '  Riches  are  as  a  stronghold  in  the  im- 
of  touch  towards  others  should  be  spar-  agination  of  the  rich  man.'  But  this  is 
inglv  used,  for  discourse  ought  to  be  as  lo  excellently  expressed,  that  it  is  in  im- 
a  field,  without  coming  home  to  any  man.  agination,  and  not  always  in  fact.  For 
I  knew  two  noblemen  of  the  west  part  certainly  great  riches  have  sold  more 
of  England,  whereof  the  one  was  given  men  than  they  have  bought  out.  Seek 
to  scoff,  but  kept  ever  royal  cheer  in  his  not  proud  riches,  but  such  as  thou 
house.  The  other  would  ask  of  those  15  mayest  get  justly,  use  soberly,  distribute 
that  had  been  at  the  other's  table,  '  Tell  cheerfully,  and  leave  contentedly.  Yet 
truly,  was  there  never  a  flout  or  dry  blow  have  no  abstract  or  friarly  contempt  of 
given  ? '  To  which  the  guest  would  them,  but  distinguish,  as  Cicero  saith 
answer,  such  and  such  a  thing  passed,  well  of  Rabirius  Posthumus,  In  studio 
The  lord  would  say,  '  I  thought  he  would  20  rei  amplificandae,  apparchat,  non  avari- 
mar  a  good  dinner.'  Discretion  of  tiae  pracdam,  sed  uistrmncntum  bonitati 
speech  is  more  than  eloquence,  and  to  quacri  [In  his  efforts  to  increase  his 
speak  agreeably  to  him  with  whom  wealth,  it  was  clear  that  he  did  not  seek 
we  deal  is  more  than  to  speak  in  a  prey  for  avarice  but  an  instrument  for 
good  words  or  in  good  order.  A  25  doing  good].  Hearken  also  to  Solomon, 
good  continued  speech,  without  a  good  and  beware  of  hasty  gathering  of  riches: 
speech  of  interlocution,  shows  slowness;  Qui  festinat  ad  divitias,  non  erit  insons 
and  a  good  reply,  or  second  speech,  with-  [He  that  maketh  haste  to  be  rich  shall  not 
out  a  good  settled  speech,  showeth  be  innocent].  The  poets  feign  that  when 
shallowness  and  weakness.  As  we  see  30  Plutus  (which  is  riches)  is  sent  from 
in  beasts,  that  those  that  are  weakest  in  Jupiter,  he  limps,  and  goes  slowly,  but 
the  course  are  yet  nimblest  in  the  turn,  when  he  is  sent  from  Pluto,  he  runs,  and 
as  it  is  betwixt  the  greyhound  and  the  is  swift  of  foot;  meaning  that  riches 
hare.  To  use  too  many  circumstances  gotten  by  good  means  and  just  labor  pace 
ere  one  come  to  the  matter  is  weari-  35  slowly,  but  when  they  come  by  the  death 
some;  to  use  none  at  all  is  blunt.  of  others  (as  by  the  course  of  inheritance, 

testaments,     and    the     like),     they     come 

tumbling   upon    a   man :    but   it   might   be 

XXXIV.— OF  RICHES  applied  likewise  to  Pluto  taking  him  for 

40  the  devil ;  for  when  riches  come  from  the 
I  cannot  call  riches  better  than  the  devil  (as  by  fraud,  and  oppression,  and 
baggage  of  virtue.  The  Roman  word  is  unjust  means)  they  come  upon  speed, 
better,  impedimenta,  for  as  the  baggage  The  ways  to  enrich  are  many,  and  most 
is  to  an  army  so  is  riches  to  virtue.  It  of  them  foul ;  parsimony  is  one  of  the 
cannot  be  spared,  nor  left  behind,  but  it  45  best,  and  yet  is  not  innocent,  for  it  with- 
hindereth  the  march,  yea,  and  the  care  holdeth  men  from  works  of  liberality 
of  it  sometimes  loseth  or  disturbeth  the  and  charity.  The  improvement  of  the 
victory.  Of  great  riches  there  is  no  real  ground  is  the  most  natural  obtaining  of 
use,  except  it  be  in  the  distribution;  the  riches,  for  it  is  our  great  mother's 
rest  is  but  conceit.  So  saith  Solomon,  50  blessing,  the  earth's ;  but  it  is  slow :  and 
'  Where  much  is,  there  are  many  to  con-  yet,  where  men  of  great  wealth  do  stoop 
sume  it ;  and  what  hath  the  owner  but  to  husbandry,  it  multiplieth  riches  ex- 
the  sight  of  it  with  his  eyes?'  The  ceedingly.  I  knew  a  nobleman  in  Eng- 
personal  fruition  in  any  man  cannot  land  that  had  the  greatest  audits  of  any 
reach  to  feel  great  riches ;  there  is  a  55  man  in  my  time, —  a  great  grazier,  a 
custody  of  them,  or  a  power  of  dole  and  great  sheep  master,  a  great  timber  man. 
donative  of  them,  or  a  fame  of  them,  but  a  great  collier,  a  great  corn  master,  a 
no  solid  use  to  the  owner.     Do  you  not      great    lead   man,    and   so   of   iron    and   a 


number  of  the  like  points  of  husbandry  ;  the  best  rise,  yet  when  they  are  gotten 
so  as  the  earth  seemed  a  sea  to  him  in  by  flattery,  feeding  humors,  and  other 
respect  of  the  perpetual  importation.  servile  conditions,  they  may  be  placed 
It  was  truly  observed  by  one,  '  That  him-  amongst  the  worst.  As  for  fishing  for 
self  came  very  hardly  to  a  little  riches,  5  testaments  and  executorships,  as  Tacitus 
and  very  easily  to  great  riches';  for  saith  of  Seneca,  Testamcnta  et  orbos 
when  a  man's  stock  is  come  to  that,  that  tanqiiam  indagine  capi  [he  took  in  be- 
he  can  expect  the  prime  of  markets,  and  quests  and  wardships  as  with  a  net]  ;  it 
overcome  those  bargains,  which  for  their  is  yet  worse,  by  how  much  men  submit 
greatness  are  few  men's  money,  and  be  10  themselves  to  meaner  persons  than  in 
partner  in  the  industries  of  younger  service.  Believe  not  much  them  that 
men,  he  cannot  but  increase  mainly.  seem  to  despise  riches,  for  they  despise 
The  gains  of  ordinary  trades  and  voca-  them  that  despair  of  them,  and  none 
tions  are  honest,  and  furthered  by  two  worse  when  they  come  to  them.  Be  not 
things  chiefly:  by  diligence,  and  by  a  «5  penny-wise;  riches  have  wings,  and 
good  name  for  good  and  fair  dealing;  sometimes  they  fly  away  of  themselves, 
but  the  gains  of  bargains  are  of  a  more  sometimes  they  must  be  set  flying  to 
doubtful  nature,  when  men  shall  wait  bring  in  more.  Men  leave  their  riches 
upon  others'  necessity ;  broke  by  servants,  either  to  their  kindred,  or  to  the  public ; 
and  instruments  to  draw  them  on ;  put  20  and  moderate  portions  prosper  best  in 
off  others  cunningly  that  would  be  better  both.  A  great  estate  left  to  an  heir  is 
chapmen,  and  the  like  practices,  which  as  a  lure  to  all  the  birds  of  prey  round 
are  crafty  and  naught.  As  for  the  about  to  seize  on  him,  if  he  be  not  the 
chopping  of  bargains,  when  a  man  buys  better  stablished  in  years  and  judgments, 
not  to  hold,  but  to  sell  over  again,  that  ^5  Likewise  glorious  gifts  and  foundations 
commonly  grindeth  double,  both  upon  the  are  like  sacrifices  without  salt,  and  but 
seller  and  upon  the  buyer.  Sharings  do  the  painted  sepulchers  of  alms,  which 
greatly  enrich,  if  the  hands  be  well  soon  will  putrefy  and  corrupt  inwardly, 
chosen  that  are  trusted.  Usury  is  the  Therefore  measure  not  thine  advance- 
certainest  means  of  gain,  though  one  of  3°  ments  by  quantity,  but  frame  them  by 
the  worst,  as  that  whereby  a  man  doth  measure :  and  defer  not  charities  till 
eat  his  bread  in  sudori  vidtiis  alieni  death;  for,  certainly,  if  a  man  weigh  it 
[in  the  sweat  of  another  man's  brow]  ;  rightly,  he  that  doth  so  is  rather  liberal 
and  besides,  doth  plough  upon  Sundays,  of  another  man's  than  of  his  own. 
But  yet  certain  though  it  be,  it  hath  35 
flaws,  for  that  the  scriveners  and  brokers 

do    value    unsound    men,    to    serve    their  XLII. —  OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

own  turn.     The  fortune  in  being  the  first 

in   an   invention,   or   in   a   privilege,   doth  A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be 

cause  sometimes  a  wonderful  overgrowth  40  old  in  hours  if  he  have  lost  no  time, 
in  riches,  as  it  was  with  the  first  sugar-  But  that  happeneth  rarely.  Generally 
man  in  the  Canaries.  Therefore,  if  a  youth  is  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so 
man  can  play  the  true  logician,  to  have  wise  as  the  second.  For  there  is  a 
as  well  judgment  as  invention,  he  may  youth  in  thoughts  as  well  as  in  ages, 
do  great  matters,  especially  if  the  times  45  And  yet  the  invention  of  young  men  is 
be  fit.  He  that  resteth  upon  gains  cer-  more  lively  than  that  of  old ; '  and  im- 
tain  shall  hardly  grow  to  great  riches,  aginations  stream  into  their  minds,  better 
And  he  that  puts  all  upon  adventures,  and,  as  it  were,  more  divinely.  Natures 
doth  oftentimes  break,  and  come  to  that  have  much  heat,  and  '  great  and 
poverty:  it  is  good  therefore  to  guard  50  violent  desires  and  perturbations,  are  not 
adventures  with  certainties  that  may  up-  ripe  for  action  till  they  have  passed  the 
hold  losses.  Monopolies,  and  co-emp-  meridian  of  their  years,  as  it  was  with 
tion  of  wares  for  resale,  where  they  are  Julius  Caesar  and  Septimius  Severus,  of 
not  restrained,  are  great  means  to  enrich,  the  latter  of  whom  it  is  said,  Juventutctn 
especially  if  the  party  have  intelligence  55  egit  erroribus,  imo  furoribus  plcnam 
what  things  are  like  to  come  into  re-  [he  spent  a  youth  full  of  errors,  and 
quest,  and  so  store  himself  beforehand,  even  of  acts  of  madness].  And  yet  he 
Riches  gotten  by  service,  though  it  be  of      was  the  ablest  emperor  almost  of  all  the 


198  FRANCIS  BACON 


list.  But  reposed  natures  may  do  well  in  the  edge  whereof  is  soon  turned  —  such 
youth,  as  it  is  seen  in  Augustus  Caesar,  as  was  Hermogenes,  the  rhetorician. 
Cosmos,  Duke  of  b^lorence.  Ciaston  de  whose  books  are  exceeding  sul)tle,  who 
Fois,  and  others.  On  the  other  side,  afterwards  waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort 
heat  and  vivacity  in  age  is  an  excellent  5  is  of  those  that  have  some  natural  dis- 
composition  for  business.  Young  men  positions,  which  have  better  grace  in 
are  titter  to  invent  than  to  judge,  fitter  youth  than  in  age,  such  as  is  a  fluent  and 
for  execution  than  for  counsel,  and  fitter  luxuriant  speech,  which  becomes  youth 
for  new  projects  than  for  settled  busi-  well,  but  not  age ;  so  Tully  saith  of 
ness.  For  the  experience  of  age,  in  10  Ilortensius,  Idem  mancbat,  neque  idem 
things  that  fall  within  the  compass  of  it,  decebat.  [He  continued  the  same,  when 
directeth  them;  but  in  new  things  it  was  no  longer  becoming].  The  third 
abuseth  them.  The  errors  of  young  men  is  of  such  as  take  too  high  a  strain  at 
are  the  ruin  of  business;  but  the  errors  the  first,  and  are  magnanimous  more 
of  aged  men  amount  Init  to  this,  that  15  than  tract  of  years  can  uphold ;  as  was 
more  might  have  been  done,  or  sooner.  Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom  Livy  saith  in 
"S'oung  men,  in  the  conduct  and  manage  effect,  Ultima  priniis  cedcbont  [His 
of  actions,  embrace  more  than  they  can  end  fell  below  his  beginning], 
hold;  stir  more  than  they  can  quiet;  fly 
to  the  end,  without  consideration  of  the  20 

means    and    degrees;    pursue    some    few  XLVH. —  OF  NEGOTIATING 

principles,     which     they     have     chanced 

upon,    absurdly;    care    not    to    innovate,  It  is  generally  better  to  deal  by  speech 

which  draws  unknown  inconveniences ;  than  by  letter,  and  by  the  mediation  of 
use  extreme  remedies  at  first ;  and,  that  25  a  third  than  by  a  man's  self.  Letters 
which  doubleth  all  errors,  will  not  are  good,  when  a  man  would  draw  an 
acknowledge  or  retract  them,  like  an  un-  answer  by  letter  back  again ;  or  when  it 
ready  horse,  that  will  neither  stop  nor  may  serve  for  a  man's  justification  after- 
turn.  Men  of  age  object  too  much,  con-  wards  to  produce  his  own  letter;  or  where 
suit  too  long,  adventure  too  little,  repent  3°  it  may  be  danger  to  be  interrupted,  or 
too  soon,  and  seldom  drive  business  home  heard  by  pieces.  To  deal  in  person  is 
to  the  full  period,  but  content  themselves  good,  when  a  man's  face  breedeth  regard, 
with  a  mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  as  commonly  with  inferiors ;  or  in  tender 
it  is  good  to  compound  employments  of  cases,  where  a  man's  eye  upon  the 
both,  for  that  will  be  good  for  the  pres-  35  countenance  of  him  with  whom  he 
ent,  because  the  virtues  of  either  age  speaketh  may  give  him  a  direction  how 
may  correct  the  defects  of  both ;  and  far  to  go ;  and  generally,  where  a  man 
good  for  succession,  that  young  men  will  reserve  to  himself  liberty,  either  to 
may  be  learners,  while  men  in  age  are  disavow  or  to  expound.  In  choice  of 
actors ;  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern  ac-  40  instruments,  it  is  better  to  choose  men  of 
cidents,  because  authority  foUoweth  old  a  plainer  sort,  that  are  like  to  do  that 
men,  and  favor  and  popularity  youth.  that  is  committed  to  them,  and  to  report 
But  for  the  moral  part  perhaps  youth  back  again  faithfully  the  success,  than 
will  have  the  preeminence,  as  age  hath  those  that  are  cunning  to  contrive  out  of 
for  the  politic.  A  certain  rabbin  upon  45  other  men's  business  somewhat  to  grace 
the  text,  '  Your  young  men  shall  see  themselves,  and  will  help  the  matter  in 
visions,  and  your  old  men  shall  dream  report,  for  satisfaction  sake.  Use  also 
dreams,'  inferreth  that  young  men  are  such  persons  as  affect  the  business 
admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old,  be-  wherein  they  are  employed,  for  that 
cause  vision  is  a  clearer  revelation  than  50  quickeneth  much ;  and  such  as  are  fit  for 
a  dream.  And  certainly  the  more  a  man  the  matter,  as  bold  men  for  expostula- 
drinketh  of  the  world  the  more  it  in-  tion,  fair-spoken  men  for  persuasion, 
toxicateth ;  and  age  doth  profit  rather  in  crafty  men  for  inquiry  and  observation, 
the  powers  of  understanding  than  in  the  froward  and  absurd  men  for  business 
virtues  of  the  will  and  affections.  55  that  doth  not  well  bear  out  itself.  Use 
There  be  some  have  an  over-early  ripe-  also  such  as  have  been  lucky,  and  pre- 
ness  in  their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes;  vailed  before  in  things  wherein  you 
these  are,  first,  such  as  have  brittle  wits,      have    employed    them ;     for    that    breeds 


confidence,  and  they  will  strive  to  main-      abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need 
tain   their  prescription.  pruning  by  study;  and  studies  themselves 

It  IS  better  to  sound  a  person  with  do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at 
whom  one  deals,  afar  off,  than  to  fall  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  ex- 
upon  the  point  at  first,  except  you  mean  5  perience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies, 
to  surprise  him  by  some  short  question.  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men 
It  is  better  dealing  with  men  in  appetite,  use  them.  For  they  teach  not  their  own 
than  with  those  that  are  where  they  use;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them, 
would  be.  If  a  man  deal  with  another  and  above  them,  won  by  observation! 
upon  conditions,  the  start  or  first  per-  10  Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute ;  nor 
formance  is  all ;  which  a  man  cannot  to  believe  and  take  for  granted ;  nor  to 
reasonably  demand,  except  either  the  find  talk  and  discourse;  but  to  weigh  and 
nature  of  the  thing  be  such  which  must  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted, 
go  before;  or  else  a  man  can  persuade  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to 
the  other  party,  that  he  shall  still  need  15  be  chewed  and  digested  —  that  is,  some 
him  in  some  other  thing;  or  else  that  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts,' others 
he  be  counted  the  honester  man.  All  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously,  and  some 
practice  is  to  discover,  or  to  work.  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence 
Men  discover  themselves  in  trust,  in  and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be 
passion,  at  unawares;  and  of  necessity,  20  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of 
when  they  would  have  somewhat  done,  them  by  others ;  but  that  would  be  only 
and  cannot  find  an  apt  pretext.  If  you  in  the  less  important  arguments  and  the 
would  work  any  man,  you  must  either  meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled 
know  his  nature  and  fashions,  and  so  books  are  like  common  distilled  waters, 
lead  him,  or  his  ends,  and  so  persuade  25  flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full 
him,  or  his  weakness  and  disadvantages,  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and  writ- 
and  so  awe  him,  or  those  that  have  in-  ing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore  if  s. 
terest  in  him,  and  so  govern  him.  In  man  write  little  he  had  need  have  a  great, 
dealing  with  cunning  persons,  we  must  memory;  if  he  confer  little  he  had  need 
ever  consider  their  ends  to  interpret  30  have  a  present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  littk 
their  speeches,  and  it  is  good  to  say  he  had  need  have  much  cunning  to  seem 
little  to  them,  and  that  which  they  least  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories 
look  for.  In  all  negotiations  of  difficulty  make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathe- 
a  man  may  not  look  to  sow  and  reap  at  matics  subtle,  natural  philosophy  deep, 
once,  but  must  prepare  business,  and  so  35  moral  grave,  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to 
ripen    it   by   degrees.  contend,   Abcunt  stiidia  in  mores   [Stud- 

•-         0  y  ies   develop   into   habits].     Nay,   there   is 

•^^li—  "  no   ston4'  or   impediment   in   the   wit   but 

L. —  OF  STUDIES  may  be   wrought  out  by  fit  studies,   like 

40  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  ap- 
Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  orna-  propriate  exercises.  Bowling  is  good 
ment,  and  for  ability.  Their  chief  use  for  the  stone  and  reins,  shooting  for  the 
for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring;  lungs  and  breast,  gentle  walking  for  the 
for  ornament  is  in  discourse ;  and  for  stomach,  riding  for  the  head,  and  the 
ability  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  45  like.  So  if  a  man's  wit  be  wandering, 
of  business.  For  expert  men  can  exe-  let  him  study  the  mathematics,  for  in 
cute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away 
one  by  one;  but  the  general  counsels  and  never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again;  if 
the  plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or  find 
come  best  from  those  that  are  learned.  50  differences,  let  him  study  the  schoolmen, 
To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is  for  they  are  cymini  '  scctores  [hair- 
sloth ;  to  use  them  too  much  for  orna-  splitters];  if  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over 
ment  is  affectation;  to  make  judgment  matters  and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove 
wholly  by  their  rules  is  the  humor  of  a  and  illustrate  another,  let  him  study  the 
scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are  55  lawyer's  cases.  So  every  defect  of  the 
perfected     by     experience.     For     natural      mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  (1605-1682) 

Browne  is  described  by  Mr.  Saintsbury  as  '  tlie  greatest  prose-writer  perhaps,  when  all 
thinffs  are  taken  togetlier,  in  the  whole  range  of  English,'  and  all  critics  are  agreed  that  he 
is  one  of  the  greatest.  lie  was  educated  at  Winchester  and  Oxford,  studied  medicine  abroad, 
and  took  his  doctor's  degree  at  Leyden.  He  was  only  thirty  when  he  wrote  the  work  by 
which  he  is  best  known,  Rcligio  Medici,  or  A  Physician's  Religion.  Circulated  at  first  in 
manuscript,  it  was  twice  i)rinted  surreptitiously  in  1()42,  and  an  authorized  edition  was  pub- 
lished in  l(J4.'i.  It  at  once  attracted  attention  and  was  translated  into  Latin,  Dutch,  French, 
and  Oerman.  In  KJoT  lirowne  settled  at  Norwich,  and  there  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
the  enjoyment  of  a  wide  fame,  both  as  a  scholar  and  as  a  physician.  He  was  knighted  when 
Charles  II  visited  the  city  in  1671.  He  wrote  a  great  deal,  and  left  many  tracts,  which  were 
published  after  his  death.  His  most  consideral)le  work  is  an  exposure  of  popular  superstitions 
entitled  Pscudodoxia  Epidcmica  or  Vulgar  and  Common  Errors  (ir>4S).  Ten  years  later 
appeared  Uydriotaphia  Urn  Burial,  or  a  Discourse  of  the  Sepulchral  Urns  lately  found  in 
Norfolk  and  The  Garden  of  Cyrus,  or  the  Quinciincial  Lozenge,  net-work  plantations  of  the 
Ancients,  artificially,  naturally,  mystically  considered.  Of  the  latter  Coleridge  says  that 
Browne  finds  '  quincunxes  in  heaven  above,  quincunxes  in  earth  below,  quincunxes  in  the 
mind  of  man,  quin-cunxes  in  tones,  in  optic  nerves,  in  roots  of  trees,  in  leaves,  in  everything.' 
Browne  has,  however,  much  rarer  virtues  than  curious  learning  and  quaintness  of  phrase: 
he  expresses  the  deep  thoughts  of  an  unusually  well-balanced  mind  in  a  style  not  merely  clear 
and  dignified,  but  rich  with  a  sustained  and  subtle  harmony  as  of  solemn  music. 


RELIGIO  MEDICI  tenting  myself  to  enjoy  that  happy  style, 

than     maligning    those     who     refuse    so 
For     my     reHgion     though     there     be      glorious  a  title, 
several    circumstances    that    might    per-  But   because   the   name   of   a   christian 

suade  the  world  I  have  none  at  all,  as  5  is  l^ecome  too  general  to  express  our 
the  general  scandal  of  my  profession,  the  faith,  there  being  a  geography  of  reli- 
natural  course  of  my  studies,  the  in-  gion  as  well  as  lands,  and  every  clime 
differency  of  my  behavior  and  discourse  distinguished  not  only  by  their  laws  and 
in  matters  of  religion,  neither  violently  limits,  but  circumscribed  by  their  doc- 
defending  one,  nor  with  that  common  lo  trines  and  rules  of  faith ;  to  be  par- 
ardor  and  contention  opposing  another;  ticular,  I  am  of  that  reformed  new-cast 
yet  in  despite  hereof,  I  dare,  without  religion,  wherein  I  dislike  nothing  but 
usurpation,  assume  the  honorable  style  the  name ;  of  the  same  belief  our  Savior 
of  a  christian.  Not  that  I  merely  owe  taught,  the  apostles  disseminated,  the 
this  title  to  the  font,  my  education,  or  i5  fathers  authorized,  and  the  martyrs  con- 
clime  wherein  I  was  born,  as  being  bred  firmed,  but  by  the  sinister  ends  of 
up  either  to  confirm  those  principles  my  princes,  the  ambition  and  avarice  of  prel- 
parents  instilled  into  my  understanding,  ates,  and  the  fatal  corruption  of  times, 
or  by  a  general  consent  proceed  in  the  so  decayed,  impaired,  and  fallen  froin 
rehgion  of  my  cotintry :  btit  having  in  20  its  native  beauty,  that  it  required  the 
my  riper  years  and  confirmed  judgment,  careful  and  charitable  hands  of  these 
seen  and  examined  all,  I  find  myself  times  to  restore  it  to  its  primitive  in- 
obliged  by  the  principles  of  grace,  and  tegrity.  Now  the  accidental  occasion 
the  law  of  mine  own  reason,  to  embrace  whereupon,  the  slender  means  whereby, 
no  other  natne  but  this:  neither  doth  the  low  and  abject  condition  of  the  per- 
herein  my  zeal  so  far  make  me  forget  the  25  son  by  whom  so  good  a  work  was  set  on 
general  charity  I  owe  unto  humanity,  as  foot,  which  in  our  adversaries  l:)egct  con- 
rather  to  hate  than  pity  Turks,  Infidels.  tempt  and  scorn,  fills  me  with  wonder, 
and    (what  is  worse)   Jews;  rather  con-      and   is   the  very   same   objection   the   in- 

200 


Solent    pagans    first    cast    at    Christ    and      circumstances,    there    is    something   in    it 
his  disciples.  of    devotion.     I     could     never     hear    the 

Yet  have  I  not  so  shaken  hands  with  Ave-Mary  bell  ^  without  an  elevation,  or 
those  desperate  resolutions,  who  had  think  it  a  sufficient  warrant,  because  they 
rather  venture  at  large  their  decayed  5  erred  in  one  circumstance,  for  me  to  err 
bottom,  than  bring  her  in  to  be  new  in  all,  that  is,  in  silence  and  dumb  con- 
trimmed  in  the  dock ;  who  had  rather  tempt.  Whilst  therefore  they  direct 
promiscuously  retain  all,  than  abridge  their  devotions  to  her,  I  offer  mine  to 
any,  and  obstinately  be  what  they  are,  God,  and  rectify  the  errors  of  their 
than  what  they  have  been,  as  to  stand  lo  prayers,  by  rightly  ordering  mine  own. 
in  diameter  and  swords  point  with  them.  At  a  solemn  procession  I  have  wept 
We  .  have  reformed  from  them,  not  abundantly,  while  my  consorts,  blind 
agaiiist  them;  for  omitting  those  im-  with  opposition  and  prejudice,  have  fallen 
properations,  and  terms  of  scurrility  into  an  excess  of  scorn  and  laughter, 
betwixt  us,  which  only  difference  our  15  There  are  questionless,  both  in  Greek, 
affections,  and  not  our  cause,  there  is  be-  Roman,  and  African  churches,  solemni- 
tween  us  one  common  name  and  appella-  ties  and  ceremonies,  whereof  the  wiser 
tion,  one  faith  and  necessary  body  of  zeals  do  make  a  christian  use,  and  stand 
principles  common  to  us  both.  And  condemned  by  us,  not  as  evil  in  them- 
therefore  I  am  not  scrupulous  to  con-  20  selves,  but  as  allurements  and  baits  of 
verse  and  live  with  them,  to  enter  their  superstition  to  those  vulgar  heads  that 
churches  in  defect  of  ours,  and  either  look  asquint  on  the  face  of  truth,  and 
pray  with  them,  or  for  them.  I  could  those  unstable  judgments  that  cannot 
never  perceive  any  rational  consequence  resist  in  the  narrow  point  and  center  of 
from  those  many  texts  which  prohibit  25  virtue  without  a  reel  or  stagger  to  the 
the    Children    of   Israel    to    pollute    them-      circumference. 

selves  with  the  temples  of  the  heathens ;  As    there    were    many    reformers,    so 

we  being  all  christians,  and  not  divided  likewise  many  reformations;  every  coun- 
by  such  detested  impieties  as  might  pro-  try  proceeding  in  a  particular  way  and 
fane  our  prayers,  or  the  place  wherein  3o  method,  according  as  their  national  in- 
we  make  them;  or  that  a  resolved  con-  terest,  together  with  their  constitution 
science  may  not  adore  her  Creator  any-  and  clime  inclined  them ;  some  angrily, 
where,  especially  in  places  devoted  to  his  and  with  extremity;  others  calmly,  and 
service;  where  if  their  devotions  offend  with  mediocrity,  not  rending  but  easily 
him,  mine  may  please  him;  if  theirs  35  dividing  the  community,  and  leaving  an 
profane  it,  mine  may  hallow  it ;  holy-  honest  possibility  of  a  reconciliation ; 
water  and  crucifix  (dangerous  to  the  which  though  peaceable  spirits  do  de- 
common  people)  deceive  not  my  judg-  sire,  and  may  conceive  that  revolu- 
ment,  nor  abuse  my  devotion  at  all.  I  tion  of  time  and  the  mercies  of  God 
am,  I  confess,  naturally  inclined  to  that  40  may  effect,  yet  that  judgment  that  shall 
which  misguided  zeal  terms  superstition :  consider  the  present  antipathies  between 
my  common  conversation  I  do  acknow-  the  two  extremes,  their  contrarieties  in 
ledge  austere,  my  behavior  full  of  rigor,  condition,  affection  and  opinion,  may 
sometimes  not  without  morosity ;  yet  at  with  the  same  hopes  expect  a  union  in 
my  devotion  I  love  to  use  the  civility  of  45  the  poles  of  heaven, 
my    knee,    my    hat,    and    hand,    with    all  But    to    difference    myself   nearer,    and 

those  outward  and  sensible  motions  draw  into  a  lesser  circle :  there  is  no 
which  may  express  or  promote  my  in-  church,  whose  every  part  so  squares  unto 
visible  devotion.  I  should  violate  my  my  conscience;  whose  articles,  consti- 
own  arm  rather  than  a  church,  nor  50  tutions,  and  customs,  seem  so  consonant 
willingly  deface  the  name  of  saint  or  unto  reason,  and  as  it  were  framed  to 
martyr.  At  the  sight  of  a  cross  or  cruci-  mv  particular  devotion,  as  this  whereof 
fix  I  can  dispense  with  my  hat,  but  I  hold  my  belief,  the  Church  of  England, 
scarce    with    the    thought    or   memory    of 

my      Savior :       I      cannot      laugh       at,      but  55        ^  A    church    bell    that    tolls    every    day    at    six    and 

rather     pitv     the     fruitless     journevs     of      ^''"'"'^  ""^  \^l  '=^"''^'  ^^  ^^^  '^^^f'"^  whereof,  every 

•  1       •        ^     -  ^  ^,  .-'  ,,-  "lie     in     what     place     soever,     either     of     house     or 

pilgrims,  or  contemn  the  miserable  con-  street,  betakes  himself  to  his  prayer,  which  is 
dition   of    friars ;    for   though    misplaced    in        commonly    directed    to    the    Virgin. 


202  SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE 


to  whose  faith  1  am  a  sworn  subject;  disadvantage,  or  when  the  cause  of  truth 
and  therefore  in  a  double  obligation  might  sutYer  in  the  weakness  of  my 
subscribe  unto  her  articles,  and  en-  patronage.  Where  we  desire  to  be  in- 
deavor  to  observe  her  constitutions.  formed,  't  is  good  to  contest  with  men 
Whatsoever  is  beyond,  as  points  indiffer-  5  al)0vc  ourselves;  but  to  confirm  and 
ent,  I  observe  according  to  the  rules  of  establish  our  opinions,  't  is  best  to  argue 
my'  private  reason,  or  the  humor  and  with  judgments  below  our  own,  that  the 
fashion  of  my  devotion;  neither  believ-  frequent  spoils  and  victories  over  their 
ing  this,  because  Luther  affirmed  it,  or  reasons,  may  settle  in  ourselves  an  es- 
disproving  that,  because  Calvin  hath  dis-  10  teem  and  confirmed  opinion  of  our  own. 
avouched  it.  I  condemn  not  all  things  Every  man  is  not  a  proper  champion 
in  the  Council  of  Trent,  nor  approve  for  truth,  nor  fit  to  take  up  the  gaunt- 
all  in  the  Synod  of  Dort.  In  brief,  let  in  the  cause  of  verity.  Many  from 
where  the  Scripture  is  silent,  the  church  the  ignorance  of  these  maxims,  and  an 
is  my  text;  where  that  speaks,  'tis  but  15  inconsiderate  zeal  unto  truth,  have  too 
my  comment:  where  there  is  a  joint  rashly  charged  the  troops  of  error,  and 
silence  of  both,  I  borrow  not  the  rules  remain  as  trophies  unto  the  enemies 
of  my  religion  from  Rome  or  Geneva,  of  truth.  A  man  may  be  in  as  just 
but  tile  dictates  of  my  own  reason.  It  possession  of  truth  as  of  a  city,  and  yet 
is  an  unjust  scandal  of  our  adversaries,  20  be  forced  to  surrender;  'tis  therefore 
and  a  gross  error  in  ourselves,  to  com-  far  better  to  enjoy  her  with  peace,  than 
pute  tlie  nativity  of  our  religion  from  to  hazard  her  on  a  battle.  If  therefore 
Henry  the  Eighth,  who  though  he  re-  there  rise  any  doubts  in  my  way,  I  do 
jected  the  Pope,  refused  not  the  faith  forget  them,  or  at  least  defer  them,  till 
of  Rome,  and  effected  no  more  than  what  25  my  better  settled  judgment  and  more 
his  own  predecessors  desired  and  as-  manly  reason  be  able  to  resolve  them, 
sayed  in  ages  past,  and  was  conceived  for  I  perceive  every  man's  own  reason 
the  state  of  Venice  would  have  attempted  is  his  best  CEdipus,  and  will  upon  a 
in  our  days.  It  is  as  uncharitable  a  reasonable  truce  find  a  way  to  loose 
point  in  us  to  fall  upon  those  popular  30  those  bonds  wherewith  the  subtleties  of 
scurrilities  and  opprobrious  scoffs  of  error  have  enchained  our  more  flexible 
the  Bishop  of  Rome,  to  whom  as  tem-  and  tender  judgments.  In  philosophy, 
poral  prince,  we  owe  the  duty  of  good  where  truth  seems  double  faced,  there 
language.  I  confess  there  is  a  cause  of  is  no  man  more  paradoxical  than  myself; 
passion  between  us;  by  his  sentence  I  35  but  in  divinity  I  love  to  keep  the  road; 
stand  excommunicated,  heretic  is  the  and  though  not  in  an  implicit,  yet  an 
best  language  he  affords  me ;  yet  can  humble  faith,  follow  the  great  wheel  of 
no  ear  witness,  I  ever  returned  him  the  the  church,  by  which  I  move,  not  re- 
name of  Antichrist,  Man  of  sin,  or  serving  any  proper  poles  or  motion  from 
Whore  of  Babylon.  It  is  the  method  40  the  epicycle  of  my  own  brain.  By  this 
of  charity  to  suffer  without  reaction :  means  I  have  no  gap  for  heresy,  schisms, 
those  usual  satires  and  invectives  of  the  or  errors,  of  which  at  present  I  hope  I 
pulpit  may  perchance  produce  a  good  shall  not  injure  truth  to  say  I  have  no 
effect  on  the  vulgar,  whose  ears  are  taint  or  tincture.  I  must  confess  my 
opener  to  rhetoric  than  logic ;  yet  do  45  greener  studies  have  been  polluted  with 
they  in  no  wise  confirm  the  faith  of  two  or  three,  not  any  begotten  in  the 
wiser  believers,  who  know  that  a  good  latter  centuries,  but  old  and  obsolete, 
cause  needs  not  to  be  pardoned  by  pas-  such  as  could  never  have  been  revived 
sion,  but  can  sustain  itself  upon  a  tem-  but  by  such  extravagant  and  irregular 
perate  dispute.  50  heads     as     mine.     For     indeed     heresies 

I  could  never  divide  myself  from  any  perish  not  with  their  authors,  but  like 
man  upon  the  difference  of  an  opinion,  the  river  Arethusa,  though  they  lose 
or  be  angry  with  his  judgment  for  not  their  currents  in  one  place,  they  rise  up 
agreeing  with  me  in  that,  from  which  again  in  another.  One  general  council 
within  a  few  days  I  should  dissent  my-  55  is  not  able  to  extirpate  one  single 
self.  I  have  no  genius  to  disputes  in  heresy ;  it  may  be  canceled  for  the 
•■eligion,  and  have  often  thought  it  wis-  present,  but  revolution  of  time,  and  the 
dom   to  decline   them,   especially   upon   a      like    aspects    from    heaven,    will    restore 


l\J     1M111,LJ1.\^X 


^ 

it,  when  it  will  flourish  till  it  be  con-  our  eye  and  sense  hath  examined:  I  be- 
demned  again.  For  as  though  there  lieve  he  was  dead  and  buried,  and  rose 
were  metempsychosis,  and  the  soul  of  again ;  and  desire  to  see  him  in  his  glory, 
one  man  passed  into  another;  opinions  rather  than  to  contemplate  him  in  his 
do  find  after  certain  revolutions  men  5  cenotaph  or  sepulcher.  Nor  is  this 
and  minds  like  those  that  first  begat  much  to  believe;  as  we  have  reason,  we 
them.  To  see  ourselves  again,  we  need  owe  this  faith  unto  history:  they  only 
not  look  for  Plato's  year  ^ :  every  man  had  the  advantage  of  a  bold  and  noble 
is  not  only  himself;  there  hath  been  faith,  who  lived  before  his  coming,  who 
many  Diogenes,  and  as  many  Timons,  10  upon  obscure  prophecies  and  mystical 
though  but  few  of  that  name;  men  are  types  could  raise  a  belief,  and  expect 
lived  over  again,  the  world  is  now  as  it  apparent  impossibilities, 
was  in  ages  past;  there  was  none  then,  *     *     * 

but  there  hath  been  some  one  since  that  Thus  there  are  two  books  from  whence 

parallels  him,  and  as  it  were  his  revived  15  I  collect  my  divinity ;  besides  that  writ- 
self,  ten  one  of  God,  another  of  his  servant 
*  *  *  nature,  that  universal  and  public  manu- 
As  for  those  wingy  mysteries  in  script,  that  lies  expansed  unto  the  eyes 
divinity,  and  airy  subtleties  in  religion,  of  all;  those  that  never  saw  him  in  the 
which  have  unhinged  the  brains  of  20  one,  have  discovered  him  in  the  other: 
better  heads,  they  never  stretched  the  this  was  the  scripture  and  theology  of 
pia  mater  of  mine ;  methinks  there  be  the  heathens ;  the  natural  motion  of  the 
not  impossibilities  enough  in  religion,  for  sun  made  them  more  admire  him,  than 
an  active  faith;  the  deepest  mysteries  its  supernatural  station  did  the  Children 
ours  contains,  have  not  only  been  illus-  25  of  Israel ;  the  ordinary  eiTects  of  nature 
trated,  but  maintained  by  syllogism,  and  wrought  more  admiration  in  them,  than 
the  rule  of  reason:  I  love  to  lose  myself  in  the  other  all  his  miracles;  surely  the 
in  a  mystery,  to  pursue  my  reason  to  an      heathens   knew   better   how   to   join   and 

0  altitudo !  'T  is  my  solitary  recreation  read  these  mystical  letters,  than  we 
to  pose  my  apprehension  with  those  in-  30  christians,  who  cast  a  more  careless  eye 
volved  enigmas  and  riddles  of  the  trinity,  on  these  common  hieroglyphics,  and  dis- 
with  incarnation  and  resurrection.  I  can  dain  to  suck  divinity  from  the  flowers  of 
answer  all  the  objections  of  Satan  and  nature.  Nor  do  I  so  forget  God  as  to 
my  rebellious  reason,  with  that  odd  reso-  adore  the  name  of  nature;  which  I  define 
lution  I  learned  of  Tertullian,  Certum  est  35  not  with  the  schools,  to  be  the  principle 
quia  impossibile  est  [It  is  certain  be-  of  motion  and  rest,  but  that  straight  and 
cause  it  is  impossible].  I  desire  to  ex-  regular  line,  that  settled  and  constant 
ercise  my  faith  in  the  diificultest  point;  course  the  wisdom  of  God  hath  ordained 
for  to  credit  ordinary  and  visible  objects,  the  actions  of  his  creatures,  according 
is  not  faith,  but  persuasion.  Some  be-  40  to  their  several  kinds.  To  make  a  revo- 
lieve  the  better  for  seeing  Christ's  sep-  lution  every  day,  is  the  nature  of  the 
ulcher;  and  when  they  have  seen  the  sun,  because  of  that  necessary  course 
Red  Sea,  doubt  not  of  the  miracle.  Now  which  God  hath  ordained  it,  from  which 
contrarily,  I  bless  myself,  and  am  thank-  it  cannot  swerve  but  by  a  faculty  from 
ful  that  I  lived  not  in  the  days  of  mir-  45  that  voice  which  first  did  give  it  motion, 
acles,  that  I  never  saw  Christ  nor  his  Now  this  course  of  nature  God  seldom 
disciples.  I  would  not  have  been  one  alters  or  perverts,  but  like  an  excellent 
of  those  Israelites  that  passed  the  Red  artist  hath  so  contrived  his  work,  that 
Sea,  nor  one  of  Christ's  patients  on  whom  with  the  selfsame  instrument,  without  a 
he  wrought  his  wonders ;  then  had  my  50  new  creation,  he  may  effect  his  obscur- 
faith   been   thrust   upon   me;   nor   should      est    designs.     Thus    he     sweeteneth    the 

1  enjoy  that  greater  blessing  pronounced  water  with  a  word,  preserveth  the  crea- 
to  all  that  believe  and  saw  not.  'T  is  an  tures  in  the  ark,  which  the  blast  of  his 
easy  and  necessary  belief,  to  credit  what      mouth    might    have    as    easily    created. 

55  For   God   is  like  a  skilful  geometrician, 
1 A  revolution  of  certain  thousand  years,  when      who    when    more    easilv,    and    with    one 

all    things    should    return    unto    their    former    estate,        „. i  „    ^r    «•       ,  i  •    Ui    j  -u 

and    he    be    teaching   again    in    his   school    as    when        stroke    of    hlS    COmpaSS    he    might    describe 

he  delivered  this  opinion.  Or  divide  a  right  line,  had  yet  rather  do 


204  SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE 

this  in  a  circle  or  lonj^cr  way;  according  our  nearest  friends,  wife  and  children 
to  the  constituted  and  fore-laid  principles  stand  afraid  and  start  at  us.  The  birds 
of  his  art.  Yet  this  rule  of  his  he  doth  and  beasts  of  the  field,  that  before  in 
sometimes  pervert,  to  acquaint  the  world  a  natural  fear  obeyed  us,  forgetting  all 
with  his  prerogative,  lest  the  arrogancy  5  allegiance  begin  to  prey  upon  us.  This 
of  our  reason  should  question  his  power,  very  conceit  hath  in  a  tempest  disposed 
and  conclude  he  could  not.  And  thus  and  left  me  willing  to  be  s\vallowe<l  up 
I  call  the  effects  of  nature  the  works  of  in  the  abyss  of  waters;  wherein  I  had 
God,  whose  hand  and  instrument  she  only  perished  unseen,  unpitied,  without  won- 
is;  and  therefore  to  ascribe  his  actions  lo  dering  eyes,  tears  of  pity,  lectures  of 
unto  her,  is  to  devolve  the  honor  of  the  mortality,  and  none  had  said.  Quantum 
principal  agent,  upon  the  instrument;  mutatus  ab  illo  [How  much  changed  from 
which  if  with  reason  we  may  do,  then  what  he  was]  !  Not  that  I  am  ashamed 
let  our  hammers  rise  up  and  boast  they  of  the  anatomy  of  my  parts,  or  can 
have  built  our  houses,  and  our  pens  re- 15  accuse  nature  for  playing  the  bungler 
ceive  the  honor  of  our  writing.  I  hold  in  any  part  of  me,  or  my  own  vicious 
there  is  a  general  beauty  in  the  works  life  for  contracting  any  shameful  disease 
of  God,  and  therefore  no  deformity  in  upon  me,  whereby  I  might  not  call  my- 
any  kind  of  species  of  creature  whatso-  self  as  wholesome  a  morsel  for  the 
ever :  I  cannot  tell  by  what  logic  we  call  20  worms   as   any. 

a  toad,  a  bear,  or  an  elephant  ugly,  they  Some   upon   the   courage   of   a    fruitful 

being  created  in  those  outward  shapes  issue,  wherein,  as  in  the  truest  chronicle, 
and "  figures  which  best  express  those  they  seem  to  outlive  themselves,  can  with 
actions  of  their  inward  forms.  And  hav-  greater  patience  away  with  death.  This 
ing  passed  that  general  visitation  of  25  conceit  and  counterfeit  subsisting  in  our 
God,  who  saw  that  all  that  he  had  made  progenies,  seems  to  be  a  mere  fallacy, 
was  good,  that  is,  conformable  to  his  unworthy  the  desires  of  a  man,  that  can 
will,  which  abhors  deformity,  and  is  the  but  conceive  a  thought  of  the  next  world : 
rule  of  order  and  beauty ;  there  is  no  who,  in  a  nobler  ambition,  should  de- 
deformity  but  in  monstrosity,  wherein  3°  sire  to  live  in  his  substance  in  heaven, 
notwithstanding  there  is  a  kind  of  beauty.  rather  than  his  name  and  shadow  in  the 
Nature  so  ingeniously  contriving  the  ir-  earth.  And  therefore  at  my  death  I 
regular  parts,  as  they  become  sometimes  mean  to  take  a  total  adieu  of  the  world, 
more  remarkable  than  the  principal  fab-  not  caring  for  a  monument,  history,  or 
ric.  To  speak  yet  more  narrowly,  there  35  epitaph,  not  so  much  as  the  memory  of 
was  never  anything  ugly  or  mis-shapen  my  name  to  be  found  anywhere,  but  in 
but  the  chaos ;  wherein  notwithstanding,  the  universal  register  of  God.  I  am  not 
to  speak  strictly,  there  was  no  deformity,  yet  so  cynical,  as  to  approve  the  testa- 
because  no  form,  nor  was  it  yet  impreg-  ment  of  Diogenes,^  nor  do  I  altogether 
nant  by  the  voice  of  God.  Now  nature  40  allow  that  rodomontado  of  Lucan : 
is  not  at  variance  with  art,  nor  art  with 

nature;   they   being  both   servants   of  his  Caelo  tegitur,  qui  non  habet  urnam. 

providence.  Art  is  the  perfection  of  He  that  unbuned  lies,  wants  not  his 
nature :   were   the   world   now    as   it   was  hearse, 

the    sixth   day,   there    were   yet    a   chaos.  45      F"or  unto  him  a  tomb's  the  universe. 
Nature    hath    made    one    world,    and    art  .  . 

another.  In  brief,  all  things  are  arti-  But  commend  in  my  calmer  judgment, 
ficial;   for  nature  is  the  art  of  God.  those  ingenuous  intentions  that  desire  to 

*     *     *  sleep  by  the  urns  of  [their]   fathers,  and 

I  am  naturally  bashful,  nor  hath  con- 50  strive  to  go  the  neatest  way  unto  cor- 
versation,  age,  or  travel  been  able  to  ruption.  I  do  not  envy  the  temper  of 
effront,  or  enharden  me ;  yet  I  have  one  crows  and  daws,  nor  the  numerous  and 
part  of  modesty,  which  I  have  seldom  weary  days  of  our  fathers  before  the 
discovered  in  another,  that  is  (to  speak  Jood.  If  there  be  any  truth  in  astrology, 
truly)  I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  death,  55  ^  "^^^  ^"tlive  a  jubilee;  as  yet  I  have 
as  ashanied  thereof;  'tis  the  very  dis-  ,  ^,^^  ^^.„^^  ^.^  ^_..^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^.^  ^^^ 
grace  and  ignominy  of  our  natures,  that  ,,an„  i,im  up  with  a  staff  in  his  hand  to  fright 
in    a    moment    can    so   disfigure    us,    that      away  the  crows. 


not  seen  one  revolution  of  Saturn,  nor  struct  me  how  to  be  better,  but  my 
hath  my  pulse  beat  thirty  years;  and  yet  untamed  affections  and  confirmed  vitios- 
excepting  one,  have  seen  the  ashes,  and  ity  makes  me  daily  do  worse;  I  find  in 
left  underground,  all  the  kings  of  Europe ;  my  confirmed  age  the  same  sins  I  dis- 
have  been  contemporary  to  three  em-  5  covered  in  my  youth ;  I  committed  many 
perors,  four  grand  signiors,  and  as  many  then  because  I  was  a  child,  and  because 
popes.  Methinks  I  have  outlived  myself,  I  commit  them  still,  I  am  yet  an  infant, 
and  begin  to  be  weary  of  the  sun;  I  have  Therefore  I  perceive  a  man  may  be  twice 
shaken  hands  with  delight :  in  my  warm  a  child  before  the  days  of  dotage,  and 
blood  and  canicular  days,  I  perceive  I  10  stand  in  need  of  ^son's  bath  before 
do     anticipate     the     vices     of     age.     The      threescore. 

world    to    me    is    but    a    dream    or    mock  And   truly   there   goes   a   great   deal   of 

show,  and  we  all  therein  but  i)antalones  providence  to  produce  a  man's  life  unto 
and  antics,  to  my  severer  contemplations,  threescore.  There  is  more  required  than 
It  is  not,  I  confess,  an  unlawful  prayer  15  an  able  temper  for  those  years ;  though 
to  desire  to  surpass  the  days  of  our  Sav-  the  radical  humor  contain  in  it  sufficient 
ior,  or  wish  to  outlive  that  age  wherein  oil  for  seventy,  yet  I  perceive  in  some 
he  thought  fittest  to  die;  yet  if  (as  divin-  it  gives  no  light  past  thirty:  men  assign 
ity  affirms)  there  shall  be  no  gray  hairs  not  all  the  causes  of  long  life,  that  write 
in  heaven,  but  all  shall  rise  in  the  per-  20  whole  books  thereof.  They  that  found 
feet  state  of  men,  we  do  but  outlive  themselves  on  the  radical  balsam,  or 
those  perfections  in  this  world,  to  be  re-  vital  sulphur  of  the  parts,  determine  not 
called  unto  them  by  a  greater  miracle  in  why  Abel  lived  not  so  long  as  Adam, 
the  next,  and  run  on  here  but  to  be  There  is  therefore  a  secret  glome  or 
retrograde  hereafter.  Were  there  any  25  bottom  of  our  days ;  't  was  his  wisdom 
hopes  to  outlive  vice,  or  a  point  to  be  to  determine  them,  but  his  perpetual  and 
superannuated  from  sin.  it  were  worthy  waking  providence  that  fulfils  and  ac- 
our  knees  to  implore  the  days  of  Me-  complisheth  them ;  wherein  the  spirits, 
thuselah.  But  age  doth  not  rectify,  but  ourselves,  and  all  the  creatures  of  God 
incurvate  our  natures,  turning  bad  dis-  30  in  a  secret  and  disputed  way  do  exe- 
positions  into  worser  habits,  and  (like  cute  his  will.  Let  them  not  therefore 
diseases)  brings  on  incurable  vices;  for  complain  of  immaturity  that  die  about 
every  day  as  we  grow  weaker  in  age,  thirty ;  they  fall  but  like  the  whole  world, 
we  grow  stronger  in  sin ;  and  the  number  whose  solid  and  well-composed  substance 
of  our  days  doth  but  make  our  sins  in-  35  must  not  expect  the  duration  and  period 
numerable.  The  same  vice  committed  at  of  its  constitution.  When  all  things  are 
sixteen,  is  not  the  same,  though  it  agrees  completed  in  it,  its  age  is  accomplished; 
in  all  other  circumstances,  as  at  forty,  and  the  last  and  general  fever  may  as 
but  swells  and  doubles  from  that  cir-  naturally  destroy  it  before  six  thousand, 
cumstance  of  our  ages,  wherein,  besides  40  as  me  before  forty.  There  is  therefore 
the  constant  and  inexcusable  habit  of  some  other  hand  that  twines  the  thread 
transgressing,  the  maturity  of  our  judg-  of  life  than  that  of  nature.  We  are 
ment  cuts  off  pretense  unto  excuse  or  not  only  ignorant  in  antipathies  and  oc- 
pardon.  Every  sin  the  oftener  it  is  com-  cult  qualities;  our  ends  are  as  obscure 
mitted,  the  more  it  acquireth  in  the  45  as  our  beginnings.  The  line  of  our  days 
quality  of  evil;  as  it  succeeds  in  time,  is  drawn  by  night,  and  the  various  effects 
so  it  proceeds  in  degrees  of  badness;  for  therein  by  a  pencil  that  is  invisible; 
as  they  proceed  they  ever  multiply,  and  wherein  though  we  confess  our  ignorance, 
like  figures  in  arithmetic,  the  last  stands  I  am  sure  we  do  not  err  if  we  say  it 
for  more  than  all  that  went  before  it.  50  is  the  hand  of  God. 
And    though    I    think    no    man    can    live  *     *     * 

well   once,  but  he  that  could  live  twice, 

yet    for   my   own   part    I    would    not    live  the  second  part 

over  my  hours  past,   or   begin  again   the 

thread  of  mv  davs :  not  upon  Cicero's  55  Now  for  that  other  virtue  of  chanty, 
ground,  because  I  have  lived  them  well,  without  which  faith  is  a  mere  notion, 
but  for  fear  T  should  live  them  worse.  and  of  no  existence.  I  have  ever  en- 
I   find   my   growing   judgment   daily    in-      deavored    to    nourish    the    merciful    dis- 


MK     inUiVl/\:3    DKUVViNli 


position  and  humane  inclination  I  bor-  and  a  point  of  our  faith  to  heheve  so. 
rowed  from  my  parents,  and  regulate  it  Neither  in  the  name  of  multitude  do  I 
to  the  written  and  prescribed  laws  of  only  include  the  base  and  minor  sort 
charity;  and  if  I  hold  the  true  anatomy  of  people;  there  is  a  rabble  even 
of  myself,  I  am  delineated  and  naturally  5  amongst  the  gentry,  a  sort  of  plebeian 
framed  to  such  a  piece  of  virtue.  For  heads,  whose  fancy  moves  with  the  same 
I  am  of  a  constitution  so  general,  that  wheel  as  these;  men  in  the  same  level 
it  comforts  and  sympathizeth  with  all  with  mechanics,  though  their  fortunes 
things;  I  have  no  antipathy,  or  rather  do  .somewhat  gild  their  infirmities,  and 
idiosyncrasy,  in  diet,  humor,  air,  any- 1°  their  purses  compound  for  their  follies, 
thing:  I  wonder  not  at  the  French  for  But  as  in  casting  account,  three  or  four 
their  dishes  of  frogs,  snails,  and  toad-  men  together  come  short  in  account  of 
stools ;  nor  at  the  Jews  for  locusts  and  one  man  placed  by  himself  below  them : 
grasshop|)ers;  but  being  amongst  them,  so  neither  are  a  troop  of  these  ignorant 
make  them  my  common  viands ;  and  I  ^5  Doradoes,  of  that  true  esteem  and  value, 
find  they  agree  with  my  stomach  as  well  as  many  a  forlorn  person,  whose  con- 
as  theirs.  I  could  digest  a  salad  dition  doth  place  them  below  their  feet, 
gathered  in  a  churchyard,  as  well  as  in  Let  us  speak  like  politicians,  there  is  a 
a  garden.  I  cannot  start  at  the  presence  nobility  without  heraldry,  a  natural 
of  a  serpent,  scorpion,  lizard,  or  sala- 20  dignity,  whereby  one  man  is  ranked  with 
mander:  at  the  sight  of  a  toad  or  viper,  another;  another  filed  before  him,  ac- 
I  find  in  me  no  desire  to  take  up  a  stone  cording  to  the  quality  of  his  desert,  and 
to  destroy  them.  I  feel  not  in  myself  pre-eminence  of  his  good  parts:  though 
those  common  antipathies  that  I  can  dis-  the  corruption  of  these  times,  and  the 
cover  in  others :  those  national  repug-  25  bias  of  present  practice  wheel  another 
nances  do  not  touch  me,  nor  do  I  be-  way.  Thus  it  was  in  the  first  and  primi- 
hold  with  prejudice  the  French,  Italian,  tive  commonwealths,  and  is  yet  in  the 
Spaniard  and  Dutch;  but  where  I  find  integrity  and  cradle  of  well-ordered 
their  actions  in  balance  with  my  coun-  polities,  till  corruption  getteth  ground, 
trymen's,  I  honor,  love,  and  embrace  30  ruder  desires  laboring  after  that  which 
them  in  the  same  degree.  I  was  born  in  wiser  generations  contemn  every  one 
the  eighth  climate,  but  seem  for  to  be  having  a  liberty  to  amass  and  heap  up 
framed  and  constellated  unto  all :  I  am  riches,  and  they  a  license  or  faculty  to 
no  plant  that  will  not  prosper  out  of  a  do  or  purchase  anything, 
garden :    all    places,    all    airs    make    unto  35  *     *     * 

me  one  country;  I  am  in  England,  every-  To  do   no   injury,   nor   take   none,   was 

where,  and  under  any  meridian.  I  have  a  principle,  which  to  my  former  years, 
been  shipwrecked,  yet  am  not  enemy  and  impatient  affections,  seemed  to  con- 
with  the  sea  or  winds ;  I  can  study,  play,  tain  enough  of  morality ;  but  my  more 
or  sleep  in  a  tempest.  In  brief,  I  am  40  settled  years,  and  christian  constitution, 
averse  from  nothing;  my  conscience  have  fallen  upon  severer  resolutions.  I 
would  give  me  the  lie  if  I  should  ab-  can  hold  there  is  no  such  thing  as  in- 
solutely  detest  or  hate  any  essence  but  jury;  that  if  there  be,  there  is  no  such  in- 
the  devil;  or  so  at  least  abhor  anything,  jury  as  revenge,  and  no  such  revenge  as 
but  that  we  might  come  to  composition.  45  the  contempt  of  an  injury;  that  to  hate 
If  there  be  any  among  those  common  another,  is  to  malign  himself;  that  the 
objects  of  hatred  I  do  contemn  and  truest  way  to  love  another,  is  to  despise 
laugh  at,  it  is  that  great  enemy  of  ourselves.  I  were  unjust  unto  mine  own 
reason,  virtue  and  religion,  the  multi-  conscience,  if  I  should  say  I  am  at  va- 
tude  ;  that  numerous  piece  of  monstrosity,  50  riance  with  anything  like  myself.  I 
which  taken  asunder  seem  men,  and  the  find  there  are  many  pieces  in  this  one 
reasonable  creatures  of  God ;  but  con-  fabric  of  man ;  this  frame  is  raised  upon 
fused  together,  make  but  one  great  a  mass  of  antipathies.  I  am  one  me- 
beast,  and  a  monstrosity  more  prodigious  thinks,  but  as  the  world;  wherein  not- 
than  Hydra.  It  is  no  breach  of  charity  55  withstanding  there  are  a  swarm  of  dis- 
to  call  these  fools ;  it  is  the  stvle  all  tinct  essences,  and  in  them  another 
holy  writers  have  afforded  them,  set  world  of  contrarieties ;  we  carry  private 
down  by  Solomon  in  canonical  Scripture,      and  domestic  enemies  within,  public  and 


more  hostile  adversaries  without.  The  selves,  the  world,  whose  divided  anti- 
devil,  that  did  but  bufifet  St.  Paul,  plays  pathies  and  contrary  faces  do  yet  carry 
methinks  at  sharp  with  me.  Let  me  a  charitai)]e  regard'  unto  the  whole  by 
be  nothing,  if  within  the  compass  of  their  particular'  discords,  preserving  the 
myself  I  do  not  find  the  battle  of  Le-  5  common  harmony,  and  keeping  in  fetters 
panto,  passion  against  reason,  reason  those  powers,  whose  rebellions  once 
agamst  faith,  faith  against  the  devil,  and  masters  might  be  the  ruin  of  all. 
my  conscience  against  all.     There   is  an-  I    thank    God,    amongst    those    millions 

other  man  within  me.  that 's  angry  with  of  vices  I  do  inherit  and  hold  from  Adam, 
me,  rebukes,  commands,  and  dastards  10  I  have  escaped  one.  and  that  a  mortal 
me.  I  have  no  conscience  of  marble,  to  enemy  to  charity,  the  first  and  [father- 
resist  the  hammer  of  more  heavy  of-  sin],  not  only  of  man.  but  of  the  devil, 
fenses;  nor  yet  so  soft  and  waxen,  as  pride;  a  vice  whose  name  is  compre- 
to  take  the  impression  of  each  single  bended  in  a  monosyllable,  but  in  its 
peccadillo  or  scape  of  infiirmity :  I  am  of  15  nature  not  circumscribed  with  a  world, 
a  strange  belief,  that  it  is  as  easy  to  be  I  have  escaped  it  in  a  condition  that  can 
forgiven  some  sins,  as  to  commit  some  hardly  avoid  it.  Those  petty  acquisi- 
others.  For  my  original  sin,  I  hold  it  tions  and  reputed  perfections  that  ad- 
to  be  washed  away  in  my  baptism ;  for  vance  and  elevate  the  conceits  of  other 
my  actual  transgressions,  I  compute  and  20  men  add  no  feathers  unto  mine.  I  have 
reckon  with  God  but  from  my  last  re-  seen  a  grammarian  tower  and  plume  him- 
pentance,  sacrament,  or  general  absolu-  self  over  a  single  line  in  Horace,  and 
tion;  and  therefore  am  not  terrified  with  show  more  pride  in  the  construction  of 
the  sins  or  madness  of  my  youth.  I  one  ode,  than  the  author  in  the  com- 
thank  the  goodness  of  God,  I  have  no  25  posure  of  the  whole  book.  For  my  own 
sins  that  want  a  name.  I  am  not  singu-  part,  besides  the  jargon  and  paiois  of 
lar  in  offenses :  my  transgressions  are  several  provinces.  I  understand  no  less 
epidemical,  and  from  the  common  breath  than  six  languages:  yet  I  protest  I  have 
of  our  corruption.  For  there  are  cer-  no  higher  conceit  of  myself,  than  had  our 
tain  tempers  of  body,  which,  matched  30  fathers  before  the  confusion  of  Babel, 
with  a  humorous  depravity  of  mind,  do  when  there  was  but  one  language  in  the 
hatch  and  produce  vitiosities,  whose  new-  world,  and  none  to  boast  himself  either 
ness  and  monstrosity  of  nature  admits  no  linguist  or  critic.  I  have  not  only  seen 
name.  *  *  *  For  the  heavens  are  not  several  countries,  beheld  the  nature  of 
only  fruitful  in  new  and  unheard-of  35  their  climes,  the  chorography  of  their 
stars,  the  earth  in  plants  and  animals ;  provinces,  topography  of  their  cities, 
but  men's  minds  also  in  villainy  and  but  understood  their  several  laws,  cus- 
vices.  Now  the  dulness  of  my  reason,  toms  and  policies;  yet  cannot  all  this 
and  the  vulgarity  of  my  disposition,  persuade  the  dulness  of  my  spirit  unto 
never  prompted  my  invention,  nor  so-  40  such  an  opinion  of  myself,  as  I  behold 
licited  my  affection  unto  any  of  those.  in  nimbler  and  conceited  heads,  that 
Yet  even  those  common  and  quotidian  never  looked  a  degree  beyond  their  nests, 
infirmities  that  so  necessarily  attend  me,  I  know  the  names,  and  somewhat  more, 
and  do  seem  to  be  my  very  nature,  have  of  all  the  constellations  in  my  horizon ; 
so  dejected  me,  so  broken  the  estimation  45  yet  I  have  seen  a  prating  mariner,  that 
that  I  should  have  otherwise  of  myself,  could  only  name  the  pointers  and  the 
that  I  repute  myself  the  most  abjectest  north  star,  out-talk  me,  and  conceit 
piece  of  mortality.  Divines  prescribe  a  himself  a  whole  sphere  above  me.  I 
fit  of  sorrow  to  repentance ;  there  goes  know  most  of  the  plants  of  my  country, 
indignation,  anger,  sorrow,  hatred,  into  50  and  of  those  about  me ;  yet  methinks  I 
mine :  passions  of  a  contrary  nature,  do  not  know  so  many  as  when  I  did  but 
which  neither  seem  to  suit  with  this  know  a  hundred,  and  had  scarcely  ever 
action,  nor  my  proper  constitution.  It  simpled  further  than  Cheapside.  For 
is  no  breach  of  charity  to  ourselves,  to  indeed,  heads  of  capacity,  and  such  as 
be  at  variance  with  our  vices ;  nor  to  55  are  not  full  with  a  handful,  or  easy 
abhor  that  part  of  us,  which  is  an  measure  of  knowledge,  think  they  know 
enemy  to  the  ground  of  charity,  our  God ;  nothing,  till  they  know  all ;  which  being 
wherein    we    do    but    imitate    our    great      impossible,    they    fall    upon    the    opinion 


of  Socrates,  and  only  know  they  know  i)icture,  though  it  he  hut  of  a  horse, 
not  anything.  1  cannot  think  that  Homer  It  is  my  tcmi)er,  and  I  hke  it  the  better, 
pined  away  upon  the  rickllc  of  tlic  fislicr-  to  affect  aU  liarmony ;  and  sure  there  is 
man,  or  that  Aristotle,  who  understood  music  even  in  the  beauty,  and  the  silent 
the  uncertainty  of  knowledge,  and  con-  5  note  which  Cupid  strikes,  far  sweeter 
fessed  so  often  the  reason  of  man  too  than  the  sound  of  an  instrument.  For 
weak  for  tlie  works  of  nature,  did  ever  there  is  a  music  wherever  there  is  a 
drown  himself  upon  the  flux  and  reflux  harmony,  order  or  proportion;  and  thus 
of  Euripus.  We  do  but  learn  to-day,  far  we  may  maintain  tlie  music  of  the 
what  our  better  advanced  judgments  will  10  spheres :  for  those  well-ordered  motions, 
unteach  to-morrow :  and  Aristotle  doth  and  regular  paces,  though  they  give  no 
not  instruct  us,  as  Plato  did  him;  that  sound  unto  the  ear,  yet  to  the  under- 
is,  to  confute  himself.  I  have  run  standing  they  strike  a  note  most  full  of 
through  all  sorts,  yet  find  no  rest  in  harmony.  Whosoever  is  harmonically 
any:  though  our  first  studies  and  junior  15  composed,  delights  in  harmony;  which 
endeavors  may  style  us  Peripatetics,  makes  me  much  distrust  the  symmetry  of 
Stoics,  or  Academics,  yet  I  perceive  the  those  heads  which  declaim  against  all 
wisest  heads  prove,  at  last,  almost  all  church-music.  For  myself,  not  only  from 
sceptics,  and  stand  like  Janus  in  the  niy  obedience,  but  my  particular  genius, 
field  of  knowledge.  I  have  therefore  20  I  do  embrace  it :  for  even  that  vulgar 
one  common  and  authentic  philosophy  and  tavern-music,  which  makes  one  man 
I  learned  in  the  schools,  whereby  I  dis-  merry,  another  mad,  strikes  in  me  a  deep 
course  and  satisfy  the  reason  of  other  fit  of  devotion,  and  a  profound  con- 
men;  another  more  reserved,  and  drawn  templation  of  the  first  composer.  There 
from  experience,  whereby  I  content  mine  25  is  something  in  it  of  divinity  more  than 
own.  Solomon,  that  complained  of  the  ear  discovers:  it  is  a  hieroglyphical 
ignorance  in  the  height  of  knowledge,  and  shadowed  lesson  of  the  whole  world, 
hath  not  only  humbled  my  conceits,  but  and  creatures  of  God;  such  a  melody 
discouraged  my  endeavors.  There  is  to  the  ear,  as  the  whole  world  well  un- 
yet  another  conceit  that  hath  sometimes  3°  derstood,  would  afford  the  understand- 
made  me  shut  my  books,  which  tells  me  ing.  In  brief,  it  is  a  sensible  fit  of  that 
it  is  a  vanity  to  waste  our  days  in  the  harmony,  which  intellectually  sounds  in 
bhnd  pursuit  of  knowledge;  it  is  but  at-  the  ears  of  God.  I  will  not  say  with 
tending  a  little  longer,  and  we  shall  enjoy  Plato,  the  soul  is  a  harmony,  but  har- 
that  by  instinct  and  infusion,  which  we  35  monical,  and  hath  its  nearest  sympathy 
endeavor  at  here  by  labor  and  inquisi-  unto  music:  thus  some  whose  temper  of 
tion.  It  is  better  to  sit  down  in  a  modest  body  agrees,  and  humors  the  constitu- 
ignorance ;  and  rest  contented  with  the  tion  of  their  souls,  are  born  poets,  though 
natural  blessing  of  our  own  reasons,  than  indeed  all  are  naturally  inclined  unto 
buy  the  uncertain  knowledge  of  this  life,  40  rhythm.  This  made  Tacitus  in  the  very 
with  sweat  and  vexation,  which  death  first  line  of  his  story,  fall  upon  a  verse, ^ 
gives  every  fool  gratis,  and  is  an  acces-  and  Cicero  the  worst  of  poets,  but  de- 
sory  of  our  glorification.  claiming  for  a  poet,  falls  in  the  very  first 

I  was  never  yet  once,  and  commend  sentence  upon  a  perfect  hexameter.- 
their  resolutions  who  never  marry  twice :  45  I  feel  not  in  me  those  sordid  and  un- 
not  that  I  disallow  of  second  marriage;  christian  desires  of  my  profession;  I  do 
as  neither  in  all  cases  of  polygamy,  not  secretly  implore  and  wish  for  plagues, 
which  considering  some  times,  and  the  rejoice  at  famines,  revolve  ephemerides 
unequal  number  of  both  sexes,  may  be  and  almanacs,  in  expectation  of  malignant 
also  necessary.  The  whole  world  was  50  aspects,  fatal  conjunctions  and  eclipses: 
made  for  man,  but  the  twelfth  part  of  I  rejoice  not  at  unwholesome  springs,  nor 
man  for  woman:  man  is  the  whole  world,  unseasonable  winters;  my  prayer  goes 
and  the  breath  of  God ;  woman  the  rib,  with  the  husbandman's ;  I  desire  every- 
and  crooked  piece  of  man.  *  *  *  I  thing  in  its  proper  season,  that  neither 
speak  not  in  prejudice,  nor  am  averse  from  55  men  nor  the  times  be  put  out  of  temper, 
that  sweet  sex,  but  naturally  amorous  of         ,  ^^  ,        „  ,        ... 

,,,,.,  .-r    1      T  i«    1  11  '  Urbem    Romam    in    principio    reges    habuere. 

all  that  IS  beautiful;  I  can  look  a  whole  ,  p^^  ^^^,,.^  P^^,^.'  i„  '^^g  ^  ^^n  inficior 
day     with     delight     upon     a     handsome      mediocriter   esse. 


Let  me  be  sick  myself,  if  sometimes  the  What  time  the  persons  of  these  ossuaries 
malady  of  my  patient  be  not  a  disease  entered 'the  famous  nations  of  the  dead,- 
unto  me;  I  desire  rather  to  cure  his  in-  and  slept  with  princes  and  counsellors, 
firmities  than  my  own  necessities:  where  might  admit  a  wide  solution.  But  who 
I  do  him  no  good,  methinks  it  is  scarce  5  were  the  proprietaries  of  these  bones,  or 
honest  gain ;  though  I  confess  't  is  but  the  what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were 
worthy  salary  of  our  well-intended  en-  a  question  above  antiquarism,  not  to  be 
deavors.  I  am  not  only  ashamed,  but  resolved  by  man,  nor  easily  perhaps  by 
heartily  sorry,  that  besides  death,  there  spirits,  except  we  consult  the  provincial 
are  diseases  incurable ;  yet  not  for  my  lo  guardians,  or  tutelary  observators.  Had 
own  sake,  or  that  they  be  beyond  my  they  made  as  good  provision  for  their 
art,  but  for  the  general  cause  and  sake  names  as  they  have  done  for  their  relics, 
of  humanity,  whose  common  cause  I  ap-  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the  art 
prehend  as  mine  own.  And  to  speak  of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones, 
more  generally,  those  three  noble  profes- 15  and  be  but  pyramidally  extant,  is  a  fal- 
sions  which  all  civil  commonwealths  do  lacy  in  duration.  Vain  ashes,  which, 
honor  are  raised  upon  the  fall  of  Adam,  in  the  oblivion  of  names,  persons,  times 
and  are  not  exempt  from  their  infirmities;  and  sexes,  have  found  unto  themselves 
there  are  not  only  diseases  incurable  in  a  fruitless  continuation,  and  only  arise 
physic,  but  cases  indissolvable  in  laws,  20  unto  late  posterity  as  emblems  of  mortal 
vices  incorrigible  in  divinity.  If  general  vanities,  antidotes  against  pride,  vain- 
councils  may  err,  I  do  not  see  why  par-  glory,  and  madding  vices !  Pagan  vain- 
ticular  courts  should  be  infallible;  their  glories,  which  thought  the  world  might 
perfectest  rules  are  raised  upon  the  last  forever,  had  encouragement  for 
erroneous  reasons  of  man;  and  the  laws  25  ambition,  and  finding  no  Atropos  unto  the 
of  one  do  but  condemn  the  rules  of  an-  immortality  of  their  names,  were  never 
other;  as  Aristotle  oft-times  the  opinions  damped  with  the  necessity  of  obHvion. 
of  his  predecessors,  because,  though  Even  old  ambitions  had  the  advantage  of 
agreeable  to  reason,  yet  were  not  con-  ours  in  the  attempts  of  their  vain-glories, 
sonant  to  his  own  rules,  and  logic  of  his  30  who  acting  early,  and  before  the  probable 
proper  principles.  Again,  to  speak  noth-  meridian  of  time,  have  by  this  time  found 
ing  of  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  great  accomplishment  of  their  designs, 
whose  cure  not  only,  but  whose  nature  whereby  the  ancient  heroes  have  already 
is  unknown ;  I  can  cure  the  gout  or  stone  out-lasted  their  monuments  and  mechan- 
in  some,  sooner  than  divinity  pride  or  35  ical  preservations.  But  in  this  latter 
avarice  in  others.  I  can  cure  vices  by  scene  of  time  we  cannot  expect  such 
physic,  when  they  remain  incurable  by  mummies  unto  our  memories,  when  ambi- 
divinity ;  and  shall  obey  my  pills,  when  tion  may  fear  the  prophecy  of  Elias ;  ^ 
they  contemn  their  precepts.  I  boast  and  Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  hope  to 
nothing,  but  plainly  say,  we  all  labor  40  live  within  two  Methuselahs  of  Hector.* 
against  our  own  cure;   for  death   is  the  And    therefore    restless    inquietude    for 

cure  of  all  diseases.  There  is  no  cath-  the  diuturnity  of  our  memories  unto 
olicon  or  universal  remedy  I  know  but  present  considerations  seems  a  vanity  al- 
this,  which  though  nauseous  to  queasy  most  out  of  date,  and  a  superannuated 
stomachs,  yet  to  prepared  appetites  is  45  piece  of  folly.  We  cannot  hope  to  live 
nectar,  and  a  pleasant  potion  of  im-  so  long  in  our  names  as  some  have  done 
mortality.  in  their  persons :  one  face  of  Janus  holds 

*     *     *  no  proportion  to  the  other.     'T  is  too  late 

to  be  ambitious.     The  great  mutations  of 

From  HYDRIOTAPHIA  URN-         50  the  world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be  too 

BURIAL  short    for    our.  designs.     To    extend    our 

memories  by  monuments,  whose  death  we 
What  song  the   Syrens  sang,  or  what      daily   pray   for,   and   whose   duration   we 
name  Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid  him-      cannot   hope   without   injury   to    our    ex- 
self     among     women,     though     puzzling  55 
questions,^  are  not  beyond  all  conjecture.         'KXuto  e^j-ea  veKouv.    Hom.  Job. 

'  That  the  world  may  last  but  six  thousand  years. 
*  The   puzzling   questions   of   Tiberius   unto    gram-  *  Hector's    fame    lasting    above    two    lives    of    Me- 

marians.     Marcel.   Donatus  in   Suet.  thuselah,    before    that    famous   prince    was    extant. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE 


pectations  in  tlie  advent  of  the  last  clay,  the  founder  of  the  pyramids?  Herostra- 
wcre  a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs.  We,  tus  lives  that  burnt  the  temple  of  Diana; 
whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath 
setting  part  of  time,  are  providentially  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse, 
taken  ofif  from  such  imaginations;  and,  5  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain  we 
being  necessitated  to  eye  the  remaining  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage 
particle  of  futurity,  are  naturally  con-  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal 
stituted  unto  thoughts  of  the  next  world,  durations;  and  Thcrsites  is  like  to  live 
and  cannot  excusably  decline  the  con-  as  long  as  Agamcnmon,  without  the 
sideration  of  that  duration  which  maketh  10  favor  of  the  everlasting  register.  Who 
pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  all  that 's  knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be 
past  a  moment.  known?    or   whether   there    l)e    not    more 

Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  remarkable  persons  forgot,  than  any  that 
all  bodies,  and  the  mortal  right-lined  stand  remembered  in  the  known  account 
circle  1  must  conclude  and  shut  up  all.  15  of  time?  The  first  man  had  been  as 
There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium  unknown  as  the  last,  and  IMcthusclah's 
of  time,  which  temi^orally  consiilereth  all  long  life  had  been  his  only  chronicle, 
things.     Our  fathers  find  their  graves  in  Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired:  the  greater 

our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they 
how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors.  20  had  not  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register 
Grave-stones  tell  truth  scarce  forty  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man. 
years."  Generations  pass  while  some  Twenty-seven  names  make  up  the  first 
trees  stand,  and  old  families  last  not  three  story,  and  the  recorded  names  ever  since 
oaks.  To  be  read  by  bare  inscriptions,  contain  not  one  living  century.  The 
like  many  in  Gruter,^  to  hope  for  eternity  25  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth  all 
by  enigmatical  epithets  or  first  letters  of  that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far 
our  names,  to  be  studied  by  antiquaries  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows  when 
who  we  were,  and  have  new  names  given  was  the  equinox?  Every  hour  adds  unto 
us  like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold  that  current  arithmetic,  which  scarce 
consolations  unto  the  students  of  per-  30  stands  one  moment.  And  since  death 
petuity,  even  by  everlasting  languages.  must    be    the    Lucina    of    life,    and    even 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come  pagans  could  doubt  whether  thus  to  live 
should  only  know  there  was  such  a  man,  were  to  die ;  since  our  longest  sun  sets 
not  caring  whether  they  knew  more  of  at  right  descensions,  and  makes  but 
him,  was  a  frigid  ambition  in  Cardan,'*  35  winter  arches,  and  therefore  it  cannot 
disparaging  his  horoscopal  inclination  be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness, 
and  judgment  of  himself.  Who  cares  to  and  have  our  light  in  ashes;  since  the 
subsist  like  Hippocrates'  patients,  or  brother  of  death  daily  haunts  us  with 
Achilles'  horses  in  Homer,  under  naked  dying  mementoes,  and  time,  that  grows 
nominations,  without  deserts  and  noble  40  old  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration: 
acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of  our  mem-  diuturnity  is  a  dream  and  folly  of  expec- 
ories,  the  entelechia  and  soul  of  our  sub-      tation. 

sistences.     To     be     nameless     in     worthy  Darkness    and    light   divide    the    course 

deed  exceeds  an  infamous  history.  The  of  time,  and  oblivion  shares  with  memory 
Canaanitish  woman  lives  more  happily 45  a  great  part  even  of  our  living  beings; 
without  a  name,  than  Herodias  with  one.  we  slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and 
And  who  had  not  rather  have  been  the  the  smartest  strokes  of  affliction  leave 
good  thief,  than  Pilate  ?  but  short  smart  upon  us.     Sense  endureth 

But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us 
scattereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the  50  or  themselves.  To  weep  into  stones  are 
memory  of  men  without  distinction  to  fables.  Afflictions  induce  callosites,  mis- 
merit   of   perpetuity.     Who   can   but   pity      eries  are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon 

us,  which  notwithstanding  is  no  stupidity. 

10  The  character  of  .icath.  To    be    ignorant    of    evils    to    come,    and 

^  Old    ones  being   taken   up,   and   other   bodies   laid         ,  ^.r    i       r         -i  i.     •  -r    i 

under  them         ^              '•  55  forgetful  ot  evds  past,  IS  merciful  provi- 

"Gruteri'lnscripHones  Antiquac.  siou    in    nature,    whereby    we    digest    the 

<  Cut^ercm    notum   esse   quod   sim.   non  opto  ut      mixture   of   our    few   and   evil   days,   and 

sciatur  qualis  sim.    Card,  in  vita  proi^ria.  ^^,^    delivered    seuses    not    relapsing    into 


n  J.  i^ixivv  i  i\rsnLi\ 


cutting  remembrances,  our  sorrows  are  from  the  power  of  itself.  But  the  suffi- 
not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repetitions.  ciency  of  christian  immortaHty  frustrates 
A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented  their  all  earthly  glory,  and  the  quality  of 
hopes  of  subsistency  with  a  transmigra-  either  state  after  death  makes  a  folly 
tion  of  their  souls.  A  good  way  to  con-  5  of  posthumous  memory.  God,  who  can 
tinue  their  memories,  while  having  the  only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath  assured 
advantage  of  plural  successions,  they  our  resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or 
could  not  but  act  something  remarkable  names  hath  directly  promised  no  dura- 
in  such  variety  of  beings,  and  enjoying  tion;  wherein  there  is  so  much  of  chance, 
the  fame  of  their  passed  selves,  make  lo  that  the  boldest  expectants  have  found 
accumulation  of.  glory  unto  their  last  unhappy  frustration ;  and  to  hold  long 
durations.  Others,  rather  than  be  lost  subsistence,  seems  but  a  scape  in  oblivion, 
in  the  uncomfortable  night  of  nothing.  But  man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid  in 
were  content  to  recede  into  the  common  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solem- 
being,  and  make  one  particle  of  the  pub-  15  nizing  nativities  and  deaths  with  equal 
lie  soul  of  all  things,  which  was  no  more  luster  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  brav- 
than  to  return  into  their  unknown  and  ery  in  the  infamy  of  his  nature, 
divine  original  again.     Egyptian   ingenu-  Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an 

ity  was  more  unsatisfied,  contriving  their  invisible  sun  within  us.  A  small  fire 
bodies  in  sweet  consistencies  to  attend  20  sufiiceth  for  life,  great  flames  seemed 
the  return  of  their  souls.  But  all  was  too  little  after  death,  while  men  vainly 
vanity,^  feeding  the  wind,  and  folly.  The  affected  precious  pyres,  and  to  burn  like 
Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  Sardanapalus.  But  the  wisdom  of  fu- 
time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth.  neral  laws  found  the  folly  of  prodigal 
Mummy  is  become  merchandise,  Mizraim  25  blazes,  and  reduced  undoing  fires,  unto 
cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  the  rule  of  sober  obsequies,  wherein  few 
balsams.  could  be  so  mean  as  not  to  provide  wood. 

In   vain    do    individuals   hope    for    im-      pitch,  a  mourner,  and  an  urn. 
mortality,   or   any   patent    from    oblivion.  Five  languages  secured  not  the  epitaph 

in  preservations  below  the  moon ;  men  30  of  Gordianus.  The  man  of  God  lives 
have  been  deceived  even  in  their  flatteries  longer  without  a  tomb  than  any  by  one, 
above  the  sun,  and  studied  conceits  to  invisibly  interred  by  angels,  and  adjudged 
perpetuate  their  names  in  heaven.  The  to  obscurity,  though  not  without  some 
various  cosmography  of  that  part  hath  marks  directing  human  discovery.  Enoch 
already  varied  the  names  of  contrived  35  and  Elias,  without  either  tomb  or  burial, 
constellations;  Nimrod  is  lost  in  Orion,  in  an  anomalous  state  of  being,  are  the 
and  Osiris  in  the  dog-star.  While  we  great  examples  of  perpetuity  in  their 
look  for  incorruption  in  the  heavens,  we  long  and  living  memory,  in  strict  ac- 
find  they  are  but  like  the  earth;  durable  count  being  still  on  this  side  death,  and 
in  their  main  bodies,  alterable  in  their  40  having  a  late  part  yet  to  act  upon  this 
parts:  whereof,  beside  comets  and  new  stage  of  earth.  If  in  the  decretory  term 
stars,  perspectives  begin  to  tell  tales;  and  of  the  world  we  shall  not  all  die,  but  be 
the  spots  that  wander  about  the  sun,  with  changed,  according  to  received  transla- 
Phcethon's  favor,  would  make  clear  con-  tion,  the  last  day  will  make  but  few 
viction.  45  graves ;   at   least  quick  resurrections   will 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal  but  anticipate  lasting  sepultures :  some  graves 
immortality ;  whatever  hath  no  beginning  will  be  opened  before  they  be  quite 
may  be  confident  of  no  end:  (all  others  closed,  and  Lazarus  be  no  wonder,  when 
have  a  dependent  being,  and  within  the  many  that  feared  to  die  shall  groan  that 
reach  of  destruction)  which  is  the  50  they  can  die  but  once.  The  dismal  state 
peculiar  of  that  necessary  essence  that  is-  the  second  and  living  death,  when 
cannot  destroy  itself;  and  the  highest  life  puts  despair  on  the  damned;  when 
strain  of  omnipotency,  to  be  so  power-  men  shall  wish  the  coverings  of  moun- 
fully   constituted,    as   not   to   suffer   even      tains,    not   of   monuments,    and    annihila- 

55  tion  shall  be  courted. 

1  Omnia    vanitas    et    pastio    venti,    vouv    aviuov, 
BoffKVffts   ut   olim   Aquila   et   Symmachus.    v.    Drus.  *      *      * 

Eccles. 


ISAAK  WALTON   (1593-1683) 

The  Complete  Angler  {1(!53)  is  one  of  the  best  established  of  the  English  classics,  holding 
its  place  through  succeeding  ages  by  its  unaffected  simi)licity  and  charming  naturalness.  Its 
author,  when  he  was  not  fishing  and  enjoying  country  sights  and  sounds,  was  a  London  linen 
draper  with  many  pleasant  friendships,  including  some  of  the  leading  men  of  the  time;  his 
life  was  happy  and  uneventful. 


THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER  afifirmed    by    Gestier,    a    writer    of    good 

credit ;     and     Mercator    says    the    trouts 

CHAPTER  IV  that   are   taken   in   the    Lake   of   Geneva 

OBSERVATIONS  OF  THE  NATURE  AND  BREED-      f'\  \  ^rcat  part  of  the   merchandise   of 

ING  OF  THE  TROUT,  AND  HOW  TO  FISH   ^   l^^t   famous   City.     And  you  are   further 

FOR    him;    and   THE   MILKMAId's    SONG  '^  '^^J^Y   '^f  '^^'^    v\?''k  "..."^f ''M^ -^ 

'  breed    trouts    remarkable    both    for    their 

The  trout  is  a  fish  highly  valued  both  number  and  smallness.  I  know  a  little 
in  this  and  foreign  nations :  he  may  be  brook  in  Kent  that  breeds  them  to  a 
justly  said,  as  the  old  poet  said  of  wine,  10  number  incredible,  and  you  may  take 
and  we  English  say  of  venison,  to  be  a  them  twenty  or  forty  in  an  hour,  but 
generous  fish :  a  fish  that  is  so  like  the  none  greater  than  about  the  size  of  a 
buck  that  he  also  has  his  seasons ;  for  it  gudgeon :  there  are  also  in  divers  rivers, 
is  observed,  that  he  comes .  in  and  goes  especially  that  relate  to  or  be  near  to 
out  of  season  with  the  stag  and  buck.  15  the  sea,  as  Winchester  or  the  Thames 
Gesner  says  his  name  is  of  a  German  about  Windsor,  a  little  trout  called  a 
offspring,  and  says  he  is  a  fish  that  feeds  samlet  or  skegger  trout  (in  both  which 
clean  and  purely,  in  the  swiftest  streams,  places  I  have  caught  twenty  or  forty  at 
and  on  the  hardest  gravel;  and  that  he  a  standing),  that  will  bite  as  fast  and  as 
may  justly  contend  with  all  fresh-water  20  freely  as  minnows;  these  be  by  some 
fish,  as  the  mullet  may  with  all  sea-fish,  taken  to  be  young  salmons;  but  in  those 
for  precedency  and  daintiness  of  taste,  waters  they  never  grow  to  be  bigger  than 
and  that  being  in  right  season,  the  most      a  herring. 

dainty    palates   have    allowed    precedency  There  is  also  in  Kent,  near  to  Canter- 

to   him.  25  bury,    a    trout    called    there    a    Fordidge 

And  before  I  'go  further  in  my  dis-  trout,  a  trout  that  bears  the  name  of  the 
course,  let  me  tell  you,  that  you  are  to  town  where  it  is  usually  caught,  that 
observe,  that  as  there  be  some  barren  is  accounted  the  rarest  of  fish :  many  of 
does  that  are  good  in  summer,  so  there  them  near  the  bigness  of  salmon,  but 
be  some  barren  trouts  that  are  good  in  30  known  by  their  different  color;  and_  in 
winter;  but  there  are  not  many  that  are  their  best  season  they  cut  very  white; 
so,  for  usually  they  be  in  their  perfec-  and  none  of  these  have  been  known  to 
tion  in  the  month  of  May,  and  decline  be  caught  with  an  angle,  unless  it  were 
with  the  buck.  Now  you  are  to  take  one  that  was  caught  by  Sir  George 
notice  that  in  several  countries,  as  in  35  Hastings,  an  excellent  angler,  and  now 
Germany  and  in  other  parts,  compared  with  God :  and  he  hath  told  me.  he 
to  ours,  fish  differ  much  in  their  bigness  thought  that  trout  bit  not  for  hunger 
and  shape,  and  other  ways,  and  so  do  but  wantonness;  and  it  is  rather  to  be 
trouts:  it  is  well  known  that  in  the  Lake  believed,  because  both  he  then,  and  many 
Leman,  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  there  are  40  others  before  him,  have  been  curious  to 
trouts  taken  of   three   cubits   long,   as   is      search   into   their   bellies,   what  the   food 

2X2 


intL  L-UMFi.h,iii  amCjLEK  213 


was  by  which  they  lived,  and  have  found  And  so  much  for  these  Fordidge  trouts, 

out  nothing  by  which  they  might  satisfy  which  never  afford  an  angler  sport,  but 
their   curiosity.  either  live  their  time  of  being  in  the  fresh 

Concerning  which  you  are  to  take  water,  by  their  meat  formerly  got  in  the 
notice  that  it  is  reported  by  good  authors  5  sea  (not  unlike  the  swallow  or  frog),  or 
that  grasshoppers  and  some  fish  have  no  by  the  virtue  of  the  fresh  water  only; 
mouths,  but  are  nourished  and  take  or,  as  the  birds  of  Paradise  and  the 
breath  by  the  porousness  of  their  gills,  chameleon  are  said  to  live  by  the  sun  and 
man   knows    not   how :    and    this    may   be      the   air. 

believed,  if  we  consider  that  when  the  10  There  is  also  in  Northumberland  a 
raven  hath  hatched  her  eggs,  she  takes  trout  called  a  bull  trout,  of  a  much 
no  further  care,  but  leaves  her  young  greater  length  and  bigness  than  any  in 
ones  to  the  care  of  the  God  of  nature,  the  southern  parts.  And  there  are,  in 
who  is  said,  in  the  Psalms,  '  to  feed  the  many  rivers  that  relate  to  the  sea,  salmon 
young  ravens  that  call  upon  him.'  And  15  trouts,  as  much  different  from  others, 
they  be  kept  alive  and  fed  by  dew,  or  both  in  shape  and  in  their  spots,  as  we 
worms  that  breed  in  their  nests,  or  some  see  sheep  in  some  countries  differ  one 
other  ways  that  we  mortals  know  not;  from  another  in  their  shape  and  bigness, 
and  this  may  be  believed  of  the  Fordidge  and  in  the  fineness  of  their  wool.  And 
trout,  which,  as  it  is  said  of  the  stork  20  certainly,  as  some  pastures  breed  larger 
(Jerem.  viii.  7),  that  'he  knows  his  sheep,  so  do  some  rivers,  by  reason  of  the 
season,'  so  he  knows  his  times,  I  think  ground  over  which  they  run,  breed  larger 
almost  his  day  of  coming  into  that  river      trouts. 

out  of  the  sea,  where  he  lives,  and,  it  is  Now  the  next  thing  that  I  will  corn- 

like,  feeds  nine  months  of  the  year,  25  mend  to  your  consideration  is  that  the 
and  fasts  three  in  the  river  of  Fordidge.  trout  is  of  a  more  sudden  growth  than 
And  you  are  to  note  that  those  townsmen  other  fish.  Concerning  which,  you  are 
are  very  punctual  in  observing  the  time  also  to  take  notice  that  he  lives  not  so 
of  beginning  to  fish  for  them,  and  boast  long  as  the  perch  and  divers  other  fishes 
much  that  their  river  affords  a  trout  that  30  do,  as  Sir  Francis  Bacon  hath  observed 
exceeds  all  others.  And  just  so  does  in  his  History  of  Life  and  Death. 
Sussex  boast  of  several  fish :  as  namely,  And  now  you  are  to  take  notice  that 

a  Shelsey  cockle,  a  Chichester  lobster,  he  is  not  like  the  crocodile,  which  if  he 
an  Arundel  mullet,  and  an  Amerly  lives  never  so  long,  yet  always  thrives 
trout.  35  till  his  death ;   but   't  is  not  so  with   the 

And  now  for  some  confirmation  of  the  trout;  for  after  he  is  come  to  his  full 
Fordidge  trout:  you  are  to  know  that  growth,  he  declines  in  his  body,  and 
this  trout  is  thought  to  eat  nothing  in  keeps  his  bigness  or  thrives  only  in  his 
the  fresh  water;  and  it  may  be  better  head  till  his  death.  And  you  are  to 
believed,  because  it  is  well  known  that  40  know  that  he  will  about,  especially  before, 
swallows  and  bats  and  wagtails,  which  the  time  of  his  spawning,  get  almost 
are  called  half-year  birds,  and  not  seen  miraculously  through  weirs  and  flood- 
to  fly  in  England  for  six  months  in  the  gates  against  the  streams;  even  through 
year,  but  about  Michaelmas  leave  us  for  such  high  and  swift  places  as  is  almost 
a  better  climate  than  this;  yet  some  of 45  incredible.  Next,  that  the  trout  usually 
them  that  have  been  left  behind  their  spawns  about  October  or  November,  but 
fellows,  have  been  found  many  thousands  in  some  rivers  a  little  sooner  or  later ; 
at  a  time,  in  hollow  trees,  or  clay  caves;  which  is  the  more  observable,  because 
where  they  have  been  observed  to  live  most  other  fish  spawn  in  the  spring  or 
and  sleep  out  the  whole  winter  without  5°  summer,  when  the  sun  hath  warmed  both 
meat;  and  so  Albertus  observes,  that  the  earth  and  the  water,  and  made  it  fit 
there  is  one  kind  of  frog  that  hath  her  for  generation.  And  you  are  to  note, 
mouth  naturally  shut  up  about  the  end  that  he  continues  many  months  out  of 
of  August,  and  that  she  lives  so  all  the  season;  for  it  may  be  observed  of  the 
winter ;  and  though  it  be  strange  to  some,  55  trout,  that  he  is  like  the  buck  or  the  ox, 
yet  it  is  known  to  too  many  among  us  that  will  not  be  fat  in  many  months] 
to  be  doubted.  though  he  go  in  the  very  same  pasture 


214  IZAAK  WALTON 


that  horses  do,  which  will  he  fat  in  one  of  trouts ;  just  as  pigeons  do  in  most 
month;  and  so  you  mav  observe  that  most  places;  thouj^h  it  is  certain  there  are 
other  fishes  recover  strcn^lh,  and  grow  tame  and  wild  pigeons;  and  of  the  tame, 
sooner  fat  and  in  season,  than  the  trout  there  lie  helmets  and  runts,  and  carriers 
(loth.  5  and    cropers,    and    indeed    too    many    to 

And  next  you  are  to  note  that  till  the  name.  Nay,  the  Royal  Society  have 
sun  gets  to  such  a  height  as  to  warm  the  found  and  published  lately  that  there  be 
earth  and  the  water,  the  trout  is  sick  thirty  and  three  kinds  of  spiders;  and 
and  lean,  and  lousy,  and  unwholesome;  yet  all,  for  aught  I  know,  go  under  that 
for  you  shall  in  winter  find  him  to  have  lo  one  general  name  of  sjjider.  And  it  is 
a  big  head,  and  then  to  be  lank,  and  so  with  many  kinds  of  fish,  and  of  trouts 
thin,' and  lean;  at  which  time  many  of  especially,  which  differ  in  their  bigness 
them  have  sticking  on  them  sugs,  or  and  shape  and  spots  and  color.  The 
trout-lice,  which  is  a  kind  of  worm,  in  great  Kentish  hens  may  be  an  instance, 
shape  like  a  clove  or  pin,  with  a  big  15  compared  to  other  hens.  And,  doubtless, 
head,  and  sticks  close  to  him  and  sucks  there  is  a  kind  of  small  trout,  which  will 
his  moisture :  those  I  think  the  trout  never  thrive  to  be  big,  that  breeds  very 
breeds  himself,  and  never  thrives  till  he  many  more  than  others  do,  that  be  of  a 
free  himself  from  them,  which  is  when  larger  size;  which  you  may  rather  be- 
warni  weather  comes;  and  then,  as  he  20  lieve  if  you  consider  that  the  little  wren 
grows  stronger,  he  gets  from  the  dead,  and  titmouse  will  have  twenty  young  ones 
still  water,  into  the  sharp  streams  and  at  a  time,  when  usually  the  noble  hawk  or 
the  gravel,  and  there  rubs  off  these  the  musical  thrassel  or  blackbird  exceed 
worms    or   lice;    and   then    as   he   grows      not  four  or  five. 

stronger,  so  he  gets  him  into  swifter  and  25  And  now  you  shall  see  me  try  my 
swifter  streams,  and  there  lies  at  the  skill  to  catch  a  trout;  and  at  my  next 
watch  for  any  fly  or  minnow  that  comes  walking,  either  this  evening  or  to-morrow 
near  to  him ;  and  he  especially  loves  the  morning,  I  will  give  you  direction  how 
May-fiy,  which  is  bred  of  the  cod-worm  you  yourself  shall  fish  for  him. 
or  caddis;  and  these  make  the  trout  bold  30  Venator  [The  Hunter].  Trust  me, 
and  lusty,  and  he  is  usually  fatter  and  master,  I  see  now  it  is  a  harder  matter 
better  meat  at  that  end  of  that  month  to  catch  a  trout  than  a  chub;  for  I  have 
[May]   than  at  any  time  of  the  year.  put  on  patience   and    followed  you  these 

Now  you  are  to  know  that  it  is  two  hours,  and  not  seen  a  fish  stir, 
observed  that  usually  the  best  trouts  are  35  neither  at  your  minnow  nor  your  worm, 
either   red   or  yellow;   though   some    (as  Piscator  [The  Angler].     Well,  schol- 

the  Fordidge  trout)  be  white  and  yet  ar,  you  must  endure  worse  luck  some 
good ;  but  that  is  not  usual :  and  it  is  a  time,  or  you  will  never  make  a  good 
note  observable,  that  the  female  trout  angler.  But  what  say  you  now?  There 
hath  usually  a  less  head  and  a  deeper  40  is  a  trout  now,  and  a  good  one  too,  if 
body  than  the  male  trout,  and  is  usually  I  can  but  hold  him,  and  two  or  three 
the  better  meat.  And  note  that  a  hog-  more  turns  more  will  tire  him.  Now  you 
back  and  a  little  head  to  either  trout,  see  he  lies  still,  and  the  sleight  is  to  land 
salmon,  or  any  other  fish,  is  a  sign  that  him.  Reach  me  that  landing-net ;  so,  sir, 
that  fish  is  in  season.  45  now    he    is    mine    own.     What    say    you 

But  yet  you  are  to  note  that  as  you  see  now?  is  not  this  worth  all  my  labor  and 
some     willows     or     palm-trees     bud     and      your  patience  ? 

blossom   sooner  than   others  do,   so  some  Ven.  On   my   word,    master,    this    is    a 

trouts  be  in  rivers  sooner  in  season ;  and  gallant  trout :  what  shall  we  do  with 
as  some  hollies  or  oaks  are  longer  before  50  him  ? 

they  cast  their  leaves,  so  are  some  trouts  Pisc.  Marry,   e'en   eat  him   to  supper: 

in  rivers  longer  before  they  go  out  of  we  '11  go  to  my  hostess,  from  whence  we 
season.  came;  she  told  me,   as   I   was  going  out 

And  you  are  to  note  that  there  are  of  door,  that  my  brother  Peter,  a  good 
several  kinds  of  trouts;  but  these  several  55  angler  and  a  cheerful  companion,  had 
kinds  are  not  considered  l)ut  by  very  few  sent  word  that  he  would  lodge  there  to- 
men;  for  they  go  under  the  general  name      night,  and  bring  a  friend  with  him.     My 


hostess  has  two  beds,  and  I  know  you  and  As   I   left  this   place,   and   entered  into 

I  may  have  the  best;  we'll  rejoice  with  the  next  field,  a  second  pleasure  enter- 
my  brother  Peter  and  his  friend,  tell  tained  me;  'twas  a  handsome  milkmaid, 
tales,  or  sing-  ballads,  or  make  a  catch,  that  had  not  yet  attained  so  much  age  and 
or  find  some  harmless  sport  to  content  us  5  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with  any 
and  pass  away  a  little  time,  without  fears  of  many  things  that  will  never  be, 
offense  to  God  or  man.  as  too  many  men  too  often  do ;   but  she 

Ven.  a  match,  good  master,  let's  go  cast  away  all  care,  and  sang  like  a  night- 
to  that  house,  for  the  linen  looks  white  ingale:  her  voice  was  good,  and  the  ditty 
and  smells  of  lavender,  and  I  long  to  10  fitted  for  it:  it  was  that'  smooth  song 
lie  in  a  pair  of  sheets  that  smells  so.  which  was  made  by  Kit  Marlow,  now  at 
Let's  be  going,  good  master,  for  I  am  least  fifty  years  ago;  and  the  milkmaid's 
hungry  again  with  fishing.  mother  sang  an  answer  to  it,  which  was 

Pisc.  Nay,  stay  a  little,  good  scholar.  made  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  his 
I  caught  my  last  trout  with  a  worm ;  now  15  younger  days. 

I  will  put  on  a  minnow,  and  try  a  quarter  They    were    old-fashioned    poetry,    but 

of  an  hour  about  yonder  trees  for  an-  choicely  good;  I  think  much  better  than 
other;  and  so  walk  towards  our  lodging,  the  strong  lines  that  are  now  in  fashion 
Look  you,  scholar,  thereabout  we  shall  in  this  critical  age.  Look  yonder;  on  my 
have  a  bite  presently  or  not  at  all.  Have  20  word,  yonder  they  both  be  a-milking 
with  you,  sir !  o'  my  word  I  have  hold  again.  I  will  give  her  the  chub,  and 
of  him.  Oh  !  it  is  a  great  logger-headed  persuade  them  to  sing  those  two  songs  to 
chub;   come   hang  him   upon  that  willow      us. 

twig,   and  let 's  be   going.     But  turn   out  God  speed  you,  good  woman !     I  have 

of  the  way  a  little,  good  scholar,  towards  25  been  a-fishing  and  am  going  to  Bleak 
yonder  high  honeysuckle  hedge;  there  Hall  to  my  bed,  and  having  caught  more 
we  '11  sit  and  sing,  whilst  this  shower  fish  than  will  sup  myself  and  friend,  I 
falls  so  gently  upon  the  teeming  earth,  will  bestow  this  upon  you  and  your 
and  gives  yet  a  sweeter  smell  to  the  daughter,  for  I  use  to  sell  none, 
lovely  flowers  that  adorn  these  verdant  30  Milk-W.  ]\Iarry,  God  requite  you,  sir, 
meadows.  and   we'll   eat   it   cheerfully;   and   if   you 

Look !  under  that  broad  beech-tree  I  come  this  way  a-fishing  two  months 
sat  down,  when  I  was  last  this  way  hence,  a  grace  of  God,  I'll  give  you  a 
a-fishing.  And  the  birds  in  the  adjoin-  syllabub  of  new  verjuice  in  a  new-made 
ing  grove  seemed  to  have  a  friendly  con-  35  hay-cock  for  it,  and  my  Maudlin  shall 
tention  with  an  echo,  whose  dead  voice  sing  you  one  of  her  best  ballads ;  for  she 
seemed  to  live  in  a  hollow  tree,  near  to  and  I  both  love  all  anglers,  they  be  such 
the  brow  of  that  primrose  hill.  There  honest,  civil,  quiet  men :  in  the  meantime 
I  sat  viewing  the  silver  streams  glide  will  you  drink  a  draft  of  red  cow's 
silently  towards  their  center,  the  tern- 40  milk?  you  shall  have  it  freely, 
pestuous  sea;  yet  sometimes  opposed  by  Pisc.  No,    I    thank    you;    but,    I   pray, 

rugged  roots  and  pebble-stones,  which  do  us  a  courtesy  that  shall  stand  you  and 
broke  their  waves,  and  turned  them  into  your  daughter  in  nothing,  and  yet  we  will 
foam.  And  sometimes  I  beguiled  time  by  think  ourselves  still  something  in  your 
viewing  the  harmless  lambs;  some  leap- 45  debt;  it  is  but  to  sing  us  a  song  that  was 
ing  securely  in  the  cool  shade,  whilst  sung  by  your  daughter  when  I  last  passed 
others  sported  themselves  in  the  cheer-  over  this  meadow,  about  eight  or  nine 
ful  sun ;  and  saw  others  craving  comfort      days  since. 

from  the  swollen  udders  of  their  bleating  Milk-W.  What  song  was   it,   I  pray? 

dams.     As    I   thus    sat,    these    and    other  50  Was     it     Come,     shepherds,     deck     your 

sights    had    so    fully    possessed    my    soul      heads?   or.   As  at  noon   Dulcina   rested? 

with  content,  that  I  thought,  as  the  poet      or,  Phillida  flouts  me?  or.  Chevy  Chase"? 

hath   happily   expressed   it,  or,  Johnny  Armstrong?  or,  Troy  Town? 

r       ,        .  P^sc.  No,  it  is  none  of  those;  it  is  a 

1  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth,       55  song   that   your   daughter    sang   the    first 

And  possessed  joys  not  promised  in  my  part,  and  vou  sang  the  answer  to  it 

b""^^^-  MiLK-W.  Oh,     "l      know      it      now.     1 


iZ-AAR   WALIUJN 


learned  it  the  first  pari  in  my  golden 
age,  when  I  was  about  the  age  of  my 
poor  daughter;  and  the  latter  part,  which 
indeed  fits  me  best  now,  but  two  or  three 
years  ago,  when  tlie  cares  of  the  world 
began  to  take  hold  of  me :  but  you  shall, 
God  willing,  hear  them  both,  and  sung  as 
well  as  we  can,  for  we  both  love  anglers. 
Come,  Maudlin,  sing  the  first  part  to  the 
gentlemen  with  a  merry  heart,  and  I  '11 
sing  the  second,  when  you  have  done. 

THE    milkmaid's    SONG 


innocent,  pretty  Maudlin  does  so.  I  '11 
bestow  Sir  Thomas  Overbury's  milk- 
maid's wish  upon  her,  '  That  she  may  die 
in  the  spring,  and  being  dead,  may  have 
5  good  store  of  flowers  stuck  round  about 
her  winding-sheet.' 


THE     MILKMAIDS     MOTHERS     ANSWER 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  movf 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hills,  or  field. 
Or  woods  and  steepy  mountains  yield; 

Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  our  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,   to  whose   falls 
Melodious  birds   sing  madrigals. 


i5      But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
Then    Philomel   becometh   dumb, 
And  age  complains  of  care  to  come. 

20      The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To   wayward   winter   reckoning   yields. 
A   honey  tongue,  a  heart   of  gall, 
Is    fancy's   spring,   but   sorrow's    fall. 


And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses,  25 

And  then  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all   with  leaves   of   myrtle; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool  ^° 

Which   from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold. 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold; 

A  belt  of  Straw  and  ivy-buds,  35 

With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  my  meat,  40 

As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing,  45 
For  thy  delight,  each  May  morning. 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Ven.  Trust  me,  master,  it  is  a  choice  50 
song,  and  sweetly  sung  by  honest  Maud- 
lin. I  now  see  it  was  not  without  cause 
that  our  good  Queen  Elizabeth  did  so 
often  wish  herself  a  milkmaid  all  the 
month  of  May,  because  they  are  not  55 
troubled  with  fears  and  cares,  and  sing 
sweetly  all  the  day  and  sleep  securely  all 
the    night;    and    without    doubt,    honest, 


Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,   thy  kirtle,   and   thy   posies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon   forgotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

What  should   we  talk  of  dainties  then, 
Of  better  meat  than 's  fit  for  men? 
These  are  but  vain;  that's  only  good 
Which  God  hath  blest,  and  sent  for  food. 

But  could  youth  last  and  love  still  breed. 
Had  joys  no  date  nor  age  no  need ; 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Pisc.  Well  sung,  good  woman ;  I 
thank  you.  I  '11  give  you  another  dish 
of  fish  one  of  these  days,  and  then  beg 
another  song  of  you.  Come,  scholar,  let 
Maudlin  alone;  do  not  you  offer  to  spoil 
her  voice.  Look,  yonder  comes  mine 
hostess,  to  call  us  to  supper.  How  now? 
Is  my  brother  Peter  come? 

Host.  Yes,  and  a  friend  with  him, 
they  are  both  glad  to  hear  that  you  are 
in  these  parts,  and  long  to  see  you,  and 
long  to  be  at  supper,  for  they  be  very 
hungry. 


THOMAS  FULLER  (1608-1661) 

Fuller  retained  more  than  his  contemporaries  of  the  Elizabethan  quaintness  and  humor. 
Although  a  clergyman  and  an  army  chaplain  during  the  Civil  War,  he  was  not  a  keen 
partisan,  and  kept  his  position  at  Waltham  Abbey  under  the  Commomvealth.  At  the  Restora- 
tion he  was  made  chaplain  to  the  king,  and  would  have  become  a  bishop,  if  he  had  not  been 
suddenly  carried  off  by  a  fever.  His  chief  works  were  The  Holy  State  (1642)  and  The 
Worthies  of  England,  published  the  year  after  his  death. 


THE  LIFE  OF  SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE      of  his   ship,   that   he   might  lawfully   re- 

FROM  THE  HOLY  STATE,  BK.  II,  cii.  XXII         ^°^'^.^  '"  ^f'"^  ^^  ^he  king  of  Spain,  and 

repair  his  losses  upon  hnn  anywhere  else. 

•Francis  Drake  was  born  nigh  South  The  case  was  clear  in  sea-divinity;  and 
Tavistock  in  Devonshire,  and  brought  5  few  are  such  infidels,  as  not  to  believe 
up  in  Kent;  God  dividing  the  honor  be-  doctrines  which  make  for  their  own 
twixt  two  counties,  that  the  one  might  profit.  Whereupon  Drake,  though  a  poor 
have  his  birth,  and  the  other  his  educa-  private  man,  hereafter  undertook  to 
tion.  His  father,  being  a  minister,  fled  revenge  himself  on  so  mighty  a  monarch ; 
into  Kent,  for  fear  of  the  Six  Articles,  lo  who,  as  not  contented  that  the  sun  riseth 
wherein  the  sting  of  Popery  still  remained  and  setteth  in  his  dominions,  may  seem 
in  England,  though  the  teeth  thereof  to  desire  to  make  all  his  own  where  he 
were  knocked  out,  and  the  Pope's  suprem-  shineth.  And  now  let  us  see  how  a 
acy  abolished.  Coming  into  Kent,  he  dwarf,  standing  on  the  mount  of  God's 
bound  his  son  Francis  apprentice  to  the  15  providence,  may  prove  an  overmatch  for 
master    of    a    small    bark,    which    traded      a  giant. 

into  France  and  Zealand,  where  he  un-  After  two  or  three  several  voyages  to 

derwent  a  hard  service ;  and  pains,  with  gain  intelligence  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
patience  in  his  youth,  did  knit  the  joints  some  prizes  taken,  at  last  he  effectually 
of  his  soul,  and  made  them  more  solid  20  set  forward  from  Plymouth  with  two 
and  compacted.  His  master,  dying  un-  ships,  the  one  of  seventy,  the  other 
married,  in  reward  of  his  industry,  be-  twenty-five  tons,  and  seventy-three  men 
queathed  his  bark  unto  him  for  a  legacy.      and    boys    in    both.     He    made    with    all 

For  some  time  he  continued  his  mas-  speed  and  secrecy  to  Nombre  de  Dios, 
ter's  profession ;  but.  the  narrow  seas  25  as  loath  to  put  the  town  to  too  much 
were  a  prison  for  so  large  a  spirit,  born  charge  (which  he  knew  they  would  will- 
for  greater  undertakings.  He  soon  grew  ingly  bestow)  in  providing  beforehand 
weary  of  his  bark;  which  would  scarce  for  his  entertainment;  which  city  was 
go  alone,  but  as  it  crept  along  by  the  then  the  granary  of  the  West  Indies, 
shore :  wherefore,  selling  it,  he  unfor-  30  wherein  the  golden  harvest  brought  from 
tunately  ventured  most  of  his  estate  with  Panama  was  hoarded  up  till  it  could  be 
Captain  John  Hawkins  into  the  West  conveyed  into  Spain.  They  came  hard 
Indies,  in  1567;  whose  goods  were  taken  aboard  the  shore,  and  lay  quiet  all  night, 
by  the  Spaniards  at  St.  John  de  Ulva,  and  intending  to  attempt  the  town  in  the 
he  himself  scarce  escaped  with  life:   the  35  dawning  of  the  day. 

king  of   Spain   being   so   tender   in   those  But   he    was    forced   to   alter   his    reso- 

parts,  that  the  least  touch  doth  wound  lution,  and  assault  it  sooner;  for  he 
him ;  and  so  jealous  of  the  West  Indies,  heard  his  men  muttering  amongst  them- 
his  wife,  that  willingly  he  would  have  selves  of  the  strength  and  greatness  of 
none  look  upon  her :  he  therefore  used  4°  the  town :  and  when  men's  heads  are 
them   with   the   greater   severity.  once   fly-blown  with  buzzes  of  suspicion, 

Drake   was  persuaded   by   the   minister      the    vermin    multiply   instantly,    and    one 

217 


2i8  THOMAS  FULLER 


jealousy  begets  another.  Wherefore,  he  wealth,  and  burnt  at  the  House  of  Crosses 
raised  them  from  their  nest  before  they  aI)ove  two  hundred  thousand  pounds' 
had  hatched  their  fears;  and,  to  put  worth  of  Spanish  merchandise,  he  re- 
away  those  conceits,  he  persuaded  them  turned  with  honor  and  safety  into  Eng- 
it  was  day-dawning  when  the  moon  rose,  5  land,  and,  some  years  after  (December 
and  instantly  set  on  the  town,  and  won  13th,  1577)  undertook  that  his  famous 
it,  being  unwallcd.  In  the  market-place  voyage  about  the  world,  most  accurately 
the  Spaniards  saluted  them  with  a  volley  described  by  our  English  authors:  and 
of  shot;  Drake  returned  their  greeting  yet  a  word  or  two  thereof  will  not  be 
with    a    flight    of    arrows,    the    best    and  10  amiss. 

ancient  English  compliment,  which  drave  Setting    forward     from     Plymouth,    he 

their  enemies  away.  Here  Drake  re-  bore  up  for  Cabo-verd,  where,  near  to  the 
ceived  a  dangerous  wound,  though  he  island  of  St.  Jago,  he  took  prisoner  Nuno 
valiantly  concealed  it  a  long  time;  know-  de  Silva,  an  experienced  Spanish  pilot, 
ing  if  his  heart  stooped,  his  men's  would  15  whose  direction  he  used  in  the  coasts 
fall,  and  loath  to  leave  off  the  action,  of  Brazil  and  Magellan  Straits,  and 
wherein  if  so  bright  an  opportunity  once  afterwards  safely  landed  him  at  Gua- 
setteth,  it  seldom  riseth  again.  But  at  tulco  in  New  Spain.  Hence  they  took 
length  his  men  forced  him  to  return  to  their  course  to  the  Island  of  Brava;  and 
his  ship,  that  his  wound  might  be  20  hereabouts  they  met  with  those  tempest- 
dressed;  and  this  unhappy  accident  dc-  nous  winds  whose  only  praise  is,  that 
feated  the  whole  design.  Thus  victory  they  continue  not  an  hour,  in  which  time 
sometimes  slips  through  their  fingers  they  change  all  the  points  of  the  com- 
who  have  caught  it  in  their  hands.  pass.     Here    they    had    great    plenty    of 

But  his  valor  would  not  let  him  give  25  rain,  poured  (not,  as  in  other  places,  as 
over  the  project  as  long  as  there  was  it  were  out  of  sieves,  but)  as  out  of 
either  life  or  warmth  in  it ;  and  there-  spouts,  so  that  a  butt  of  water  falls  down 
fore,  having  received  intelligence  from  in  a  place ;  which,  notwithstanding,  is 
the  negroes  called  Symerons,  of  many  but  a  courteous  injury  in  that  hot  cli- 
mules'-lading  of  gold  and  silver,  which  30  mate  far  from  land,  and  where  other- 
was  to  be  brought  from  Panama,  he,  wise  fresh  water  cannot  be  provided, 
leaving  competent  numbers  to  man  his  Then  cutting  the  Line,  they  saw  the 
ships,  went  on  land  with  the  rest,  and  face  of  that  heaven  which  earth  hideth 
bestowed  himself  in  the  woods  by  the  from  us,  but  therein  only  three  stars  of 
way  as  they  were  to  pass,  and  so  inter-  35  the  first  greatness,  the  rest  few  and 
cepted  and  carried  away  an  infinite  mass  small  compared  to  our  hemisphere;  as 
of  gold.  As  for  the  silver,  which  was  if  God,  on  purpose,  had  set  up  the  best 
not  portable  over  the  mountains,  they  and  biggest  candles  in  that  room  wherein 
digged  holes  in  the  ground  and  hid  it  his  civilest  guests  are  entertained, 
therein.  40      Sailing  the   south   of   Brazil,   he   after- 

There  want  not  those  who  love  to  beat  wards  passed  the  Magellan  Straits  (Au- 
down  the  price  of  every  honorable  ac-  gust  20th,  1578)  and  then  entered  Marc 
tion,  though  they  themselves  never  mean  PaciUcum  [the  Pacific  Ocean],  came  to  the 
to  be  chapmen.  These  cry  up  Drake's  southernmost  land  at  the  height  of  5554 
fortune  herein  to  cry  down  his  valor ;  45  latitudes ;  thence  directing  his  course 
as  if  this  his  performance  were  nothing,  northward,  he  pillaged  many  Spanish 
wherein  a  golden  opportunity  ran  his  towns,  and  took  rich  prizes  of  high  value 
head,  with  his  long  forelock,  into  in  the  kingdoms  of  Chili,  Peru,  and  New 
Drake's  hands  beyond  expectation.  But,  Spain.  Then,  bending  eastwards,  he 
certainly,  his  resolution  and  unconqucr- 50  coasted  China,  and  the  Moluccas,  where, 
able  patience  deserved  much  praise,  to  by  the  king  of  Terrenate,  a  true  gen- 
adventure  on  such  a  design,  which  had  tleman  Pagan,  he  was  most  honorably 
in  it  just  no  more  probability  than  what  entertained.  The  king  told  them,  they 
was  enough  to  keep  it  from  being  im-  and  he  were  all  of  one  religion  in  this 
possible.  Yet  I  admire  not  so  much  at  55  respect, —  that  they  believed  not  in  gods 
all  the  treasure  he  took,  as  at  the  rich  made  of  stocks  and  stones,  as  did  the 
and  deep  mine  of  God's  providence.  Portugals.     He   furnished  them  also  with 

Having  now  full  freighted  himself  with      all    necessaries    that    they    wanted. 


On  January  9th  following  (1579),  his  their  envious  pride  was  above  their  cov- 
ship,  having  a  large  w^ind  and  a  smooth  etousness,  who  of  set  purpose  did  blur 
sea,  ran  aground  on  a  dangerous  shoal,  the  fair  copy  of  his  performance,  because 
and  struck  twice  on  it;  knocking  twice  they  would  not  take  pains  to  write  after 
at   the    door   of   death,   which,    no   doubt,   5  it. 

had    opened    the    third    time.     Here    they  I    pass   by   his   next   West-Indian   voy- 

stuck,  from  eight  o'clock  at  night  till  age  (1585),  wherein  he  took  the  cities 
four  the  next  afternoon,  having  ground  of  St.  Jago,  St.  Domingo,  Carthagena, 
too  much,  and  yet  too  little  to  land  on ;  and  St.  Augustine  in  Florida ;  as  also 
and  water  too  much,  and  yet  too  little  10  his  service  performed  in  1588,  wherein 
to  sail  in.  Had  God  (who,  as  the  wise  he,  with  many  others,  helped  to  the  wan- 
man  saith,  '  holdeth  the  winds  in  his  ing  of  that  half-moon,  which  sought  to 
fist,'  Prov.  XXX.  4)  but  opened  his  little  govern  all  the  motion  of  our  sea.  I 
finger,  and  let  out  the  smallest  blast,  haste  to  his  last  voyage, 
they  had  undoubtedly  been  cast  away;  15  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  1595,  perceiving 
but  there  blew  not  any  wind  all  the  that  the  only  way  to  make  the  Spaniard 
while.  Then  they,  conceiving  aright  a  cripple  forever,  was  to  cut  his  sinews 
that  the  best  way  to  lighten  the  ship  was,  of  war  in  the  West  Indies,  furnished 
first,  to  ease  it  of  the  burden  of  their  Sir  Francis  Drake,  and  Sir  John  Hawk- 
sins  by  true  repentance,  humbled  them-  20  ins,  with  six  of  her  own  ships,  besides 
selves,  by  fasting,  under  the  hand  of  twenty-one  ships  and  barks  of  their  own 
God.  Afterwards  they  received  the  com-  providing,  containing  in  all  two  thou- 
munion,  dining  on  Christ  in  the  sacra-  sand  five  hundred  men  and  boys,  for 
ment,  expecting  no  other  than  to  sup  some  service  on  America.  But,  alas ! 
with  him  in  heaven.  Then  they  cast  out  25  this  voyage  was  marred  before  begun, 
of  their  ship  six  great  pieces  of  ordnance.  For,  so  great  preparations  being  too 
threw  overboard  as  much  wealth  as  big  for  a  cover,  the  king  of  Spain  knew 
would  break  the  heart  of  a  miser  to  think  of  it,  and  sent  a  caraval  of  adviso  to 
on  it,  with  much  sugar,  and  packs  of  the  West  Indies;  so  that  they  had  in- 
spices,  making  a  caudle  of  the  sea  round  30  telligence  three  weeks  before  the  fleet 
about.  Then  they  betook  themselves  to  set  forth  of  England,  either  to  fortify 
their  prayers,  the  best  lever  at  such  a  or  remove  their  treasure;  whereas,  in 
dead  lift  indeed;  and  it  pleased  God,  that  other  of  Drake's  voyages,  not  two  of 
the  wind,  formerly  their  mortal  enemy,  his  own  men  knew  whither  he  went; 
became  their  friend ;  which,  changing  35  and  managing  such  a  design  is  like 
from  the  starboard  to  the  larboard  of  carrying  a  mine  in  war, —  if  it  hath  any 
the  ship,  and  rising  by  degrees,  cleared  vent,  all  is  spoiled.  Besides,  Drake  and 
them  off  to  the  sea  again, —  for  which  Hawkins,  being  in  joint  commission, 
they  returned  unfeigned  thanks  to  Al-  hindered  each  other.  The  latter  took 
mighty  God.  40  himself   to   be   inferior   rather   in   success 

By  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  west  than  skill;  and  the  action  was  unlike 
of  Africa,  he  returned  safe  into  England,  to  prosper  when  neither  would  follow, 
and  (November  3rd,  1580)  landed  at  and  both  could  not  handsomely  go 
Plymouth  (being  almost  the  first  of  abreast.  It  vexed  old  Hawkins,  that  his 
those  that  made  a  thorough  light  45  counsel  was  not  followed,  in  present 
through  the  world),  having,  in  his  whole  sailing  to  America,  but  that  they  spent 
voyage,  though  a  curious  searcher  after  time  in  vain  in  assaulting  the  Canaries ; 
the  time,  lost  one  day  through  the  varia-  and  the  grief  that  his  advice  was  slighted, 
tion  of  several  climates.  He  feasted  the  say  some,  was  the  cause  of  his  death, 
queen  in  his  ship  at  Dartford,  who  50  Others  impute  it  to  the  sorrow  he  took 
knighted  him  for  his  service.  Yet  it  for  the  taking  of  his  bark  called  '  the 
grieved  him  not  a  little,  that  some  prime  Francis,'  which  five  Spanish  frigates  had 
courtiers  refused  the  gold  he  offered  intercepted.  But  when  the  same  heart 
them,  as  gotten  by  piracy.  Some  of  hath  two  mortal  wounds  given  it  to- 
them  would  have  been  loath  to  have  been  55  gether,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  of  them 
told,    that    they    had    anrum    Tholosanum      killeth. 

[gold    of    Spain]     in    their    own    purses.  Drake   continued   his   course   for   Porto 

Some  think,  that  they  did  it  to  show  thai       Rico;  and.  riding  within  the  road,  a  shot 


THOMAS  FULLER 


from  the  Castle  entered  the  steerage  of  ing  them  to  smart,  being  beaten  black  and 
the  ship,  took  away  the  stool  from  under  blue  by  the  English,  he  learned  to  arm 
him  as  he  sat  at  supper,  wounded  Sir  them  at  last,  fortifying  the  most  impor- 
Nicholas  Clififord,  and  Brute  Brown  to  tant  of  them  to  make  them  impregnable, 
death.  '  Ah,  dear  Brute !  '  said  Drake,  5  Now  began  Sir  Francis's  discontent  to 
'  I  could  grieve  for  thee,  but  now  is  no  feed  upon  him.  He  conceived,  that  ex- 
time  for  me  to  let  down  my  spirits.'  pectation,  a  merciless  usurer,  computing 
And,  indeed,  a  soldier's  most  proper  be-  each  day  since  his  departure,  exacted  an 
moaning  a  friend's  death  in  war,  is  in  interest  and  return  of  honor  and  profit 
revenging  it.  And,  sure,  as  if  grief  had  lo  proportionable  to  his  great  preparations, 
made 'the  English  furious,  they  soon  after  and  transcending  his  former  achieye- 
fired  five  Spanish  ships  of  two  hundred  mcnts.  He  saw  that  all  the  good  which 
tons  apiece,  in  despite  of  the  Castle.  he  had  done  in  this  voyage,  consisted  in 

America  is  not  unfitly  resembled  to  an  the  evil  he  had  done  to  the  Spaniards 
hourglass,  which  hath  a  narrow  neck  15  afar  off,  whereof  he  could  present  but 
of  land  (suppose  it  the  hole  where  the  small  visible  fruits  in  England.  These 
sand  passeth),  betwixt  the  parts  thereof,  apprehensions,  accompanying,  if  not 
—  Mexicana  and  Peruana.  Now,  the  causing,  the  disease  of  the  flux,  wrought 
English  had  a  design  to  march  by  land  his  sudden  death,  January  28th,  1595. 
over  this  Isthmus,  from  Porto  Rico  to  20  And  sickness  did  not  so  much  untie  his 
Panama,  where  the  Spanish  treasure  was  clothes,  as  sorrow  did  rend  at  once  the 
laid  up.  Sir  Thomas  Baskerville,  gen-  robe  of  his  mortality  asunder.  He  lived 
eral  of  the  land-forces,  undertook  the  by  the  sea,  died  on  it,  and  was  buried  in 
service  with  seven  hundred  and  fifty  it.  Thus  an  extempore  performance 
armed  men.  They  marched  through  deep  25  (scarce  heard  to  be  begun  before  we 
ways,  the  Spaniards  much  annoying  them  hear  it  is  ended!)  comes  off  with  better 
with  shot  out  of  the  woods.  One  fort  applause,  or  miscarries  with  less  dis- 
in  the  passage  they  assaulted  in  vain,  grace,  then  a  long-studied  and  openly- 
and  heard  two  others  were  built  to  stop  premeditated  action.  Besides,  we  see 
them,  besides  Panama  itself.  They  had  3°  how  great  spirits,  having  mounted  to  the 
so  much  of  this  breakfast  they  thought  highest  pitch  of  performance,  afterwards 
they  should  surfeit  of  a  dinner  and  sup-  strain  and  break  their  credits  in  striving 
per  of  the  same.  No  hope  of  conquest,  to  go  beyond  it.  Lastly,  God  oftentimes 
except  with  cloying  the  jaws  of  death,  leaves  the  brightest  men  in  an  eclipse,  to 
and  thrusting  men  on  the  mouth  of  the  35  show  that  they  do  but  borrow  their 
cannon.  Wherefore,  fearing  to  find  the  luster  from  his  reflexion.  We  will  not 
proverb  true,  that  '  gold  may  be  bought  justify  all  the  actions  of  any  man, 
too  dear,'  they  returned  to  their  ships,  though  of  a  tamer  profession  than  a  sea- 
Drake  afterwards  fired  Nombre  de  Dios,  captain,  in  whom  civility  is  often  counted 
and  many  other  petty  towns  (whose  40  preciseness.  For  the  main,  we  say  that 
treasure  the  Spaniards  had  conveyed  this  our  captain  was  a  religious  man 
away),  burning  the  empty  casks,  when  towards  God  and  his  houses  (generally 
their  precious  liquor  was  run  out  before,  sparing  churches  where  he  came),  chaste 
and  then  prepared  for  their  returning  in  his  life,  just  in  his  dealings,  true  of 
home.  45  his  word,  and  merciful  to  those  that  were 

Great  was  the  difference  betwixt  the  under  him,  hating  nothing  so  much  as 
Indian  cities  now,  from  what  they  were  idleness :  and  therefore,  lest  his  soul 
when  Drake  first  haunted  these  coasts,  should  rust  in  peace,  at  spare  hours  he 
At  first,  the  Spaniards  here  were  safe  and  brought  fresh  water  to  Plymouth.  Care- 
secure,  counting  their  treasure  sufficient  50  ful  he  was  for  posterity  (though  men 
to  defend  itself,  the  remoteness  thereof  of  his  profession  have  as  well  an  ebb  of 
being  the  greatest  (almost  only)  resist-  riot,  as  a  float  of  fortune)  and  prov- 
ance,  and  the  fetching  of  it  more  than  idently  raised  a  worshipful  family  of  his 
the  fighting  for  it.  Whilst  the  king  of  kindred.  In  a  word:  should  those  that 
Spain  guarded  the  head  and  heart  of  55  speak  against  him  fast  till  they  fetch  their 
his  dominions  in  Europe,  he  left  his  long  bread  where  he  did  his,  they  would  have 
legs  in  America  open  to  blows ;  till,  find-      a  good  stomach  to  eat  it. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR  (1613-1667) 

Mr.  Saintsbury,  whose  praise  of  Browne's  prose  style  is  quoted  above,  says  in  another  place 
that  *  on  the  whole  no  one  in  English  prose  has  so  much  command  of  the  enchanter's  wand 
as  Jeremy  Taylor ' ;  and  critical  authority  is,  indeed,  much  divided  as  to  the  stylistic  excellences 
of  the  two  writers.  Taylor's  inferiority  is  more  in  thought  than  in  expression,  and  he  has 
the  disadvantage  of  writing  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  theologian  or  cleric  :  Browne  is  a 
layman  and  has  a  touch  of  modern  scepticism.  Taylor  was  the  son  of  a  barber,  spent  many 
years  at  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  became  a  clergyman  and  lost  his  rectory  under  the  Common- 
wealth. He  retired  to  Wales,  and  there  composed  The  Liberty  of  Prophesyinf/,  a  plea  for  tol- 
eration against  Presbyterian  bigotry  (1G47),  Holy  Living  (1G50»,  Holy  Dying  (1051),  A 
Course  of  Sermons  for  all  the  Sundays  of  the  Year  (1G51),  and  The  Golden  Grove,  a  manual 
of  private  devotion  for  young  people  (1655). 


THE    FAITH    AND    PATIENCE    OF      they  never  serve  God,  that  'dwell  in  the 
THE  SAINTS  city  of  rejoicing?'     They  are  like  Dives, 

whose  portion  was  in  this  life,  '  who  went 

(from    a    sermon    preached    at    golden      in  fine  linen,  and  fared  deliciously  every 

grove)  5  day:'    they,    indeed,    trample    upon    their 

briers  and  thorns,  and  suffer  them  not  to 
The  state  of  the  Gospel  is  a  state  of  grow  in  their  houses;  but  the  roots  are 
sufferings,  not  of  temporal  prosperities,  in  the  ground,  and  they  are  reserved  for 
This  was  foretold  by  the  prophets :  '  A  fuel  of  wrath  in  the  day  of  everlasting 
fountain  shall  go  out  of  the  house  of  the  lo  burning.  Thus,  you  see,  it  was  prophe- 
Lord  ct  irrigabit  torrenteni  spinarum  (so  sied,  now  see  how  it  was  performed; 
it  is  in  the  Vulgar  Latin),  and  it  shall  Christ  was  the  captain  of  our  sufferings, 
water  the  torrent  of  thorns,'  that  is,  the      and  he  began. 

state  or  time  of  the  Gospel,  which,  like  a  He  entered  into  the  world  with  all  tl.e 

torrent,  shall  carry  all  the  world  before  it,  15  circumstances  of  poverty.  He  had  a  star 
and,  like  a  torrent,  shall  be  fullest  in  ill  to  illustrate  his  birth;  but  a  stable  for 
weather;  and  by  its  banks  shall  grow  his  bedchamber,  and  a  manger  for  his 
nothing  but  thorns  and  briers,  sharp  af-  cradle.  The  angels  sang  hymns  when  he 
flictions,  temporal  infelicities,  and  perse-  was  born;  but  he  was  cold  and  cried, 
cution.  This  sense  of  the  words  is  more  20  uneasy  and  unprovided.  He  lived  long 
fully  explained  in  the  book  of  the  prophet  in  the  trade  of  a  carpenter:  he,  by  whom 
Isaiah.  '  Upon  the  ground  of  my  people  God  made  the  world,  had  in  his  first 
shall  thorns  and  briers  come  up;  how  years  the  business  of  a  mean  and  ignoble 
much  more  in  all  the  houses  of  the  city  trade.  He  did  good  wherever  he  went; 
of  rejoicing?'  Which  prophecy  is  the  25  and  almost  wherever  he  went,  was 
same  in  the  style  of  the  prophets,  that  my  abused.  He  deserved  heaven  for  his 
text  is  in  the  style  of  the  Apostles.  The  obedience,  but  found  a  cross  in  his  way 
house  of  God  shall  be  watered  with  the  thither:  and  if  ever  any  man  had  reason 
dew  of  heaven,  and  there  shall  spring  30  to  expect  fair  usages  from  God,  and  to 
up  briers  in  it :  '  Judgtnent  must  begin  be  dandled  in  the  lap  of  ease,  softness, 
there ; '  but  how  much  more  '  in  the  houses  and  a  prosperous  fortune,  he  it  was  only 
of  the  city  of  rejoicing?'  how  much  more  that  could  deserve  that,  or  anything  that 
amongst  *  them  that  are  at  ease  in  Sion,'  can  be  good.  But  after  he  had  chosen  to 
that  serve  their  desires,  that  satisfy  their  35  live  a  life  of  virtue,  of  poverty,  and  la- 
appetites,  that  are  given  over  to  their  own  bor,  he  entered  into  a  state  of  death ; 
heart's  lust,  that  so  serve  themselves  that      whose     shame     and     trouble    was    great 

221 


222  JEREMY  TAYLOR 


enough  to  pay  for  the  sins  of  the  whole  and  assaulted  by  the  devil  in  the  wilder- 
world.  And  I  shall  choose  to  express  ness.  His  transfiguration  was  a  bright 
this  mystery  in  the  words  of  Scripture.  ray  of  glory;  l)ut  then  also  he  entered 
He  died  not  by  a  single  or  a  sudden  into  a  cloud,  and  was  told  a  sad  story 
death,  but  he  was  the  '  Lamb  slain  from  5  what  he  was  to  suffer  at  Jerusalem, 
the  beginning  of  the  world:'  for  he  was  And  upon  Palm  Sunday,  when  he  rode 
massacred  in  Abel,  saith  St.  Paulinus;  triumphantly  into  Jerusalem,  and  was 
he  was  tossed  upon  the  waves  of  the  adorned  with  the  acclamations  of  a  king 
sea  in  the  person  of  Noah ;  it  was  he  and  a  god,  he  wet  the  palms  with  his 
that  went  out  of  his  country,  when  10  tears,  svv'eeter  than  the  drops  of  manna, 
Abraham  was  called  from  Charran,  and  or  the  little  pearls  of  heaven  that  de- 
wandcred  from  his  native  soil ;  he  was  scended  upon  Mount  Hermon ;  weeping, 
olYered  up  in  Isaac,  persecuted  in  Jacob,  in  the  midst  of  this  triumph,  over  obsti- 
betrayed  in  Joseph,  blinded  in  Samson,  nate,  perishing,  and  malicious  Jerusalem, 
affronted  in  Moses,  sawed  in  Lsaiah,  15  For  this  Jesus  was  like  the  rainbow, 
cast  into  the  dungeon  with  Jeremiah:  which  God  set  in  the  clouds  as  a 
for  all  these  were  types  of  Christ  suffer-  sacrament  to  confirm  a  promise  and  es- 
ing.  And  then  his  passion  continued  tablish  a  grace;  he  was  half  made  of 
even  after  his  resurrection.  For  it  is  the  glories  of  the  light,  and  half  of  the 
he  that  suffers  in  all  his  members ;  it  is  he  20  moisture  of  a  cloud ;  in  his  best  days  he 
that  'endures  the  contradiction  of  all  was  but  half  triumph  and  half  sorrow: 
sinners';  it  is  he  that  is  'the  lord  of  he  was  sent  to  tell  of  his  Father's  mer- 
life,'  and  is  'crucified  again,  and  put  to  cics,  and  that  God  intended  to  spare  us; 
open  shame '  in  all  the  sufferings  of  his  but  appeared  not  but  in  the  company 
servants,  and  sins  of  rebels,  and  defi-  ^S  or  in  the  retinue  of  a  shower  and  of  foul 
ances  of  apostates  and  renegadoes,  and  weather.  But  I  need  not  tell  that 
violence  of  tyrants,  and  injustice  of  Jesus,  beloved  of  God,  was  a  suffering 
usurpers,  and  the  persecutions  of  his  person:  that  which  concerns  this  question 
church.  It  is  he  that  is  stoned  in  St.  most  is  that  he  made  for  us  a  covenant 
Stephen,  flayed  in  the  person  of  St.  30  of  sufferings :  his  doctrines  were  such 
Bartholomew;  he  was  roasted  upon  vSt.  as  expressly,  and  by  consequent,  enjoin 
Laurence's  gridiron,  exposed  to  lions  in  and  suppose  sufferings  and  a  state  of 
St.  Ignatius,  burnt  in  St.  Polycarp,  affliction;  his  very  promises  were  suffer- 
frozen  in  the  lake  where  stood  forty  ings ;  his  beatitudes  were  sufferings ;  his 
martyrs  of  Cappadocia.  '  Unigcnitus  3S  rewards  and  his  arguments  to  invite  men 
cnim  Dei  ad  pcragcndum  mortis  suae  sac-  to  follow  him  were  only  taken  from  suf- 
ramentum  consummavit  omne  genus  hu-  ferings  in  this  life  and  the  reward  of 
manarmn    passiomun'    said    St.    Hilary;      sufferings  hereafter. 

'  the  sacrament  of  Christ's  death  is  not  to  For  if  we   sum  up  the  commandments 

be  accomplished  but  by  suffering  all  the  40  of  Christ,  we  shall  find  humility,  mor- 
sorrows  of  humanity.'  tification,      self-denial,      repentance,      re- 

All  that  Christ  came  for  was,  or  was  nouncing  the  world,  mourning,  taking  up 
mingled  with,  sufferings ;  for  all  those  the  cross,  dying  for  him,  patience  and 
little  joys  which  God  sent,  either  to  re-  poverty,  to  stand  in  the  chiefest  rank 
create  his  person,  or  to  illustrate  his  45  of  christian  precepts,  and  in  the  direct 
office,  were  abated  or  attended  with  af-  order  to  heaven :  '  He  that  will  be  my 
flictions,  God  being  more  careful  to  es-  disciple,  must  deny  himself,  and  take  up 
tablish  in  him  the  covenant  of  sufferings  his  cross  and  follow  me.'  We  must 
than  to  refresh  his  sorrows.  Presently  follow  him  that  was  crowned  with  thorns 
after  the  angels  had  finished  their  hallelu- 5o  and  sorrows,  him  that  was  drenched  in 
jahs,  he  was  forced  to  fly  to  save  his  Cedron,  nailed  upon  the  cross,  that  de- 
life;  and  the  air  became  full  of  shrieks  served  all  good,  and  suffered  all  evil: 
of  the  desolate  mothers  of  Bethlehem  that  is  the  sum  of  christian  religion,  as 
for  their  dying  babes.  God  had  no  it  distinguishes  from  all  the  religions  in 
sooner  made  him  illustrious  with  a  voice  55  the  world.  To  which  we  may  add  the 
from  heaven  and  the  descent  of  the  Holy  express  precept  recorded  by  St.  James ; 
Ghost  upon  him  in  the  waters  of  baptism,  'Be  afflicted,  and  mourn,  and  weep;  let 
but  he  was  delivered  over  to  be  tempted      your   laughter   be   turned   into  mourning, 


and  your  joy  into  weeping.'  You  see  consequents.  '  At  que  hoc  est  esse  Chris- 
the  commandments:  will  you  also  see  the  tianiun'  [And  this  is  to  be  a  christian], 
promises?     These      they      are.     'In      the  Since  this  was  done  in  the  green  tree, 

world  ye  shall  have  tribulation;  in  me,  what  might  we  expect  should  be  done 
ye  shall  have  peace:  —  Through  many  5  in  the  dry?  Let  us,  in  the  next  place, 
tribulations  ye  shall  enter  into  heaven:  consider  how  God  hath  treated  his  saints 
—  He  that  loseth  father  and  mother,  and  servants  in  the  descending  ages  of 
wives  and  children,  houses  and  lands,  the  Gospel:  that  if  the  best  of  God's 
for  my  name's  sake  and  the  Gospel,  shall  servants  were  followers  of  Jesus  in  this 
receive  a  hundred  fold  in  this  life,  with  10  covenant  of  sufferings,  we  may  not  think 
persecution : '  that  is  part  of  his  reward :  it  strange  concerning  the  fiery  trial,  as 
and,  '  He  chastiseth  every  son  that  he  if  some  new  thing  had  happened  to  us. 
receiveth;  —  if  ye  be  exempt  from  suf-  For  as  the  Gospel  was  founded  in  suffer- 
ferings,  ye  are  bastards,  and  not  sons.'  ings,  we  shall  also  see  it  grow  in  persecu- 
These  are  some  of  Christ's  promises:  will  15  tions;  and  as  Christ's  blood  did  cement 
you  see  some  of  Christ's  blessings  that  he  the  corner-stones  and  the  first  founda- 
gives  his  church?  'Blessed  are  the  poor:  tion;  so  the  blood  and  sweat,  the  groans 
blessed  are  the  hungry  and  thirsty :  and  sighings,  the  afflictions  and  mortifica- 
blessed  are  they  that  mourn:  blessed  are  tions,  of  saints  and  marytrs,  did  make 
the  humble :  blessed  are  the  persecuted.'  20  the  superstructures,  and  must  at  last 
Of  the  eight  beatitudes,  five  of  them  have      finish  the  building. 

temporal    misery    and    meanness,    or    an  If    we    begin    with    the    apostles,    who 

afflicted  condition  for  their  subject.  Will  were  to  persuade  the  world  to  become 
you  at  last  see  some  of  the  rewards  christian,  and  to  use  proper  arguments 
which  Christ  hath  propounded  to  his  25  of  invitations,  we  shall  find  that  they 
servants,  to  invite  them  to  follow  him?  never  offered  an  argument  of  temporal 
'When  I  am  lifted  up,  will  draw  all  prosperity;  they  never  promised  empires 
men  after  me:'  when  Christ  is  'lifted  up,  and  thrones  on  earth,  nor  riches,  nor 
as  Moses  lift  up  the  serpent  in  the  wilder-  temporal  power:  and  it  would  have  been 
ness,'  that  is,  lifted  upon  the  cross,  then  30  soon  confuted,  if  they  who  were  whipped 
'  he  will  draw  us  fter  him.'  '  To  you  and  imprisoned,  banished  and  scattered, 
it  is  given  for  Christ,'  saith  St.  Paul,  persecuted  and  tormented,  should  have 
when  he  went  to  sweeten  and  flatter  the  promised  sunshine  days  to  others  which 
Philippians:  well,  what  is  given  to  them?  they  could  not  to  themselves.  Of  all  the 
some  great  favors,  surely ;  true ;  'It  is  35  apostles  there  was  not  one  that  died  a 
not  only  given  you  that  you  believe  in  natural  death  but  only  St.  John;  and  did 
Christ,'  though  that  be  a  great  matter,  he  escape  ?  Yes :  but  he  was  put  into 
'  but  also  that  you  suffer  for  him,'  that  a  cauldron  of  scalding  lead  and  oil  be- 
is  the  highest  of  your  honor.  And  there-  fore  the  Porta  Latina  in  Rome,  and 
fore,  saith  St.  James,  '  My  brethren,  40  escaped  death  by  miracle,  though  no 
count  it  all  joy  when  ye  enter  into  divers  miracle  was  wrought  to  make  him  escape 
temptations:'  and  St.  Peter;  '  Communi-  the  torture.  And,  besides  this,  he  lived 
eating  with  the  sufferings  of  Christ,  re-  long  in  banishment,  and  that  was  worse 
joice.'  And  St.  James  again :  '  We  count  than  St.  Peter's  chains.  '  Sanctiis  Petrus 
them  blessed  that  have  suffered : '  and  St.  45  in  vinculis,  et  Johannes  ante  Portam 
Paul,  when  he  gives  his  blessing  to  the  Latinam '  [Saint  Peter  in  chains,  and 
Thessalonians,  useth  this  form  of  prayer;  John  before  the  Latin  Gate],  were  both 
'  Our  Lord  direct  your  hearts  in  the  days  of  martyrdom,  and  church-festivals, 
charity  of  God,  and  in  the  patience  and  And  after  a  long  and  laborious  life,  and 
sufferings  of  Christ.'  So  that  if  we  will  50  the  affliction  of  being  detained  from  his 
serve  the  king  of  sufferings,  whose  crown  crown,  and  his  sorrows  for  the  death  of 
was  of  thorns,  whose  scepter  was  a  reed  his  fellow-disciples,  he  died  full  of  days 
of  scorn,  whose  imperial  robe  was  a  and  sufferings.  And  when  St.  Paul  was 
scarlet  of  mockery,  whose  throne  was  taken  into  the  apostolate,  his  commis- 
the  cross,  we  must  serve  him  in  suffer- 55  sions  were  signed  in  these  words:  'I  will 
ings,  in  poverty  of  spirit,  in  humility  and  shew  unto  him  how  great  things  he  must 
mortification;  and  for  our  reward  we  suffer  for  my  name:'  x\nd  his  whole 
shall  have  persecution,  and  all  its  blessed      life  was  a  continual  suffering.     '  Quotidie 


224  JEREMY  TAYLOR 


niorior'  was  his  niuttu,  '1  die  daily;'  giving  to  him  an  entire  power  of  dis 
and  his  lesson  that  he  daily  learned  was,  posing  the  great  change  of  the  world, 
to  '  know  Christ  Jesus,  and  him  cruci-  so  as  might  best  increase  their  greatness 
fied ; '  and  all  his  joy  was  'to  rejoice  in  and  power;  and  he  therefore  did  it,  be- 
the  cross  of  Christ ;  '  and  the  changes  of  5  cause  all  the  power  of  the  Roman  great- 
his  life  were  nothing  but  the  changes  of  ness  was  a  i)rofessed  enemy  to  chris- 
his  sufferings  and  the  variety  of  his  tianity.  And  on  the  other  side,  God  was 
labors.  For  though  Christ  hath  finished  to  build  up  Jerusalem,  and  the  kingdom 
his  own  sufferings  for  expiation  of  the  of  the  Gospel;  and  he  chose  to  build  it 
world ;  yet  there  are  wrepry/xara  OXiiptwv,  lo  of  hewn  stone,  cut  and  broken ;  the 
'  portions  that  are  behind  of  the  suf-  apostles  he  chose  for  preachers,  and  they 
ferings  '  of  Christ,  which  must  be  filled  had  no  learning;  women  and  mean  people 
up  by  his  body,  the  church;  and  happy  were  the  first  disciples,  and  they  had  no 
are  they  that  put  in  the  greatest  sym-  power;  the  devil  was  to  lose  his  king- 
bol :  for  '  in  the  same  measure  you  are  15  dom,  and  he  wanted  no  malice :  and 
partakers  of  the  sufferings  of  Christ,  in  therefore  he  stirred  up,  and,  as  well  as 
the  same  shall  ye  be  also  of  the  consola-  he  could,  he  made  active  all  the  power 
tioii.'  And  therefore,  concerning  St.  of  Rome,  and  all  the  learning  of  the 
Paul,  as  it  was  also  concerning  Christ,  Greeks,  and  all  the  malice  of  barbarous 
there  is  nothing  or  but  very  little  in  20  people,  and  all  the  prejudice  and  the 
Scripture  relating  to  his  person  and  obstinacy  of  the  Jews,  against  this  doc- 
chances  of  his  private  life,  but  his  labors  trine  and  institution,  which  preached,  and 
and  persecutions;  as  if  the  Holy  Ghost  promised,  and  brought,  persecution  along 
did  think  nothing  fit  to  stand  upon  record  with  it.  On  the  one  side,  there  was 
for  Christ  but  sufferings.  .         25  '  scandalum   crucis '    [the   offence   of   the 

And  now  began  to  work  the  greatest  cross];  on  the  other,  '  paliciifia  .yonc- 
glory  of  the  divine  providence;  here  was  forum'  [the  patience  of  the  saints], 
the  case  of  Christianity  at  stake.  The  and  what  was  the  event?  They  that  had 
world  was  rich  and  prosperous,  learned  overcome  the  world,  could  not  strangle 
and  full  of  wise  men ;  the  Gospel  was  3°  Christianity.  But  so  have  I  seen  the 
preached  with  poverty  and  persecution,  sun  with  a  little  ray  of  distant  light 
in  simplicity  of  discourse,  and  in  demon-  challenge  all  the  power  of  darkness,  and 
stration  of  the  Spirit:  God  was  on  one  without  violence  and  noise,  climbing  up 
side,  and  the  devil  on  the  other;  they  the  hill,  hath  made  night  so  to  retire, 
each  of  them  dressed  up  their  city ;  35  that  its  memory  was  lost  in  the  joys  and 
Babylon  upon  earth,  Jerusalem  from  spritefulness  of  the  morning:  and  chris- 
above.  The  devil's  city  was  full  of  tianity  without  violence  or  armies,  with- 
pleasure,  triumphs,  victories,  and  cruelty;  out  resistance  and  self-preservation, 
good  news,  and  great  wealth ;  conquest  without  strength  or  human  eloquence, 
over  kings,  and  making  nations  tributary:  40  without  challenging  of  privileges  or  fight- 
they  '  bound  kings  in  chains,  and  the  ing  against  tyranny,  without  alteration  of 
nobles  with  links  of  iron ;  '  and  the  in-  governiiient  and  scandal  of  princes,  with 
heritance  of  the  earth  was  theirs :  the  its  humility  and  meekness,  with  tolera- 
Romans  were  lords  over  the  greatest  tion  and  patience,  with  obedience  and 
part  of  the  world;  and  God  permitted  to 45  charity,  with  praying  and  dying,  did 
the  devil  the  firmament  and  increase,  the  insensibly  turn  the  world  into  christian, 
wars    and    the    success    of    that    people,      and  persecution  into  victory. 


JOHN  BUNYAN   (1628-1688) 


The  greatest  of  English  allegorical  writers  was  a  Bedfordshire  tinker.  *  I  never  went  to 
school  to  Aristotle  or  Plato,  but  was  brought  up  at  my  father's  liouse  in  a  very  mean  condi- 
tion, among  a  company  of  poor  countrymen,'  he  tells  us  in  his  autobiography,  Grace  abounding 
to  the  Chief  of  Sinners  (IGGG).  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  not  a  conspicuously  bad  char- 
acter, the  worst  faults  of  which  he  can  accuse  himself  being  fondness  for  dancing,  bell-ringing, 
and  other  sports  and  pastimes,  and  a  habit  of  profanity,  for  which  he  acquired  a  local  reputa- 
tion. All  this  was  changed,  however,  by  his  marriage,  about  the  age  of  twenty,  to  a  godly 
wife,  who  brought  about  his  conversion.  He  became  famous  as  a  preacher,  to  the  great  dis- 
pleasure of  the  regular  clergy,  who  were  '  angry  with  the  tinker  because  he  strove  to  mend 
souls  as  well  as  kettles  and  pans.'  After  the  Restoration,  when  the  old  laws  against  dissenters 
were  revived,  he  was  arrested  for  holding  religious  services,  and  remained  in  prison  for  the 
next  twelve  years;  he  made  laces  for  the  support  of  his  family,  preached  to  his  fellow-prisoners, 
studied  the  Bible  and  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  and  wrote  a  large  number  of  religious  tracts. 
It  was  apparently  during  a  later  imprisonment  that  he  wrote  The  Pilt/rim's  Progress,  the  first 
part  of  which  was  published  in  IHTS  and  became  immediately  popular.  After  two  other 
allegorical  stories  —  from  one  point  of  view  religious  tracts,  from  another,  novels  —  The  Life 
and  Death  of  Mr.  Badman  and  The  Holy  War — -he  wrote  the  second  part  of  Pilgrim's  Progress 
(1()S4),  completing  the  pilgrimage  of  Christian,  his  wife  Christiana,  and  their  children.  In 
his  later  years  he  was  active  as  a  nonconformist  minister  (his  congregation  met  in  a  barn 
at  Bedford)  and  he  was  known  in  the  surrounding  country  as  'Bishop  Bunyan  ' ;  his  fame 
as  a  preacher  spread  to  London,  where  he  drew  great  crowds  together  on  his  occasional  visits, 
and  attracted  the  attention  of  royalty ;  but  it  is  only  in  recent  years  that  Bunyan's  literary 
merits  have  been  fully  appreciated  —  his  power  of  imagination  and  realistic  description,  and 
the  forthright  directness  of  his  style. 


From  THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS        very  surprising  to  him,  that  the  sight  of 

the    cross    should    thus    ease    him    of    his 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  the  high-  burden.  He  looked,  therefore,  and  looked 
way  up  which  Christian  was  to  go,  was  again,  even  till  the  springs  that  were  in 
fenced  on  either  side  with  a  wall,  and  that  5  his  head  sent  the  waters  down  his 
wall  was  called  Salvation. ^  Up  this  way,  cheeks.-  Now,  as  he  stood  looking  and 
therefore,  did  burdened  Christian  run,  but  weeping,  behold  three  Shining  Ones  came 
not  without  great  difficulty,  because  of  the  to  him  and  saluted  him  with  '  Peace  be 
load  on  his  back.  to  thee.'     So  the  first  said  to  him,  '  Thy 

He  ran  thus  till  he  came  at  a  place  10  sins  be  forgiven  thee !  '  ^  the  second 
somewhat  ascending,  and  upon  that  place  stripped  hiin  of  his  rags,  and  clothed  him 
stood  a  cross,  and  a  little  below,  in  the  '  with  change  of  raiment ;  '  ■*  the  third 
bottom,  a  sepulcher.  So  I  saw  in  my  also  set  a  mark  in  his  forehead,  and  gave 
dream,  that  just  as  Christian  came  up  him  a  roll  with  a  seal  upon  it,  which  he 
with  the  cross,  his  burden  loosed  from  15  bade  him  look  on  as  he  ran,  and  that  he 
off  his  shoulders,  and  fell  from  off  his  should  give  it  in  at  the  Celestial  Gate.^ 
back,  and  began  to  tumble,  and  so  con-  So  they  went  their  way.  Then  Christian 
tinned  to  do,  till   it   came   to  the   mouth      gave   three   leaps   for   joy,   and   went   on 

of  the  sepulcher,  where  it  fell  in,  and  I      singing 

saw  it  no  more.  20 

Then    was    Christian    glad    and    light-      Thus   far  I  did  come  laden  with  my  sin; 
some,  and  said,  with  a  merry  heart,  '  He      Nor  could  aught  ease  the  grief  that  I  was  in 
hath    given    me    rest   by   his   sorrow,    and 
life    by    his    death.'     Then   he    stood    still         =  Zee  xii.  10. 
awhile   to    look   and   wonder ;    for   it   was  25     ■'  }}^^-  ,]\-  s- 

*  Zee.    in.    4. 
^Zec.  xii.   10.  s  Ep.  i.   13. 

225 


220  JUtllN    BUiNYAlM 


Till  1  came  hither:  What  a  place  is  this!  Chr.  Why  came  you  not  in  at  the  j^ate, 

Must  here  be  the  beginning  of  my  bliss?  which   standeth    at   the    beginning   of   the 

Must  here  the    burden    fall    from    off    my      way?     Know  you  not  that  it  is  written, 
back?  that  he  that  cometh  not  in  by  the  door, 

Must  here  the  strings  that  bound   it   to   me  5  '  but    clinibcth    up    some    other    way,    the 

crack?  same  is  a  thief  and  a  robber?  '  •' 

Blest  cross!  blest  sepulcher!  blest  rather  be  Form,  and  Hyp.  "''hey  said,  That  to  go 

The  man  that  there  was  put  to  shame  for      to  the  gate  for  entrance  was,  by  all  their 
nie!  countrymen,   counted   too   far   about;   and 

10  that,    therefore,    their   usual    way   was   to 
I  saw  then  in  my  dream,  that  he  went      make  a  short  cut  of  it,  and  to  climb  over 
on  thus,  even  until  he  came  at  a  l)ottom,      the  wall,  as  they  had  done, 
where   he   saw,   a   little   out   of   the   way,  Chr.  But  will  it  not  be  counted  a  tres- 

three  men  fast  asleep,  with  fetters  upon  pass  against  the  Lord  of  the  city  whither 
their  heels.  The  name  of  the  one  was  15  we  are  bound,  thus  to  violate  his  re- 
Simple,  another  Sloth,  and  the  third  Pre-      vealed  will? 

sumption.  Form,   and  Hyp.  They  told  him,   that, 

Christian  then  seeing  them  lie  in  this  as  for  that,  he  needed  not  to  trotjble  his 
case,  went  to  them,  if  peradventure  he  head  thereabout;  for  what  they  did,  they 
might  awake  them,  and  cried,  You  are  20  had  custom  for;  and  could  produce,  if 
like  them  that  sleep  on  the  top  of  a  mast,  need  were,  testimony  that  would  witness 
for  the  Dead  Sea  is  under  you  —  a  gulf  it  for  more  than  a  thousand  years, 
that  hath  no  bottom.^     Awake,  therefore,  Chr.  But,     said     Christian,     will     your 

and  come  away;  be  willing  also,  and  I  practice  stand  a  trial  at  law? 
will  help  you  off  with  your  irons.  He  25  Form,  and  Hyp.  They  told  him,  That 
also  told  them,  U  he  that  '  goeth  about  custom,  it  being  of  so  long  a  standing 
like  a  roaring  lion '  comes  by,  you  will  as  above  a  thousand  years,  would  doubt- 
certainly  become  a  prey  to  his  teeth.-  less,  now  be  admitted  as  a  thing  legal  by 
With  that  they  looked  upon  him,  and  any  impartial  judge;  and  besides,  said 
began  to  reply  in  this  sort:  Simple  30  they,  if  we  get  into  the  way,  what's 
said,  'I  see  no  danger;'  Sloth  said,  matter  which  way  we  get  in?  if  we  are 
'Yet  a  little  more  sleep;'  and  Presump-  in,  we  are  in;  thou  art  but  in  the  way, 
tion  said,  '  Every  fat  must  stand  upon  its  who,  as  we  perceived,  came  in  at  the 
own  bottom.'  And  so  they  lay  down  to  gate;  and  we  are  also  in  the  way,  that 
sleep  again,  and  Christian  went  on  his  35  came  tumbling  over  the  wall ;  wherein, 
■way.  now,    is   thy   condition    better   than    ours? 

Yet    was    he    troubled    to    think    that  Chr.  I  walk  by  the  rule  of  my  Master; 

men  in  that  danger  should  so  little  you  walk  by  the  rude  working  of  your 
esteem  the  kindness  of  him  that  so  freely  fancies.  You  are  counted  thieves  al- 
offered  to  help  them,  both  by  awakening  40  ready,  by  the  Lord  of  the  way ;  therefore, 
of  them,  counseling  of  thein,  and  proffer-  I  doubt  you  will  not  be  found  true  men  at 
ing  to  help  them  off  with  their  irons.  the  end  of  the  way.  You  come  in  by 
And  as  he  was  troubled  thereabout  he  yourselves,  without  his  direction ;  and 
espied  two  men  come  tumbling  over  the  shall  go  out  by  yourselves,  without  his 
wall,  on  the  left  hand  of  the  narrow  way ;  45  mercy. 

and    they   made    up    apace   to    him.     The  To   this   they  made   him   but   little   an- 

name  of  the  one  was  Formalist,  and  the  swer;  only  they  bid  him  look  to  himself, 
name  of  the  other  Hypocrisy.  So,  as  I  Then  I  saw  that  they  went  on  every  man 
said,  they  drew  up  unto  him,  who  thus  in  his  way,  without  much  conference  one 
entered  with  them  into  discourse.  5o  with    another ;    save   that   these   two   men 

Chr.  Gentlemen,  whence  came  you,  told  Christian,  that  as  to  laws  and 
and   whither   go   you  ?  ordinances,    they    doubted    not    but    they 

Form,  and  Hyp.  We  were  born  in  the  should  as  conscientiously  do  them  as  he; 
land  of  Vain-glory,  and  are  going  for  therefore,  said  they,  we  see  not  wherein 
praise  to  Mount  Zion.  55  thou   differest    from   us,   but   by   the   coat 

that  is  on  thy  back,  which  was,   as  we 

^  I'r.   xxiii.    34. 

«  Pe.  V,  8.  3  Jn.  X.  I. 


inn.  riUjKiM  b  FKUUKlibb  227 


trow,   given   thee   by   some   of  thy  neigh-      The  hill,  though  high,  I  covet  to  ascend, 

bors,    to    hide    the    shame    of    thy    naked-      The  difficulty  will  not  me  offend ; 

ness.  For  I  perceive  the  way  to  life  lies  here. 

Chr.  By  laws  and  ordinances  you  will      Come,    pluck   up    heart,    let's   neither    faint 
not  be   saved,   since  you  came   not  in  by  5         nor  fear ; 

the  door.i  And  as  for  this  coat  that  is  Better,  though  difficult,  the  right  way  to  go, 
on  my  back,  it  was  given  me  by  the  Lord  Than  wrong,  though  easy,  where  the  end 
of  the  place  whither  I  go ;  and  that,  as  is  woe. 

you    say,    to    cover    my    nakedness    with. 

And  I  take  it  as  a  token  of  his  kindness  10  The  other  two  also  came  to  the  foot 
to  me;  for  I  had  nothing  but  rags  be-  of  the  hill;  but  when  they  saw  that  the 
fore.  And,  besides,  thus  I  comfort  my-  hill  was  steep  and  high,  and  that  there 
self  as  I  go :  Surely,  think  I,  when  I  were  two  other  ways  to  go ;  and  suppos- 
come  to  the  gate  of  the  city,  the  Lord  ing  also  that  these  two  ways  might  meet 
thereof  will  know  me  for  good,  since  I  15  again,  with  that  up  which  Christian 
have  his  coat  on  my  back  —  a  coat  that  went,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill ;  there- 
he  gave  me  freely  in  the  day  that  he  fore  they  were  resolved  to  go  in  those 
stripped  me  of  my  rags.  I  have,  more-  ways.  Now  the  name  of  one  of  those 
over,  a  mark  in  my  forehead,  of  which,  ways  was  Danger,  and  the  name  of  the 
perhaps,  you  have  taken  no  notice,  which  20  other  Destruction.  So  the  one  took  the 
one  of  my  Lord's  most  intimate  associates  way  which  is  called  Danger,  which  led 
fixed  there  in  the  day  that  my  burden  him  into  a  great  wood,  and  the  other  took 
fell  off  my  shoulders.  I  will  tell  you,  directly  up  the  way  to  Destruction,  which 
moreover,  that  I  had  then  given  me  a  led  him  into  a  wide  field,  full  of  dark 
roll,  sealed,  to  comfort  me  by  reading,  as  25  mountains,  where  he  stumbled  and  fell, 
I  go  on  the  way ;  I  was  also  bid  to  give      and  rose  no  more. 

it  in  at  the  Celestial  Gate,  in  token  of  my  I   looked,   then,   after   Christian,   to   see 

certain  going  in  after  it ;  all  which  things,  him  go  up  the  hill,  where  I  perceived 
I  doubt,  you  want,  and  want  them  be-  he  fell  from  running  to  going,  and  from 
cause  you  came  not  in  at  the  gate.  30  going  to   clambering  upon  his  hands  and 

To  these  things  they  gave  him  no  his  knees,  because  of  the  steepness  of  the 
answer;  only  they  looked  upon  each  place.  Now,  about  the  midway  to  the 
other,  and  laughed.  Then  I  saw  that  top  of  the  hill  was  a  pleasant  arbor, 
they  went  on  all,  save  that  Christian  made  by  the  Lord  of  the  hill  for  the  re- 
kept  before,  who  had  no  more  talk  but  35  freshing  of  weary  travelers ;  thither, 
with  himself,  and  that  sometimes  sigh-  therefore.  Christian  got,  where  also  he 
ingly  and  sometimes  comfortably ;  also  sat  down  to  rest  him.  Then  he  pulled 
he  would  be  often  reading  in  the  roll  his  roll  out  of  his  bosom,  and  read 
that  one  of  the  Shining  Ones  gave  him,  therein  to  his  comfort;  he  also  now  be- 
by  which  he  was  refreshed.  40  gan  afresh  to  take  a  review  of  the  coat 
I  beheld,  then,  that  they  all  went  on  or  garment  that  was  given  him  as  he 
till  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  Hill  stood  by  the  cross.  Thus  pleasing  him- 
Difficulty;  at  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  self  awhile,  he  at  last  fell  nto  a  slumber, 
spring.  There  were  also  in  the  same  and  thence  into  a  fast  sleep,  which  de- 
place  two  other  ways  besides  that  which  45  tained  him  in  that  place  until  it  was 
came  straight  from  the  gate;  one  turned  almost  night;  and  in  his  sleep  his  roll 
to  the  left  hand,  and  the  other  to  the  fell  out  of  his  hand.  Now,  as  he  was 
right,  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill;  btit  the  sleeping,  there  came  one  to  him,  and 
narrow  way  lay  right  up  the  hill,  and  awaked  him,  saying,  '  Go  to  the  ant,'  thou 
the  name  of  the  going  up  the  side  of  the  5o  sluggard ;  consider  her  ways,  and  be 
hill  is  called  Difficulty.  Christian  now  wise.'  ^  And  with  that  Christian  sud- 
went  to  the  spring,  and  drank  thereof,  denly  started  up,  and  sped  him  on  his 
to  refresh  himself,^  and  then  began  to  go  way,  and  went  apace,  till  he  came  to  the 
up  the  hill,  saying —  top  of  the  hill. 

55      Now.  when  he  was  got  up  to  the  top 


Ga.  ii.   II 
Is.  xlix. 


5  Pr.  vi.  6. 


228  JOHN  BUNYAN 


of  the  hill,  there  came  two  men  running  slept;  but  that  sight  renewed  his  sorrow 
to  meet  him  amain;  the  name  of  the  one  the  more,  by  bringing  again,  even  afresh, 
was  Timorous,  and  of  the  other  Mistrust;  his  evil  of  sleeping  into  his  mind.'^ 
to  whom  Christian  said.  Sirs,  what 's  the  Thus,  therefore,  he  now  went  on  bewail- 
matter?  You  run  the  wrong  way.  5  ing  his  sinful  sleep,  saying,  'O  wretched 
Timorous  answered,  that  they  were  going  man  that  I  am  !  '  that  I  should  sleep  in 
to  the  City  of  Zion,  and  had  got  up  that  the  day-time !  that  I  should  sleep  in  the 
difficult  place ;  but,  said  he,  the  further  midst  of  difficulty !  that  I  should  so  in- 
we  go,  the  more  danger  we  meet  with ;  dulge  the  flesh,  as  to  use  that  rest  for 
wherefore  we  turned,  and  are  going  back  lo  ease  to  my  flesh,  which  the  Lord  of  the 
again.  hill   hath   erected   only   for  the   relief  of 

Yes,  said  Mistrust,  for  just  before  us      the    spirits    of   pilgrims ! 
lie  a  couple  of  lions  in  the  way,  whether  How  many  steps  have  I  took  in  vain ! 

sleeping  or  waking  we  know  not,  and  we  Thus  it  happened  to  Israel,  for  their  sin; 
could  not  think,  if  we  came  within  reach,  15  they  were  sent  back  again  by  the  way  of 
but  they  would  presently  pull  us  in  pieces.      the   Red    Sea ;   and   I   am   made   to   tread 

Chr.  Then  said  Christian,  You  make  those  steps  with  sorrow,  which  I  might 
me  afraid,  but  whither  shall  I  fly  to  be  have  trod  with  delight,  had  it  not  been 
safe?  H  I  go  back  to  mine  own  country,  for  this  sinful  sleep.  How  far  might  I 
that  is  prepared  for  fire  and  brimstone,  20  have  been  on  my  way  by  this  time !  I 
and  I  shall  certainly  perish  there.  If  I  am  made  to  tread  those  steps  thrice  over, 
can  get  to  the  Celestial  City,  I  am  sure  which  I  needed  not  to  have  trod  but 
to  be  in  safety  there.  I  must  venture.  once;  yea,  now  also  I  am  like  to  be  be- 
To  go  back  is  nothing  but  death;  to  go  nighted,  for  the  day  is  almost  spent.  O 
forward  is  fear  of  death,  and  life  ever-  25  that  I  had  not  slept ! 
lasting  beyond  it.     I  will  yet  go  forward.  Now  by  this  time  he  was  come  to  the 

So  Mistrust  and  Timorous  ran  down  the  arbor  again,  where  for  a  while  he  sat 
hill,  and  Christian  went  on  his  way.  down  and  wept;  but  at  last,  as  Christian 
But,  thinking  again  of  what  he  heard  would  have  it,  looking  sorrowfully  down 
from  the  men,  he  felt  in  his  bosom  for  30  under  the  settle,  there  he  espied  his  roll ; 
his  roll,  that  he  might  read  therein,  and  the  which  he,  with  trembling  and  haste, 
be  comforted;  but  he  felt,  and  found  it  catched  up,  and  put  it  into  his  bosom, 
not.  Then  was  Christian  in  great  dis-  But  who  can  tell  how  joyful  this  man 
tress,  and  knew  not  what  to  do ;  for  he  was  when  he  had  gotten  his  roll  again  ! 
wanted  that  which  used  to  relieve  him,  35  for  this  roll  was  the  assurance  of  his 
and  that  which  should  have  been  his  life  and  acceptance  at  the  desired  haven, 
pass  into  the  Celestial  City.  Here  there-  Therefore  he  laid  it  up  in  his  bosom,  gave 
fore,  he  began  to  be  much  perplexed,  and  thanks  to  God  for  directing  his  eye  to 
knew  not  what  to  do.  At  last,  he  be-  the  place  where  it  lay,  and  with  joy 
thought  himself,  that  he  had  slept  in  the  40  and  tears  betook  himself  again  to  his 
arbor  that  is  on  the  side  of  the  hill;  and,  journey.  But  oh,  how  nimbly  now  did 
falling  down  upon  his  knees,  he  asked  he  go  up  the  rest  of  the  hill !  Yet,  be- 
God  forgiveness  for  that  his  foolish  fact,  fore  he  got  up,  the  sun  went  down  upon 
and  then  went  back  to  look  for  his  roll.  Christian ;  and  this  made  him  again  re- 
But  all  the  way  he  went  back,  who  can  45  call  the  vanity  of  his  sleeping  to  his 
sufficiently  set  forth  the  sorrow  of  remembrance ;  and  thus  he  again  began 
Christian's  heart !  Sometimes  he  sighed,  to  condole  with  himself.  O  thou  sinful 
sometimes  he  wept,  and  oftentimes  he  sleep !  how,  for  thy  sake  am  I  like  to  be 
chid  himself  for  being  so  foolish  to  fall  benighted  in  my  journey  !  I  must  walk 
asleep  in  that  place,  which  was  erected  5°  without  the  sun ;  darkness  must  cover  the 
only  for  a  little  refreshment  for  his  path  of  my  feet;  and  I  must  hear  the 
weariness.  Thus,  therefore,  he  went  noise  of  the  doleful  creatures,  because 
back,  carefully  looking  on  this  side,  and  of  my  sinful  sleep.-  Now  also  he  re- 
on  that,  all  the  way  as  he  went,  if  happily  membered  the  story  that  Mistrust  and 
lie  might  find  his  roll,  that  had  been  his  55  Timorous  told  him  of,  how  they  were 
comfort    so   many    times    in   his   journey. 

lie  went  thus,  till  he  came  again  within         1  Re.  ii.  5.    i  Th.  v.  7,  8. 
sight    of    the    arbor    where    he    sat    and         =  ,  Th.  v.  6.  7. 


inn  rii^»jjx.iivi  :3  rKuuKJi:5:3  229 

frighted    with    the    sight    of    the     Hons.  Por.  What  is  your  name? 

Then    said    Christian    to    himself    again,  Chr.  My   name   is   now    Christian,   but 

These  beasts  range  in  the  night  for  their      my   name   at   the   first   was    Graceless;    I 

prey;   and   if  they   should   meet  with   me      came  of  the  race  of  Japheth,  whom  God 

in    the   dark,   how   should   I   shift   them?  Swill    persuade    to    dwell    in   the   tents   of 

How  should  I  escape  being  by  them  torn      Shem.- 

in   pieces?    Thus    he   went   on   his   way.  Por.  But  how  doth  it  happen  that  you 

But  while  he  was  thus  bewailing  his  un-      come  so  late?     The  sun  is  set. 

happy   miscarriage,   he   lift   up   his   eyes,  Chr.  I  had  been  here  sooner,  but  that, 

and    behold    there    was    a    very    stately  10  '  wretched   man   that   I   am !  '     I    slept   in 

palace    before    him,    the    name    of    which      the    arbor    that    stands    on    the    hill-side; 

was   Beautiful;   and  it  stood  just  by  the      nay,    I    had,    notwithstanding   that,    been 

highway  side.  here  much  sooner,  but  that,  in  my  sleep, 

So  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  he  made  I  lost  my  evidence,  and  came  without  it 
haste  and  went  forward,  that  if  possible  15  to  the  brow  of  the  hill;  and  then  feeling 
he  might  get  lodging  there.  Now  be-  for  it,  and  finding  it  not,  I  was  forced, 
fore  he  had  gone  far,  he  entered  into  a  with  sorrow  of  heart,  to  go  back  to  the 
very  narrow  passage,  which  was  about  place  where  I  slept  my  sleep,  where  I 
a  furlong  off  of  the  porter's  lodge ;  and  found  it,  and  now  I  am  come, 
looking  very  narrowly  before  him  as  he  20  Por.  Well,  I  will  call  out  one  of  the 
went,  he  espied  two  lions  in  the  way.  virgins  of  this  place,  who  will,  if  she 
Now,  thought  he,  I  see  the  dangers  that  likes  your  talk,  bring  you  in  to  the  rest 
Mistrust  and  Timorous  were  driven  back  of  the  family,  according  to  the  rules  of 
by.  (The  lions  were  chained,  but  he  the  house.  So  Watchful,  the  porter, 
saw  not  the  chains.)  Then  he  was  25  rang  a  bell,  at  the  sound  of  which  came 
afraid,  and  thought  also  himself  to  go  out  at  the  door  of  the  house,  a  grave  and 
back  after  them,  for  he  thought  nothing  beautiful  damsel,  named  Discretion,  and 
but  death  was  before  him.  But  the  asked  why  she  was  called, 
porter    at    the    lodge,     whose    name     is  The   porter  answered.  This  man  is   in 

Watchful,  perceiving  that  Christian  made  30  a  journey  from  the  City  of  Destruction 
a  halt  as  if  he  would  go  back,  cried  to  Mount  Zion,  but  being  weary  and  be- 
unto  him,  saying.  Is  thy  strength  so  nighted,  he  asked  me  if  he  might  lodge 
small  ?  ^  Fear  not  the  lions,  for  they  here  to-night ;  so  I  told  him  I  would  call 
are  chained,  and  are  placed  there  for  for  thee,  who,  after  discourse  had  with 
trial  of  faith  where  it  is,  and  for  dis-  35  him,  mayest  do  as  seemeth  thee  good, 
covery  of  those  that  have  none.  Keep  even  according  to  the  law  of  the  house, 
in    the   midst   of   the    path,    and   no   hurt  Then    she    asked   him   whence   he    was. 

shall  come  unto  thee.  and  whither  he  was  going;   and   he   told 

Then  I  saw  that  he  went  on,  trembling  her.  She  asked  him  also  how  he  got 
for  fear  of  the  lions,  but  taking  good  4°  into  the  way ;  and  he  told  her.  Then 
heed  to  the  directions  of  the  porter ;  he  she  asked  him  what  he  had  seen  and 
heard  them  roar,  but  they  did  him  no  met  with  in  the  way ;  and  he  told  her. 
harm.  Then  he  clapped  his  hands,  and  And  last  she  asked  his  name;  so  he  said, 
went  on  till  he  came  and  stood  before  It  is  Christian,  and  I  have  so  much  the 
the  gate,  where  the  porter  was.  Then  45  more  a  desire  to  lodge  here  to-night, 
said  Christian  to  the  porter,  Sir,  what  because,  by  what  I  perceive,  this  place 
house  is  this?  and  may  I  lodge  here  to-  was  built  by  the  Lord  of  the  hill,  for 
night?  The  porter  answered,  This  house  the  relief  and  security  of  pilgrims.  So 
was  built  by  the  Lord  of  the  hill,  and  she  smiled,  but  the  water  stood  in  her 
he  built  it  for  the  relief  and  security  of  50  eyes;  and  after  a  little  pause,  she  said, 
pilgrims.  The  porter  also  asked  whence  I  will  call  forth  two  or  three  more  of 
he  was,  and  whither  he  was  going.  the  family.     So  she  ran  to  the  door,  and 

CiiR.  I  am  come  from  the  City  of  De-  call  out  'Prudence.  Piety,  and  Charitv. 
struction,  and  am  going  to  Mount  Zion;  who,  after  a  little  more  discourse  with 
but  because  the  sun  is  now  set,  I  desire,  55  him.  had  him  into  the  family;  and  many 
if  I  may,  to  lodge  here  to-night.  of    them    meeting   him    at    the    threshold 

^  Mar.   xiii.   34-37.  "  <">e.   ix.    27- 


230  JOHN  BUNYAN 


of  the  house,  said,  '  Come  in,  thou  was  telling  of  it ;  but  yet  I  am  glad  I 
blessed    of    the    Lord;'    this    house    was      heard  it. 

built  by  the  Lord  of  the  hill,  on  purpose  Piety.  Was    that   all   that   you    saw   at 

to  entertain  such  pilgrims  in.  Then  he  the  house  of  the  Interpreter? 
bowed  his  head,  and  followed  them  into  5  CiiR.  No;  he  took  me  and  had  me 
the  house.  So  when  he  was  come  in  and  where  he  showed  me  a  stately  palace, 
sat  down,  they  gave  him  something  to  and  how  the  people  were  clad  in  gold 
drink,  and  consented  together,  that  until  that  were  in  it;  and  how  there  came  a 
supper  was  ready,  some  of  them  should  venturous  man  and  cut  his  way  through 
have  some  particular  discourse  with  lo  the  armed  men  that  stood  in  the  door  to 
Christian,  for  the  best  improvement  of  keep  him  out;  and  how  he  was  bid  to 
time;  and  they  appointed  Piety,  and  come  in,  and  win  eternal  glory.  Me- 
Prudence,  and  Charity  to  discourse  with  thought  those  things  did  ravish  my 
him ;  and  thus  they  began :  heart !     I  would  have  staid  at  that  good 

Piety.  Come,     good     Christian,     since  '5  man's   house  a  twelvemonth,   but   that   I 
we  have  been   so  loving  to  you,   to   re-      knew  I  had  further  to  go. 
ceive  you  into  our  house  this  night,  let  Piety.  And  what  saw  you  else  in  the 

us,    if   perhaps   we   may   better    ourselves      way? 

thereby,  talk  with  you  of  all  things  that  Chr.  Saw !    why,   I    went   but   a   little 

have  happened  to  you  in  your  pilgrim-  20  further,  and  I  saw  one,  as  I  thought  in 
age.  my   mind,   hang  bleeding   upon   the   tree ; 

Chr.  With  a  very  good  will,  and  I  and  the  very  sight  of  him  made  my  burden 
am  glad  that  you  are  so  well  disposed.  fall  off  my  back   (for  I  groaned  under  a 

Piety.  What  moved  you  at  first  to  be-  very  heavy  burden),  but  then  it  fell 
lake  yourself  to  a  pilgrim's  life?  25  Jown    from    off    me.     It    was    a    strange 

Chr.  I  was  driven  out  of  my  native  thing  to  me,  for  I  never  saw  such  a 
country,  by  a  dreadful  sound  that  was  in  thing  before;  yea,  and  while  I  stood 
mine  ears ;  to  wit,  that  unavoidable  de-  looking  up,  for  then  I  could  not  forbear 
struction  did  attend  me,  if  I  abode  in  looking,  three  Shining  Ones  came  to  me. 
that  place  where  I  was.  30  One  of  them  testified  that  my  sins  were 

Piety.  But  how  did  it  happen  that  you  forgiven  me;  another  stripped  me  of  my 
came  out  of  your  country  this  way?  rags,    and    gave    me    this    broidered    coat 

Chr.  It   was    as    God   would    have    it;      which    you    see;    and    the    third    set    the 
for  when   I   was  under  the   fears  of  de-      mark  which  you  see  in  my  forehead,  and 
struction,  I  did  not  know  whither  to  go;  35  gave    me    this    sealed    roll.     (And    with 
but  by  chance  there  came  a  man,  even  to      that  he  plucked  it  out  of  his  bosom.) 
me,    as    I    was    trembling  and  weeping.  Piety.  But   you    saw   more    than    this, 

whose    name    is    Evangelist,    and    he    di-      did  you  not? 

rected  me  to  the  wicket-gate,  which  else  Chr.  The  things  that  I  have  told  you 

I  should  never  have  found,  and  so  set  me  40  were  the  best,  yet  some  other  matters 
into  the  way  that  hath  led  me  directly  I  saw,  as,  namely,  I  saw  three  men, 
to  this  house.  Simple,      Sloth,      and      Presumption,     lie 

Piety.  But  did  you  not  come  by  the  asleep  a  little  out  of  the  way,  as  I  came, 
house  of  the  Interpreter?  with  irons  upon  their  heels;  but  do  you 

Chr.  Yes,  and  did  see  such  things  45  think  I  could  awake  them?  I  also  saw 
there,  the  remembrance  of  which  will  Formality  and  Hypocrisy  come  tumbling 
stick  by  me  as  long  as  I  live;  especially  over  the  wall,  to  go,  as  they  pretended, 
three  things,  to  wit,  how  Christ,  in  to  Zion,  but  they  were  quickly  lost,  even 
despite  of  Satan,  maintains  his  work  of  as  I  myself  did  tell  them;  but  they  would 
grace  in  the  heart ;  how  the  man  had  50  not  believe.  But  above  all,  I  found  it 
sinned  himself  quite  out  of  hopes  of  hard  work  to  get  up  this  hill,  and  as  hard 
God's  mercy ;  and  also  the  dream  of  him  to  come  by  the  lions'  mouths ;  and  truly 
that  thought  in  his  sleep  the  day  of  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  good  man,  the 
judgment   was   come.  porter   that  stands  at  the  gate,   I  do  not 

Piety.  Why,  did  you  hear  him  tell  his  55  know  but  that  after  all  I  might  have 
dream?  gone  back  again;  but  now,   I  thank  God 

Chr.  Yes,  and  a  dreadful  one  it  was.  I  am  here,  and  I  thank  you  for  receiving 
I   thought   it   made  my  heart  ache  as   he      of  me. 


Ihen    Prudence    thought    good    to    ask  Then   said  Charity   to   Christian,   Have 

him  a  few  questions,  and  desired  his  an-  you  a  family?  Are  you  a  married  man? 
swer  to  them.  Chr.  I    have    a    wife    and    four    small 

Prud.  Do  you  not  think  sometimes  of      children, 
the  country   from  whence  you   came?         5       Char.  And    why    did    you    not    bring 

Chr.  Yes,    but   with    much    shame    and      them  along  with  you? 
detestation:  'truly  if  I  had  been  mindful  Chr.  Then    Christian    wept,    and    said, 

of  that  country  from  whence  I  came  out,      Oh  how  willingly  would  I  have  done  it! 
I    might   have    had    opportunity    to    have      but  they  were  all  of  them  utterly  averse 
returned ;     but    now    I    desire     a    better  lo  to   my  going  on   pilgrimage, 
country,  that   is,  an  heavenly.' ^  Char.  But  you   should   have   talked   to 

Prud.  Do  you  not  yet  bear  away  with      them,  and  have  endeavored  to  have  shown 
you    some    of    the    things    that   then    you      them  the  danger  of  being  behind. 
were  conversant  withal?  Chr.  So    I    did;    and    told   Ihem    also 

Chr.  Yes,  but  greatly  against  my  will ;  i5  what  God  had  shown  to  me  of  the  de- 
especially  my  inward  and  carnal  cogita-  struction  of  our  city;  'but  I  seemed  to 
tions,  with  which  all  my  countrymen,  as  them  as  one  that  mocked,'  and  they  be- 
well  as  myself,  were  delighted;   but  now      lieved  me  not.* 

all  those  things  are  my  grief;  and  might  Char.  And  did  you  pray  to   God   that 

I   but  choose  mine  own   things,   I   would  20  he  would  bless  your  counsel  to  them  ? 
choose    never    to    think    of    those    things  Chr.  Yes,   and   that   with   much   affec- 

more;  but  when  I  would  be  doing  of  that  tion;  for  you  must  think  that  my  wife 
which  is  best,  that  which  is  worst  is  with  and  poor  children  were  very  dear  unto 
me.'  me. 

Prud.  Do  you  not  find  sometimes,  as  25  Char.  But  did  you  tell  them  of  your 
if  those  things  were  vanquished,  which  own  sorrow,  and  fear  of  destruction?  for 
at  other  times  are  your  perplexity?  I    suppose    that    destruction    was    visible 

Chr.  Yes,  but  that  is  but  seldom;  but      enough  to  you. 

they   are   to   me  golden  hours,  in  which  Chr.  Yes,    over,    and    over,    and    over. 

such   things   happen   to   me.  30  They    might    also    see    my    fears    in    my 

Prud.  Can     you     remember     by     what      countenance,  in  my  tears,  and  also  in  my 

means  you  find  your  annoyances  at  times,      trembling  under  the  apprehension  of  the 

as  if  they  were  vanquished?  judgment  that  did  hang  over  our  heads; 

Chr.  Yes;   when   I   think   what   I   saw      but  all  was  not  sufficient  to  prevail  with 

at  the  cross,  that  will  do  it;  and  when  I  35  them  to  come  with  me. 

look   upon   my   broidered   coat,   that  will  Char.  But    what    could    they    say    for 

do  it;  also  when  I  look  into  the  roll  that      themselves,  why  they  came  not? 

I   carry   in   my   bosom,   that   will   do   it;  Chr.  Why,    my    wife    was    afraid    of 

and  when  my  thoughts  wax  warm  about      losing  this  world,  and  my  children  were 

whither  I  am  going,  that  will  do  it.  40  given   to    the    foolish    delights    of    youth; 

Prud.  And  what  is  it  that  makes  you      so  what  by  one  thing,  and  what  by  an- 

80  desirous  to  go  to  Mount  Zion  ?  other,    they    left    me    to   wander    in   this 

Chr.  Why,    there   I    hope    to    see    him      manner   alone, 
alive  that   did  hang  dead  on   the   cross;  Char.  But  did  you  not,  with  your  vain 

and  there  I  hope  to  be  rid  of  all  those  45  life,  damp  all  that  you  by  words  used 
things  that  to  this  day  are  in  me  an  by  way  of  persuasion  to  bring  them  away 
annoyance  to  me;  there,  they  say,  there      with  you? 

is  no  death;  and  there  I  shall  dwell  with  Chr.  Indeed,    I    cannot    commend    my 

such  company  as  I  like  best.^  For,  to  life;  for  I  am  conscious  to  myself  of 
tell  you  truth,  I  love  him,  because  I  was  5o  many  failings  therein ;  I  know  also,  that 
by  him  eased  of  my  burden;  and  I  am  a  man  by  his  conversation  may  soon 
weary  of  my  inward  sickness.  I  would  overthrow,  what  by  argument  or  persua- 
fain  be  where  I  shall  die  no  more,  and  sion  he  doth  labor  to  fasten  upon  others 
with  the  company  that  shall  continually  for  their  good.  Yet  this  I  can  say,  I  was 
cry,  '  Holy,  holy,  holy.'  5  very    wary   of   giving   them    occasion,   by 

ijje  3jj   jj_  j6,  any    unseemly     action,     to     make     them 

'  Ro.  vii. 

'  Is.  XXV.  8.     Re.  xxi.  4.  <  Ge.  xix.   14. 


232  JUniN    13Ui\YAi\ 


averse  to  going  on  pilgrimage.     Yea,  for      they  were  beggars  born,  and  their  orig- 
this  very  thing,  they  would  tell  me  I  was      inal  had  been  the  dunghill.* 
too  precise,   and  that   I  denied  myself  of  Thus  they  discoursed   together  till   late 

things,  for  their  sakes,  in  which  they  at  night;  and  after  they  had  committed 
saw  no  evil.  Nay,  I  think  I  may  say,  5  themselves  to  their  Lord  for  protection, 
that  if  what  they  saw  in  me  did  hinder  they  betook  themselves  to  rest:  the  Pil- 
them,  it  was  my  great  tenderness  in  grim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber, 
sinning  against  God,  or  of  doing  any  whose  window  opened  toward  the  sun- 
wrong  to  my  neighbor.  rising;    the    name    of    the    chamber,    was 

Char.  Indeed  tain   hated   his   brother,  10  Peace;  where  he  slept  till  break  of  day, 
'because  his  own  works   were   evil,   and      and  then   he  awoke  and   sang  — 
his     brother's     righteous ;' ^     and    if    thy 

wife    and    children    have    been    offended      Where  am  I  now?    Is  this  the  love  and  care 
with    thee   'for    this,    they    thereby    show      Of  Jesus  for  the  men  that  pilgrims  are? 
themselves  to  be  implacable  to  good,  and  15  Thus  to  provide !  that  I  should  be  forgiven  ! 
'thou   hast  delivered  thy   soul   from  their      And  dwell  already  the  tiext  door  to  heaven! 
blood.'  - 

Now    I    saw    in    my    dream,    that    thus  So,  ni  the  morning,  they  all  got  up ;  and 

they  sat  talking  together  until  supper  after  some  more  discourse,  they  told  him 
was  ready.  So  when  they  had  made  20  that  he  should  not  depart  till  they  had 
ready,  they  sat  down  to  meat.  Now  the  shown  him  the  rarities  of  that  place, 
table  was  furnished  '  with  fat  things.  And  first,  they  had  him  into  the  study, 
and  with  wine  that  was  well  refined:'  where  they  showed  him  records  of  the 
and  all  their  talk  at  the  table  was  about  greatest  antiquity;  in  which,  as  I  re- 
the  Lord  of  the  hill ;  as,  namely,  about  25  member  my  dream,  they  showed  him 
what  he  had  done,  and  wherefore  he  did  first  the  pedigree  of  the  Lord  of  the  hill, 
what  he  did,  and  why  he  had  builded  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  Ancient  of 
that  house.  And  by  what  they  said,  I  Days,  and  came  by  that  eternal  genera- 
perceived  that  he  had  been  a  great  war-  tion.  Here  also  was  more  fully  recorded 
rior,  and  had  fought  with  and  slain  30  the  acts  that  he  had  done,  and  the  names 
'  him  that  had  the  power  of  death,'  but  of  many  hundreds  that  he  had  taken 
not  without  great  danger  to  himself,  into  his  service;  and  how  he  had  placed 
which  made  me  love  him  the  more.^  them    in    such    habitations,    that     could 

For,  as  they  said,  and  as  I  believe  neither  by  length  of  days,  nor  decays  of 
(said  Christian),  he  did  it  with  the  loss  35  nature,  be  dissolved. 

of  much  blood;  but  that  which  put  glory  Then   they   read   to  him    some   of   the 

of  grace  into  all  he  did,  was,  that  he  worthy  acts  that  some  of  his  servants 
did  it  out  of  pure  love  to  his  country,  had  done :  as,  how  they  had  '  subdued 
And  besides,  there  were  some  of  them  of  kingdoms,  wrought  righteousness,  ob- 
the  household  that  said  they  had  seen  40  tained  promises,  stopped  the  mouths  of 
and  spoke  with  him  since  he  did  die  on  lions,  quenched  the  violence  of  fire, 
the  cross;  and  they  have  attested  that  escaped  the  edge  of  the  sword,  out  of 
they  had  it  from  his  own  lips,  that  he  is  weakness  were  made  strong,  waxed  val- 
such  a  lover  of  poor  pilgrims,  that  the  iant  in  fight,  and  turned  to  flight  the 
like  is  not  to  be  found  from  the  east  to 45  armies  of  the  aliens.''^ 
the  west.  They  then  read  again  in  another  part 

They,  moreover,  gave  an  instance  of  of  the  records  of  the  house,  where  it 
what  they  affirmed,  and  that  was,  he  had  was  showed  how  willing  their  Lord  was 
stripped  himself  of  his  glory,  that  he  to  receive  into  his  favor  any,  even  any. 
might  do  this  for  the  poor;  and  that  they  50  though  they  in  time  past  had  offered 
heard  him_ say  and  affirm,  '  that_  he  would  great  affronts  to  his  person  and  pro- 
not  dwell  in  the  mountain  of  Zion  alone.'  ceedings.  Here  also  were  several  other 
They  said,  moreover,  that  he  had  made  histories  of  many  other  famous  things, 
many  pilgrims  princes,  though  by  nature      of   all    which    Christian    had    a    view;    as 

55  of  things  both   ancient   and  modern ;   to- 

'  I    Jn.   iii.    12. 

2  Kze.   iii.    lO.  j       ^^       •      „  n 

3  He.  ii.   14;    15.  ;,S^-."-  ^-  ^^-  *=''"'•   7- 

■  He.  XI.  33.  34. 


gether  with  prophecies  and  predictions  They  said  it  was  Imnianuel's  Land ;  and 
of  things  that  have  their  certain  ac-  it  is  as  common,  said  they,  as  this  hill 
coniplishment,  both  to  the  dread  and  is,  to  and  for  all  the  pilgrims.  And 
amazement  of  enemies,  and  the  com-  when  thou  comest  there,  from  thence, 
fort  and  solace  of  pilgrims.  s  said   they,   thou   mayest   see   to   the   gate 

The     next     day     they     took     him     and      of    the    Celestial    City,    as    the    shepherds 
had    him    into    the    armory,    where    they      that   live   there   will   make   appear, 
showed    him     all    manner    of     furniture.  Now,   he    bethought   himself   of   setting 

which  their  Lord  had  provided  for  forward,  and  they  were  willing  he 
pilgrims,  as  sword,  shield,  helmet,  lo  should.  But  first,  said  they,  let  us  go 
breastplate,  all-prayer,  and  shoes  that  again  into  the  armory.  So  they  did ; 
would  not  wear  out.  And  there  was  and  when  he  came  there,  they  harnessed 
here  enough  of  this  to  harness  out  as  him  from  head  to  foot  with  what  was 
many  men,  for  the  service  of  their  Lord,  of  proof,  lest,  perhaps,  he  should  meet 
as  there  be  stars  in  the  heaven  for  mul-  15  with  assaults  in  the  way.  He  being, 
titude.  therefore,     thus    accoutred,    walketh     out 

They  also  showed  him  some  of  the  with  his  friends  to  the  gate,  and  there 
engines  with  which  some  of  his  serv-  he  asked  the  porter  if  he  saw  any  pil- 
ants  had  done  wonderful  things.  They  grims  pass  by.  Then  the  porter  an- 
showed    him    Moses'    rod ;    the    hammer  20  swered.  Yes. 

and   nail    with    which   Jael    slew    Sisera ;  Chr.  Pray,   did   you   know   him?   said 

the    pitchers,    trumpets,    and    lamps,    too,      he. 

with    which    Gideon    put    to    flight    the  Por.  I  asked  his  name,  and  he  told  me 

armies    of    Midian.     Then    they    showed      it  was  Faithful. 

him  the  ox's  goad  wherewith  Shamgar  25  Chr.  Oh,  said  Christian,  I  know 
slew  six  hundred  men.  They  showed  him ;  he  is  my  townsman,  my  near 
him,  also,  the  jaw-bone  with  which  neighbor;  he  comes  from  the  place 
Samson  did  such  mighty  feats.  They  where  I  was  born.  How  far  do  you 
showed  him,  moreover,  the  sling  and  think  he  may  be  before? 
stone  with  which  David  slew  Goliah  3o  Por.  He  is  got  by  this  time  below  the 
of     Gath ;     and     the     sword,     also,     with      hill. 

which   their   Lord   will   kill   the   Man   of  Chr.  Well,    said    Christian,    good   Por- 

Sin,  in  the  day  that  he  shall  rise  up   to      ter,    the    Lord    be    with    thee,    and    add 
the    prey.     They     showed    him,     besides,      to   all    thy    blessings    much    increase,    for 
many      excellent      things,      with      which  3S  the   kindness   that   thou    hast   showed    to 
Christian     was      much      delighted.     This      me. 
done,   they  went  to  their  rest  again.  Then    he    began    to    go    forward;    but 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that,  on  Discretion,  Piety,  Charity  and  Prudence, 
the  morrow,  he  got  up  to  go  forward;  would  accompany  him  down  to  the  foot 
but  they  desired  li'  n  to  stay  till  the  next  4°  of  the  hill.  So  they  went  on  together, 
day  also;  and  then,  said  they,  we  will,  reiterating  their  former  discourses,  till 
if  the  day  be  clear,  show  you  the  De-  they  came  to  go  down  the  hill.  Then, 
lectable  Mountains,  which,  they  said,  said  Christian,  as  it  was  difficult  com- 
would  yet  further  add  to  his  comfort,  ing  up,  so,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  it  is 
because  they  were  nearer  the  desired  ■*'>  dangerous  going  down.  Yes,  said  Pru- 
Iiaven  than  the  place  where  at  present  dence,  so  it  is,  for  it  is  a  hard  matter 
he  was;  so  he  consented  and  stayed.  for  a  man  to  go  down  into  the  Valley 
When  the  morning  was  up,  they  had  of  Humiliation,  as  thou  art  now,  and 
him  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  bid  to  catch  no  slip  by  the  way;  therefore, 
him  look  south;  so  he  did;  and,  behold,  5o  said  they,  are  we  come  out  to  accom- 
at  a  great  distance,  he  saw  a  most  pany  thee  down  the  hill.  So  he  began 
pleasant  mountainous  country,  beau-  to  go  down,  but  very  warily;  yet  he 
tified  with  woods,  vinevards,  fruits  of  all  caught  a  slip  or  two. 
;orts,     flowers     also,     with     springs     and  Then    I    saw   in    my   dream    that   these 

fountains,  verv  delectable  to  behold.^  ^^  .?ood  companions,  when  Christian  was 
Then  he  asked'  the  name  of  the  country.      Rone  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  gave  him 

ijg_  xxxiii.  16    17.  ^   '°^^   °^   bread,   a    bottle   of   wine,   and 


234  j\^'r:ii>    DUi>i/A.i>i 


a  cluster  of  raisins;  and  then  he  went  will  afford,  1  do  here  promise  to  give 
on    his   way.  thee. 

But   now,   in   this  Valley   of   Humilia-  Ciir.  But    I    have    let    myself    to    an- 

tion,  poor  Christian  was  hard  put  to  it;  other,  even  to  the  King  of  princes;  and 
for  he  had  gone  but  a  little  way,  before  5  how  can  I,  with  fairness,  go  back  with 
he   espied   a    foul   tiend   coming   over   the      thee? 

field  to  meet  him ;  his  name  is  Apollyon.  Apol.  Thou    hast    done    in     this    ac- 

Then  did  Christian  begin  to  be  afraid,  cording  to  the  proverb,  '  Changed  a  bad 
and  to  cast  in  his  mind  whether  to  go  for  a  worse ;  '  but  it  is  ordinary  for  those 
back  or  to  stand  his  ground.  But  he  'o  that  have  professed  themselves  his  serv- 
considcrcd  again  that  he  had  no  armor  ants,  after  a  while  to  give  him  the  slip, 
for  his  back;  and,  therefore,  thought  and  return  again  to  me.  Do  thou  so 
that  to  turn  the  back  to  him  might  give  too,  and  all  shall  be  well, 
him  the  greater  advantage,  with  ease  to  Chr.  I   have  given  him  my  faith,   and 

pierce    him    with     his    darts.     Therefore '5  sworn  my  allegiance  to  him;   how,  then, 
he    resolved    to    venture    and    stand    his      can    I    go    back    from    this,    and    not    be 
ground;  for,  thought  he,  had  I  no  more      hanged  as  a  traitor? 
in  mine  eye  than  the  saving  of  my  life,  Apol.  Thou  didst  the  same  to  me,  and 

it   would   be   the   best   way   to   stand.  yet   I   am  willing  to  pass  by  all,   if  now 

So    he    went    on,    and    Apollyon    met  20  thou  wilt  yet  turn  again  and  go  back, 
him.     Now   the   monster   was   hideous   to  Chr.  What    I    promised    thee    was    in 

behold;  he  was  clothed  with  scales,  my  nonage;  and,  besides,  I  count  the 
like  a  fish  (and  they  are  his  pride),  he  Prince  under  whose  banner  now  I 
had  wings  like  a  dragon,  feet  like  a  stand  is  able  to  absolve  me ;  yea,  and 
bear,  and  out  of  his  belly  came  fire  and  25  to  pardon  also  what  I  did  as  to  my 
smoke,  and  his  mouth  was  as  the  mouth  compliance  with  thee;  and  besides,  O 
of  a  lion.  When  he  was  come  up  to  thou  destroying  Apollyon !  to  speak 
Christian,  he  beheld  him  with  a  dis-  truth,  I  like  his  service,  his  wages,  his 
dainful  countenance,  and  thus  began  to  servants,  his  government,  his  company, 
question  with  him.  30  and     country,     better     than     thine;     and, 

Apol.  Whence  come  you?  and  whither  therefore,  leave  off  to  persuade  me  fur- 
are  you  bound?  ther;   I   am  his  servant,  and   I  will   fol- 

Chr.  I    am    come    from    the    City    of      low  him. 
Destruction,    which    is    the    place    of    all  Apol.  Consider   again,   when   thou   art 

evil,  and  am  going  to  the  City  of  Zion.  35  in  cool  blood,  what  thou  art  like  to  meet 

Apol.  By  this  I  perceive  thou  art  one  with  in  the  way  that  thou  goest.  Thou 
of  my  subjects,  for  all  that  country  is  knowest  that,  for  the  most  part,  his  serv- 
mine,  and  I  am  the  prince  and  god  of  ants  come  to  an  ill  end,  because  they 
it.  How  is  it,  then,  that  thou  hast  run  are  transgressors  against  me  and  my 
away  from  thy  king?  Were  it  not  that  40  ways.  How  many  of  them  have  been 
I  hope  thou  mayest  do  me  more  service,  put  to  shameful  deaths !  and,  besides, 
I  would  strike  thee  now,  at  one  blow,  to  thou  countest  his  service  better  than 
the   ground.  mine,   whereas   he   never   came   yet    from 

Chr.  I  was  born,  indeed,  in  your  the  place  where  he  is  to  deliver  any  that 
dominions,  but  your  service  was  hard,  45  served  him  out  of  their  hands;  but  as 
and  your  wages  such  as  a  man  could  for  me,  how  many  times,  as  all  the 
not  live  on,  '  for  the  wages  of  sin  is  world  very  well  knows,  have  I  delivered, 
death ; '  ^  therefore,  when  I  was  come  to  either  by  power  of  fraud,  those  that 
years,  I  did  as  other  considerate  per-  have  faithfully  served  me,  from  him  and 
sons  do,  look  out,  if,  perhaps,  I  might  50  his,  though  taken  by  them;  and  so  I 
mend   myself.  will  deliver  thee. 

Apol.  There    is    no    prince    that    will  Chr.  His     forbearing    at     present     to 

thus  lightly  lose  his  subjects,  neither  deliver  them  is  on  purpose  to  try  their 
will  I  as  yet  lose  thee;  but  since  thou  love,  whether  they  will  cleave  to  him 
complainest  of  thy  service  and  wages,  55  to  the  end ;  and  as  for  the  ill  end  thou 
be  content  to  go  back ;  what  our  country  sayest  they  come  to,  that  is  most  glo- 
rious  in   their   account;    for,    for   present 

iRo.  vi.  23.  deliverance,  they  do  not  much  expect  it. 


for  they  stay  for  their  glory,  and  then  therefore,  followed  his  work  amain,  and 
they  shall  have  it,  when  their  Prince  Christian  again  took  courage  and  re- 
comes  in  his  and  the  glory  of  the  angels.      sisted    as    manfully    as    he    could.     This 

Apol.  Thou  hast  already  been  un-  sore  combat  lasted  for  above  half  a  day, 
faithful  in  thy  service  to  him ;  and  how  5  even  till  Christian  was  almost  quite 
dost  thou  think  to  receive  wages  of  him  ?      spent ;    for   you    must   know,    that    Chris- 

Chr.  Wherein,  O  ApoUyon!  have  I  tian,  by  reason  of  his  wounds,  must 
been   unfaithful   to   him?  needs  grow  weaker  and  weaker. 

Apol.  Thou  didst  faint  at  first  setting  Then    ApoUyon,    espying    his    opportu- 

out,  when  thou  wast  almost  choked  in  lo  nity,  began  to  gather  up  close  to  Chris- 
the  Gulf  of  Despond ;  thou  didst  at-  tian,  and  wrestling  with  him,  gave  him  a 
tempt  wrong  ways  to  be  rid  of  thy  bur-  dreadful  fall ;  and  with  that.  Christian's 
den,  whereas  thou  shouldst  have  stayed  sword  flew  out  of  his  hand.  Then  said 
till  thy  Prince  had  taken  it  off;  thou  Apollyon,  I  am  sure  of  thee  now.  And 
didst  sinfully  sleep,  and  lose  thy  choice  15  with  that  he  had  almost  pressed  him  to 
thing;  thou  wast,  also,  almost  persuaded  death;  so  that  Christian  began  to 
to  go  back,  at  the  sight  of  the  lions;  despair  of  life:  but  as  God  would  have 
and  when  thou  talkest  of  thy  journey,  it,  while  Apollyon  was  fetching  of  his 
and  of  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen,  last  blow,  thereby  to  make  a  full  end 
thou  art  inwardly  desirous  of  vain-  20  of  this  good  man,  Christian  nimbly 
glory  in  all  that  thou  sayest  or  doest.  reached  out  his  hand  for  his  sword,  and 

CiiR.  All  this  is  true,  and  much  more  caught  it,  saying,  '  Rejoice  not  against 
which  thou  hast  left  out ;  but  the  Prince,  me,  O  mine  enemy :  when  I  fall,  I  shall 
whom  I  serve  and  honor,  is  merciful,  arise ;' ^  and  with  that  gave  him  a 
and  ready  to  forgive ;  but,  besides,  these  25  deadly  thrust,  which  made  him  give 
infirmities  possessed  me  in  thy  country,  back,  as  one  that  had  received  his  mor- 
for  there  I  sucked  them  in ;  and  I  have  tal  wound.  Christian  perceiving  that, 
groaned  under  them,  been  sorry  for  made  at  him  again,  saying,  '  Nay,  in  all 
them,  and  have  obtained  pardon  of  my  these  things  we  are  more  than  conquer- 
Prince.  3°  ors,   through   him   that   loved  us.'  -     And 

Apol.  Then    Apollyon    broke    out    into      with     that     Apollyon     spread     forth     his 
a  grievous  rage,  saying,  I  am  an  enemy      dragon's  wings,  and  sped  him  away,  that 
to    this    Prince ;    I    hate   his   person,    his      Christian     for    a     season    saw    him    no 
laws,    and    people;    I    am    come    out    on      more.^ 
purpose  to   withstand   thee.  3S      In   this   combat   no   man   can   imagine, 

Chr.  Apollyon,  beware  what  you  unless  he  had  seen  and  heard  as  I  did, 
do;  for  I  am  in  the  king's  highway,  the  what  yelling  and  hideous  roaring  ApoU- 
way  of  holiness;  therefore  take  heed  to  yon  made  all  the  time  of  the  fight  — 
yourself.  he    spake    like    a    dragon;    and,    on    the 

Apol.  Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  40  other  side,  what  sighs  and  groans  burst 
over  the  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  and  from  Christian's  heart.  I  never  saw 
said,  I  am  void  of  fear  in  this  matter:  him  all  the  while  give  so  much  as  one 
prepare  thyself  to  die ;  for  I  swear  by  pleasant  look,  till  he  perceived  he  had 
my  infernal  den,  that  thou  shalt  go  no  wounded  Apollyon  with  his  two-edged 
further;  here  will  I  spill  thy  soul.  45  sword;    then,    indeed,    he    did    smile    and 

And    with    that    he    threw    a    flaming      look  upward;  but   it  was  the  dreadfulest 
dart   at   his   breast ;   but   Christian   had   a      sight   that   ever   I    saw. 
shield  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  caught  So   when    the   battle    was    over,    Chris- 

it,   and   so  prevented  the  danger  of  that.      tian    said,    '  I    will    here    give    thanks    to 

Then  did   Christian  draw;   for  he   saw  5o  him  that  delivered  me  out  of  the  mouth 
it  was  time  to  bestir  him:  and  Apollyon      of    the    lion,    to    him    that    did    help    me 
as   fast  made  at  him,  throwing  darts  as      against  Apollyon.'    And  so  he  did. 
thick    as    hail ;    by    the    which,    notwith- 
standing  all    that    Christian    could   do   to  *     *     * 
avoid    it,    Apollyon    wounded   him    in    his  55     ,  j^j   ^,jj   g 
head,    his    hand,    and    foot.     This    made         2  ro.  viii.  37. 
Christian    give    a    little    back;    Apollyon,         ^Ja.  iv.  7. 


JOHN  MILTON  (1608-1674) 


Milton  belonsed  to  a  London  Puritan  family,  and  when  \n;  wont  up  to  Cambridge  at  the  end 
of  James  I's  reign,  it  was  with  the  intention  of  becoming  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, in  which  the  Puritans  were  then  a  party,  hoping  to  substitute  in  it  government  by 
presbyters,  elected  by  church  councils,  for  government  by  bishops,  appointed  by  the  king. 
Changes  in  the  administration  of  the  national  church  under  Charles  I  as  well  as  the  develop- 
ment of  Milton's  own  opinions  led  him  to  abandon  this  puri)ose,  towards  which  all  his  early 
training  was  directed.  He  has  described  his  serious  and  studious  boyhood  in  lines  201-7  cl 
I'aiudlse  Rcyuiind,  P.uok  I.  lie  was  deeply  versed  not  only  in  Creek  and  Latin,  but  also  in 
Hebrew,  and  in  French  and  Italian,  but  his  early  poems  show  no  sign  of  the  mingling  oT 
Christianity  and  paganism  which  is  characteristic  of  lionaissance  thought.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  did  not  share  the  later  Puritan  intolerance  of  innocent  amusements.  Two  of  his 
earlier  poems,  Arcades  (c.  1(530-3)  and  Comus  (1G;3-J:)  and  one  of  his  latest,  Somson  Agonvifes 
(pub.  1(]71),  were  in  dramatic  form;  in  10.30  he  wrote  a  poem  in  praise  of  Shakspere  for  the 
folio  edition  of  the  plays  (see  below),  and  in  L' Allegro  he  speaks  appreciatively  of  both 
Shakspere's  and  Jonson's  comedies  (see  p.  238).  After  seven  years  at  Christ's  College,  where 
on  account  of  his  almost  girlish  beauty  he  was  known  as  '  our  fair  lady  of  Christ's,'  he 
retired  for  further  study  to  Horton  in  Buckinghamshire,  where  his  principal  early  poems  were 
written  (1632-7).  He  then  traveled  on  the  Continent  to  complete  his  education  (ia38-9), 
and  was  recalled  by  the  political  crisis  preceding  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War.  '  I  thought 
it  base,'  he  wrote  later,  '  to  be  traveling  for  amusement  abroad  while  my  fellow  citizens  were 
fighting  for  liberty  at  home.'  Milton  fought,  not  with  the  sword,  but  with  the  pen.  He  per- 
ceived that  '  there  were  three  species  of  liberty  which  are  essential  to  the  happiness  of  social 
life  —  religious,  domestic  and  civil.'  In  1641-2  he  took  an  active  part  in  the  controversy  that 
was  raging  as  to  the  government  of  the  Church  by  bishops,  which  appeared  to  him  contrary 
to  religious  liberty.  His  marriage  in  1643  to  Mary  Powell,  daughter  of  a  Cavalier  and  half 
his  own  age,  turned  out  unhappily ;  she  found  life  with  the  poet  and  pamphleteer  '  very  soli- 
tary '  and  too  '  philosophical,'  and  after  a  month's  experience  of  it  returned  to  her  father's 
house.  This  led  Milton  to  publish  a  series  of  pamphlets  in  favor  of  divorce,  and  he  was  said 
to  be  contemplating  a  marriage  with  Miss  Davis,  the  'virtuous  young  lady'  of  Sonnet  IX 
(see  p.  242)  but,  when  this  came  to  his  wife's  ears,  she  sought  and  obtained  a  reconciliation. 
In  1644  he  wrote  two  important  tracts  —  one  on  education,  and  another  on  the  freedom  of  the 
press  {Arcopagitica) .  In  1649  he  took  up  the  defence  of  the  Commonwealth  for  the  execution 
of  Charles  I,  and  as  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Council  of  State  continued  his  task  with  a  devo- 
tion which  involved  the  sacrifice  of  his  eye-sight  (see  Sonnets,  pp.  243^).  His  pen  was  still 
active  on  behalf  of  religious  toleration  and  republican  government  when  the  Restoration  drove 
him  into  hiding :  he  was  arrested,  but  suffered  no  harm  beyond  a  short  imprisonment  and  the 
burning  of  his  books  by  the  hangman.  He  lost,  of  course,  his  Latin  secretaryship,  and  the 
destruction  of  some  of  his  property  by  the  fire  of  London  brought  him  into  straitened  circum- 
stances; but  his  tastes  were  simple,  and' bating  'not  a  jot  of  heart  or  hope'  he  returned  to  his 
studies.  He  wrote  a  history,  a  logic,  a  Latin  grammar,  a  compendium  of  theology;  but  the 
great  works  of  his  later  years  were  Paradise  Lost  (published  1667),  and  Paradise  Regained  and 
Samson  Agonistcs  (1671).  He  chose  the  subject  of  Paradise  Lost  out  of  some  hundred  which 
he  jotted  down  about  1640,  and  wrote  a  small  part  of  it.  but  the  great  design  was  interrupted 
by  the  Civil  War,  resumed  in  1658,  and  completed  in  1663  or  1665. 


ON  SHAKSPERE 

What  needs  my  Shakspere  for  his  honored 

bones 
The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame 


236 


What    need  'st   thou    such    weak    witness    of 

thy  name? 
Thou   in   our   wonder   and   astonishment 
Hast    built    thyself    a    livelong   monument. 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavor- 
ing art, 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 


Those    Delphic    lines    with    deep    impression 
took,  12 

Then   thou,   our    fancy   of   itself   bereaving. 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiv- 
ing, 
And  so  sepulchercd  in  such  pomp  dost  lie  '5 
That  kings   for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to 
die. 

L'ALLEGRO 

Hence,   loathed   Melancholy, 
Of    Cerberus   and   blackest   midnight   born 
In    Stygian    cave    forlorn, 
'Mongst    horrid     shapes,    and     shrieks,    and 

sights    unholy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell  5 

Where      brooding      Darkness      spreads      his 

jealous   wings 
And   the   night    raven    sings ; 
There,   under   ebon   shades   and   low-browcd 

rocks 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 
In  dark   Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell.       lo 

But  come,  thou   goddess   fair   and   free. 
In   heaven   yclept    Euphrosyne, 
And   by   men   heart-easing   ]\Iirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth 
With   two   sister  Graces  more,  i3 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore : 
Or   whether    (as   some   sager    sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring. 
Zephyr  with   Aurora   playing 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And   fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew. 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,   nymph,   and   bring  with   thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  jollity,  26 

Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go 
On   the   light   fantastic   toe ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee         35 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And,  if  I   give  thee  honor  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free  :  —  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 
And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 


Then  to  come,  in   spite  of   sorrow,  45 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 

Through  the   sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 

Or    the    twisted    eglantine ; 

While   the   cock,    with   lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin,  50 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 

Stoutly   struts   his  dames  before; 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  5 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ; 

Some   time   walking,   not   unseen. 

By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 

Right    against    the    eastern    gate 

Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state  60 

Robed  in   flames   and   amber   light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 

While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 

Whistles  o'er  the   furrowed  land. 

And   the   milkmaid    singeth   blithe,  65 

And  the  mower  whets  his   scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells   his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in   the  dale. 

Straight     mine      eye      hath      caught     new 
pleasures, 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures :  70 
Russet   lawns,   and    fallows   gray. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 
Mountains    on    whose    barren    breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Aleadows    trim,    with    daisies    pied,  75 

Shallow  brooks,   and   rivers   wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed   high   in    tufted   trees. 
Where,   perhaps,    some   beauty   lies. 
The   cynosure   of   neighboring   eyes.  80 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes,  85 

Which   the  neat-handed    Phyllis   dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves. 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves. 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.  90 

Sometimes,   with   secure  delight. 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid  95 

Dancing  in   the  checkered   shade, 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On    a    sunshine   holyday, 
Till  the   livelong  daylight   fail ; 
Then   to   the   spicy  nut-brown   ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat: 


238 


JOHN  MILTON 


How   fairy   Mab  the  junkets  cat; 

She  was  pinched,  and  pulled  she  said ; 

And  he,  by   friar's   lantern   led. 

Tells  how  the  drudging  gol)lin  sweat         '05 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When,   in   one   night,  ere  glimpse  of   morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  liath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten   day-laborers  could  not  end  ; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend,         no 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And,  crop-full,  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin   rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,     ns 

By  whispering  winds   soon   lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And   the  busy  hum   of   men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold,     i-o 
With   store  of  ladies,   whose  bright   eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  i-S 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 
And  pomp,  and   feast,  and  revelry, 
With    mask   and   antique   pageantry; 
Such  sighs  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.         130 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 
Or    sweetest    Shakspere,    Fancy's   child. 
Warble   his   native   wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  i3S 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs 
Married   to   immortal   verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,         140 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning. 
The   melting   voice   through   mazes    running. 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head,  '45 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

IL  PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys. 
The  brood  of  Folly,  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bested. 
Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys! 


Dwell   in    some    idle   brain,  s 

And    fancies    fond    with   gaudy   shapes   pos- 
sess 
As  thick  and  numberless 
As    the    gay    motes    that    people    the    sun- 
beams. 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 
The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train.  1° 
But,  hail !   thou  goddess  sage  and  holy. 
Hail,   divincst   Melancholy, 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And,  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view,  '5 

O'erlaid    with    black,    staid    Wisdom's    hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince   Memnon's   sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  starred   Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  ^° 

The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher   far  descended ; 
Thee   bright-haired   Vesta,   long  of  yore. 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 
His   daughter   she;    in    Saturn's   reign         25 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain. 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 
Whilst  yet  there  was   no   fear  of  Jove.     3o 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,   steadfast,   and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with   majestic  train, 
And   sable   stole  of   cypress   lawn  35 

Over  thy  decent   shoulders   drawn. 
Come,   but   keep   thy   wonted   state. 
With   even    step,    and    musing   gait,  ft 
And    looks   commercing   with   the    skies. 
Thy   rapt   soul   sitting  in   thine   eyes :  4° 

There,   held   in  holy  passion   still. 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till. 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast. 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 
And   join   with  thee  calm   Peace   and   Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet,  46 
And  hears  the  Muses,  in  a  ring. 
Aye   round   about  Jove's   altar   sing. 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure.  50 
But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring. 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 
The    cherub    Contemplation  ; 
And   the   mute   silence   hist   along,  5i 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 
In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of   Night, 
While   Cynthia   checks   her   dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 


XJ-.     JT  X:.iN  OIZ-IVWOW 


Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 
Most  musical,   most   melancholy ! 
Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song; 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  6s 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near   her   highest   noon. 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,   7o 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 
Stooping    through    a    fleecy    cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide  watered  shore,  75 

Swinging   slow   with   sullen   roar ; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still,  removed  place  will  fit. 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach   light   to   counterfeit   a   gloom ;  80 

Far    from   all    resort   of   mirth. 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let   my   lamp,   at   midnight  hour,         85 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower 
Where  I  may  oft  outwa.tch  the  Bear 
With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The   spirit  of   Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold     90 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath   forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook. 
And  of  those  demons  that  are   found 
In  fire,  air,   flood,  or  underground, 
Whose   power  hath   a  true  consent,  95 

With   planet   or   with   element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy, 
In  sceptered  pall,  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or   Pelops'  line. 
Or   the  tale  of   Troy  divine,  1°° 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled   hath  the  buskined   stage. 

But,  O,  sad  virgin !  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musseus  from  his  bower; 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  105 

Such  notes  as,   warbled  to  the   string. 
Drew  iron  tears  down   Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan   bold,  no 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife 
That   owned  the  virtuous   ring  and   glass. 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass. 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride;  I'S 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
Tn  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 
Of  tourneys,  and  of  trophies  hung. 


^ 

Of   forests,   and   enchantments   drear. 
Where   more   is   meant  than   meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 
Till  civil-suited   Morn   appear. 
Not  tricked  and   frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While   rocking  winds  are   piping   loud ; 
Or  ushered   with  a  shower   still. 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves.     130 
And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched   walks  of   twilight  groves, 
And   shadows   brown,   that   Sylvan   loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  135 

Where   the   rude   axe   with   heaved   stroke 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt 
Or   fright  them   from   their  hallowed   haunt. 
Inhere  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  14° 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 
While  the  bee,  with  honied  thigh. 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And   the   waters   murmuring. 
With  such  concert  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep ; 
And   let   some  strange   mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 
Of   lively   portraiture   displayed, 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid.  150 

And,   as   I   wake,   sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath. 
Sent  by   some   spirit   to   mortals  good, 
Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  '55 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale. 
And   love   the   high   embowed   roof, 
With  antique   pillars   massy   proof. 
And    storied    windows   richly   dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light:  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the   full-voiced  choir  below 
In    service    high    and    anthems    clear 
As   may  with   sweetness,   through   mine   ear, 
Dissolve  me  into   ecstasies,  165 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown   and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And   every  herb  that   sips  the  dew. 
Till   old    experience   do   attain 
To   something  like  prophetic   strain. 

These   pleasures.    Melancholy,   give,         i75 
.'\.nd  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


240 


JOHN  MILTON 


LYCIDAS 

Yet    once    more,    O    ye    laurels,    and    once 

more, 
Ye   myrtles   brown,   with   ivy  never   sere, 
I    come,    to    pluck    your    berries    harsh    and 

crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter   your    leaves    before    the    mellowing 
year.  5 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer ; 
Who     would    not    sing    for    Lycidas?     He 
knew  1° 

Himself   to   sing,   and   build   the  lofty   rime. 
He  must  not   float   upon   his   watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 
Begin,  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well     i? 
That    from   beneath   the    seat   of   Jove   doth 

.spring: 
Begin,     and     somewhat     loudly     sweep     the 

string ; 
Hence   with  denial   vain,  and  coy  excuse: 
So   may   some   gentle   muse 
With   lucky   words    favor    my   destined   urn. 
And  as  he  passes,  turn,  ^'J 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud ! 
For   we   were   nursed  upon   the   self-same 
hill. 
Fed    the    same    flock,    by    fountain,    shade, 

and    rill. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the   opening  eyelids   of   the   morn,  =6 
We   drove   a-field,   and   both   together   heard 
What    time    the    gray-fly    winds    her    sultry 

horn. 
Battening   our    flocks    with    the    fresh    dews 

of   night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward    heaven's    descent    had    sloped    his 
westering  wheel.  3i 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute; 
Tempered    to    the    oaten    flute 
Rough  satyrs  danced,  and  fauns  with  cloven 

heel 

From  the  glad   sound  would  not  be  absent 

long:  35 

And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh !  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art 

gone, 

Now  thou  art  gone  and  never  must  return ! 

Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert 

caves. 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'er- 
grown,  40 


And  all  their  echoes,  mourn  : 

The  willows,  and  the  hazel   copses  green. 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 

Fanning    their    joyous    leaves    to    thy    soft 

lays 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose,  45 

Or    tainl-worm    to    the    weanling   herds    that 

graze. 
Or    frost    to    flowers    that    their    gay    ward- 
robe   wear. 
When    first    the   white-thorn    blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
Where    were    ye,    Nymphs,    when    the    re- 
morseless   deep  so 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the   steep 
Where  your   old  bards,  the   famous   Druids, 

He, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor    yet    where    Deva    spreads    her    wizard 

stream:  55 

Ah  me!   I   fondly  dream, 
'Had    ye     been    there':     .     .     .     for     what 

could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus 

bore, 
The   Muse   herself,   for   her   enchanting   son 
Whom   universal   nature   did   lament,  6o 

When   by   the   rout   that   made   the   hideous 

roar 
His   gory  visage  down   the   stream  was 

sent, 
Down    the    swift    Hebrus    to    the    Lesbian 

shore  ? 
Alas !    what   boots   it    with    incessant   care 
To    tend    the    homely,    slighted,    shepherd's 

trade,  65 

And    strictly  meditate   the   thankless   Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 

raise  70 

(The  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To   scorn   delights   and   live   laborious   days : 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to. burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes    the    blind    Fury    with    the    abhorred 

shears  75 

And   slits  the  thin-spun  life.     '  But  not  the 

praise,' 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling 

ears: 
'  Fame   is   no   plant   that   grows    on    mortal 

soil. 
Nor  in  the  glistening   foil 
Set   off   to  the   world,  nor   in   broad   rumor 

lies,  8" 


1^  1  V^IJ^/^O 


But  lives  and   spreads  aloft  by  those  pure 

eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove: 
As  he   pronounces   lastly  on   each   deed, 
Of    so    much    fame    in    heaven    expect    thy 

meed.' 
O    fountain    Arethuse,   and   thou    honored 

flood,  8s 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal 

reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the   sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea ;  9o 

He   asked   the    waves,   and   asked   the    felon 

winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle 

swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust,  of  rugged  wings, 
That   blows   from  off  each  beaked  promon- 
tory: 
They  know  not  of  his   story :  9S 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That    not    a    blast    was    from    his    dungeon 

strayed. 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,       loo 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 

dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next,  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing 

slow. 
His   mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet   sedge 
Inwrought    with    figures    dim    and    on    the 

edge  i°s 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with 

woe. 
'  Ah !  who  hath  reft,'  quoth  he,  '  my  dearest 

pledge? ' 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The   pilot   of   the   Galilean  lake. 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore,  of  metals  twain. 
The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain,     m 
He   shook  his  mitered  locks,  and  stern  be- 
spake  : 
'  How   well    could    I    have    spared    for   thee, 

young   swain. 
Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,    and    intrude,    and    climb    into    the 

fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make  ii6 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 
Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know 

how  to  hold 
A    sheep-hook,   or   have    learned   ought   else 

the  least  '^o 


^4^ 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  be- 
longs ! 

What  recks  it  them?  What  need  they? 
They  are  sped, 

And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy 
songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched 
straw  ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not 
fed,  125 

But,  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist 
they   draw. 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf,  with  privy 
paw, 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands   ready  to   smite  once,   and   smite  no 

more.'  131 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 

That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return,  Sicilian 
Muse, 

And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither 
cast 

Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand 
hues.  13s 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers 
use 

Of  shades  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing 
brooks. 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely 
looks. 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enameled 
eyes 

That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed 
showers,  140 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flow- 
ers. 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with 
jet,_ 

The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  wood- 
bine. 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive 
head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery 
wears ; 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 

And    daffodillies    fill    their   cups    with    tears, 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid 
lies.  151 

For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  sur- 
mise : 

.^h  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sound- 
ing seas 


242 


JOHN  MILTON 


Wash    far    away,    whore  'er    thy    hones    arc 
hurled;  '55 

Whether   hcyond   the   stormy   Hehridcs, 
Where    thou,    pcrliaps    uiukr    llie    whehning 

tide. 
Visit's!  the  hottom  of  the  monstrous  world; 
Or    whether    thou,    to    our    moist    vows    de- 
nied, 
Sleep'st  hy  the   fable  of  Bellcrus  old,       'So 
Where    the    great    vision    of    the    guarded 

mount 
Looks     toward     Namancos     and     Bayona's 

hold : 
Look  homeward,  angel,  now,  and  melt  with 

ruth; 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  ih'^  hapless  youth. 

Weep   no    more,    woeful    shepherds,    weep 

no    more,  '"^S 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 

Sunk    though    he    be    beneath    the    watery 

floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean-bed. 
And   yet  anon   repairs   his   drooping  head, 
And   tricks  his  beams,  and,  with  new   span- 
gled ore,  '7° 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 
Through     the     dear     might     of     Him     that 

walked  the  waves. 
Where,     other    groves    and    other     streams 

along. 
With   nectar   pure   his   oozy  locks  he   laves. 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song  176 
In    the    blest    kingdoms    meek    of    joy    and 

love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In   solemn   troops  and   sweet   societies 
That     sing,     and,     singing,    in    their    glory 
move,  180 

And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks 

and    rills,  186 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals 

gray; 
He    touched    the    tender    stops    of    various 

quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay; 
And  now  the  sun  had   stretched  out   all  the 

hills.  190 

And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay; 
At    last    he    rose,    and    twitched    his    mantle 

blue ; 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  jiastures  new. 


SONNETS 

WHEN     TllK     ASSAULT     WAS     INTENDED     TO 
THE    CTTV 

Captain  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  arms. 
Whose    chance    on    these    defenseless    doors 

may    seize, 
If  deed  of  honor  did  thee  ever  please. 
Guard    them,   and    him    within   prt)tect    from 

harms, 
lie    can     requite    thee;     for    he    knows    the 

charms  5 

That  call   fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and 

seas. 
Whatever     clime     the     sun's     bright     circle 

warms. 
Lift     not     thy     spear     against     the     Muses' 

jjower : 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare     10 
The    house    of    Pindarus,    when    temple    and 

tower 
Went   to   the   ground ;   and  the   repeated   air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 

[to   a  virtuous    young   LADY  ] 

Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth 
Wisely  hast  shunned  the  broad  way  and  the 

green, 
And  with  those  few  art  eminently  seen 
That  labor  up  the  hill  of  heavenly  truth,     4 
The   better   part   with   Mary   and   with   Ruth 
Chosen   thou   hast ;   and  they  that   overween, 
And  at  thy  growing  virtues  fret  their  spleen. 
No  anger  find  in  thee,  but  pity  and  ruth. 
Thy  care  is  fixed,  and  zealously  attends 
To    fill    thy    odorous    lamp    w'ith    deeds    of 

light,  10 

And  hope  that  reaps  not  shame.     Therefore 

be  sure 
Thou,  when  the  Bridegroom  with  his  feast- 

ful   friends 
Passes  to  bliss  at  the  mid-hour  of  night. 
Hast   gained  thy  entrance,  virgin   wise   and 

pure. 

on     the    detraction     which     FOLLOWED    UPON 
MV    WRITING   certain   TREATISES 

A   book  was  writ   of  late  called   Tcfrachor- 

don. 
And    woven    close,    both    matter,    form,   and 

style : 
The    subject    new:    it    walked    the    town    a 

while, 
Numbering     good     intellects ;     now     seldom 

pored   on. 


OWiMNJll  :5 


^4^ 


Cries    the    stall-reader,    '  Bless    us !    what    a 

word    on  5 

A  title  page  is  this  !  '  and  some  in  file 
Stand   spelling   false,   while   one   might   walk 

to  Mile- 
End    Green.     Why,    is    it   harder,    sirs,    than 

Gordon, 
Colkitto,  or  Macdoniicl,  or   Galaspf 
Those    rugged    names    to    our    like    mouths 

grow   sleek  "^ 

That  would  have  made  Quintilian  stare  and 

gasp. 
Thy    age,    like    ours,    O    soul    of    Sir    John 

Cheke, 
Hated  not  learning  worse  than  toad  or  asp. 
When   thou    taught'st    Cambridge   and    King 

Edward   Greek. 


ON   THE  SAME 

I  did  but  prompt  the  age  to  quit  their  clogs 
By  the  known  rules  of  ancient  liberty. 
When    straight  a  barbarous   noise    environs 

me 
Of  owls  and  cuckoos,  asses,  apes,  and  dogs ; 
As  when  those  hinds  that  were  transformed 

to   frogs  5 

Railed   at   Latona's   twin-born   progeny. 
Which  after  held  the  sun  and  moon  in  foe. 
But  this  is  got  by  casting  pearl  to  hogs, 
That    bawl    for    freedom    in    their    senseless 

mood, 
And  still  revolt  when  truth  would  set  them 

free.  'o 

License  they  mean  when  they  cry  Liberty ; 
For  who  loves  that  must  first  be  wise  and 

good: 
But  from  'that  mark  how  far  they  rove  we 

see, 
For    all   this    waste   of   wealth    and    loss    of 

blood. 

TO   THE   LORD    GENERAL   CROMWELL    MAY    1652 

ON  THE  PROPOSALS  OF  CERTAIN  MINISTERS  AT 
THE  COMMITTEE  FOR  PROPAGATION  OF  THE 
GOSPEL 

Cromwell,   our  chief   of  men,  who  through 

a  cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but   detractions  rude, 
Guided  by   faith   and   matchless   fortiturjc. 
To   peace   and   truth   thy   glorious    way   Iiast 

ploughed, 
And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud 
Hast    reared    God's   trophies,    and    his    work 

pursued,  ^ 

While   Darwcn   stream,  with   blood  of   Scots 

imbrued. 


And     Dunbar     field,     resounds     thy     praises 

loud. 
And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath :  yet  much 

remains 
To  conquer  still;  Peace  hath  her  victories  'o 
No    less    renowned    than    War :    new    foes 

arise. 
Threatening  to  bind   our   souls   with   secular 

chains. 
Help   us    to   save    free   conscience    from   the 

paw 
Of    hireling   wolves,    whose    Gospel    is    their 

maw. 

ON   THE   LATE   MASSACRE   IN    PIEDMONT 

Avenge,    O    Lord,    thy    slaughtered    saints, 

whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ; 
Even   them   who   kept   thy   truth   so   pure   of 

old. 
When    all    our    fathers    worshipped    stocks 

and  stones, 
Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who    were   thy   sheep,   and    in    their   ancient 

fold  6 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother   with  infant  down   the  rocks.     Their 

moans 
The   vales   redoubled   to   the   hills,    and   they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes 

sow  10 

O'er   all  the    Italian   fields,   where   still   doth 

sway 
The  triple  Tyrant  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the   Babylonian   woe. 

[on    HIS    BLINDNESS  ] 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half   my  days   in  this  dark   world  and 

wide. 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged    with    me    useless,    though    my    soul 

more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide,    6 
'Doth   God   exact  day-labor,   light   denied?' 
I    fondly   ask.     But    Patience,   to   prevent 
That   murnnir,   soon   replies,   '  God   doth   not 

need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who 
best  '° 

Bear    his    mild    yoke,    they    serve    him    best. 

His   state 
Is    kingly:    thousands   at   his   bidding   speed, 
.And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest : 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 


244 


lUniN     iVlil^HJiN 


[to  cyriack  skinner  ] 
Cyriack,    this    three    years'    day    these    eyes, 

though    clear, 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Rereft    of    light,    their    seeing   have    forgot; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth   sight  appear 
Of    sun,   or   moon,   or   star,   throughout   the 

year,  ^ 

Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 
Against    Heaven's    hand    or    will,    nor    bate 

a   jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right     onward.     What     supports     me,     dost 

thou  ask? 
The   conscience,    friend,    to    have    lost   them 

overplied  '° 

In  liberty's  defense,  my  noble  task, 
Of    which    all    Europe    rings    from    side    to 

side. 
This    thought    might    lead    me    through    the 

world's  vain  mask 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 

[on  his  deceased  wife] 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband 

gave. 
Rescued   from  Death  by   force,  though  pale 

and  faint. 
Mine,  as  whom  washed  from  spot  of  child- 
bed taint  5 
Purification  in  the  old   law  did  save, 
And  such  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full    sight    of    her    in    heaven    without    re- 
straint. 
Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind. 
Her    face    was    veiled ;    yet    to    my    fancied 
sight                                                                 10 
Love,    sweetness,    goodness,    in    her    person 

shined 
So  clear  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But,  oh !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my 
night. 


PARADISE  LOST 
BOOK  I 

THE    ARGUMENT 

This  First  Book  proposes,  first  in  brief,  the  whole 
subject, —  Man's  disobedience,  and  the  loss 
thereupon  of  Paradise,  wherein  he  was  placed: 
then  touches  the  prime  cause  of  his  fall, —  the 
serpent,   or   rather   Satan   in   the   serpent;    who, 


revolting  from  God,  and  drawing  to  his  side 
many  legions  of  angels,  was,  by  the  command 
of  God,  driven  out  of  heaven,  with  all  his 
crew,  into  the  great  deep.  Which  action 
passed  over,  the  poem  hastens  into  the  midst 
of  things,  presenting  Satan,  with  his  angels, 
now  fallen  into  hell,  described  here,  not  in 
the  center  (for  heaven  and  earth  may  be  sup- 
I)osed  as  yet  not  made,  certainly  not  yet  ac- 
cursed), but  in  a  place  of  utter  darkness,  fit- 
liest  called  Chaos:  here  Satan  with  his  angels, 
lying  on  the  burning  lake,  thunderstruck  and 
astonished,  after  a  certain  space  recovers,  as 
from  confusion,  calls  up  him  who  next  in  order 
and  dignity  lay  by  him.  They  confer  of  their 
miserable  fall;  Satan  awakens  all  his  legions, 
who  lay  till  then  in  the  same  manner  con- 
founded. They  rise;  their  numbers;  array  of 
battle;  their  chief  leaders  named,  according  to 
the  idols  known  afterwards  in  Canaan  and  the 
countries  adjoining.  To  these  Satan  directs  his 
speech,  comforts  them  with  hope  yet  of  regain- 
ing heaven,  but  tells  them  lastly  of  a  new  world 
and  new  kind  of  creature  to  be  created,  ac- 
cording to  an  ancient  prophecy,  or  report,  in 
heaven  —  for,  that  the  angels  were  long  before 
this  visible  creation,  was  the  opinion  of  many 
ancient  fathers.  To  find  out  the  truth  of  this 
prophecy,  and  what  to  determine  thereon,  he 
refers  to  a  full  council.  What  his  associates 
thence  attempt.  Pandemonium,  the  palace  of 
Satan,  rises,  suddenly  built  out  of  the  deep: 
the   infernal   peers  there   sit   in   council. 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death   into  the  world,  and  all  our 

woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful   seat,     S 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of   Oreb,  or  of   Sinai,  did'st   inspire 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen 

seed, 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  chaos:  or,  if  Sion  hill  'o 

Delight   thee  more,   and    Siloa's   brook   that 

flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song. 
That  with  no  middle  flight   intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rime. 
And  chiefly  thou.  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before    all    temples    the    upright    heart    and 

pure. 
Instruct   me,    for   thou   know'st :    thou    from 

the  first 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-like,  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss, 
.\nd  mad'st  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark. 
Illumine:  what  is  low,  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence,  25 


l^AKAUlbh;  LOST 


245 


And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 
Say  first  —  for  heaven  hides  nothing  from 

thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  hell  —  say  first,  what 

cause 
Moved    our   grand    Parents,    in    that    happy 

state, 
Favored  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off  30 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For     one     restraint,     lords     of     the     world 

besides. 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt? 
The    infernal    Serpent;    he   it   was,    whose 

guile, 
Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The    mother    of    mankind;    what    time    his 

pride  35 

Had  cast  him  out  from  heaven,  with  all  his 

host 
Of  rebel  angels;  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
lie     trusted     lo     have     equaled     the     Most 

High, 
if   he   opposed;   and,   with   ambitious   aim  41 
Against  the  throne  and   monarchy  of   God, 
Raised    impious    war    in    heaven,   and   battle 

proud, 
With     vain     attempt.     Him     the     Almighty 

Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal 

sky,  45 

With   hideous   ruin   and  combustion,   down 
To  bottomless  perdition;   there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire. 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arins. 
Nine   times   the   space   that  measures   day 

and  night  5° 

To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay   vanquished,   rolling   in   the   fiery   gulf. 
Confounded,      though     immortal.     But     his 

doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath ;   for  now  the 

thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain      5S 
Torments  him ;  round  he  throws  his  baleful 

eyes. 
That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay. 
Mixed    with    obdurate    pride,    and    steadfast 

hate. 
At  once,  as  far  as  angels'  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild.  60 

A  dungeon  horrible,  on  all   sides  round, 
As    one    great    furnace,    flamed;    yet    from 

those  flames 
No  light ;   but   rather  darkness  visible 
Served   only  to  discover   sights   of   woe. 
Regions    of    sorrow,    doleful    shades,    where 

peace  65 


And     rest    can    never    dwell;     hope    never 

comes 
That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 
Still   urges,  and   a   fiery  deluge,   fed 
With   ever-burning   sulphur   unconsumed. 
Such   place  eternal   justice   had   prepared     70 
For   those   rebelliof.s ;   here   their   prison   or- 
dained 
In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion   set 
As    far    removed    from    God    and    light    of 

heaven. 
As    from    the    center    thrice    to    the    utmost 

pole. 
O,  how  unlike  the  place   from  whence  they 

fell!  75 

There    the    companions    of    his    fall,    o'er- 

whelmed 
With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous 

fire. 
He    soon    discerns ;    and    weltering    by    his 

side 
One    next    himself    in    power,    and    next    in 

crime. 
Long  after  known  in   Palestine,  and  named 
Beelzebub.     To    whom    the   arch-enemy,       81 
And    thence    in    heaven    called    Satan,    with 

bold  words 

Breaking  the   horrid    silence,   thus   began : — 

'  If    thou    beest    he  —  but    O,    how    fall'n ! 

how  changed 

From  him  who,  in  the  happy  realms  of  light, 

Clothed   with   transcendent   brightness,  didst 

outshine  86 

Myriads,     though     bright!     If     he,     whom 

mutual  league. 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise. 
Joined    with    me    once,    now    misery    hath 

joined  90 

In  equal  ruin;  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From     what     height     fall'n,     so     much     the 

stronger  proved 
He    with    his    thunder;    and    till    then    who 

knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms?     Yet  not  for 

those. 
Nor  what  the  potent  victor  in  his  rage      95 
Can   else  inflict,   do   I   repent  or  change. 
Though    changed    in    outward    luster,    that 

fixed  mind. 
And    high    disdain    from    sense    of    injured 

merit. 
That     with     the     Mightiest     raised     me     to 

contend. 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable   force  of   spirits  armed,  loi 

That   durst   dislike  his   reign,   and,   me   pre- 
ferring 


246 


JOHN  MILTON 


His  utmost  power  with   adverse  power   op- 
posed 
In  dubious  battle  on   the   plains  of  heaven, 
And    shook    his    throne.     What    though    the 
field  be  lost?  '°5 

All  is  not  lost;  the  unconquerable  will, 
And   study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome; 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might 
Extort    from    me.     To    bow    and    sue    for 

grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power 
Who   from  the  terror  of  this  arm   so  late 
Doubted  his  empire  — that  were  low  indeed. 
That  were  an  ignominy,  and  shame  beneath 
This  downfall;   since,  by    fate,  the   strength 
of  gods,  "^ 

And  this  empyreal   substance,  cannot    fail ; 
Since,    through    experience    of    this     great 

event. 
In  arms   not   worse,   in    foresight   much  ad- 
vanced. 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war,     121 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  foe. 
Who  now   triumphs,   and,   in   the   excess   of 

joy 
Sole  reigning,  holds  the  tyranny  of  heaven. 
So    spake    the    apostate    angel,    though    in 
pain,  '^5 

Vaunting   aloud,   but   racked    with   deep   de- 
spair 
And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  com- 
peer : — 
*0     prince,     O     chief     of     many-throned 
powers. 
That  led  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and  in  dreadful  deeds 
Fearless,      endangered     heaven's      perpetual 
King,  '31 

And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy. 
Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or 

fate; 
Too  well  I  see,  and  rue  the  dire  event. 
That  with  sad  overthrow,  and   foul  defeat. 
Hath    lost    us    heaven,    and    all    this    mighty 
host  136 

In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 
As  far  as  gods  and  heavenly  essences 
Can  perish :  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remain 
Invincible,  and  vigor  soon   returns,  M" 

Though    all    our    glory    extinct,    and    happy 

state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But    what    if    he    our    Conqueror    (whom    I 

now 
Of  force  believe  Almighty,  since  no  less 


Jhan     such    could    have    o'erpowered    such 

f(jrce  as  ours)  M5 

Have    loft    us    this   our    spirit    and   strength 

entire, 
Strongly  to  sufifer  and  support  our  pains, 
That   we  may  so   suffice  his  vengeful  ire. 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be, 
Here  in  the  heart  of  hell  to  work  in  fire. 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  deep? 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength   undiminished,   or   eternal   being 
To   undergo   eternal   punishment?'  '55 

Whereto  with  speedy  words  the  arch-fiend 

replied  : — 
'  Fallen  cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  sufi^ering;  but  of  this  be  sure. 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task. 
But   ever  to   do   ill   our  sole  delight,         160 
As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.     If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good. 
Our  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end,  '64 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil. 
Which  ofttinies  may  succeed,  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I   fail  not,  and  disturb 
His    inmost    counsels    from    their    destined 

aim. 
But  see,  the  angry  Victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance   and   pursuit  170 
Back  to  the  gates  of  heaven  ;  the   sulphur- 
ous hail. 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown,  hath  laid 
The  fiery  surge,  that   from  the  precipice 
Of    heaven    received    us    falling;    and    the 

thunder. 
Winged    with    red   lightning    and    impetuous 
rage,  '75 

Perhaps   hath    spent   his   shafts,    and   ceases 

now 
To  bellow   through  the   vast  and   boundless 

deep. 
Let  us  not  slip  the  occasion,  whether  scorn 
Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  foe. 
Seest    thou    yon    dreary    plain,    forlorn    and 
wild,  '80 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light. 
Save    what    the    glimmering    of    these    livid 

flames 
Casts    pale    and    dreadful?     Thither    let    us 

tend 
From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves ; 
There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbor  there;  '85 
And,   re-assembling  our   afflicted   powers. 
Consult   how   we   may   henceforth   most   of- 
fend 
Our  enemy;  our  own  loss  how  repair; 
How   overcome    this    dire    calamity; 


What    reinforcement    we    may    gain     from 

hope ;  190 

If  not,   what  resolution   from  despair.' 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate, 
With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed;  his  other  parts  be- 
sides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large, 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood ;  in  bulk  as  huge 
As    whom    the    fables    name    of    monstrous 

size,  197 

Titanian,    or    Earth-born,    that    warred    on 

Jove ; 
Briareos   or   Typhon,   whom   the  den 
By   ancient   Tarsus   held ;   or   that    sea-beast 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works      201 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream. 
Him,     haply,    slumbering    on    the     Norway 

foam, 
The    pilot    of    some    small    night-foundered 

skiff. 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,   as   seamen  tell. 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind  206 

Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 
Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays : 
So   stretched   out  huge   in   length   the  arch- 
fiend lay 
Chained    on    the    burning    lake :    nor    ever 

thence  210 

Had  risen,  or  heaved  his  head ;  but  that  the 

will 
And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs; 
That   with   reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap     on     himself     damnation,     while     he 

sought  21 s 

Evil  to  others :  and,  enraged,  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and   mercy,   shown 
On  man  by  him  seduced;  but  on  himself 
Treble     confusion,     wrath,     and     vengeance 

poured.  220 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears   from   off   the 

pool 
His    mighty     stature ;     on     each    hand     the 

flames. 
Driven  backward,  slope  their  pointing  spires, 

and  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  i'  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then    with    expanded    wings    he    steers    his 

flight  2J3 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air. 
That  felt  unusual  weight :  till  on  dry  land 
He  lights,  if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire ; 
And    such    appeared    in    hue,    as    when    the 

force  230 

Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 


Torn  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  Etna,  whose  combustible 
And   fuelled   entrails   thence   conceiving  fire, 
Sublimed   with   mineral   fury,  aid  the   winds, 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom,  all  involved  236 
With  stench  and  smoke :  such  resting  found 

the  sole 
Of    unblest    feet.     Him    followed    his    next 

mate : 
Both    glorying   to   have   'scaped   the   stygian 

flood, 
As     gods,     and     by     their     own     recovered 

strength,  240 

Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power. 

'  Is    this    the    region,    this    the    soil,    the 

clime,' 

Said  then  the  lost  archangel,  '  this  the  scat 

That    we    must    change    for    heaven ;    this 

mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?     Be  it  so,  since  he, 
Who  now  is  Sovereign,  can  dispose  and  bid 
What   shall  be  right:    farthest   from  him  is 

best,  247 

Whom     reason     hath     equaled,     force    hath 

made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.     Farewell,  happy  fields. 
Where  joy  for  ever  dwells !     Hail,  horrors ! 

hail  250 

Infernal  world!  and  thou  profoundest  hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor  —  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time : 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself  254 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same. 
And  what  I  should  be ;  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom   thunder    hath    made    greater?     Here 

at   least 
We    shall   be    free :    the   Almighty  hath   not 

built 
Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence : 
Here    we    may    reign    secure,    and,    in    my 

choice,  261 

To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell ; 
Better  to  reign  in  hell,  than  serve  in  heaven. 
But    wherefore    let    we    then    our    faithful 

friends. 
The     associates     and     co-partners     of     our 

loss, 
Lie   thus   astonished   on   the  oblivious   pool. 
And   call    them    not    to   share   with    us    their 

part  267 

In  this  unhappy  mansion ;  or  once  more 
W^ith  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained    in    heaven,   or   what   more   lost   in 
hell?'  270 

So  Satan  spake,  and  him  Beelzebub 
Thus    answered:     'Leader    of    those    armies 

bright, 


Which,    but     the    Omnipotent,    none    could 

have   foiled, 
If   once   they  hear   that   voice,   their   liveliest 

pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers,  heard  so  oft 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  raj^cd,  in  all  assaults     277 
Their  surest  signal,  they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive ;  though  now  they 

lie 
Groveling    and    prostrate    on    yon    lake    of 

fire,  ^8° 

As   we   erewhile,   astounded   and   amazed ; 
No  wonder,  fall  'n  such  a  pernicious  height.' 
He  scarce  had  ceased,  when  the   superior 
fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore :  his  ponder- 
ous shield 
Ethereal   temper,   massy,   large,   and   round. 
Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose 

orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands,       -^90 
Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear,  to  equal   which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on   Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  admiral,  were  but  a  wand, 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps  295 
Over  the  burning  marl,  not  like  those  steps 
On  heaven's  azure,  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote    on    him    sore    besides,    vaulted    with 

fire: 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 
His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranced, 
Thick    as    autumnal    leaves,    that    strew    the 

brooks  302 

In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades, 
High    over-arched,    embower;    or    scattered 

sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed 
Hath  vexed  the  Red  Sea  coast,  whose  waves 

o'erthrew  306 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry. 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 
And    broken    chariot-wheels;    so    thick    be- 
strewn, 311 
Abject    and    lost    lay    these,    covering    the 

flood. 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 
He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  hell   resounded.     'Princes,  potentates,  315 
Warriors,  the  flower  of  heaven,  once  yours, 

now  lost. 


If   such  astonishment  as  this   can   seize 
Eternal     spirits ;    or    have    ye    chosen    this 

place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose  319 

Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 
To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven? 
Or  in   this  abject   posture  have  ye  sworn 
To  adore  the  Conqueror?  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and   seraph   rolling  in  the  flood 
With   scattered   arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 
His    swift   pursuers   from  heaven-gates   dis- 
cern 326 
The    advantage,    and    descending,    tread    us 

down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf? 
Awake,  arise,  or  he  for  ever  fall'n  !  '        330 
They    heard,    and    were    abashed,    and    up 
they   sprung 
Upon    the    wing ;    as    when    men,    wont    to 

watch 
On    duty,    sleeping    found    by    whom    they 

dread, 
Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  pjight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not 

feel ;  336 

Yet     to     their     general's     voice     they     soon 

obeyed. 
Innumerable.     As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amrani's  son,   in   Egypt's  evil  day, 
Waved   round  the  coast,  up  called  a  pitchy 

cloud  340 

Of   locusts,   warping  on   the   eastern   wind, 
That    o'er    the    realm    of    impious    Pharaoh 

hung 
Like    night,    and    darkened   all    the    land    of 

Nile  : 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  hell, 
'Twixt     upper,     nether,     and     surrounding 

fires;  346 

Till,  at  a  signal  given,  the  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their    course,    in    even    balance    down    they 

light  349 

On    the    firm     brimstone,    and    fill    all    the 

plain ; 
A  multitude  like  which  the  populous  north 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Rhine   or   the   Danube,   when   her   barbarous 

sons 
Came  like  a  deluge  on  the  south  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands.     355 
Forthwith    from    every    squadron    and    each 

band 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where 

stood 


Their  great  commander;  godlike  shapes  and 

forms 
Excelling    human ;    princely    dignities ; 
And    powers    that    erst    in    heaven    sat    on 

thrones,  360 

Though  of  their  names  in  heavenly  records 

now 
Be  no  memorial ;  blotted  out  and  rased 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  books  of  life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got   them   new   names ;   till,   wandering  o'er 

the  earth,  365 

Through  God's  high  sufferance,  for  the  trial 

of  man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greater  part 
Of  mankind   they  corrupted  to   forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them,  to  transform 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned     371 
With  gay  religions,  full  of  pomp  and  gold. 
And  devils  to  adore   for  deities: 
Then   were   they   known   to   men   by   various 

names, 
And     various     idols     through     the     heathen 
world.  375 

Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known,  who 

first,  who  last. 
Roused     from     the    slumber    on    that    fiery 

couch. 
At    their    great    emperor's    call,    as    next    in 

worth. 
Came    singly    where   he    stood    on   the    bare 

strand. 
While    the    promiscuous    crowd    stood    yet 

aloof.  380 

The  chief  were  those  who  from  the  pit  of 

hell. 
Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  earth,  durst 

fix 
Their  seats  long  after  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Their  altars  by  his  altar,  gods  adored       384 
Among  the   nations   round,   and   durst  abide 
Jehovah   thundering  out   of   Sion,   throned 
Between  the  cherubim ;   yea,  often   placed 
Within   his   sanctuary  itself  their   shrines. 
Abominations ;   and  with  cursed  things     389 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn   feasts  profaned. 
And   with   their   darkness   durst   afifront   his 

light. 
First,   Moloch,  horrid  king,  besmeared  with 

blood 
Of   human   sacrifice,  and   parents'  tears; 
Though,     for     the     noise     of     drums     and 

timbrels  loud. 
Their   children's  cries   unheard,   that   passed 

through  fire  395 

To  his  grim  idol.     Him  the  Ammonite 
Worshipped  in  Rabba  and  her  watery  plain. 


In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.  Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighborhood,  the  wisest  heart 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build  401 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God, 
On    that    opprobrious    hill ;    and    made    his 

grove 
The    pleasant    valley    of    Hinnom,    Tophet 

thence 
And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  hell. 
Next,  Chemos,  the  obscene  dread  of  Moab's 

sons,  406 

From  Aroer  to  Nebo,  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim ;  in  Hesebon 
And   Horonaim,   Scon's  realm,  beyond 
The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines. 
And  Eleale  to  the  asphaltic  pool;  411 

Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 
Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To   do   him    wanton   rites,   which   cost    them 

woe. 
Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged  415 
Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide:  lust  hard  by  hate; 
Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to  hell. 
With  these  came  they  who,  from  the  border- 
ing flood 
Of   old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts 
Egypt     from    Syrian    ground,    had    general 

names  421 

Of  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth ;  those  male. 
These     feminine;     for     spirits,     when     they 

please. 
Can   either  sex  assume,  or  both ;   so  soft 
And   uncompounded   is   their  essence   pure; 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb,  426 
Nor    founded    on    the    brittle    strength    of 

bones, 
Like    cumbrous    flesh;    but,    in    what    shape 

they  choose, 
Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure. 
Can   execute   their   aery   purposes,  430 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  Strength,  and  unfrequented  left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To   bestial   gods ;    for   which   their   heads   as 

low  435 

Bowed    down    in    battle,    sunk    before    the 

spear 
Of  despicable  foes.     With  these  in  troop 
Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phenicians  called 
Astarte,    queen    of    heaven,    with    crescent 

horns ; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood       442 
Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain,  built 


By  that  uxorious  king,  whose  heart,  though 

large, 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,   fell  445 

To  idols  foul.     Thanunuz  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual   wound   in  Lebanon   allured 
■{"he   Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his   fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day; 
While   smooth  Adonis   from  his  native   rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thamnnu  yearly  wounded;  the  love-tale 
Infected    Sion's    daughters    with    like    heat; 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw,   when,  by  the  vision   led,       455 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah.     Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive 

ark 
Maimed    his   brute    image,    head    and    hands 

lopped  off 
In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel  edge,  460 
Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worship- 
pers ; 
Dagon  his  name,  sea-monster,  upward  man 
And    downward    fish ;    yet    had    his    temple 

high 
Reared     in     Azotus,    dreaded     through    the 

coast 
Of   Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon,  46s 

And  Accaron  and  Gazar's  frontier  bounds. 
Him    followed    Rimnion,    whose    delightful 

seat 
Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 
He  also  'gainst  the  house  of  God  was  bold: 
A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king;47i 
Ahaz  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 
God's  altar   to   disparage  and  displace 
For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burn 
His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods  475 
Whom  he  had  vanquished.     After  these  ap- 
peared 
.\  crew  who,  under  names  of  old  renown, 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train, 
With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries  abused 
Fanatic   Egypt  and  her  priests,  to  seek     480 
'I'heir    wandering   gods   disguised    in   brutish 

forms 
Rather  than  human.     Nor  did  Israel  'scape 
The    infection,    when    their    borrowed    gold 

composed 
Tiic  calf  in   Oreb ;  and  the  rebel  king- 
Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan,    485 
Likening  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox  — 
Jehovah,  who  in  one  night,  when  he  passed 
From    Egypt    marching,    equaled    with    one 

stroke 
Both    her    first-born    and    all    her    lilcating 
gods. 


Belial  came   last,  than  whom  a  spirit  more 
lewd  400 

Fell  not  from  heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 
Vice   for  itself;   to  him  no  temple  stood, 
Or  altar  smoked ;  yet  who  more  oft  than  he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  filled 
With  lust   and   violence  the  house  of   God? 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns,       497 
And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers. 
And   injury  and  outrage:   and  when   night 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the 
sons  SOI 

Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness    the    streets    of    Sodom,    and    that 

night 
In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Exposed  a  matron,  to  avoid  worse  rape.  505 
These    were    the    prime    in    order    and    in 
might : 
The  rest  were  long  to  tell,  though   far  re- 
nowned. 
The  Ionian  gods  —  of  Javan's  issue  held 
Gods,  yet  confessed  later  than  heaven   and 

earth. 
Their  boasted  parents:  Titan,  heaven's  first- 
born 510 
With    his    enormous    brood,    and    birthright 

seized 
By  younger  Saturn ;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His    own    and     Rhea's     son,     like    measure 

found ; 
So    Jove    usurping    reigned :    these    first    in 
Crete  514 

And  Ida  known,  thence  on  the  snowy  top 
Of  cold  Olympus  ruled  the  middle  air. 
Their   highest   heaven ;   or  on   the   Delphian 

cliff. 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land:  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adria  to  the  Hesperian  fields,  520 
And  o'er  the  Celtic  roamed  the  utmost  isles. 
All    these    and    more    came    flocking,    but 
with  looks 
Downcast  and  damp;  yet  such  wherein  ap- 
peared 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found 

their  chief 
Not    in    despair,    to    have    found    themselves 
not   lo.st  525 

In    loss    itself;    which    on    his    countenance 

cast 
Like  doubtful  hue;  lint  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon    recollecting,    with    high    words,    that 

bore 
Semblance   of   worth,   not    substance,   gently 
raised 


Their   fainting  courage,   and   dispelled  their 
fears.  53° 

Then    straight   commands  that   at   the   war- 
like sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions  be  upreared 
His    mighty    standard ;    that    proud    honor 

claimed 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  cherub  tall ; 
Who  forthwith  froin  the  glittering  staff  un- 
furled 535 
The   imperial   ensign ;   which,    full   high   ad- 
vanced, 
Shone  like  a  meteor,  streaming  to  the  wind, 
With  gems  and  golden  luster  rich  emblazed, 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies,  all  the  while 
Sonorous   metal   blowing   martial    sounds : 
At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent          54' 
A   shout,   that   tore   hell's  concave,   and    be- 
yond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through   the  gloom  were 

seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air.     545 
With  orient  colors  waving;   with   them   rose 
A    forest    huge    of    spears ;    and    thronging 

helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasurable;  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood    55o 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders ;  such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage. 
Deliberate    valor    breathed,    firm    and    un- 
moved 554 
With   dread   of  death  to   flight  or   foul   re- 
treat ; 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and   'suage 
With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,  and 

chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow, 

and  pain 

From    mortal     or    immortal     minds.    Thus 

they,  559 

Breathing  united   force,  with  fixed  thought. 

Moved    on    in    silence,    to    soft    pipes,    that 

charmed 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil :  and 

now 
Advanced    in    view    they    stand;    a    horrid 

front 
Of   dreadful    length   and   dazzling  arms,   in 

guise 
Of    warriors    old    with    ordered    spear    and 
shield,  56s 

Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 
Had  to  impose:  he  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion  views,  their  order  due. 


"  — --- ^j^ 

Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods ;      570 
Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his 

heart 
Distends   with  pride,   and   hardening   in   his 

strength 
Glories :    for  never  since  created  man 
Met    such    embodied    force    as,    named    with 

these. 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry 
Warred  on  by  cranes :  though  all  the  giant 

brood  '  576 

Of  Phlcgra  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 
That   fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each 

side 
Mixed    with    auxiliar    gods;    and    what    re- 
sounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son  580 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights; 
And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel, 
Jousted    in    Aspramont,    or    Montalban, 
Damascus,   or   Morocco,   or   Trebizond, 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore, 
When    Charlemagne    with    all    his    peerage 

fell  586 

By   Fontarabbia.    Thus    far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 
Their  dread  commander;  he,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,      59° 
Stood  like  a  tower;   his    form   had  yet  not 

lost 
All   its   original  brightness ;   nor   appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured:   as  when  the  sun,  new 

risen, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air     595 
Shorn    of    his    beams,    or    from    behind    the 

moon. 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight   sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes      monarchs.     Darkened      so,      yet 

shone 
Above    them    all    the    archangel ;    but    his 

face  600 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  entrenched;  and 

care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge ;  cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion,  to  behold   605 
The    fellows    of    his    crime,    the    followers 

rather 
(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss),  condemned 
For  ever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain ; 
Millions  of  spirits  for  his  fault  amerced 
Of     heaven,    and     from     eternal     splendors 

flung  610 

For  his  revolt;  yet  faithful  how  they  stood, 
Their  glory  withered;  as  when  heaven's  fire 


252 


TORN  MILTON 


Hath   scathed  the   forest  oaks,  or  mountain 
ir  stalely  grovvtli,  thougli 


pines, 
With  singed  top  the 

bare, 
Stands  on  the  1)Iasted  heatli      lie  now  pre- 


pared 


6i5 

To  speak;  whereat  tlieir  doubled  ranks  they 

bend 
From  wing  to   wing,  and  half   enclose  him 

round 
With    all    his    peers :    attention    held    them 

mute. 
Thrice   he   essayed,   and    thrice,   in    spite    of 

scorn, 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth;  at 

last  <^-^° 

Words,    interwove    with    sighs,    found    out 

their  way. 
'  O  myriads  of  immortal  spirits !  O  powers 
Matchless, -but  with  the  Almighty;  and  that 

strife 
Was   not    inglorious,   though   the   event   was 

dire,  624 

As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change. 
Hateful  to  utter!  but  what  power  of  mind, 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,   from  the  depth 
Of   knowledge,   past   or   present,   could   have 

feared 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  re- 
pulse? 630 
For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss, 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  heaven,  shall  fail  to  reascend 
Self-raised,  and  repossess  their  native  seat? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  heaven, 
H  counsels  different,  or  dangers  shunned  636 
By  me,   have   lost  our  hopes.     But  he   who 

reigns 
]\Ionarch  in  heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  this  throne  upheld  by  old  repute, 
Consent  or  custom;  and  his  regal  state     640 
Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  con- 
cealed. 
Which    tempted    our    attempt,    and    wrought 

our    fall. 
Henceforth   his   might   we   know,   and   know 

our  own ; 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New    war,    provoked;    our    better    part    re- 
mains, 645 
To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile. 
What  force  effected  not;  that  he  no  less 
At    length    from    us    may    find,    who    over- 
comes 
By  force,  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space    may    produce    new    worlds ;    whereof 
so  rife  650 


There   went   a   fame   in   heaven   that   he  ere 

long 
Intended   to   create,   and   therein   plant 
A   generation,   whom   his  choice   regard 
Should  favor  equal  to  the  sons  of  heaven: 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps      655 
Our   first   eruption ;   thither,   or  elsewhere ; 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  spirits  in  bondage,  nor  the  abyss 
Long     under     darkness     cover.     But     these 

thoughts 
Full    counsel    must    mature;    peace    is    de^ 

spaired ; 
For  who  can  think  submission  ?     War,  then, 
war,  661 

Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved.' 
He  spake ;  and,  to  confirm  his  words,  out- 
flew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the 

thighs 
Of  mighty  cherubim;  the  sudden  blaze     665 
Far  round  illumined  hell;  highly  they  raged 
Against  the  Highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped 

arms 
Clashed    on   their   sounding   shields   the   din 

of   war. 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  heaven. 
There   stood  a  hill  not   far,  whose  grisly 
top  670 

Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke ;  the  rest  en- 
tire 
Shone   with   a  glossy   scurf,   undoubted   sign 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metallic  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.     Thither,  winged  with 

speed, 
A     numerous    brigade    hastened :     as     when 
bands  675 

Of  pioneers,  with  spade  and  pickaxe  armed, 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field, 
Or  cast  a  rampart.     Mammon  led  them  on : 
]\Iammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  heaven ;  for  even  in  heaven  his  looks 
and   thoughts  680 

Were     always     downward     bent,     admiring 

more 
The    riches    of    heaven's    pavement,    trodden 

gold. 
Than   aught,   divine   or   holy,   else   enjoyed 
In   vision  beatific;   by  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught,    685 
Ransacked    the    center,    and    with    impious 

hands 
Rifled   the  bowels   of  their   mother   earth 
For    treasures,    better    hid.     Soon    had    his 

crew 
Opened   into   the  hill   a   spacious  wound. 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.     Let  none  ad- 
mire 6go 


That    riches    grow    in    hell;    that    soil    may 

best 
Deserve    the    precious    bane.     And    here    let 

those 
Who    boast    in   mortal    things,    and    wonder- 
ing tell 
Of    Babel,    and    the    works    oj    Memphian 

kings, 
Learn    how    their    greatest    monuments    of 

fame,  ^95 

And  strength  and  art,  are   easily  outdone 
By   spirits   reprobate,   and   in   an   hour 
What  in  an  age  they  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands   innumerable   scarce   perform. 
Nigh   on   the   plain,   in   many  cells   prepared, 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire    7oi 
Sluiced   from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art   founded  the  massy  ore. 
Severing  each  kind,   and   scummed  the  bul- 
lion dross ; 
A     third    as    soon    had    formed    within    the 

ground  705 

A  various  mold,  and  from  the  boiling  cells. 
By    strange    conveyance,    filled    each    hollow 

nook. 
As  in  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind, 
To   many   a   row   of   pipes   the    sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon,  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge        710 
Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet. 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave ;  nor  did  there  want 
Cornice    or     frieze,    with    bossy    sculptures 

graven:  716 

The   roof   was    fretted   gold.     Not    Babylon, 
Nor  great   Alcairo,   such  magnificence 
Equaled   in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat  7^o 

Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.  The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  height :  and  straight 

the  doors, 
Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,   her   ample   spaces,   o'er  the   smooth 
And     level     pavement ;     from     the     arched 

roof,  7^6 

Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As   from  a   sky.     The  hasty  multitude       73o 
Admiring     entered ;     and     the     work     some 

praise, 
And     some    the    architect :     his    hand    was 

known 
In    heaven    by    many    a    towered    structure 

high 


Where  sceptered  angels  held  their  residence. 
And    sat    as    princes;    whom    the    supreme 
King  735 

Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule. 
Each  in  his  hierarchy,  the  orders  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece;  and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber ;  and  how  he  fell 
From  heaven  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry 
Jove  741 

Sheer    o'er    the    crystal    battlements :     from 

morn 
To  noon  he   fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A   summer's   day;   and   with   the   setting   sun 
Dropped  from  the  zenith  like  a  falling  star. 
On   Lemnos,   th'   .Egean   isle :   thus   they   re- 
late, 746 
Erring;    for  he   with  this  rebellious   rout 
Fell    long    before;    nor    aught    availed    him 

now 
To   have   built   in   heaven   high    towers ;    nor 
did  he  'scape  749 

By  all  his  engines,  but  was  headlong  sent 
With  his  industrious  crew  to  build  in  hell. 
Meanwhile,   the   winged   heralds,   by  com- 
mand 
Of  sovereign  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And    trumpet's    sound,    throughout    the   host 

proclaim 
A  solemn  council,  forthwith  to  be  held     755 
At   Pandemonium,  the  high  capital 
Of    Satan    and    his    peers :    their    summons 

called 
From   every   band   and    squared   regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest ;  they  anon, 
With   hundreds   and    with   thousands,   troop- 
ing came,  760 
Attended ;     all     access     was     thronged :     the 

gates 
And    porches    wide,    but    chief    the    spacious 

hall 
(Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  cham- 
pions bold 
Wont    ride    in    armed,    and    at    the    soldan's 

chair 
Defied  the  best  of  paynim  chivalry  765 

To  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance). 
Thick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in 

the  air. 
Brushed    with    the    hiss    of    rustling    wings. 

As   bees 
In    spring-time,   when  the  sun   with   Taurus 

rides, 
Pour   forth  their  populous  youth  about  the 
hive  770 

In    clusters;    they    among    fresh    dews    and 

flowers 
Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plaiik. 


254 


TOHN  MILTON 


The    suburb    of   their    straw  built    citndcl, 
New   rubbed   with  l)alni,  expatiate,  awcl   eon- 
fcr  774 

Their  state  affairs:  so  tliick  the  aery  crowd 
Swarmed   and   were  straitened  ;   till,  the   sig- 
nal given. 
Behold     a     wonder !     They,    but     now     who 

seemed 
In   bigness   to    surpass    earth's   giant    sons, 
■Now   less   than    smallest    dwarfs,   in    narrow 

room 
Throng     numberless,     like      that      Pygmean 
race  780 

Beyond  the   Indian  mount,  or  faery  elves, 
Whose  midnight   revels,   Ijy  a   forest  side 
Or   fountain,   some  belated  peasant   sees. 
Or    dreams    he    sees,    while    over    head    the 

moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth       7S5 
Wheels  her  pale  course;  they,  on  their  mirth 

and   dance 
Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear; 
At    once    with    joy   and    fear    his    heart    re- 
bounds. 
Thus    incorporeal    spirits    to    smallest    forms 
Reduced    their    shapes    immense,    and    were 
at  large,  790 

Though    without    number    still,    amidst    the 

hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.     But   far  within, 
And    in    their    own    dimensions,    like    them- 
selves, 
The  great   seraphic  lords  and  cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat;    79S 
A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden   seats 
Frequent  and  full.     After  short  silence  then, 
And    summons    read,    the   great    consult   be- 
gan. 

Book    II 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 
Or   where    the    gorgeous    East,    with    richest 

hand, 
Showers    on    her    kings    barbaric    pearl    and 

gold, 
Satan   exalted   sat,   by  merit   raised  5 

To  that  bad  eminence ;  and,  from  despair 
Thus   high   uplifted   beyond   hope,   aspires 
Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 
Vain  war  with  Heaven;  and,  by  success  un- 
taught, 
His  proud  imaginations  thus  displayed: —  10 
'  Powers      and       dominions,      deities      of 
heaven ; 
For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal     vigor,     though     oppressed     and 
fallen, 


I  give  not  heaven   for  lost.     From  this  de- 
scent 
Celestial    virtues    rising,    will    appear  'S 

More   glorious   and   more   dread   than    from 

no  fall. 
And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate. 
]\Ic,  though  just  right,  and  the  fixed  laws  of 

heaven. 
Did     first    create    your    leader;    next,     free 

choice. 
With  what  besides,  in  council  or  in  fight,  2° 
Ilath  been  achieved  of  merit;  yet  this  loss. 
Thus  far  at  least  recovered,  hath  much  more 
Established   in   a   safe   unenvied   throne, 
Yielded     with     full     consent.     The     happier 

state 
In     heaven,    which     follows    dignity,    might 

draw  ~5 

Envy  from  each  inferior;  but  who  here 
Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 
Foremost   to   stand  against  the   Thunderer's 

aim. 
Your    bulwark,    and    condemns    to    greatest 

share 
Of   endless  pain?     Where  there  is  then  no 

good  30 

For  which  to  strive,  no  strife  can  grow  up 

there 
From   faction ;   for  none   sure  will   claim  in 

hell 
Precedence ;  none  whose  portion  is  so  small 
Of   present  pain,  that   with   ambitious  mind 
Will  covet  more.      With  this  advantage,  then. 
To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord,  36 
More   than   can   be   in   heaven,   we  now   re- 
turn 
To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old. 
Surer  to  prosper   than   prosperity 
Could  have  assured  us ;   and,  by  what  best 

way,  40 

Whethef  of  open  war  or  covert  guile. 
We    now     debate :     who    can     advise,    may 

speak.' 
He   ceased ;    and   next   him    Moloch,    scep- 

tered  king. 
Stood    up,    the    strongest    and    the    fiercest 

spirit 
That    fought   in   heaven,  now   fiercer   by   de- 
spair. 45 
His     trust     was     with     the     Eternal     to     be 

deemed 
Equal   in  strength :   and   rather  than  be  less, 
Cared  not  to  be  at  all ;  with  that  care  lost 
Went    all    his    fear:    of    God,    or    hell,    or 

worse, 
He  recked  not;  and  these  words  thereafter 

spake :  —  50 

'  My  sentence  is  for  open  war :  of  wiles. 


r/\K/\.jjij)ii  i^u:3i 


^55 


More  unexpert,  I  boast  not ;  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need,  or  when  they  need,  not 

now. 
For,    while    they    sit    contriving,    shall    the 

rest, 
Millions    that    stand    in    arms,    and    longing 
wait  55 

The  signal  to  ascend,  sit  lingering  here 
Heaven's    fugitives,  and   for  their  dwelling- 
place 
Accept  this  dark,  opprobrious  den  of  shame. 
The  prison  of  his  tyranny  who  reigns 
By  our  delay?     No,  let  ns  rather  choose,  60 
Armed    with    hell-flames    and    fury,    all    at 

once. 
O'er   heaven's   high   towers   to    force   resist- 
less way. 
Turning  our   tortures  into  horrid   arms 
Against    the    torturer;    when,    to    meet    the 

noise 
Of  his  almighty  engine,  he  shall  hear        65 
Infernal  thunder;   and,   for  lightning,   see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  angels;  and  his  throne  itself 
Mixed  with  Tartarean  sulphur,  and  strange 
fire,  '  69 

His    own    invented    torments.     But    perhaps 
The  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 
With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe. 
Let  such  bethink  them,  if  the  sleepy  drench 
Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  still. 
That  in  our  proper  motion  we  ascend  7S 

Up  to  our  native  seat ;  descent  and  fall 
To  us  i's  adverse.     Who  but  felt  of  late. 
When   the   fierce    foe   hung   on    our   broken 

rear 
Insulting,  and  pursued  us  through  the  deep, 
With   what   compulsion   and   laborious   flight 
We    sunk    thus    low?     The    ascent    is    easy 
then;  81 

The  event  is   feared;  should  we  again  pro- 
voke 
Our    stronger,    some    worse    way   his    wrath 

may  find 
To  our  destruction ;  if  there  be  in  hell 
Fear   to   be    worse   destroyed ;    what   can   1)e 
worse  85 

Than   to  dwell   here,   driven   out   from   bliss, 

condemned 
In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  woe ; 
Where  pain  of  unextinguishable   fire 
Must  exercise  us   without  hope  of  end. 
The  vassals  of  his  anger,  when  the  scourge 
Inexorable,  and  the  torturing  hour,  91 

Calls  us  to  penance?     More  destroyed  than 

thus. 
We  should  be  quite  abolished,  and  expire. 


What   fear  we,  then?  what  doubt  we  to  in- 
cense 
His    utmost    ire?    which,    to    the   height    en- 
raged, 95 
Will  either  quite  consume  us,  and  reduce 
To  nothing  this  essential    (happier   far 
Than  miserable  to  have  eternal  being), 
Or,  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine, 
And  cannot  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst  100 
On  this  side  nothing;  and  by  proof  we  feel 
Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  heaven, 
And   with   perpetual   inroads   to   alarm. 
Though   inaccessible,   his    fatal   throne; 
Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge.'       10s 
He    ended    frowning,    and    his    look    de- 
nounced 
Desperate   revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
To  less  than  gods.     On  the  other  side  up- 
rose 
Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane; 
A  fairer  person  lost  not  heaven ;  he  seemed 
For  dignity  composed,  and  high  exploit:  m 
But    all    was    false    and   hollow,   though   his 

tongue 
Dropt    manna,    and    could    make    the    worse 

appear 
The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest    counsels :    for    his    thoughts    were 
low:  IIS 

To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous   and   slothful ;   yet   he   pleased  the 

ear. 
And   with   persuasive   accent  thus   began :  — 
'  I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  peers. 
As  not  behind  in  hate;  if  what  was  urged  i-o 
Main   reason  to  persuade  immediate   war. 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to  cast 
Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success 
When  he  who  most  excels  in   fact  of  arms. 
In  what  he  counsels  and  in  what  excels    125 
Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  despair 
And   utter  dissolution   as  the   scope 
Of   all   his   aim,   after   some   dire   revenge. 
First,  what  revenge?     The  towers  of  heaven 

are  filled 
With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access  130 
Impregnalile ;  oft  on  the  bordering  deep 
Encamp     their     legions ;     or,     with     obscure 

wing, 
Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  night. 
Scorning   surprise.     Or   could   we  break   our 

way 
By   force,   and   at  our  heels   all   hell   should 
rise  135 

With  blackest  insurrection,  to  confound 
Heaven's  purest  light ;  yet  our  great  enemy. 
All   incorruptible,   would   on   his  throne 


256 


TORN  MILTON 


Sit   unpolluted,  and   tlu-  ethereal  mold, 
Incapable  of  stain,  would   soon   expel         '4° 
Her  mischief,  and  purge  off  the  baser  fire. 
Victorious.     Thus  repulsed,  our  final  hope 
Is   flat  despair :    we   must   exasperate 
The  Almighty  Victor  to  spend   all   his  rage, 
And    that    nnist    end    us;    that    nnist    be   our 
cure,  '45 

To  be  no  more.     Sad  cure !   for  who  would 

lose. 
Though   full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being. 
Those   thoughts   that   wander   through   eter- 
nity. 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night,     'So 
Devoid    of    sense    and    motion?     And    who 

knows. 
Let  this  be  good,  whether  our  angry  foe 
Can  give  it,  or  will  ever?  how  he  can, 
Is  doubtful ;  that  he  never  will,  is  sure. 
Will  he,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  his  ire  '55 
Belike   through    impotence,   or    unaware. 
To  give  his  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 
Them  in  his  anger  whom  his  anger  saves 
To  punish   endless?     "Wherefore   cease   we 

then?  " 
Say   they   who   counsel    war.     "  We   are   de- 
creed, "6o 
Reserved,  and  destined  to  eternal  woe ; 
Whatever  doing,  what  can  we  suffer  more, 
What  can  we  suffer  worse  ?  "     In  this  then 

worst. 
Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  arms? 
What,    when    we    fled    amain,    pursued,    and 
struck  165 

With    heaven's    afflicting    thunder,    and    be- 
sought 
The    deep    to    shelter    us?    this    hell    then 

seemed 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds;  or  when  we 

lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake  ?  that  sure  was 

worse. 
What  if  the  breath  that  kindled  those  grim 
fires,  170 

Awaked,    should   blow   them   into    sevenfold 

rage. 
And    plunge    us    in    the    flames?    or,    from 

above. 
Should    intermitted    vengeance    arm    again 
His    red    right    hand    to    plague    us?     What 
if  all  174 

Her  stores  were  opened,  and  this  firmament 
Of  hell  should  spout  her  cataracts  of  fire, 
Impendent  horrors,  threatening  hideous  fall 
One  day  upon  our  heads ;  while  we,  perhaps. 
Designing  or  exhorting  glorious  war, 
Caught  in  a  fiery  tempest,  shall  be  hurled  '8" 


Each   on  his  rock  transfixed,  the  sport  and 

prey 
Of  racking  whirlwinds ;  or   for  ever   sunk 
LInder  yon  boiling  ocean,  wrapt  in  chains ; 
There   to   converse   with   everlasting   groans, 
Unrespited.   unpitied,   unrepricved,  '^5 

Ages     of     hopeless     end?     This     would     be 

worse. 
War,  therefore,  open  or  concealed,  alike 
My  voice  dissuades ;   for  what  can  force  or 

guile 
With  him,  or  who  deceive  his  mind,   whose 

eye 
Views    all    things    at    one    view?     He    from 
heaven's  height  '^o 

All    these    our    motions    vain    sees    and    de- 
rides: 
Not  more  almighty  to  resist  our  might. 
Than    wise    to    frustrate    all    our    plots    and 

wiles. 
Shall    we    then    live   thus    vile,    the    race    of 

heaven 
Thus  trampled,  thus  expelled,  to  suffer  here 
Chains    and    these    torments?     Better    these 
than  worse,  196 

By  my  advice ;   since  fate  inevitable 
Subdues  us,  and  omnipotent  decree. 
The  victor's  will.     To  suffer,  as  to  do. 
Our  strength  is  equal,  nor  the  law  unjust  200 
That  so  ordains;  this  was  at  first  resolved. 
If  we  were  wise,  against  so  great  a  foe 
Contending,    and    so    doubtful    what    might 

fall. 
I    laugh,   when  those  who  at  the   spear  are 

bold 
And    venturous,    if    that    fail    them,    shrink 
and  fear  20s 

What   yet    they   know   must    follow,   to    en- 
dure 
Exile,  or  ignominy,  or  bonds,  or  pain. 
The    sentence    of    their    conqueror;    this    is 

now 
Our    doom;    which    if    we    can    sustain    and 

bear, 
Our    supreme    foe    in    time    may    much    re- 
mit 211 
His  anger ;  and  perhaps,  thus  far  removed. 
Not  mind  us  not  offending,  satisfied 
With  what  is  punished  ;  whence  these  raging 

fires 
Will    slacken,    if    his    breath    stir    not    their 

flames. 
Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome      215 
Their  noxious  vapor ;   or,   inured,  not    feel ; 
Or,  changed  at  length,  and  to  the  place  con- 
formed 
In  temper  and   in  nature,  will   receive 
Familiar  the  fierce  heat,  and  void  of  pain; 


This   horror   will   grow   mild,   this   darkness 

light ;  220 

Besides    what    hope   the   never-ending   flight 

Of    future    days    may    bring,    what    chance, 

what  change 
Worth    waiting ;    since    our   present    lot    ap- 
pears 
For  happy  though  but  ill,  for  ill  not  worst, 
If  we  procure  not  to  ourselves  more  woe.' 
Thus    Belial,   with   words   clothed    in    rea- 
son's garb,  226 
Counseled  ignoble  ease,   and  peaceful   sloth, 
Not    peace;    and    after    him    thus    Mammon 
spake : — 
*  Either  to  disenthrone  the  King  of  heaven 
We  war,  if  war  be  best,  or  to  regain        230 
Our   own    right    lost :    him   to    unthrone   we 

then 
May  hope,  when  everlasting  fate  shall  yield 
To     fickle    chance,    and     Chaos     judge    the 

strife: 
The  former,  vain  to  hope,  argues  as  vain 
The  latter;  for  what  place  can  be  for  us  23s 
Within  heaven's  bound,  unless  heaven's  Lord 

supreme 
We  overpower?  Suppose  he  should  relent. 
And  publish  grace  to  all,  on  promise  made 
Of  new  subjection  ;  with  what  eyes  could  we 
Stand  in  his  presence  humble,  and  receive 
Strict  laws  imposed,  to  celebrate  his 
throne,  241 

With   warbled   hymns,   and  to   his  Godhead 

sing 
Forced  hallelujahs,  while  he  lordly  sits 
Our  envied  sovereign,  and  his  altar  breathes 
Ambrosial  odors  and  ambrosial  flowers,    245 
Our    servile    off"erings  ?     This    must    be    our 

task 
In  heaven,  this  our  delight ;  how  wearisome 
Eternity  so   spent,  in  worship  paid 
To  whom  we  hate !     Let  us  not  then  pursue 
By  force  impossible,  by  leave  obtained      250 
Unacceptable,  though  in  heaven,  our  state 
Of   splendid  vassalage;   but   rather   seek 
Our  own  good  from  ourselves,  and  from  our 

own 
Live   to   ourselves,   though   in   this   vast    re- 
cess. 
Free,  and  to  none  accountable,  preferring 
Hard  liberty  before  the  easy  yoke  256 

Of  servile  pomp.     Our  greatness  will  appear 
Then   most   conspicuous,    when   great   things 

of  small. 
Useful  of  hurtful,  prosperous  of  adverse, 
We  can  create  ;  and  in  what  place  soc'er  260 
Thrive    under    evil,    and    work    ease    out    of 
pain, 
17 


Through    labor    and    endurance.     This    deep 

world 
Of     darkness     do     we     dread?     How     oft 

amidst 
Thick    clouds    and    dark   doth    heaven's    all- 
ruling   Sire 
Choose   to   reside,  his  glory  unobscured,   265 
And   with  the  majesty  of  darkness   round 
Covers  his  throne;  from  whence  deep  thun- 
ders roar, 
Mustering  their  rage,  and  heaven  resembles 

hell! 
As  he  our  darkness,  cannot  we  his  light    269 
Imitate   when   we   please?     This   desert   soil 
Wants    not    her    hidden    luster,    gems    and 

gold; 
Nor  want  we  skill  or  art,   from  whence  to 

raise 
Magnificence;    and    what    can    heaven    show 

more  ? 
Our  torments  also  may  in  length  of  time 
Become  our  elements ;  these  piercing  fires 
As  soft  as  now  severe,  our  temper  changed 
Into    their    temper;    which    must    needs    re- 
move 277 
The  sensible  of  pain.     All  things  invite 
To  peaceful   counsels,  and  the  settled   state 
Of  order,  how  in   safety  best  we  may      280 
Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of    what    we    are,    and    where;    dismissing 

quite 
All  thoughts  of   war.     Ye  have  what  I   ad- 
vise.' 
He   scarce   had   finished,   when   such   mur- 
mur filled 
The    assembly,    as    when    hollow    rocks    re- 
tain 285 
The    sound    of    blustering    winds    which    all 

night   long 
Had   roused   the   sea,   now    with   hoarse   ca- 
dence lull 
Seafaring  men  o'er-watched,  whose  bark  by 

chance 
Or  pinnace  anchors  in   a  craggy  bay         289 
After  the  tempest:  such  applause  was  heard 
As     Mammon     ended,     and     his     sentence 

pleased, 
Advising  peace;    for   such   another   field 
They  dreaded  worse  than  hell ;  so  much  the 

fear 
Of  thunder  and   the   sword  of    Michael 
Wrought   still   within  them,   and   no  less  de- 
sire 295 
To    found   this   nether   empire,   which   might 

rise 
By  policy,   and  long  process  of  time, 
In   emulation   opposite   to   heaven. 


258 


JOHN  MILTON 


Which     when      Beelzebub     perceived,     than 
whom,  =99 

Satan  except,  none  bi.^lur  sat.  with  grave 
Aspect  he   rt).se,   and    in    liis   rising   seemed 
A    pillar    of    state;    deep    on    his    front    en- 
graven 
Deliberation  sat,  and  public  care; 
And  princely  counsel  in  his  face  yet  shone, 
Majestic,  though  in  ruin  ;  sage  he  stood.  3os 
With   Atlantean   shoulders  fit  to  bear 
The    weight    of    mightfest    monarchies;    his 

look 
Drew   audience   and   attention   still   as  night 
Or    summer's    noontide    air,    while    thus    he 
spake : — 
'  Thrones    and    imperial   powers,   ofTspring 
of  heaven,  3io 

Ethereal  virtues!   or  these  titles  now 
Must  we  renounce,  and,  changing  style,  be 

called 
Princes  of  hell,  for  so  the  popular  vote 
Inclines,  here  to  continue  and  build  up  here 
A     growing    empire;     doubtless,     while     we 
dream,  3i5 

And  know  not  that  the  King  of  heaven  hath 

doomed 
This   place   our  dungeon ;   not  our   safe  re- 
treat 
Beyond  his  potent  arm;  to  live  exempt 
From    heaven's    high    jurisdiction,    in    new 
league  319 

Banded  against  his  throne,  but  to  remain 
In    strictest    bondage,    though    thus    far    re- 
moved. 
Under   the   inevitable  curb,   reserved 
His  captive  multitude ;    for  he,  be  sure. 
In  height  or  depth,   still   first  and  last  will 
reign  3-4 

Sole  king,  and  of  his  kingdom  lose  no  part 
By  our  revolt,  but  over  hell  extend 
His  empire,  and  with  iron  scepter  rule 
Us  here,  as  with  his  golden  those  in  heaven. 
What  sit  we  then  projecting  peace  and  war? 
War  hath  determined  us,  and  foiled  with 
loss  330 

Irreparable ;   terms  of  peace  yet  none 
Vouchsafed  or  sought;   for  what  peace  will 

be  given 
To  us  enslaved  bvit  custody  severe. 
And    stripes,    and    arbitrary   punishment 
Inflicted?  and  what  peace  can  we  return,  335 
But   to   our   power   hostility  and   hate. 
Untamed    reluctance,    and    revenge,    though 

slow. 
Yet  ever  plotting  how  the  Conqueror  least 
May   reap    his   conquest,   and   may   least    re- 
joice 339 


In  doing  what  we  most  in  suffering  feel? 
Nor  will  occasion  want,  nor  shall  we  need 
With  dangerous  expedition  to  invade 
I  leaven,    wh(jse   high    walls    fear   no   assault 

or   siege, 
Or    ambush    from    the    deep.     What    if    we 

find 
Some    easier   enterprise?     There   is    a    place 
(If  ancient  and  prophetic  fame  in  heaven  346 
Err  not),  another  world,  the  ha])py  seat 
Of   some  new  race,  called    Man,  about   this 

time 
To  be  created   like  to  us,  though  less 
In  power  and   excellence,  but   favored   more 
Of  him  who  rules  above;  so  was  his  will  351 
Pronounced    among   the    gods ;    and    by    an 

oath 
That    shook    heaven's    whole    circumference 

confirmed. 
Thither    let    us    bend    all    our    thoughts,    to 

learn 
What  creatures  there  inhabit,  of  what  mold 
Or   substance,   how   endued,  and  what  their 


power, 


3S6 


And    where   their   weakness,  how  attempted 

best. 
By    force    or    subtlety.     Though    heaven    be 

shut. 
And  heaven's  high  Arbitrator  sit  secure 
In  his  own  strength,  this  place  may  lie  ex- 
posed, 360 
The  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  left 
To    their    defense    who    hold    it;    here    per- 
haps 
Some  advantageous  act  may  be  achieved 
By  sudden  onset ;  either  with  hell-fire 
To  waste  his  whole  creation,  or  possess  365 
All    as    our    own,    and    drive,    as    we    were 

driven, 
The   puny   habitants;    or,   if   not   drive. 
Seduce  them  to  our  party,  that  their  God 
I\Iay    prove    their    foe,    and    with    repenting 

hand 
Abolish    his    own    works.     This    would    sur- 
pass 370 
Common   revenge,  and  interrupt  his  joy 
In    our   confusion,   and   our   joy   upraise 
In  his  disturbance,  when  his  darling  sons, 
Hurled    headlong   to   partake   with   us,    shall 

curse 
Their   frail   original   and   faded  bliss,  375 

Faded   so   soon.     Advise,  if   this  be  worth 
Attempting,   or   to   sit   in   darkness   here 
Hatching   vain    empires.'     Thus    Beelzebub 
Pleaded    his    devilish   counsel,   first   devised 
By  Satan,  and  in  part  proposed:  for  whence 
But  from  the  author  of  all  ill  could  spring 


So  deep  a  malice,  to  confound  the  race  382 
Of    mankind    in    one    root,    and    earth    with 

hell 
To  mingle  and  involve,  done  all  to  spite 
The    great    Creator?     But    their    spite    still 

serves  385 

His  glory  to  augment.     The  bold  design 
Pleased    highly    those    infernal    states,    and 

joy 
Sparkled  in  all  their  eyes:  with  full  assent 
They  vote:  whereat  his  speech  he  thus  re- 
news :  — 
'  Well    have   ye    judged,    well    ended    long 

debate,  39o 

Synod  of  gods,  and,  like  to  what  ye  are, 
Great     things     resolved,     which     from     the 

lowest  deep 
Will  once  more  lift  us  up,  in  spite  of  fate, 
Nearer  our  ancient  seat :  perhaps  in  view 
Of     those     bright     confines,     whence,     with 

neighboring  arms,  395 

And  opportune  excursion,  we  may  chance 
Re-enter  heaven ;  or  else  in  some  mild  zone 
Dwell,  not  unvisited  of  heaven's  fair  light. 
Secure ;  and  at  the  brightening  orient  beam 
Purge  off  this  gloom ;  the  soft  delicious  air. 
To  heal  the  scar  of  these  corrosive  fires,  401 
Shall    breathe    her    balm.     But    first,    whom 

shall     we  send 
In   search   of   this  new   world?  whom   shall 

we  find 
Sufficient?  who  shall  tempt  with  wandering 

feet 
The   dark,   unbottomed,   infinite  abyss,       405 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight, 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings, 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle?     What  strength,  what  art, 

can  then  4io 

Suffice,  or  what  evasion  bear  him  safe 
Through    the    strict    senteries    and    stations 

thick 
Of   angels    watching   round?     Here    he   had 

need 
All  circumspection,  and  we  now  no  less 
Choice   in   our   suffrage ;    for,  on   whom   we 

send,  415 

The  weight  of  all,  and  our  last  hope  relies.' 

This  said,  he  sat ;  and  expectation  held 
His   look  suspense,  awaiting  who  appeared 
To  second,  or  oppose,  or  undertake 
The  perilous  attempt :  but  all  sat  mute,  420 
Pondering  the   danger   with   deep   thoughts ; 

and  each 
In  other's  countenance  read  his  own  dismay. 
Astonished :    none    among    the    choice    and 

prime 


Of    those-  heaven-warring    champions    could 

be  found 
So  hardy  as  to  prnffer  or  accept,  4^5 

Alone,   the  dreadful   voyage;   till  at  last 
Satan,  whom  now  transcendent  glory  raised 
Above   his   fellows,  with   monarchal   pride, 
Conscious   of   highest   worth,   unmoved   thus 

spake : — ■ 
'O  progeny  of  heaven!  empyreal  thrones! 
With   reason   hath   deep   silence   and  demur 
Seized  us,  though  imdismayed.     Long  is  the 

way  432 

And    hard,    that    out    of    hell    leads    up    to 

light ; 
Our  prison  strong;  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 
Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold;  and  gates  of  burning  adamant. 
Barred  over  us,  prohibit  all  egress.  437 

These  passed,  if  any  pass,  the  void  profound 
Of  unessential  night   receives  him  next. 
Wide-gaping,   and   with   utter   loss  of   being 
Threatens    him    plunged     in    that    abortive 

gulf.  441 

If  thence  he  'scape  into  whatever  world 
Or  unknown  region,  what  remains  him  less 
Than  unknown  dangers  and  as  hard  escape? 
But  I  should  ill  become  this  throne,  O  peers, 
And  this  imperial  sovereignty,  adorned  446 
With  splendor,  armed  with  power,  if  aught 

proposed 
And  judged  of  public  moment,  in  the  shape 
Of   difficulty  or   danger,   could   deter 
Mc     from     attempting.     Wherefore     do     I 

assume  45° 

These  royalties,  and  not  refuse  to  reign, 
Refusing  to  accept  as  great  a  share 
Of  hazard  as  of  honor,  due  alike 
To  him  who  reigns,  and  so  much  to  him  due 
Of  hazard  more,  as  he  above  the  rest    455 
High   honored    sits?     Go,   therefore,   mighty 

powers. 
Terror  of  heaven,  though   fallen;  intend  at 

home 
(While  here  shall  be  our  home)   what  best 

may  ease 
The  present  misery,  and  render  hell 
More  tolerable;  if  there  be  cure  or  charm 
To  respite,  or  deceive,  or  slack  the  pain  461 
Of  this  ill  mansion  ;  intermit  no  watch 
Against  a  wakeful  foe,  while  I  abroad 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  dark  destruction 

seek 
Deliverance   for  us  all :   this  enterprise     465 
None  shall  partake  with  me.'     Thus  saying, 

rose 
The  monarch,  and  prevented  all  reply; 
Prudent,  lest  from  his  resolution  raised 
Others  among  the  chief  might  offer  now 


200 


TORN  MILTON 


(Certain    to    be    refused)     what     erst    they 

feared ;  '>7o 

And,  so  refused,  might  in  opinion  stand 
His  rivals;  winning  cheap  the  high  repute 
Which  he  through  hazard  huge  must  earn. 

But  they 
Dreaded    not    more   the   adventure    tlian    his 

voice 
Forbidding:  and  at  once  with  him  they  rose. 
Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of    thunder    heard    remote.     Towards    him 

they  bend  -t^; 

With  awful  reverence  prone;  and  as  a  god 
Extol  him  equal  to  the  Highest  in  heaven. 
Nor  failed  they  to  express  how  much  they 

praised  480 

That  for  the  general  safety  he  despised 
His  own :  for  neither  do  the  spirits  damned 
Lose  all  their  virtue;  lest  bad  men   should 

boast 
Their  specious  deeds  on  earth,  which  glory 

excites  484 

Or  close  ambition  varnished  o'er  with  zeal. 

Thus    they    their    doubtful    consultations 

dark 
Ended,   rejoicing  in   their  matchless  chief. 
As    when     from    mountain-tops    the    dusky 

clouds 
Ascending,    while    the    north    wind    sleeps, 

o'erspread 
Heaven's  cheerful   face,  the  louring  element 
Scowls  o'er  the  darkened  landscape  snow  or 

shower ;  49i 

H    chance    the    radiant    sun,    with    farewell 

sweet. 
Extend   his   evening  beam,   the   fields   revive, 
The    birds   their   notes    renew,    and   bleating 

herds  494 

Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rings. 
O  shame  to  men !  devil  with  devil  damned 
Firm  concord  holds,  men  only  disagree 
Of  creatures  rational,  though  under  hope 
Of    heavenly   grace ;    and,    God    proclaiming 

peace. 
Yet  live  in  hatred,  enmity,  and  strife       500 
Among  themselves,  and  levy  cruel  wars. 
Wasting  the  earth,  each  other  to  destroy : 
As  if   (which  might  induce  us  to  accord) 
Man  had  not  hellish   foes  enough  besides, 
That  day  and  night  for  his  destruction  wait. 
*     *     *  (1667) 

From   AREOPAGITICA 
a    speech    for    the    liberty    of    unli- 
censed printing  to  the  parliament 
of  england 

Lords  and   Commons  of   England,  con- 
sider what   nation   it   is   whereof  ye   are, 


and  whereof  ye  are  the  governors:  a 
nation  not  slow  and  dull,  but  of  a  quick, 
ingenious,  and  piercing  spirit,  acute  to 
invent,  subtle  and  sinewy  to  discourse, 
not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point  the 
highest  that  human  capacity  can  soar  to. 
Therefore  the  studies  of  learning  in  her 
deepest  sciences  have  been  so  ancient  and 
so  eminent  among  us,  that  writers  of  good 
antiquity  and  ablest  judgment  have  been 
persuaded  that  even  the  school  of  Pythag- 
oras and  the  Persian  wisdom  took  be- 
ginning from  the  old  philosophy  of  this 
island.  And  that  wise  and  civil  Ro- 
man, Julius  Agricola,  who  governed 
once  here  for  Caesar,  preferred  the  nat- 
ural wits  of  Britain,  before  the  labored 
studies  of  the  French.  Nor  is  it  for 
nothing  that  the  grave  and  frugal  Tran- 
sylvanian  sends  out  yearly  from  as  far 
as  the  mountainous  borders  of  Russia, 
and  beyond  the  Hercynian  wilderness, 
not  their  youth,  but  their  staid  men,  to 
learn  our  language,  and  our  theologic 
arts.  Yet  that  which  is  above  all  this, 
the  favor  and  the  love  of  Heaven  we 
have  great  argument  to  think  in  a  pecul- 
iar manner  propitious  and  propending 
towards  us.  Why  else  was  this  nation 
chosen  before  any  other,  that  out  of  her 
as  out  of  Sion  should  be  proclaimed  and 
sounded  forth  the  first  tidings  and  trum- 
pet of  Reformation  to  all  Europe?  And 
had  it  not  been  the  obstinate  perverse- 
ness  of  our  prelates  against  the  divine 
and  admirable  spirit  of  Wyclif,  to  sup- 
press him  as  a  schismatic  and  innovator, 
perhaps  neither  the  Bohemian  Huss  and 
Jerome,  no,  nor  the  name  of  Luther,  or 
of  Calvin  had  been  ever  known :  the 
glory  of  reforming  all  our  neighbors 
had  been  completely  ours.  But  now,  as 
our  obdurate  clergy  have  with  violence 
demeaned  the  matter,  we  are  become 
hitherto  the  latest  and  the  backwardest 
scholars,  of  whom  God  offered  to  have 
made  us  the  teachers.  Now  once  again 
by  all  concurrence  of  signs,  and  by  the 
general  instinct  of  holy  and  devout  men, 
as  they  daily  and  solemnly  express  their 
thoughts,  God  is  decreeing  to  begin  some 
new  and  great  period  in  his  church,  even 
to  the  reforming  of  Reformation  itself: 
what  does  he  then  but  reveal  himself  to 
his  servants,  and  as  his  manner  is,  first 
to  his  Englishmen;  I  say  as  his  manner 
is,  first  to  us,  though  we  mark  not  the 
method    of    his    counsels,    and    are    un- 


worthy.  Behold  now  this  vast  city :  a  not  despair  the  greatest  design  that 
city  of  refuge,  the  mansion  house  of  lib-  could  be  attempted  to  make  a  church  or 
erty,  encompassed  and  surrounded  with  kingdom  happy.  Yet  these  are  the  men 
his  protection.  The  shop  of  war  hath  cried  out  against  for  schismatics  and 
not  there  more  anvils  and  hammers  wak-  5  sectaries;  as  if,  while  the  temple  of  the 
ing,  to  fashion  out  the  plates  and  in-  Lord  was  building,  some  cutting,  some 
struments  of  armed  justice  in  defense  squaring  the  marble,  others  hewing  the 
of  beleaguered  truth,  than  there  be  pens  cedars,  there  should  be  a  sort  of  irra- 
and  heads  there,  sitting  by  their  stu-  tional  men  who  would  not  consider  there 
dious  lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolving  10  must  be  many  schisms  and  many  dis- 
new  notions  and  ideas  wherewith  to  sections  made  in  the  quarry  and  in  the 
present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their  timber,  ere  the  house  of  God  can  be 
fealty,  the  approaching  Reformation;  built.  And  when  every  stone  is  laid 
others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all  things,  artfully  together,  it  cannot  be  united  into 
assenting  to  the  force  of  reason  and  con- 15  a  continuity,  it  can  but  be  contiguous 
vincement.  What  could  a  man  require  in  this  world ;  neither  can  every  piece 
more  from  a  nation  so  pliant  and  so  of  the  building  be  of  one  form;  nay, 
prone  to  seek  after  knowledge?  What  rather  the  perfection  consists  in  this, 
wants  there  to  such  a  towardly  and  that  out  of  many  moderate  varieties  and 
pregnant  soil,  but  wise  and  faithful  la- 20  brotherly  dissimilitudes  that  are  not 
borers,  to  make  a  knowing  people,  a  vastly  disproportional,  arises  the  goodly 
nation  of  prophets,  of  sages,  and  of  and  the  graceful  symmetry  that  corn- 
worthies?  We  reckon  more  than  five  mends  the  whole  pile  and  structure.  Let 
months  yet  to  harvest;  there  need  not  us  therefore  be  more  considerate  build- 
be  five  weeks;  had  we  but  eyes  to  lift  25  ers,  more  wise  in  spiritual  architecture, 
up,  the  fields  are  white  already.  Where  when  great  reformation  is  expected, 
there  is  much  desire  to  learn,  there  of  For  now  the  time  seems  come,  wherein 
necessity  will  be  much  arguing,  much  Moses  the  great  prophet  may  sit  in 
writing,  many  opinions ;  for  opinion  in  heaven  rejoicing  to  see  that  memorable 
good  men  is  but  knowledge  in  the  mak-  3°  and  glorious  wish  of  his  fulfilled,  when 
ing.  Under  these  fantastic  terrors  of  not  only  our  seventy  elders,  but  all  the 
sect  and  schism,  we  wrong  the  earnest  Lord's  people,  are  become  prophets, 
and  zealous  thirst  after  knowledge  and  No  marvel  then  though  some  men,  and 
understanding  which  God  hath  stirred  some  good  men  too,  perhaps,  but  young 
up  in  this  city.  What  some  lament  of,  35  in  goodness,  as  Joshua  then  was,  envy 
we  rather  should  rejoice  at,  should  them.  They  fret,  and  out  of  their  own 
rather  praise  this  pious  forwardness  weakness  are  in  agony,  lest  those  divi- 
among  men,  to  reassume  the  ill-deputed  sions  and  subdivisions  will  undo  us. 
care  of  their  religion  into  their  own  The  adversary  again  applauds,  and  waits 
hands  again.  A  little  generous  pru-  40  the  hour,  when  they  have  branched 
dence,  a  little  forbearance  of  one  an-  themselves  out  (saith  he)  small  enough 
other,  and  some  grain  of  charity  might  into  parties  and  partitions,  then  will  be 
win  all  these  diligences  to  join,  and  our  time.  Fool !  he  sees  not  the  firm 
unite  in  one  general  and  brotherly  root,  out  of  which  we  all  grow,  though 
search  after  truth,  could  we  but  forego 45  into  branches;  nor  will  beware  until  he 
this  prelatical  tradition  of  crowding  free  see  our  small  divided  maniples  cutting 
consciences  and  christian  liberties  into  through  at  every  angle  of  his  ill-united 
canons  and  precepts  of  men.  I  doubt  and  unwieldy  brigade.  And  that  we  are 
not,  if  some  great  and  worthy  stranger  to  hope  better  of  all  these  supposed 
should  come  among  us,  wise  to  discern  50  sects  and  schisms,  and  that  we  shall  not 
the  mold  and  temper  of  a  people,  and  need  that  solicitude  (honest  perhaps 
how  to  govern  it,  observing  the  high  though  over-timorous)  of  them  that  vex 
hopes  and  aims,  the  diligent  alacrity  of  in  this  behalf,  but  shall  laugh  in  the 
our  extended  thoughts  and  reasonings  in  end,  at  those  malicious  applauders  of 
the  pursuance  of  truth  and  freedom,  but  55  our  differences,  I  have  these  reasons  to 
that   he   would    cry   out  as    Pyrrhus    did,      persuade    me. 

admiring   the    Roman   docility    and   cour-  First,  when  a  city  shall  be  as  it  were 

age.  If  such  were  my  Epirots,   I   would      besieged   and   blocked   about,    her   navig- 


262  JOHN   MILTON 


able    river    infested,    iiiroails    and    incur-      envious  j^abhlc  would  prognosticate  a  year 
sions   round,  defiance  and   battle  oft   ru-      of  sects  and  schisms. 
mored   to   be   marching   up   even   to   her  What  should  ye  do  then,  should  ye  sup- 

walls  and  suburb  trenches,  that  then  the  press  all  this  flowery  crop  of  knowledge 
people,  or  the  greater  part,  more  than  s  and  new  light  sprung  up  and  yet  spring- 
at  other  times,  wholly  taken  up  with  the  ing  daily  in  this  city,  should  ye  set  an 
study  of  higliest  and  most  important  oligarchy  of  twenty  engrossers  over  it, 
matters  to  be  reformed,  should  be  dir,-  to  bring  a  famine  upon  our  minds  again, 
puting,  reasoning,  reading,  inventing,  when  we  shall  know  nothing  but  what  is 
discoursing,  even  to  a  rarity  and  admir- lo  measured  to  us  l)y  their  bushel?  Believe 
ation,  things  not  before  discoursed  or  it,  Lords  and  Commons,  they  who  counsel 
written  of,  argues  first  a  singular  good-  ye  to  such  a  suppressing,  do  as  good  as 
will,  contentedness  and  confidence  in  bid  ye  suppress  yourselves ;  and  I  will 
your  prudent  foresight,  and  safe  govern-  soon  show  how.  If  it  be  desired  to  know 
ment,  Lords  and  Commons ;  and  from  i5  the  immediate  cause  of  all  this  free  writ- 
thence  derives  itself  to  a  gallant  bravery  ing  and  free  speaking,  there  cannot  be 
and  well  grounded  contempt  of  their  assigned  a  truer  than  your  own  mild,  and 
enemies,  as  if  there  were  no  small  free,  and  humane  government;  it  is  the 
number  of  as  great  spirits  among  us,  as  liberty.  Lords  and  Commons,  which  your 
his  was,  who  when  Rome  was  nigh  be-  •zo  own  valorous  and  happy  counsels  have 
sieged  by  Hannibal,  being  in  the  city,  purchased  us,  liberty  which  is  the  nurse 
bought  that  piece  of  ground  at  no  cheap  of  all  great  wits.  This  is  that  which  hath 
rate,  whereon  Hannibal  himself  en-  rarefied  and  enlightened  our  spirits  like 
camped  his  own  regiment.  Next,  it  is  the  influence  of  heaven ;  this  is  that  which 
a  lively  and  cheerful  presage  of  our  ^5  hath  enfranchised,  enlarged,  and  lifted 
happy  success  and  victory.  For  as  in  up  our  apprehensions  degrees  above  them- 
a  body,  when  the  blood  is  fresh,  the  selves.  Ye  cannot  make  us  now  less  ca- 
spirits  pure  and  vigorous,  not  only  to  pable,  less  knowing,  less  eagerly  pursuing 
vital,  but  to  rational  faculties,  and  those  of  the  truth,  unless  ye  first  make  your- 
in  the  acutest  and  the  pertest  operations  3°  selves,  that  made  us  so,  less  the  lovers, 
of  wit  and  subtlety,  it  argues  in  what  less  the  founders  of  our  true  liberty.  We 
rood  plight  and  constitution  the  body  can  grow  ignorant  again,  brutish,  for- 
is,  so  when  the  cheerfulness  of  the  peo-  mal,  and  slavish,  as  ye  found  us ;  but  you 
pie  is  so  sprightly  up,  as  that  it  has,  not  then  must  first  become  that  which  ye  can- 
only  wherewith  to  guard  well  its  own  35  not  be,  oppressive,  arbitrary,  and  tyran- 
freedom  and  safety,  but  to  spare,  and  to  nous,  as  they  were  from  whom  ye  have 
bestow  upon  the  solidest  and  sublimest  freed  us.  That  our  hearts  are  now  more 
points  of  controversy  and  new  invention,  capacious,  our  thoughts  more  erected  to 
it  betokens  us  not  degenerated,  nor  droop-  the  search  and  expectation  of  greatest 
ing  to  a  fatal  decay,  but  casting  off  the  4°  and  exactest  things,  is  the  issue  of  your 
old  and  wrinkled  skin  of  corruption  to  own  virtue  propagated  in  us ;  ye  cannot 
outlive  these  pangs  and  wax  young  again,  suppress  that  unless  ye  reinforce  an  abro- 
entering  the  glorious  ways  of  truth  and  gated  and  merciless  law,  that  fathers  may 
prosperous  virtue  destined  to  become  despatch  at  will  their  own  children.  And 
great  and  honorable  in  these  latter  ages.  45  who  shall  then  stick  closest  to  ye,  and 
Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  excite  others?  not  he  who  takes  up  arms 
puissant  nation,  rousing  herself  like  a  for  coat  and  conduct,  and  his  four  nobles 
strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  of  danegelt.  Although  I  dispraise  not 
invincible  locks.  Methinks  I  see  her  as  the  defense  of  just  immunities,  yet  love 
an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  5°  my  peace  better,  if  that  were  all.  Give 
kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  me  the  liberty  to  know,  to  utter,  and  to 
midday  beam ;  purging  and  unsealing  her  argue  freely  according  to  conscience, 
long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of      above  all  liberties. 

heavenly  radiance;  while  the  whole  noise  What  would   be   best   advised,   then,   if 

of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those  ^^  it  be  found  so  hurtful  and  so  unequal  to 
also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  suppress  opinions  for  the  newness,  or  the 
amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their      unsuitableness  to  a  customary  acceptance, 


will  not  be  my  task  to  say.  I  only  shall  dom  as  for  hidden  treasures  early  and 
repeat  what  I  have  learned  from  one  of  late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us  to 
your  own  honorable  numl)er,  a  right  no-  know  nothing  but  by  statute?  When  a 
ble  and  pious  lord,  who,  had  he  not  sacri-  man  hath  been  laboring  the  hardest  labor 
ficed  his  life  and  fortunes  to  the  church  5  in  the  deep  mines  of  knowledge,  hath'fur- 
and  commonwealth,  we  had  not  now  nished  out  his  findings  in  all  their  equi- 
missed  and  bewailed  a  worthy  and  un-  page,  drawn  forth  his  reasons  as  it  were 
doubted  patron  of  this  argument.  Ye  a  battle  ranged,  scattered  and  defeated  all 
know  him  I  am  sure;  yet  I  for  honor's  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his  advcr- 
sake,  and  may  it  be  eternal  to  him,  shall  lo  sary  into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  ad- 
name  him  the  Lord  Brook.  He  writing  vantage  of  wind  and  sun,  if  he  please, 
of  episcopacy  and  by  the  way  treating  of  only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint 
sects  and  schisms,  left  ye  his  vote,  or  of  argument  —  for  his  opponents  then 
rather  now  the  last  words  of  his  dying  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a 
charge,  which  I  know  will  ever  be  of  15  narrow  bridge  of  licensing  where  the 
dear  and  honored  regard  with  ye,  so  full  challenger  should  pass,  though  it  be  valor 
of  meekness  and  breathing  charity,  that  enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness  and 
next  to  his  last  testament,  who  bequeathed  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth.  For 
love  and  peace  to  his  disciples,  I  cannot  who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next 
call  to  mind  where  I  have  read  or  heard  20  to  the  Almighty ;  she  needs  no  policies,  no 
words  more  mild  and  peaceful.  He  there  stratagems,  no  licensings  to  make  her  vic- 
exhorts  us  to  hear  with  patience  and  hu-  torious ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the  de- 
mility  those,  however  they  be  miscalled,  fenses  that  error  uses  against  her  power: 
that  desire  to  live  purely,  in  such  a  use  of  give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her 
God's  ordinances,  as  the  best  guidance  of  25  when  she  sleeps,  for  then  she  speaks  not 
their  conscience  gives  them,  and  to  toler-  true,  as  the  old  Proteus  did,  who  spake 
ate  them,  though  in  some  disconformity  oracles  only  when  he  was  caught  and 
to  ourselves.  The  book  itself  will  tell  us  bound,  but  then  rather  she  turns  herself 
more  at  large,  being  published  to  the  into  all  shapes,  except  her  own,  and  per- 
world,  and  dedicated  to  the  Parliament  30  haps  tunes  her  voice  according  to  the 
by  him  who  both  for  his  life  and  for  his  time,  as  Micaiah  did  before  Ahab,  until 
death  deserves  that  what  advice  he  left  she  be  adjured  into  her  own  likeness, 
be  not  laid  by  without  perusal.  Yet  it  is  not  impossible  that  she  may  have 

And  now  the  time  in  special  is,  by  priv-  more  shapes  than  one.  What  else  is  all 
ilege  to  write  and  speak  what  may  help  35  that  rank  of  things  indifferent,  wherein 
to  the  further  discussing  of  matters  in  Truth  may  be  on  this  side,  or  on  the 
agitation.  The  temple  of  Janus  with  his  other,  without  being  unlike  herself? 
two  controversal  faces  might  now  not  un-  What  but  a  vain  shadow  else  is  the  aboli- 
significantly  be  set  open.  And  though  all  tion  of  those  ordinances,  that  hand-writ- 
the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  40  hig  nailed  to  the  cross,  what  great  pur- 
play  upon  the  earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the  chase  is  this  christian  liberty  which  Paul 
field,  we  do  injuriously  by  licensing  and  so  often  boasts  of?  His  doctrine  is,  that 
prohibiting  to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let  he  who  eats  or  eats  not,  regards  a  day  or 
her  and  Falsehood  grapple;  who  ever  regards  it  not,  may  do  either  to  the  Lord, 
knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse,  in  a  free  45  How  many  other  things  might  be  toler- 
and  open  encounter?  Her  confuting  is  ated  in  peace,  and  left  to  conscience,  had 
the  best  and  surest  suppressing.  He  who  we  but  charity,  and  were  it  not  the  chief 
hears  what  praying  there  is  for  light  and  stronghold  of  our  hypocrisy  to  be  ever 
clearer  knowledge  to  be  sent  down  among  judging  one  another.  I  fear  yet  this  iron 
us,  would  think  of  other  matters  to  be  50  yoke  of  outward  conformity  hath  left  a 
constituted  beyond  the  discipline  of  Ge-  slavish  print  upon  our  necks;  the  ghost 
neva,  framed  and  fabricked  already  to  our  of  a  linen  decency  yet  haunts  us.  We 
hands.  Yet  when  the  new  light  which  stumble  and  are  impatient  at  the  least 
we  beg  for  shines  in  upon  us,  there  be  dividing  of  one  visible  congregation  from 
who  envy  and  oppose,  if  it  come  not  first  55  another,  though  it  be  not  in  fundamentals; 
in  at  their  casements.  What  a  collusion  and  through  our  forwardness  to  suppress, 
is  this,  whenas  we  are  exhorted  by  the  and  our  backwardness  to  recover  any  cn- 
wise  man  to  use  diligence,  to  seek  for  wis-      thralled   piece   of   truth   out   of   the   grip 


iJD4  JUniN    MILIUJN 

of  custom,  we  care  not  to  keep  truth  but  whom  they  Hke,  is  the  worst  and 
separated  from  truth,  which  is  the  fiercest  newest  opinion  of  all  others ;  and  is  the 
rent  and  disunion  of  all.  We  do  not  see  chief  cause  why  sects  and  schisms  do  so 
that  while  we  still  affect  by  all  means  much  abound,  and  true  knowledge  is 
a  rigid  external  formality,  we  may  as  5  kept  at  distance  from  us;  besides  yet  a 
soon  fall  again  into  a  gross  conforming  greater  danger  which  is  in  it.  For  when 
stupidity,  a  stark  .and  dead  congealment  God  shakes  a  kingdom  with  strong  and 
of  wood,  and  hay,  and  stubble  forced  and  healthful  commotions  to  a  general  re- 
frozen  together,  which  is  more  to  the  forming,  't  is  not  untrue  that  many 
sudden  degenerating  of  a  church  than  '°  sectaries  and  false  teachers  are  then 
many  subdichotomies  of  petty  schisms.  busiest  in  seducing;  but  yet  more  true 
Not  that  I  can  think  well  of  every  light  it  is,  that  God  then  raises  to  his  own 
separation,  or  that  all  in  a  church  is  to  work  men  of  rare  abilities,  and  more 
be  expected  gold  and  silver  and  precious  than  common  industry,  not  only  to  look 
stones.  It  is  not  possible  for  man  to  ^5  back  and  revise  what  hath  been  taught 
sever  the  wheat  from  the  tares,  the  good  heretofore,  but  to  gain  further  and  go  on, 
fish  from  the  other  fry;  that  must  be  the  some  new  enlightened  steps  in  the  dis- 
angels'  ministry  at  the  end  of  mortal  covery  of  truth.  For  such  is  the  order 
things.  Yet  if  all  cannot  be  of  one  mind,  of  God's  enlightening  his  church,  to  dis- 
(as  who  looks  they  should  be?)  this  2°  pense  and  deal  out  by  degrees  his  beam, 
doubtless  is  more  wholesome,  more  pru-  so  as  our  earthly  eyes  may  best  sustain 
dent,  and  more  christian  that  many  be  it.  Neither  is  God  appointed  and  con- 
tolerated,  rather  than  all  compelled.  I  fined,  where  and  out  of  what  place  these 
mean  not  tolerated  popery,  and  open  his  chosen  shall  be  first  heard  to  speak; 
superstition,  which,  as  it  extirpates  all  ^5  for  he  sees  not  as  man  sees,  chooses  not 
religions  and  civil  supremacies,  so  itself  as  man  chooses,  lest  we  should  devote 
should  be  extirpate,  provided  first  that  all  ourselves  again  to  set  places,  and  assem- 
charitable  and  compassionate  means  be  blies,  and  outward  callings  of  men ;  plant- 
used  to  win  and  regain  the  weak  and  the  ing  our  faith  one  while  in  the  old 
misled :  that  also  which  is  impious  or  evil  3o  Convocation  House,  and  another  while  in 
absolutely  either  against  faith  or  man-  the  Chapel  at  Westminster;  when  all  the 
ners,  no  law  can  possibly  permit  that  in-  faith  and  religion  that  shall  be  there 
tends  not  to  unlaw  itself.  But  those  canonized,  is  not  sufficient  without  plain 
neighboring  differences,  or  rather  in-  convincement,  and  the  charity  of  patient 
differences,  are  what  I  speak  of,  whether  35  instruction  to  supple  the  least  bruise  of 
in  some  point  of  doctrine  or  of  dis-  conscience,  to  edify  the  meanest  chris- 
cipline,  which  though  they  may  be  many,  tian,  who  desires  to  walk  in  the  Spirit, 
yet  need  not  interrupt  the  unity  of  Spirit,  and  not  in  the  letter  of  human  trust,  for 
if  we  could  but  find  among  us  the  bond  all  the  number  of  voices  that  can  be  there 
of  peace.  In  the  meanwhile  if  any  one  4°  made  —  no,  though  Harry  VII  himself 
would  write,  and  bring  his  helpful  hand  there,  with  all  his  liege  tombs  about  him, 
to  the  slow-moving  reformation  which  we  should  lend  them  voices  from  the  dead, 
labor  under,  if  Truth  have  spoken  to  him  to  swell  their  number.  And  if  the  men 
before  others,  or  but  seemed  at  least  to  be  erroneous  who  appear  to  be  the  lead- 
speak,  who  hath  so  bejesuited  us  that  we  45  ing  schismatics,  what  withholds  us  but 
should  trouble  that  man  with  asking  our  sloth,  our  self-will,  and  distrust  in 
license  to  do  so  worthy  a  deed  ?  and  not  the  right  cause,  that  we  do  not  give  them 
consider  this,  that  if  it  come  to  prohibit-  gentle  meetings  and  gentle  dismissions. 
ing.  there  is  not  aught  more  likely  to  be  that  we  debate  not  and  examine  the 
prohibited  than  truth  itself;  whose  first  5o  matter  thoroughly  with  liberal  and  f  re- 
appearance to  our  eyes  bleared  and  quent  audience;  if  not  for  their  sakes, 
dimmed  with  prejudice  and  custom,  is  yet  for  our  own?  Seeing  no  man  who 
more  unsightly  and  unplausible  than  hath  tasted  learning,  l)ut  will  confess  the 
many  errors,  even  as  the  person  is  of  many  ways  of  profiting  by  those  who,  not 
many  a  great  man  slight  and  contemptible  55  contented  with  stale  receipts,  are  able  to 
to  see  to.  And  what  do  they  tell  us  manage  and  set  forth  new  positions  to  the 
vainly  of  new  opinions,  when  this  very  world.  And  were  they  but  as  the  dust 
opinion  of  theirs,  that  none  must  be  heard      and  cinders  of  our  feet,  so  long  as  in  that 


notion  they  may  yet  serve  to  polish  and      and  the  executioner  will  be  the  timeliest 

brighten  the   armory  of   Truth,  even   for      and  the  most  effectual  remedy,  that  man's 

that  respect  they  were  not  utterly  to  be      prevention    can    use.     For    this    authentic 

cast  away.     But  if  they  be  of  those  whom      Spanish    policy    of   licensing   books,    if    I 

God   hath   fitted   for   the   special   use    of  5  have  said  aught,  will  prove  the  most  un- 

these     times     with     eminent     and     ample      licensed  book  itself  within  a  short  while; 

gifts,   and  those   perhaps   neither   among      and  was  the  immediate  image  of  a  Star 

the    Priests,    nor    among    the    Pharisees,      Chamber  decree  to  that  purpose  made  in 

and  we  in  the  haste  of  a  precipitant  zeal      those  very  times  when  that  court  did  the 

shall  make  no  distinction,  but  resolve  toio  rest  of  those  her  pious  works,  for  which 

stop  their  mouths,  because  we  fear  they      she   is   now    fallen    from   the    stars   with 

come  with  new  and  dangerous  opinions,      Lucifer.     Whereby    ye    may    guess    what 

as  we  commonly  forejudge  them  ere  we      kind  of  state  prudence,  what  love  of  the 

understand  them,  no  less  than  woe  to  us,      people,    what    care    of    religion    or    good 

while  thinking  thus  to  defend  the  Gospel,  15  manners  there  was  at  the  contriving,  al- 

we  are  found  the  persecutors.  though    with    singular    hypocrisy    it    pre- 

There  have   been   not   a   few  since   the      tended     to     bind     books     to     their     good 

beginning  of  this  Parliament,  both  of  the      behavior.     And    how    it    got    the    upper 

Presbytery  and  others,  who  by  their  un-      hand    of   your    precedent    order,    so    well 

licensed  books  to  the  contempt  of  an  Im-  20  constituted    before,    if    we    may    believe 

primatur  first  broke  that  triple  ice  clung      those   men   whose   profession   gives   them 

about  our  hearts,  and  taught  the  people      cause  to  inquire  most,  it  may  be  doubted 

to    see   day.     I   hope   that   none   of   those      there    was    in    it    the    fraud   of   some    old 

were   the   persuaders   to   renew   upon   us      patentees   and  monopolizers   in  the  trade 

this  bondage  which  they  themselves  have  25  of  bookselling;  who  under  pretense  of  the 

wrought    so    much   good    by    contemning.      poor    in    their    Company    not    to    be    de- 

But  if  neither  the  check  that  Moses  gave      frauded,   and  the  just  retaining  of  each 

to    young   Joshua,    nor    the    countermand      man  his  several  copy   (which  God  forbid 

which   our   Savior   gave   to   young  John,      should  be  gainsaid),  brought  divers  gloss- 

who  was  so  ready  to  prohibit  those  whom  3°  ing  colors  to  the  House ;  which  were  in- 

he  thought  unlicensed,  be  not  enough  to      deed   but   colors,   and   serving  to   no   end 

admonish   our   Elders,    how   unacceptable      except    it    be    to    exercise    a    superiority 

to   God    their   testy    mood    of   prohibiting      over    their    neighbors,    men    who   do    not 

is;    if    neither    their    own    remembrance      therefore    labor    in    an    honest   profession 

what   evil   hath   abounded   in   the   Church  35  to  which   learning  is   indebted,   that  they 

by   this   let   of   licensing,   and   what   good      should     be     made     other     men's     vassals. 

they    themselves    have    begun    by    trans-      Another  end  is  thought  was  aimed  at  by 

gressing  it,  be  not  enough,  but  that  they      some    of   them    in    procuring   by    petition 

will     persuade,     and     execute     the     most      this    order,    that    having    power    in    their 

Dominican  part   of   the   Inquisition   over  40  hands,  malignant  books  might  the  easier 

us,  and  are  already  with  one  foot  in  the      'scape  abroad,  as  the  event  shows.     But 

stirrup  so  active  at  suppressing,  it  would      of   these    sophisms    and    elenchs    of   mer- 

be    no    unequal    distribution    in    the    first      chandise  I  skill  not.     This  I  know,  that 

place  to   suppress  the   suppressors   them-      errors   in   a   good   government   and   in   a 

selves :    whom    the   change    of   their   con-  45  bad  are  equally  almost  incident ;  for  what 

dition   hath    puffed    up,    more    than   their      magistrate  may  not  be  misinformed,  and 

late    experience    of    harder    times    hath      much    the    sooner,    if  liberty   of   printing 

made   wise.  be  reduced  into  the  power  of  a  few;  but 

And  as  for  regulating  the  Press,  let  no      to    redress    willingly    and    speedily    what 

man  think  to  have  the  honor  of  advising  5o  hath  been  erred,  and  in  highest  authority 

ye   better   than   yourselves   have   done   in      to    esteem    a    plain    advertisement    more 

that    order    published    next    before    this,      than  others  have  done  a  sumptuous  bribe, 

'that    no    book    be    printed,    unless    the      is  a  virtue  (honored  Lords  and  Commons)' 

printer's    and    the    author's    name,    or    at      answerable   to  your  highest   actions,    and 

least  the  printer's  be  registered.'    Those  55  whereof  none  can  participate  but  greatest 

which   otherwise   come    forth,    if   they   be      and   wisest  men. 

found   mischievous   and  libelous,   the  fire  (1644) 


JOHN  DRYDEN   (1631-1700) 


Dryden  came  of  a  good  Northamptonshire  family,  and  was  educated  at  Westminster  School 
and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  was  only  eighteen  when  his  first  verses  were  published, 
but  his  first  poem  of  importance  was  in  commemoration  of  the  death  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 
Drydon's  dependence  as  a  i)rofessional  writer  on  the  party  in  power  made  his  financial  position 
insecure,  hampered  his  genius,  and  ruined  his  rei)utation  for  consistency  :  his  eulogy  of  Crom- 
well was  followed  almost  immediately  by  poems  in  celebration  of  Charles  II.  The  re- 
opening of  the  theaters  after  the  Restoration  gave  him  a  less  eiiuivocal  opportunity  for  the 
exercise  of  his  talents,  and  he  led  the  way  in  the  development  of  the  new  comedy  (largely 
indebted  to  the  French)  and  the  heroic  play  with  its  preposterous  characters  and  incidents 
and  extravagant  rant.  After  defending  and  perfecting  the  rimed  couplet  as  a  medium  for 
tragedy,  he  turned  to  blank  verse  in  All  for  Love  (1078),  founded  upon  Shakspere's  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  and  generally  accounted  Drydcn's  best  play.  Meanwhile  he  had  won  distinc- 
tion in  other  ways;  his  Essai/  of  Dramatic  Poesy  (IGOS)  is  remarkable  both  for  its  literary 
insight  and  its  vigorous  and  lucid  style,  which  had  an  important  influence  on  the  development 
of  lOnglish  prose.  In  1070  he  was  appointed  poet  laureate  and  historiographer  with  a  salary 
of  £200,  which  relieved  his  immediate  necessities,  but  was  not  enough  to  save  him  from 
financial  difficulties.  The  political  intrigues  at  the  end  of  Charles  II's  reign  gave  occasion 
for  the  bitter  satirical  poem  Ahsalom  and  Achifophcl  (10>81)  which  in  its  own  kind  of  poetry 
remains  unsurpassed.  ReUgio  Laid  (1082),  a  poem  in  defense  of  the  Church  of  England, 
was  discounted  by  the  author's  conversion  to  Roman  Catholicism  on  the  accession  of  .James 
II,  though  most  students  of  Dryden's  life  and  writings  hold  that  his  change  of  view  was 
sincere.  The  Hind  and  the  Panther,  a  plea  for  the  poet's  newly  adopted  faith,  appeared  in 
1087.  The  Revolution  of  1088  deprived  Dryden  of  his  offices,  and  he  was  dependent  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  upon  his  pen.  He  returned  to  the  stage  with  Don  Sebastian  (1090),  one  of  his 
best  tragedies,  wrote  excellent  prologues  and  epilogues  for  the  plays  of  other  men,  and  worked 
hard  at  criticism  and  translations.  After  enjoying  for  many  years  the  literary  leadership  of 
his  time,  he  was  buried  in  the  Poets'  Corner  at  Westminster  Abbey. 


HEROIC  STANZAS, 

CONSECRATED     TO     THE     MEMORY 
OF  HIS   HIGHNESS   OLIVER 

LATE    LORD     PROTECTOR    OF    THIS     COMMON- 
WEALTH   &C. 

Written  after  the  celebrating  of  his  funeral 

And  now  't  is  time ;  for  their  officious  haste 
Who  would  before  have  borne  him  to  the 
sky, 

Like  eager  Romans  ere  all  rites  were  past, 
Did  let  too  soon  the  sacred  eagle  fly. 

Though    our   best   notes   arc   treason   to    his 
fame  5 

Joined    with    the   loud    applause    of    public 
voice. 
Since   Heaven   what   praise  wc  offer  to   his 
name 
Hath  rendered  too  authentic  by  its  choice 


Though  in  his  praise  no  arts  can  liberal  be, 

Since  they,  whose  muses  have  the  highest 

flown,  10 

Add  not  to  his  immortal  memory, 

But  do  an  act  of  friendship  to  their  own ; 

Yet  't  is  our  duty  and  our  interest  too 
Such  monuments  as  we  can  build  to  raise, 

Lest  all  the  world  prevent  what  we  should 
do  IS 

And  claim  a  title  in  liim  by  their  praise. 

How  shall  I  then  begin  or  where  conclude 
To   draw  a   fame   so  truly  circular? 

For  in  a  round  what  order  can  be  shewed, 
Where     all     the     parts     so     equal-perfect 
are?  20 

His     grandeur     he     derived     from     Heaven 
alone, 
For  he  was  great,  ere  Fortune  made  him 
so; 


266 


I 


And   wars,   like   mists  that   rise  against  the 
sun, 
Made   him   but  greater   seem,  not  greater 
grow. 

No  borrowed  bays  his  temples  did  adorn,    25 

But    to    our    crown    he    did    fresh    jewels 

bring ; 

Nor  was  his  virtue  poisoned,  soon  as  born. 

With    the    too    early    thoughts    of    being 

king. 

Fortune,  that  easy  mistress  of  the  young, 

But  to  her  ancient  servants  coy  and  hard, 
Him     at     that     age     her     favorites    ranked 
among  31 

When  she  her  best-loved  Pompey  did  dis- 
card. 

He,    private,    marked    the    faults    of    others' 
sway 
And    set    as     sea-marks     for    himself    to 
shun ; 
Not    like    rash    monarchs,    who   their    youth 
betray  35 

By  acts  their  age  too  late  would  wish  un- 
done. 

And  yet  dominion  was  not  his  design ; 
We    owe    that    blessing    not    to    him    but 
Heaven, 
Which    to    fair    acts    unsought   rewards    did 
join, 
Rewards    that   less   to   him  than   us    were 
given.  40 

Our  former  chiefs,  like  sticklers  of  the  war. 

First    sought  to   inflame  the   parties,  then 

to  poise, 

The  quarrel  loved,  but  did  the  cause  abhor, 

And   did  not   strike  to  hurt,  but  make   a 

noise. 

War,    our    consumption,    was    their    gainful 

trade ;  4S 

We    inward    bled,    whilst    they    prolonged 

our   pain  ; 

He  fought  to  end  our  fighting,  and  assayed 

To  stanch  the  blood  by  breathing  of  the 

vein. 

*     *     * 


Nor   died    he    when    his    ebbing    fame    went 
less. 
But   when    fresh    laurels   courted    him   to 
live ;  so 

He   seemed  but   to   prevent   some   new   suc- 
cess. 


As    if   above    what    triumphs    earth   could 
give. 

His   latest   victories    still   thickest   came. 
As  near  the  center  motion  does  increase; 

Till   he,   pressed   down   by   his   own   weighty 

name,  SS 

Did,  like  the  vestal,  under  spoils  decease. 

But  first  the  ocean  as  a  tribute   sent 
That  giant-prince  of  all  her  watery  herd; 

And    the    isle,    when    her    protecting    genius 

went,  59 

Upon  his  obsequies  loud   sighs  conferred. 

No  civil  broils  have  since  his  death  arose, 
But   faction  now  by  habit   docs   obey ; 

And  wars  have  that  respect   for  his  repose 
As   winds    for   haJcyons   when   they  breed 
at  sea. 

His  ashes  in  a  peaceful  urn  shall  rest;        6s 
His  name  a  great  example  stands  to  show 
How     strangely     high     endeavors     may     be 
blessed 
Where  piety  and  valor  jointly  go. 

(1659) 


From  ASTR.^A  REDUX 

And    welcome    now,    great    monarch,    to 
your  own ! 
Behold  the  approaching  cliffs  of  Albion. 
It  is  no  longer  motion  cheats  your  view; 
As  you  meet  it,  the  land  approacheth  you. 
The  land  returns,  and  in  the  white  it  wears 
The  marks  of  penitence  and  sorrow  bears.  6 
But  you,  whose  goodness  your  descent  doth 

show. 
Your  heavenly  parentage  and  earthly  too. 
By  that  same  mildness  which  your  father's 

crown 
Before  did  ravish  shall  secure  your  own.    10 
Not  tied  to  rules  of  policy,  you  find 
Revenge  less   sweet  than  a   forgiving  mind. 
Thus,   when   the  Almighty  would  to   Moses 

give 
A  sight  of  all  he  could  behold  and  live, 
A  voice  before  his  entry  did  proclaim         'S 
Long-suffering,     goodness,     mercy,     in     his 

name. 
Your    power   to    justice    doth    submit    your 

cause. 
Your  goodness  only  is  above  the  laws. 
Whose    rigid    letter,    while    pronounced    by 

you. 


2t)8 


JUHJN    UKYUHN 


Is    softer    made.     So    winds    that    tempests 

brew,  "° 

When    through    Araliian    groves    they    take 

their   flight, 
Made    wanton    with    rich    odors,    lose    their 

spite. 
And  as  those  lees  that  trouble  it  refine 
The  agitated  soul  of  generous  wine. 
So  tears  of  joy,  for  your  returning  spilt,     -S 
Work  out  and  expiate  our  former  guilt. 
Methinks    I    see    those    crowds    on    Dover's 

strand. 
Who  in  their  haste  to  welcome  you  to  land 
Choked  up  the  beach  with  their  still  grow- 
ing store 
And  made  a  wilder  torrent  on  the  shore :  3o 
While,  spurred  with  eager  thoughts  of  past 

delight, 
Those    who   had    seen   you.   court   a    second 

sight. 
Preventing     still     your     steps     and     making 

haste 
To  meet  you  often  wheresoe'er  you  past. 
How     shall     I     speak    of    that    triumphant 

day,  35 

When   you   renewed  the  expiring  pomp   of 

May ! 
A    month    that    owns    an    interest    in    your 

name; 
You  and  the   flowers  are  its  peculiar  claim. 
That   star,  that  at  your  birth   shone  out  so 

bright 
It  stained  the  duller  sun's  meridian  light,  4° 
Did  once  again  its  potent  fires  renew, 
Guiding  our   eyes  to  find   and  worship  you. 

And  now  Time's  whiter  series  is  begun. 
Which  in  soft  centuries  shall  smoothly  run; 
Those  clouds  that  overcast  your  morn  shall 

fly,  45 

Dispelled  to   farthest  corners  of   the   sky. 
Our  nation,   with   united   interest   blest. 
Not   now   content   to   poise,    shall    sway  the 

rest. 
Abroad   your   empire   shall   no   limits   know, 
But,  like  the  sea,  in  boundless  circles  flow ; 
Your    much-loved    fleet    shall    with    a    wide 

command  5i 

Besiege  the  petty  monarchs  of  the  land ; 
And    as   old    Time   his   off^spring    swallowed 

down, 
Our  ocean  in  its  depths  all  seas  shall  drown. 
Their    wealthy    trade    from    pirates'    rapine 

free,  55 

Our   merchants    shall    no   more   adventurers 

be; 
Nor  in  the  farthest  East  those  dangers    fear 
Which     humble     Holland     must     dissemble 

here. 


Spain  to  your  gift  alone  her   Indies  owes, 
Fpr    what    the    powerful    takes    not    he    be- 
stows ;  6o 
And    France    that    did    an    exile's    presence 

fear 
May  justly  apprehend  you   still  too  near. 
At  home  the  hateful  names  of  parties  cease. 
And    factious   souls  are  wearied   into  peace. 
The  discontented  now  are  only  they  65 

Whose    crimes    before    did    your    just    cause 

betray  ; 
Of    those    your    edicts    some    reclaim    from 

sins, 
But  most  your  life  and  blest  example  wins. 
Oh,  happy  prince,  whom  Heaven  hath  taught 

the  way 
By  paying  vows  to  have  more  vows  to  pay ! 
Oh,  happy  age!  oh,  times  like  those  alone  71 
By     fate     reserved     for     great     Augustus' 

throne. 
When    the    joint    growth   of    arms    and    arts 

foreshew 
The    world    a    monarch,    and    that    monarch 

you ! 

( 1660) 


From  ABSALOM  AND  ACHITOPHEL 

The   inhabitants    of   old   Jerusalem 
Were    Jebusites;    the    town    so    called    from 

them, 
And  theirs  the  native  right. 
But    when    the    chosen    people    grew    more 

strong. 
The    rightful    cause    at    length    became    the 
wrong ;  5 

And  every  loss  the  men  of  Jebus  bore, 
They   still   were   thought   God's   enemies   the 

more. 
Thus  worn  and  weakened,  well  or  ill  con- 
tent, 
Submit  they  must  to  David's  government : 
Impoverished  and  deprived  of  all  com- 
mand, 10 
Their  taxes  doubled  as  they  lost  their  land ; 
And,    what    was    harder    yet    to    flesh    and 

blood. 
Their  gods  disgraced,   and   burnt   like  com- 
mon wood. 
This  set  the  heathen  priesthood  in   a  flame, 
For  priests  of  all  religions  are  the  same.    '5 
Of  whatsoe'er  descent  their  godhead  be. 
Stock,  stone,  or  other  homely  pedigree. 
In  his  defense  his  servants  are  as  bold. 
As  if  he  had  been  born  of  beaten  gold. 
The  Jewish  rabbins,  though  their  enemies,  20 
In  this  conclude  them  honest  men  and  wise. 


For  't  was  their  duty,  all  the  learned  think. 
To  espouse  his  cause  by  whom  they  eat  and 

drink. 
From    hence    began    that    Plot,    the    nation's 

curse, 
Bad  in  itself,  but  represented  worse,  25 

Raised    in    extremes,    and    in    extremes    de- 
cried. 
With    oaths    affirmed,    with   dying   vows    de- 
nied. 
Not  weighed  or  winnowed  by  the  multitude. 
But   swallowed  in   the  mass,  unchewed   and 

crude. 
Some     truth    there    was,    but    dashed     and 
brewed  with  lies  30 

To  please  the  fools  and  puzzle  all  the  wise : 
Succeeding   times    did    equal    folly   call, 
Believing  nothing  or  believing  all. 
The  Egyptian  rites  the  Jebusites  embraced. 
Where    gods    were    recommended    by    their 
taste;  35 

Such  savory  deities  must  needs  be  good 
As  served  at  once  for  worship  and  for  food. 
By    force    they    could    not    introduce    these 

gods. 
For  ten  to  one  in  former  days  was  odds : 
So  fraud  was  used,  the  sacrificer's  trade ;  40 
Fools  are  more  hard  to  conquer  than   per- 
suade. 
Their  busy  teachers  mingled  with  the  Jews 
And  raked  for  converts  even  the  court  and 

stews : 
Which    Hebrew    priests    the    more    unkindly 

took. 
Because  the  fleece  accompanies  the  flock.    45 
Some  thought  they  God's  anointed  meant  to 

slay 
By  guns,  invented  since  full  many  a  day : 
Our    author    swears    it    not ;    but    who    can 

know 
How  far  the  devil  and  Jebusites  may  go  ? 
This  plot,  which  failed  for  want  of  common 
sense,  5° 

Had  yet  a  deep  and  dangerous  consequence ; 
For  as,  when  raging  fevers  boil  the  blood. 
The  standing  lake  soon  floats  into  a  flood, 
And  every  hostile  humor  which  before 
Slept  quiet  in  its  channels  bubbles  o'er ;    55 
So  several  factions  from  this  first  ferment 
Work   up   to    foam   and   threat   the   govern- 
ment. 
Some  by  their   friends,  more  by  themselves 

thought    wise. 
Opposed  the  power  to  which  they  could  not 

rise. 
Some  had  in  courts  been  great,  and  thrown 
from  thence,  60 

Like  fiends  were  hardened  in  impenitence. 


Some  by  their  monarch's  fatal  mercy  grown 
From  pardoned  rebels  kinsmen  to  the  throne 
Were    raised    in    power    and    public    office 

high  ; 
Strong    bands,     if     bands     ungrateful     men 

could  tie.  6s 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first, 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst : 
For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit, 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit, 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place,     70 
In   power  unplcased,  impatient  of  disgrace; 
A  fiery  soul,  which  working  out  its  way. 
Fretted   the   pigmy  body  to   decay 
And   o'er-informed  the  tenement  of   clay. 
A    daring   pilot   in   extremity,  75 

Pleased    with   the   danger,    when   the    waves 

went  high, 
He  sought  the  storms ;  but  for  a  calm  unfit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his 

wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied 
And    thin    partitions    do    their    bounds    di- 
vide ;  80 
Else,  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honor 

blest. 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful   hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please, 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won 
To    that    unfeathered    two-legged    thing,    a 

son,  86 

Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try. 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 
In    friendship   false,  implacable   in   hate, 
Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state ;       90 
To   compass   this   the   triple  bond   he   broke, 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook. 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke ; 
Then,    seized    with    fear,    yet    still    affecting 

fame. 
Usurped    a    patriot's   all-atoning   name.       95 
So  easy  still  it  proves  in  factious  times 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason  and  how   sacred   ill. 
Where    none    can    sin    against    the    people's 

will, 
Where  crowds  can   wink  and  no  offense  be 

known,  1°° 

Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own ! 
Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge ; 
The    statesman    we    abhor,    but    praise    the 

judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  abbethdin 
With   more  discerning  eyes   or  hands  more 

clean,  105 

Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress. 
Swift  of  dispatch  and  ea.sy  of  access. 


270 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


Oh !  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown 
With  virtues  only  proper  to  tlic  gown, 
Or  had  the  rankncss  of  the  soil  been   freed 
From     cockle     that     oppressed     the     noble 

seed,  ''' 

David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung 
And  Heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 
But  wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand, 
And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess  116 

A  lawful   fame  and  lazy  happiness, 
Disdained  the  golden   fruit  to  gather   free 
And   lent   the   crowd   his   arm   to   shake  the 

tree. 
Now,    manifest    of    crimes    contrived    long 

since,  '-° 

He  stood  at  bold  defiance  with  his  prince, 
Held  up  the  buckler  of  the  people's  cause 
Against  the  crown,  and  skulked  behind  the 

laws. 
The  wished  occasion  of  the  plot  he  takes; 
Some     circumstances     finds,     but     more     he 

makes;  '-S 

By  buzzing  emissaries  fills  the  ears 
Of    listening    crowds    with    jealousies    and 

fears, 
Of   arbitrary  counsels  brought  to  light. 
And  proves  the  king  himself  a  Jebusite. 
Weak   arguments!   which   yet   he   knew    full 

well  '30 

Were  strong  with  people  easy  to  rebel. 
For  governed  by  the  moon,  the  giddy  Jews 
Tread  the   same  track  when   she  the  prime 

renews : 
And  once  in  twenty  years  their  scribes  re- 
cord. 
By  natural   instinct  they  change  their  lord. 
Achitophel  still  wants  a  chief,  and  none    136 
Was  found  so  fit  as  warlike  Absalon. 
Not  that  he  wished  his  greatness  to  create, 
For  politicians  neither  love  nor  hate: 
But,  for  he  knew  his  title  not  allowed       mo 
Would    keep    him    still    depending    on    the 

crowd. 
That  kingly  power,  thus  ebbing  out,  might 

be 
Drawn  to  the  dregs  of  a  democracy. 

(1681) 


THE   HIND   AND   THE    PANTHER 

A     milk-white     Hind,     immortal     and     un- 
changed. 
Fed  on  the  lawns  and  in  the  forest  ranged; 
Without   unspotted,   innocent   within. 
She  feared  no  danger,  for  she  knew  no  sin. 


Yet  had  she  oft  been  chased  with  horns  and 
hounds  5 

And  Scythian  shafts;  and  many  winged 
wounds 

Aimed    at    her   heart;    was   often    forced   to 

fly, 

And  doomed  to  death,  though  fated  not  to 
die. 
Not  so  her  young;  for  their  unequal  line 
Was    hero's    make,    half    human,    half    di- 
vine. 10 
Their  earthly  mold  obnoxious  was  to   fate. 
The  immortal  part  assumed  immortal  state. 
Of  these  a  slaughtered  army  lay  in  blood, 
Extended    o'er   the    Caledonian    wood, 
Their  native  walk ;  whose  vocal  blood  arose 
And    cried    for    pardon    on    their    perjured 
foes.  16 
Their    fate    was    fruitful,    and   the   sanguine 

seed. 
Endued    with    souls,    increased    the    sacred 

breed. 
So  captive  Israel  multiplied  in  chains, 
A  numerous  exile,  and  enjoyed  her  pains.  20 
With  grief  and  gladness  mixed,  their  mother 

viewed 
Her   martyred    offspring  and  their   race   re- 
newed ; 
Their    corpse    to    perish,    but    their    kind    to 

last, 

So  much  the  deathless  plant  the  dying  fruit 

surpassed. 

Panting    and     pensive     now     she    ranged 

alone,  25 

And    wandered    in    the    kingdoms    once    her 

own. 
The  common  hunt,  though   from  their  rage 

restrained 
By  sovereign  power,  her  company  disdained. 
Grinned  as  they  passed,  and  with  a  glaring 

eye 
Gave  gloomy   signs  of   secret   enmity.         30 
'T  is    true    she    bounded   by    and    tripped    so 

light. 
They  had  not  time  to  take  a  steady  sight ; 
For  truth  has  such  a  face  and  such  a  mien 
As  to  be  loved  needs  only  to  be  seen. 

The  bloody  Bear,  an  independent  beast,  35 
Unlicked  to  form,  in  groans  her  hate  ex- 
pressed. 
Among  the  timorous  kind  the  quaking  Hare 
Professed  neutrality,  but  would  not  swear. 
Next  her  the  buffoon  Ape,  as  atheists  use. 
Mimicked  all  sects  and  had  his  own  to 
choose ;  4o 

Still  when  the  Lion  looked,  his  knees  he 
bent. 


And  paid  at  church  a  courtier's  compliment. 

The   bristled   baptist    Boar,   impure   as  he, 

But  whitened  with  the  foam  of  sanctity, 

With  fat  pollutions  filled  the  sacred  place  45 

And  mountains  leveled  in  his  furious  race; 

So  first  rebellion  founded  was  in  grace. 

But,  since  the  mighty  ravage  which  he  made 

In  German  forests  had  his  guilt  betrayed. 

With  broken  tusks  and  with  a  borrowed 
name,  so 

He  shunned  the  vengeance  and  concealed 
the  shame, 

So  lurked  in  sects  unseen.  With  greater 
guile 

False  Reynard  fed  on  consecrated  spoil ; 

The  graceless  beast  by  Athanasius  first 

Was  chased  from  Nice,  then  by  Socinus 
nursed,  55 

His   impious  race  their  blasphemy  renewed. 

And  Nature's  King  through  Nature's  optics 
viewed ; 

Reversed  they  viewed  him  lessened  to  their 
eye, 

Nor  in   an   infant  could   a   God   descry. 

New  swarming  sects  to  this  obliquely  tend, 

Hence  they  began,  and  here  they  all  will 
end.  6 1 

What  weight  of  ancient  witness  can  pre- 
vail, 

n  private  reason  hold  the  public  scale? 

But,  gracious  God,  how  well  dost  thou  pro- 
vide 

For  erring  judgments  an  unerring  guide !  65 

Thy  throne  is  darkness  in  the  abyss  of 
light, 

A  blaze  of  glory  that  forbids  the  sight. 

O  teach  me  to  believe  thee  thus  concealed, 

And  search  no  farther  than  thy  self  re- 
vealed ; 

But  her  alone  for  my  director  take,  7° 

Whom  thou  hast  promised  never  to  for- 
sake ! 

My  thoughtless  youth  was  winged  with  vain 
desires ; 

My  manhood,  long  misled  by  wandering 
fires. 

Followed  false  lights ;  and  when  their 
glimpse   was   gone, 

My  pride  struck  out  new  sparkles  of  her 
own.  75 

Such  was  I,  such  by  nature  still  I  am; 

Be  thine  the  glory  and  be  mine  the  shame ! 

Good  life  be  now  my  task;  my  doubts  are 
done : 

What  more  could  fright  my  faith  than 
Three   in   One? 

Can  I  believe  eternal  God  could  lie  8° 

Disguised  in  mortal  mold  and  infancy. 


That  the  great  Maker  of  the  world  could 

die? 
And,  after  that,  trust  my  imperfect  sense 
Which   calls  in   question  his  omnipotence? 
Can  I  my  reason  to  my  faith  compel,  85 

And    shall    my    sight    and    touch    and    taste 

rebel ? 
Superior    faculties   are   set   aside; 
Shall  their  subservient  organs  be  my  guide? 
Then  let  the  moon  usurp  the  rule  of  day, 
And  winking  tapers  show  the  sun  his  way; 
For    what    my    senses    can    themselves    per- 
ceive 91 
T  need  no  revelation  to  believe. 
Can    they,    who    say    the    host    should    be 

descried 
By  sense,  define  a  body  glorified, 
Impassible,    and    penetrating    parts?  95 

Let  them  declare  by  what  mysterious  arts 
He    shot    that    body    through    the    opposing 

might 
Of  bolts  and  bars  impervious  to  the  light, 
And    stood    before    his    train    confessed    in 

open   sight. 
For   since  thus   wondrously  he   passed,   't  is 
plain  100 

One  single  place  two  bodies  did  contain, 
And  sure  the  same  omnipotence  as  well 
Can  make  one  body  in  more  places  dwell. 
Let  Reason  then  at  her  own  quarry  fly. 
But  how  can  finite  grasp  infinity?  105 

'T  is  urged  again,  that  faith  did  first  com- 
mence 
By  miracles,  which  are  appeals  to  sense. 
And  thence  concluded,  that  our  sense  must 

be 
The   motive  still   of  credibility. 
For  later  ages  must  on  former  wait,         no 
And   what   began   belief   must   propagate. 
But    winnow    well   this    thought,   and   you 
shall  find 
'T  is  light  as  chaff  that  flies  before  the  wind. 
Were  all  those  wonders  wrought  by  power 

divine 
As  means  or  ends  of  some  more  deep  de- 
sign? IIS 
Most   sure   as   means,   whose   end   was   this 

alone. 
To  prove  the  Godhead  of  the  eternal   Son. 
God  thus  asserted :  man  is  to  believe 
Beyond    what    sense    and    reason    can    con- 
ceive, 
And  for  mysterious  things  of  faith  rely    120 
On   the   proponent   Heaven's   authority. 
If  then  our  faith  we  for  our  guide  admit, 
Vain  is  the  farther  search  of  human  wit; 
As  when  the  building  gains  a  surer  stay. 
We  take  the  unuseful  scaffolding  away,    "s 


Reason   by  sense   no  more   can  understand ; 

The  game  is  played  into  another  hand. 

Why  chose  \vc  then  Hke  bilanders  to  creep 

Along  the  coast,  and  land  in  view  to  keep, 

When  safely  we  may  lainich  into  the  deep? 

In  the  same  vessel  which  our  Savior  bore, 

Himself  the  pilot,  let  us  leave  the  shore,  u^ 

And  with  a  better  guiile  a  better  world  ex- 
plore. 

Could   he    his    godhead    veil    with    tlesh    and 
blood 

And  not  veil  these  again  to  be  our  food? 

His  grace  in  both  is  equal  in  extent;  '36 

The  first  affords  us  life,  the  second  nourish- 
ment. 

And  if  he  can,  why  all  this  frantic  pain 

To   construe   what    his   clearest    words   con- 
tain. 

And  make  a  riddle  what  he  made  so  plain? 

To  take  up  half  on  trust  and  half  to  try,  141 

Name   it   not    faith,   but   bungling   bigotry. 

Both  knave  and  fool  the  merchant  we  may 
call 

To    pay   great    sums   and   to    compound    the 
small. 

For    who    would    break    with    Heaven,    and 
would   not    break    for   all?  '45 

Rest    then,   my   soul,    from    endless   anguish 
freed : 

Nor  sciences  thy  guide,  nor  sense  thy  creed. 

Faith  is  the  best  insurer   of  thy  bliss; 

The  bank  above  must   fail  before  the  ven- 
ture miss. 

But  Heaven  and  heaven-born   faith  are   far 
from  thee,  iso 

Thou  first  apostate  to  divinity. 

Unkennelled  range  in   thy    Polonian   plains ; 

A  fiercer  foe,  the  insatiate  Wolf  remains. 
Too    boastful    Britain,    please    thyself    no 
more 

That  beasts  of  prey  are  banished  from  thy 
shore;  i5S 

The  Bear,  the  Boar,  and  every  savage  name. 

Wild   in   effect,  though   in   appearance   tame, 

Lay   waste  thy   woods,  destroy  thy  blissful 
bower. 

And,  muzzled  though  they  seem,  the  mutes 
devour. 

More    haughty    than    the    rest,    the    wolfish 
race  160 

Appear  with  belly  gaunt  and  famished  face; 

Never  was  so  deformed  a  beast  of  grace. 

His  ragged  tail  betwixt  his  legs  he  wears, 

Close    clapped    for    shame;    but    his    rough 
crest    he    rears. 

And  pricks  up  his  predestinating  ears.       165 

His  wild  disordered  walk,  his  haggard  eyes. 

Did  all  the  bestial  citizens  surprise ; 


Though    feared    and    hated,   yet    he    ruled   a 
while, 

As   captain  or  compaiiidn   of   the   spoil. 

Full     many    a    year    his    hateful    head    had 
been  170 

For  tribute  paid,  nor  since  in  Canil)ria  seen  ; 

The  last  of  all  the  litter  'scaped  by  chance, 

And   from   Geneva   first   infested    France. 

Some  authors  thus  his  pedigree  will  trace, 

Rut  others  write  him  of  an  upstart  race;  '75 

Because    of    Wyclif's    brood    no    mark    he 
brings 

But   his   innate  antipathy  to  kings. 

These   last   deduce   him    from   the   Helvetian 
kind. 

Who  near  the  Leman  lake  his  consort  lined  ; 

That  fiery  Zuinglius  first  the  affection  bred. 

And  meager   Calvin  blessed  the  nuptial  bed. 

In    Israel    some    believe    him    whelped    long- 
since,  182 

When    the    proud    sanhedrim    oppressed    the 
prince, 

Or,  since  he  will  be  Jew,  derive  him  higher, 

When    Corah    with    his    brethren    did    con- 
spire 185 

From    Moses'    hand   the    sovereign    sway    to 
wrest, 

And  Aaron  of  his  ephod  to  divest; 

Till    opening    earth    made    way    for    all    to 
pass. 

And  could  not  bear  the  burden  of  a  class. 

The  Fox  and  he  came  shuffled  in  the  dark, 

If  ever  they  were  stowed  in  Noah's  ark;  191 

Perhaps    not    made;    for    all    their    barking 
train 

The  Dog  (a  common  species)   will  contain; 

And  some  wild  curs,  who   from  their  mas- 
ters ran, 

Abhorring  the   supremacy  of  man,  195 

In  woods  and  caves  the  rebel -race  began. 
O    happy    pair,    how    well    have    you    in- 
creased ! 

What    ills    in    church    and    state    have    you 
redressed  ? 

With  teeth  untried  and  rudiments  of  claws. 

Your  first  essay  was  on  your  native  laws : 

Those  having  torn  with  ease  and  trampled 
down,  -01 

Your    fangs    you    fastened    on    the    mitered 
crown, 

And    freed    from    God    and   monarchy   your 
town. 

What    though    your    native    kennel    still    be 
small. 

Bounded  betwixt  a  puddle  and  a  wall ;     205 

Yet  your  victorious  colonies  are  sent 

Where    the    North    Ocean    girds    the    conti- 
nent. 


Quickened    with    fire    below,    your    monsters 

breed 
In   fenny  Holland  and  in  fruitful  Tweed  ; 
And,  like  the  first,  the  last  affects  to  be     210 
Drawn  to  the  dregs  of  a  democracy. 
As,    where    in    fields    the    fairy    rounds    are 

seen 
A  rank  sour  herbage  rises  on  the  green  ; 
So,    springing    where    these    midnight    elves 

advance, 
Rebellion  prints  the  footsteps  of  the  dance. 
Such    are    their    doctrines,     such     contempt 
they    show  216 

To    Heaven   above   and   to   their   prince   be- 
low. 
As     none     but     traitors     and     blasphemers 

know. 
God  like  the  tyrant  of  the  skies  is  placed, 
And    kings,    like    slaves,   beneath   the   crowd 
.  debased.  220 

So  fulsome  is  their  food  that  flocks  refuse 
To  bite,  and  only  dogs  for  physic  use. 
As,    where    the    lightning    runs    along    the 

ground, 
No  husbandry  can  heal  the  blasting  wound; 
Nor  bladed  grass  nor  bearded  corn  suc- 
ceeds, 225 
But  scales  of  scurf,  and  putrefaction  breeds : 
Such  wars,  such  waste,  such  fiery  tracks  of 

dearth 
Their    zeal    has    left,    and    such    a    teemlcss 

earth. 
But  as  the  poisons  of  the  deadliest  kind 
Are  to  their  own  unhappy  coasts  confined, 
As  only  Indian  shades  of  sight  deprive,     231 
And  magic  plants  will  but  in  Colchos  thrive, 
So  Presbytery  and  pestilential  zeal 
Can  only  flourish  in   a  common-weal. 


These   are  the  chief;   to  number  o'er  the 
rest  235 

And  stand,  like  Adam,  naming  every  beast. 
Were   weary  work ;   nor  will  the  Muse   de- 
scribe 
A    slimy-born    and    sun-begotten   tribe. 
Who,    far    from    steeples    and    their    sacred 

sound. 
In  fields  their  sullen  conventicles  found.  240 
These  gross,  half -animated  lumps  I  leave, 
Nor    can    I    think    what   thoughts    they    can 

conceive. 
But  if  they  think  at  all,  't  is  sure  no  higher 
Than   matter  put   in   motion   may  aspire ; 
Souls  that  can  scarce  ferment  their  mass  of 
clay,  24s 

So  drossy,  so  divisible  are  they 
As  would  but  serve  pure  bodies  for  allay, 


Such    souls    as    shards   produce,   such   beetle 

things 
As  only  buzz  to  heaven  with  evening  wings, 
Strike  in  the  dark,  offending  but  by  chance, 
Such  are  the  blindfold   blows   of   ignorance. 
They    know    not    beings,    and    but    hate    a 

name;  252 

To    them    the    Hind    and    Panther    are    the 

same. 
The    Panther,    sure    the    noblest    next    the 

Hind 
And  fairest  creature  of  the  spotted  kind : 
Oh,    could    her    inborn    stains    be    washed 

away  256 

She  were  too  good  to  be  a  beast  of  prey! 
How   can    I    praise   or   blame,   and .  not   of- 
fend, 
Or  how  divide  the  frailty  from  the  friend? 
Her    faults   and   virtues   lie    so   mixed,   that 

she  260 

Nor    wholly   stands    condemned    nor    wholly 

free. 
Then,  like  her  injured  Lion,  let  me  speak; 
He    cannot    bend    her    and    he    would    not 

break. 
Unkind  already,  and  estranged  in  part, 
The    Wolf   begins   to    share    her   wandering 

heart.  26s 

Though  unpolluted  yet  with  actual  ill, 
She  half  commits  who  sins  but  in  her  will. 
If,  as  our  dreaming  Platonists  report, 
There  could  be  spirits  of  a  middle  sort, 
Too  black  for  heaven  and  yet  too  white  for 

hell,  270 

Who  just  dropped  half-way  down,  nor  lower 

fell; 
So    poised,    so    gently    she    descends    from 

high. 
It  seems  a  soft  dismission  from  the  sky. 
Her  house  not  ancient,   whatsoe'er  pretense 
Her  clergy  heralds  make  in  her  defense  27s 
A  second  century  not  half-way  run, 
Since  the  new  honors  of  her  blood  begun. 
*     *     * 

Thus    is    the    Panther    neither    loved    nor 

feared, 
A  mere  mock  queen  of  a  divided  herd ; 
Whom    soon    by    lawful    power    she    might 

control,  280 

Herself  a  part  submitted  to  the  whole. 
Then,   as   the   moon    who   first   receives    the 

light 
By    which    she    makes    our    nether    regions 

bright, 
So  might  she  shine,  reflecting  from  afar 
The  rays  she  borrowed  from  a  better  star; 
Big  with  the  beams  which  from  her  mother 

flow 


^/^     

And   reigning  oVr  the  rising  lidos  below : 
Now  mixing  with  a  savage  crowd  she  goes, 
And  meanly  flatters  her  inveterate  foes, 
Ruled    while    she    rules,    and    losing    every 

hour  =90 

Her      wretched      remnants     of      precarious 

power. 
One   evening,   while   the   cooler   shade   she 

sought. 
Revolving  many  a  melancholy  thought. 
Alone    she    walked,    and    looked    around    in 

vain  294 

With  rueful  visage  for  her  vanished  train : 
None    of    her    sylvan    subjects    made    their 

court ; 
Levees  and  couchees  passed  without  resort. 
So  hardly  can  usurpers  manage   well 
Those  whom  they  first  instructed  to   rebel. 
More  liberty  begets  desire  of  more  ;  3oo 

The  hunger  still  increases  with  the  store. 
Without    respect    they    brushed    along    the 

wood, 
Each  in  his  clan,  and,  filled  with  loathsome 

food, 
Asked    no    permission    to    the    neighboring 

flood. 
The  Panther,   full  of  inward  discontent,  305 
Since   they    would   go,    before    them    wisely 

went; 
Supplying  want  of  power  by  drinking  first. 
As  if  she  gave  them  leave  to  quench  their 

thirst. 
Among  the  rest,  the  Hind  with  fearful  face 
Beheld     from     far    the    common     watering- 
place,  310 
Nor  durst  approach ;  till  with  an  awful  roar 
The  sovereign  Lion  bade  her  fear  no  more. 
Encouraged    thus,    she    brought    her    young- 
lings nigh, 
Watching  the  motions  of  her  patron's  eye, 
And      drank     a      sober      draft;      the      rest 

amazed  3'5 

Stood    mutely    still    and    on    the    stranger 

gazed  ; 
Surveyed   her   part   by   part,   and    sought   to 

find 
The    ten-horned    monster    in    the    harmless 

Hind, 
Such     as     the     Wolf     and     Panther     had 

designed. 
They    thought    at    first    they    dreamed :    for 

't  was  offense  3^0 

With  them   to  question   certitude   of   sense, 
Their  guide  in   faith  :  but  nearer  when  they 

drew, 
And   had  the   faultless   object   full   in   view, 
Lord,   how    they    all    admired    her   heavenly 

hue !  324 


Some,  who  before  her   fellowship  disdained, 
Scarce,    and    but    scarce,    from    inborn    rage 

restrained, 
Now    frisked    about    her    and    old    kindred 

feigned. 
Whether   for  love  or  interest,   every  sect 
Of   all    the    savage   nation    showed    respect. 
The    viceroy    Panther    could    not    awe    the 

herd ;  33o 

The  more  the  company,  the  less  they  feared. 
The  surly  Wolf  with  secret  envy  burst, 
Yet  could  not  howl,  the  Hind  had  seen  him 

first; 
But   what  he  durst  not   speak,  the   Panther 

durst. 

*    *    *  (1687) 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST 
OR  THE  POWER  OF  .MUSIC 

A    SONG   IN    HONOR   OF   ST.    CECILIa's   DAY 

I 

'T  was  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By    Philip's   warlike   son : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On    his    imperial   throne ;  5 

His  valiant  peers   were  placed   around; 
Their    brows    with    roses    and    with    myrtles 
bound 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride,  1° 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy,  pair! 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair,     is 

Chorus  :     Happy,    happy,    happy    pair,    etc. 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful   quire, 
With   flying   fingers   touched  the   lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the   sky,       20 

And   heavenly   joys   inspire 
The  song  began   from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful   seats  above 
(Such   is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  :     25 
Sublime    on    radiant    spires   he    rode. 
When  he  to   fair  Olympia  pressed: 
And  while  he   sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 


And     stamped     an     image     of     himself,     a 

sovereign  of  the  world.  3° 

The     listening    crowd    admire    the     lofty 

sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around; 
A    present    deity    the    vaulted   roofs    re- 
bound : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears,  35 

Assumes  the  god, 
Afifects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

Chorus  :     With  ravished  ears,  etc. 


The     praise     of     Bacchus    then     the     sweet 
musician  sung,  40 

Of   Bacchus   ever   fair,  and   ever  young. 
The  jolly  god   in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound   the   trumpets,  beat  the  drums ; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face :  45 

Now   give   the   hautboys   breath ;    he   comes, 
he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure;         50 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure. 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Chorus  :     Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
etc. 


Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain  ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ;         56 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice 
he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied,  60 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He   chose   a   mournful    Muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good. 

By  too  severe  a   fate,  65 

Fallen,    fallen,    fallen,    fallen, 

Fallen   from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty   fed !         70 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With     downcast     looks     the     joyless     victor 
sate. 


Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole,     76 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Chorus  :     Revolving  in  the  altered  soul,  etc. 


The  mighty  master   smiled  to   see 
That   love   was   in   the   next  degree ;         80 
'T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble;  85 

Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,   still  beginning. 
Fighting    still,    and    still    destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning. 
Think,   O   think   it   worth   enjoying:         90 
Lovely  Thais   sits   beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The    many    rend    the    skies    with    loud    ap- 
plause; 
So   love   was   crowned,  but   Music   won   the 
cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain,    95 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And     sighed     and    looked,     sighed     and 

looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed, 100 
The    vanquished    victor     sunk    upon    her 
breast. 

Chorus  :     The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his 
pain,   etc. 


Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder,  105 

And    rouse    him,    like    a    rattling    peal    of 
thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid   sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around.         no 
Revenge,   revenge,   Timotheus  cries. 
See  the  Furies  arise ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash   from   their 
eyes ! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band,  ii6 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 


2/0 


juriiN   i>»K.xuJii\ 


Those    are    Grecian    ghosts,    that    in    battle 
were  slain, 
And  unburicd  remain 
Inglorious  on   the   plain:  '-^o 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant   crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the   Persian  abodes. 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The   princes   applaud   with   a    furious   joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to 
destroy;  "-7 

Thais  led  the  way. 
To   light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,     like     another     Helen,     fired     another 
Troy.  '30 

Chorus:     And   the   king   seized   a   flambeau 
zeal  to  destroy,  etc. 


Thus  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,    to    his   breathing   flute  '35 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The     sweet     enthusiast,     from     her     sacred 
store,  MO 

Enlarged  the    former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With     Nature's    mother-wit,    and    arts    un- 
known  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or   both   divide   the  crown :  i45 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

Grand     Chorus  :     At     last     divine     Cecilia 
came,   etc. 

(1697) 


AN  ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC  POESY 

It  was  that  memorable  day,  in  the  first 
summer  of  the  late  war,  when  our  navy 
engaged  the  Dutch  —  a  day  wherein  the 
two  most  mighty  and  best  appointed  fleets 
which  any  age  had  ever  seen,  disputed 
the  command  of  the  greater  half  of  the 
globe,  the  commerce  of  nations,  and  the 
riches  of  the  universe.  While  these 
vast  floating  bodies,  on  either  side,  moved 
against  each  other   in   parallel   lines,   and 


our  countrymen,  under  the  happy  conduct 
of  his  royal  highness,  went  breaking,  by 
little  and  little,  into  the  line  of  the 
enemies,  the  noise  of  the  cannon  from 
both  navies  reached  our  ears  about  the 
city ;  so  that  all  men  being  alarmed  with 
it,  and  in  a  dreadful  suspense  of  the 
event,  which  they  knew  was  then  decid- 
ing, every  one  went  following  the  sound 
as  his  fancy  led  him.  And  leaving  the 
town  almost  empty,  some  took  towards 
the  Park,  some  cross  the  riv.er,  others 
down  it ;  all  seeking  the  noise  in  the  depth 
of  silence. 

Among  the  rest,  it  was  the  fortune  of 
Eugenius,  Crites,  Lisideius,  and  Neander, 
to  be  in  company  together :  three  of  them 
persons  whom  their  wit  and  quality  have 
made  known  to  all  the  town ;  and  whom 
I  have  chosen  to  hide  under  these  bor- 
rowed names,  that  they  may  not  suffer 
by  so  ill  a  relation  as  I  am  going  to  make 
of  their  discourse. 

Taking  then  a  barge,  which  a  servant 
of  Lisideius  had  provided  for  them,  they 
made  haste  to  shoot  the  bridge,  and  left 
behind  them  that  great  fall  of  waters 
which  hindered  them  from  hearing  what 
they  desired ;  after  which,  having  disen- 
gaged themselves  from  many  vessels 
which  rode  at  anchor  in  the  Thames,  and 
almost  blocked  up  the  passage  towards 
Greenwich,  they  ordered  the  watermen  to 
let  fall  their  oars  more  gently;  and  then 
every  one  favoring  his  own  curiosity 
with  a  strict  silence,  it  was  not  long  ere 
they  perceived  the  air  to  break  about 
them  like  the  noise  of  distant  thunder,  or 
of  swallows  in  a  chimney :  those  little 
undulations  of  sound,  though  almost 
vanishing  before  they  reached  them,  yet 
still  seeming  to  retain  somewhat  of  their 
first  horror  which  they  had  betwixt  the 
fleets. 

After  they  had  attentively  listened  till 
such  time  as  the  sound  by  little  and  little 
went  from  them,  Eugenius,  lifting  up  his 
head,  and  taking  notice  of  it,  was  the  first 
who  congratulated  to  the  rest  that  happy 
omen  of  our  nation's  victory :  adding, 
that   we   had   but   this   to   desire    in    con-  ':_ 

firmation   of   it,   that  we   might   hear   no         j| 
more  of  that  noise  which  was  now  leav-  I 

ing  the   English  coast. 

When  the  rest  had  concurred  in  the 
same  opinion,  Crites  (a  person  of  a 
sharp  judgment,  and  somewhat  a  too 
delicate    taste    in    wit,    which    the    world  1 


AN  ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC  POESY  277 

have    mistaken    in    him    for    ill    nature),      Indignor    quidquam    reprehendi,    non     quia 

said,   smiling  to   us,   thac  if  the   concern-  crasse 

ment  of  this  battle  had  not  been  so  ex-      Compositum,    illepideve    putetur,    sed    quia 

ceeding     great,     he     could     scarce     have  nuper. 

wished  the  victory  at  the  price  he  knew   5      fj  ^^  indignant  when  anything  is  blamed, 

he   must  pay   for   it,   in  being  subject  to      ^^^  because  it  is  thought  badly  or  inelegantly 

the   reading  and   hearing  of   so   many  ill      ^.j^ten,  but  because  it  is  new.] 

verses   as   he   was    sure   would   be    made 

on   that   subject.     Adding,   that   no   argu-      ^^^  after- 

ment  could   'scape  some  of  those   eternal  10 

rimers,    who    watch    a   battle    with    more      ^^.  ,,^^^.^,.^  ^.       ^^  ^.  ^^  ^ 

diligence    than    the    ravens    and    birds    of      Scire  velim,  pretium  chartis  quotus  arroget 

prey;    and   the   worst   of   them    surest   to  annus? 

be   first   in   upon   the   quarry;    while    the 

better   able,    either    out   of   modesty   writ  15      [If  time   makes  poems  better,  as   it   does 

not    at    all,    or    set   that   due    value   upon      wines,   I    should   like   to   know   what   length 

their  poems,  as  to  let  them  be  often  de-      oi  years  gives  value  to  writings.] 

sired,  and  long  expected. 

There  are  some  of  those  impertinent  But  I  see  I  am  engaging  in  a  wide  dis- 
people of  whom  you  speak  (answered  20  pute,  where  the  arguments  are  not  like 
Lisideius)  who,  to  my  knowledge,  are  to  reach  close  on  either  side;  for  poesy 
already  so  provided,  either  way,  that  they  is  of  so  large  an  extent,  and  so  many, 
can  produce  not  only  a  panegyric  upon  both  of  the  ancients  and  moderns,  have 
the  victory,  but,  if  need  be,  a  funeral  done  well  in  all  kinds  of  it,  that  in  citing 
elegy  on  the  duke ;  wherein,  after  they  ^5  one  against  the  other,  we  shall  take  up 
have  crowned  his  valor  with  many  more  time  this  evening,  than  each  man's 
laurels,  they  will  at  last  deplore  the  odds  occasions  will  allow  him.  Therefore  I 
under  which  he  fell,  concluding,  that  his  would  ask  Crites  to  what  part  of  poesy  he 
courage  deserved  a  better  destiny.  3o  would  confine  his  arguments,  and  whether 

*     *     *  he  would  defend  the  general  cause  of  the 

There  are  so  few  who  write  well,  in  ancients  against  the  moderns,  or  oppose 
this  age  (said  Crites),  that  methinks  any  age  of  the  moderns  against  this  of 
any    praises    should    be    welcome.     They      ours. 

neither  rise  to  the  dignity  of  the  last  35  Crites,  a  little  while  considering  upon 
age,  nor  to  any  of  the  ancients:  and  we  this  demand,  told  Eugenius,  that  if  he 
may  cry  out  of  the  writers  of  this  time,  pleased  he  would  limit  their  dispute  to 
with  more  reason  than  Petronius  of  his,  dramatic  poesy;  in  which  he  thought  it 
Pace  vestra  lie  eat  dixisse,  primi  omnium  not  difficult  to  prove,  either  that  the  an- 
eloquentiam  perdidistis:  You  have  de- 4°  cients  were  superior  to  the  moderns,  or 
bauched  the  true  old  poetry  so  far,  that  the  last  age  to  this  of  ours. 
Nature,  which  is  the  soul  of  it,  is  not  in  Eugenius     was     somewhat     surprised, 

any  of  your  writings  !  when  he  heard  Crites  make  choice  of  that 

If  your  quarrel  (said  Eugenius)  to  subject.  For  aught  I  see  (said  he),  I 
those  who  now  write,  be  grounded  only  45  have  undertaken  a  harder  province  than 
upon  your  reverence  to  antiquity,  there  I  imagined;  for,  though  I  never  judged 
is  no  man  more  ready  to  adore  those  the  plays  of  the  Greek  or  Roman  poets 
great  Greeks  and  Romans  than  I  am ;  but,  comparable  to  ours,  yet,  on  the  other  side, 
on  the  other  side,  I  cannot  think  so  con-  those  we  now  see  acted  come  short  of 
temptibly  of  the  age  in  which  I  live,  or  5o  many  which  were  written  in  the  last  age. 
so  dishonorably  of  my  own  country,  as  But  my  comfort  is,  if  we  are  overcome, 
not  to  judge  we  equal  the  ancients  in  it  will  be  only  by  our  own  countrymen; 
most  kinds  of  poesy,  and  in  some  surpass  and  if  we  yield  to  them  in  this  one  part 
them.  Neither  know  I  any  reason  why  of  poesy,  we  more  surpass  them  in  all 
I  may  not  be  as  zealous  for  the  reputation  55  the  other;  for  in  the  epic  or  lyric  way,  it 
of  our  age,  as  we  find  the  ancients  them-  will  be  hard  for  them  to  show  us  one 
selves  were  in  reference  to  those  who  such  amongst  them,  as  we  have  many 
lived  before  them.  For  you  hear  your  now  living,  or  who  lately  were.  They 
Horace  saying,  can   produce  nothing  so  courtly  writ,  or 


278  JOHN  DRYDEN 


which  expresses  so  much  the  conversa-  the  rest;  and  after  they  had  given  order 
tion  of  a  gentleman,  as  Sir  John  Suck-  to  the  waterman  to  turn  their  barge,  and 
hng;  nothing  so  even,  sweet,  and  flowing,  row  softly,  that  they  might  take  the  cool 
as  Mr.  Waller;  nothing  so  majestic,  so  of  the  evening  in  their  return,  Crites,  be- 
correct,  as  Sir  John  Dcnham ;  nothing  so  5  ing  desired  by  the  company  to  begin, 
elevated,  so  copious,  and  full  of  spirit,  as  spoke  on  behalf  of  the  ancients,  in  this 
Mr.  Cowley.     As  for  the  Italian,  French,      manner:  — 

and  Spanish  plays,  I  can  make  it  evident  If  confidence  presage  a  victory,  Euge- 

that  those  who  now  write  surpass  them;  nius,  in  his  own  opinion,  has  already 
and  that  the  drama  is  wholly  ours.  lo  triumphed    over    the    ancients :    nothing 

All  of  them  were  thus  far  of  Eugenius  seems  more  easy  to  him  than  to  overcome 
his  opinion,  that  the  sweetness  of  Eng-  those  whom  it  is  our  greatest  praise  to 
lish  verse  was  never  understood  or  prac-  have  imitated  well ;  for  we  do  not  only 
tised  by  our  fathers;  even  Crites  himself  build  upon  their  foundations,  but  by 
did  not  much  oppose  it.  And  every  one  15  their  models.  Dramatic  poesy  had  time 
was  willing  to  acknowledge  how  much  enough,  reckoning  from  Thcspis  (who 
our  poesy  is  improved,  by  the  happiness  first  invented  it)  to  Aristophanes,  to  be 
of  some  writers  yet  living,  who  first  born,  to  grow  up,  and  to  flourish  in 
taught  us  to  mold  our  thoughts  into  maturity.  It  has  been  observed  of  arts 
easy  and  significant  words,  to  retrench  20  and  sciences,  that  in  one  and  the  same 
the  superfluities  of  expression,  and  to  century  they  have  arrived  to  great  per- 
niake  our  rime  so  properly  a  part  of  the  fection;  and  no  wonder,  since  every  age 
verse,  that  it  should  never  mislead  the  has  a  kind  of  universal  genius,  which 
sense,  but  itself  be  led  and  governed  by  inclines  those  that  live  in  it  to  some  par- 
it.  25  ticular    studies.     The    work    then    being 

Eugenius  was  going  to  continue  this  pushed  on  by  many  hands,  must  of  neces- 
discourse,  when  Lisideius  told  him  that  it      sity  go  forward. 

was    necessary,    before    they    proceeded  Is  it  not  evident,  in  these  last  hundred 

further,  to  take  a  standing  measure  of  years  (when  the  study  of  philosophy  has 
their  controversy ;  for  how  was  it  possible  30  been  the  business  of  all  the  virtuosi  in 
to  be  decided,  who  wrote  the  best  plays,  Christendom),  that  almost  a  new  nature 
before  we  know  what  a  play  should  be?  has  been  revealed  to  us?  that  more  errors 
But,  this  once  agreed  on  by  both  parties,  of  the  school  have  been  detected,  more 
each  might  have  recourse  to  it,  either  to  useful  experiments  in  philosophy  have 
prove  his  own  advantages,  or  to  discover  35  been  made,  more  noble  secrets  in  optics, 
the  failings  of  his  adversary.  medicine,     anatomy,     astronomy,     discov- 

He  had  no  sooner  said  this,  but  all  de-  ered,  than  in  all  those  credulous  and 
sired  the  favor  of  him  to  give  the  defini-  doting  ages  from  Aristotle  to  us?  So 
tion  of  a  play ;  and  they  were  the  more  true  it  is,  that  nothing  spreads  more  fast 
importunate,  because  neither  Aristotle,  nor  40  than  science,  when  rightly  and  generally 
Horace,  nor  any  other,  who  had  writ  of  cultivated, 
that  subject,  had  ever  done  it.  Add    to   this,    the   more   than   common 

Lisideius,  after  some  modest  denials,  at  emulation  that  was  in  those  times,  of 
last  confessed  he  had  a  rude  notion  of  it;  writing  well;  which  though  it  be  found 
indeed  rather  a  description  than  a  defini-  45  in  all  ages  and  all  persons  that  pretend 
tion ;  but  which  served  to  guide  him  in  his  to  the  same  reputation,  yet  poesy  being 
private  thoughts,  when  he  was  to  make  a  then  in  more  esteem  than  now  it  is,  had 
judgment  of  what  others  writ;  that  he  greater  honors  decreed  to  the  professors 
conceived  a  play  ought  to  be,  *  A  just  and  of  it,  and  consequently  the  rivalship  was 
lively  image  of  human  nature,  represent-  5o  rnore  high  between  them.  They  had 
ing  its  passions  and  humors,  and  the  judges  ordained  to  decide  their  merit,  and 
changes  of  fortune  to  which  it  is  subject,  prizes  to  reward  it ;  and  historians  have 
for  the  delight  and  instruction  of  man-  been  diligent  to  record  of  ^schylus, 
kind.'  Euripides,  Sophocles,  Lycophron,  and  the 

This  definition  (though  Crites  raised  a  55  rest  of  them,  both  who  they  were  that 
logical  objection  against  it  —  that  it  was  vanquished  in  these  wars  of  the  theater, 
only  a  genere  et  fine,  and  so  not  alto-  and  how  often  they  were  crowned ;  while 
gether  perfect)   was  yet  well  received  by      the    Asian    kings    and    Grecian    common- 


AN  ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC  POESY  279 

wealths  scarce  afforded  them  a  nobler  the  famous  rules  which  the  French  call 
subject  than  the  unmanly  luxuries  of  a  les  trois  unites,  or  the  three  unities, 
debauched  court,  or  giddy  intrigues  of  a  which  ought  to  be  observed  in  every  reg- 
factious  city.  Alit  aemulatio  ingenia,  ular  play;  namely,  of  time,  place,  and 
(says   Paterculus)    et  nunc  invidia,  nunc    5  action. 

admiratio   incitationem    accendit:   Emula-  The  unity  of  time  they  comprehend  in 

tion  is  the  spur  of  wit ;  and  sometimes  twenty-four  hours,  the  compass  of  a 
envy,  sometimes  admiration,  quickens  our  natural  day,  or  as  near  as  it  can  be  con- 
endeavors,  trived;   and   the   reason   of   it  is  obvious 

But  now  since  the  rewards  of  honor  10  to  every  one, —  that  the  time  of  the 
are  taken  away,  that  virtuous  emulation  feigned  action,  or  fable  of  the  play, 
is  turned  into  direct  malice;  yet  so  sloth-  should  be  proportioned  as  near  as  can  be 
ful,  that  it  contents  itself  to  condemn  and  to  the  duration  of  that  time  in  which  it 
cry  down  others,  without  attempting  to  is  represented.  Since  therefore  all  plays 
do  better.  'T  is  a  reputation  too  un-  15  are  acted  on  the  theater  in  a  space  of 
profitable,  to  take  the  necessary  pains  for  time  much  within  the  compass  of  twenty- 
it;  yet  wishing  they  had  it,  that  desire  four  hours,  that  play  is  to  be  thought  the 
is  incitement  enough  to  hinder  others  nearest  imitation  of  nature,  whose  plot 
from  it.  And  this,  in  short,  Eugenius,  or  action  is  confined  within  that  time, 
is  the  reason,  why  you  have  now  so  few  20  And  by  the  same  rule  which  concludes 
good  poets,  and  so  many  severe  judges,  this  general  proportion  of  time,  it  follows 
Certainly,  to  imitate  the  ancients  well,  that  all  the  parts  of  it  are  (as  near  as 
much  labor  and  long  study  is  required;  may  be)  to  be  equally  subdivided; 
■which  pains,  I  have  already  shown,  our  namely,  that  one  act  take  not  up  the  sup- 
poets  would  want  encouragement  to  take,  25  posed  time  of  half  a  day,  which  is  out  of 
if  yet  they  had  ability  to  go  through  the  proportion  to  the  rest;  since  the  other 
work.  Those  ancients  have  been  faith-  four  are  then  to  be  straitened  within  the 
ful  imitators,  and  wise  observers  of  that  compass  of  the  remaining  half:  for  it  is 
nature  which  is  so  torn  and  ill  repre-  unnatural,  that  one  act,  which  being 
sented  in  our  plays;  they  have  handed  3°  spoken  or  written,  is  not  longer  than  the 
down  to  us  a  perfect  resemblance  of  her ;  rest,  should  be  supposed  longer  by  the 
which  we,  like  ill  copiers,  neglecting  to  audience.  It  is  therefore  the  poet's  duty, 
look  on,  have  rendered  monstrous,  and  to  take  care,  that  no  act  should  be  im- 
disfigured.  But,  that  you  may  know  how  agined  to  exceed  the  time  in  which  it  is 
much  you  are  indebted  to  those  your  35  represented  on  the  stage;  and  that  the 
masters,  and  be  ashamed  to  have  so  ill  intervals  and  inequalities  of  time  be  sup- 
requited  them,  I  must  remember  you,  that  posed  to  fall  out  between  the  acts. 
all   the   rules   by  which   we   practise   the  This    rule    of    time,    how    well    it    has 

drama  at  this  day  (either  such  as  relate  been  observed  by  the  ancients,  most  of 
to  the  justness  and  symmetry  of  the  plot;  40 their  plays  will  witness.  You  see  them 
or  the  episodical  ornaments,  such  as  de-  in  their  tragedies  (wherein  to  follow  this 
scriptions,  narrations,  and  other  beauties,  rule  is  certainly  most  difficult),  from  the 
which  are  not  essential  to  the  play)  very  beginning  of  their  plays,  falling 
were  delivered  to  us  from  the  observa-  close  into  that  part  of  the  story  which 
tions  which  Aristotle  made,  of  those  45  they  intend  for  the  action,  or  principal 
poets,  who  either  lived  before  him,  or  object  of  it,  leaving  the  former  part  to 
were  his  contemporaries.  We  have  be  delivered  by  narration :  so  that  they 
added  nothing  of  our  own,  except  we  set  the  audience,  as  it  were,  at  the  post 
have  the  confidence  to  say,  our  wit  is  where  the  race  is  to  be  concluded ;  and 
better ;  of  which  none  boast  in  this  our  5°  saving  them  the  tedious  expectation  of 
age,  but  such  as  understand  not  theirs,  seeing  the  poet  set  out  and  ride  the  be- 
Of  that  book  which  Aristotle  has  left  ginning  of  the  course,  they  suffer  you  not 
us,  irepJ  rris  noii;Ti/ci?s,  Horace  his  Art  to  behold  him,  till  he  is  in  sight  of  the 
of  Poetry,  is  an  excellent  comment,  and,  goal,  and  just  upon  you. 
I  believe,  restores  to  us  that  Second  55  For  the  second  unity,  which  is  that  of 
Book  of  his  concerning  comedy,  which  is  place,  the  ancients  meant  by  it,  that  the 
wanting  in  him.  scene  ought  to  be  continued  through  the 

Out  of  these  two  have  been  extractor!      play,  in  the  same  place  where  it  was  laid 


28o  JOHN  DRYDEN 


in  the  beginning;  for  the  stage,  on  which  Iiappily  expresses  in  the  name  of  under- 
it  is  represented,  being  but  one  and  the  plots:  such  as  in  Terence's  Eunuch  is  the 
same  phice,  it  is  unnatural  to  conceive  difference  and  reconcilement  of  Thais  and 
it  many;  and  those  far  distant  from  one  Pha^dria,  which  is  not  the  chief  business 
another.  I  will  not  deny,  but  by  the  5  of  the  play,  but  promotes  the  marriage  of 
variation  of  painted  scenes,  the  fancy  Ch.-crea  and  Chrcmes's  sister,  principally 
(which  in  these  cases  will  contribute  to  intended  by  the  ])oct.  There  ought  to  be 
its  own  deceit)  may  sometimes  imagine  but  one  action  (says  Corneille),  that  is, 
it  several  places,  with  some  appearance  one  complete  action,  which  leaves  the 
of  probabilitv;  yet  it  still  carries  the  lo  mind  of  the  audience  in  a  full  repose;  but 
greater  likelihood  of  truth,  if  those  places  this  cannot  be  brought  to  pass,  but  by 
be  supposed  so  near  each  other,  as  in  tlie  many  other  imperfect  actions,  which  con- 
same  town  or  city,  which  may  all  be  com-  duce  to  it,  and  hold  the  audience  in  a  de- 
prehended  under  the  larger  denomination  lightful  suspense  of  what  will  be. 
of  one  place;  for  a  greater  distance  will  is  If  by  these  rules  (to  omit  many  other 
bear  no  proportion  to  the  shortness  of  drawn  from  the  precepts  and  practice  of 
time  which  is  allotted,  in  the  acting,  to  the  ancients)  we  should  judge  our  mod- 
pass  from  one  of  them  to  another.  For  ern  plays,  't  is  probable  that  few  of  them 
the  observation  of  this,  next  to  the  an-  would  endure  the  trial :  that  which  should 
cients,  the  French  are  to  be  most  com-  20  be  the  business  of  a  day,  takes  up  in  some 
mended.  They  tie  themselves  so  strictly  of  them  an  age ;  instead  of  one  action, 
to  the  unity  of  place,  that  you  never  see  they  are  the  ei)itomes  of  a  man's  life,  and 
in  any  of  their  plays,  a  scene  changed  in  for  one  spot  of  ground  (which  the  stage 
the  middle  of  an  act:  if  the  act  begins  should  represent)  we  are  sometimes  in 
in  a  garden,  a  street,  or  chamber,  't  is  25  more  countries  than  the  map  can  show 
ended  in  the   same  place ;   and   that  you      us. 

may   know  it  to  be   the   same,   the   stage  But   if  we   allow   the   ancients  to   have 

is  so  supplied  with  persons,  that  it  is  contrived  well,  we  must  acknowledge 
never  empty  all  the  time :  he  who  enters  them  to  have  written  better.  Question- 
second,  has  business  with  him  who  was  30  less  we  are  deprived  of  a  great  stock  of 
on  before;  and  before  the  second  quits  wit  in  the  loss  of  Menander  among  the 
the  stage,  a  third  appears  who  has  busi-  Greek  poets,  and  Caecilius,  Afranius, 
ness  with  him.  This  Corneille  calls  la  and  Varius,  among  the  Romans.  We 
liaison  des  scenes,  the  continuity  or  join-  may  guess  at  Menander's  excellency,  by 
ing  of  the  scenes;  and  'tis  a  good  mark  35  the  plays  of  Terence,  who  translated 
of  a  well-contrived  play,  when  all  the  some  of  them ;  and  yet  wanted  so  much  of 
persons  are  known  to  each  other,  and  him,  that  he  was  called  by  C.  Caesar 
every  one  of  them  has  some  affairs  with  the  half-Menander ;  and  may  judge  of 
all  the   rest.  \'arius,    by    the    testimonies    of    Horace, 

As  for  the  third  unity,  which  is  that  40  Martial,  and  Velleius  Paterculus.  'T  is 
of  action,  the  ancients  meant  no  other  by  probable  that  these,  could  they  be  recov- 
it  than  what  the  logicians  do  by  their  ered,  would  decide  the  controversy ;  but 
finis,  the  end  or  scope  of  any  action;  that  so  long  as  Aristophanes  and  Plautus  arc 
which  is  the  first  in  intention,  and  last  extant,  while  the  tragedies  of  Euripides, 
in  execution.  Now  the  poet  is  to  aim  45  Sophocles,  and  Seneca,  are  in  our  hands, 
at  one  great  and  complete  action,  to  the  I  can  never  see  one  of  those  plays  which 
carrying  on  of  which  all  things  in  his  are  now  written,  but  it  increases  my  ad- 
play,  even  the  very  obstacles,  are  to  be  miration  of  the  ancients.  And  yet  I  must 
subservient;  and  the  reason  of  this  is  as  acknowledge  further,  that  to  admire  them 
evident  as  any  of  the  former.  5°  as  we  ought,  we  should  understand  them 

For  two  actions  equally  labored  and  better  than  we  do.  Doubtless  many 
driven  on  by  the  writer,  would  destroy  things  appear  fiat  to  us,  the  wit  of  which 
the  unity  of  the  poem;  it  would  be  no  depended  on  some  custom  or  story,  which 
longer  one  play,  but  two:  not  but  that  never  came  to  our  knowledge;  or  perhaps 
there  may  be  many  actions  in  a  play,  as  55  on  some  criticism  in  their  language, 
Ben  Jonson  has  observed  in  his  Dis-  which  being  so  long  dead,  and  only  re- 
coveries;  but  they  must  be  all  subservient  maining  in  their  books,  't  is  not  possible 
to    the    great    one,    which    our    language      they  should  make  us  understand  perfectly 


j\i\  uss/M   ur   jjK/\Mi\  i  iu  ruiiDi 


To  read  Macrobius,  explaining  the  pro- 
priety and  elegancy  of  many  words  in 
Virgil,  which  I  had  before  passed  over 
without  consideration,  as  common  things, 
is  enough  to  assure  me,  that  I  ought  to 
think  the  same  of  Terence;  and  that  ii 
the  purity  of  his  style  (which  Tully  so 
much  valued,  that  he  ever  carried  his 
works  about  him),  there  is  yet  left  in 
liim  great  room  for  admiration,  if  I  knew 
but  where  to  place  it.  In  the  meantime, 
T  must  desire  you  to  take  notice,  that 
the  greatest  man  of  the  last  age  (Ben 
Jonson)  was  willing  to  give  place  to  them 
in  all  things :  he  was  not  only  a  professed 
imitator  of  Horace,  but  a  learned  plagiary 
of  all  the  others ;  you  track  him  every- 
where in  their  snow.  If  Horace,  Lucan, 
Petronius  Arbiter,  Seneca,  and  Juvenal, 
had  their  own  from  him,  there  are  few 
serious  thoughts  which  are  new  in  him ; 
you  will  pardon  me,  therefore,  if  I  pre- 
sume he  loved  their  fashion,  when  he 
wore  their  clothes.  But  since  I  have 
otherwise  a  great  veneration  for  him,  and 
you,  Eugenius,  prefer  him  above  all  other 
poets,  I  will  use  no  farther  argument  to 
you  than  his  example :  I  will  produce 
before  you  Father  Ben,  dressed  in  all  the 
ornaments  and  colors  of  the  ancients; 
you  will  need  no  other  guide  to  our  party, 
if  you  follow  him;  and  whether  you  con- 
sider the  bad  plays  of  our  age,  or  regard 
the  good  plays  of  the  last,  both  the  best 
and  worst  of  the  modern  poets  will 
equally  instruct  you  to  admire  the  an- 
cients. 

Crites  had  no  sooner  left  speaking,  but 
Eugenius,  who  had  waited  with  some  im- 
patience for  it,  thus  began  :  — 

I  have  observed  in  your  speech,  that 
the  former  part  of  it  is  convincing,  as  to 
what  the  moderns  have  profited  by  the 
rules  of  the  ancients;  but  in  the  latter 
you  are  careful  to  conceal  how  much 
they  have  excelled  them.  We  own  all 
the  helps  we  have  from  them,  and  want 
neither  veneration  nor  gratitude,  while 
we  acknowledge  that  to  overcome  them 
we  must  make  use  of  the  advantages  we 
have  received  from  them ;  but  to  these 
assistances  we  have  joined  our  own 
industry ;  for,  had  we  sat  down  with  a 
dull  imitation  of  them,  we  might  then 
have  lost  somewhat  of  the  old  perfec- 
tion, but  never  acquired  any  that  was 
new.  We  draw  not  therefore  after  their 
lines,   but   those    of   nature;    and   having 


the  life  before  us,  besides  the  experience 
of  all  they  knew,  it  is  no  wonder  if  we 
hit  some  airs  and  features  which  they 
have  missed.  I  deny  not  what  you  urge 
S  of  arts  and  sciences,  that  they  have 
flourished  in  some  ages  more  than  others ; 
Init  your  instance  in  philosophy  makes 
for  me :  for  if  natural  causes  be  more 
known  now  than  in  the  time  of  Aristotle, 

10  because  more  studied,  it  follows  that 
poesy  and  other  arts  may,  with  the  same 
pains,  arrive  still  nearer  to  perfection ; 
and,  that  granted,  it  will  rest  for  you  to 
prove    that    they    wrought    more    perfect 

15  images  of  human  life,  than  we;  which 
seeing  in  your  discourse  you  have  avoided 
to  make  good,  it  shall  now  be  my  task  to 
show  you  some  part  of  their  defects,  and 
some    few    excellencies    of    the    moderns. 

20  And  I  think  there  is  none  among  us  can 
imagine  I  do  it  enviously,  or  with  pur- 
pose to  detract  from  them ;  for  what  in- 
terest of  fame  or  profit  can  the  living 
lose  by  the  reputation  of  the  dead?     On 

25  the  other  side,  it  is  a  great  truth  which 
\>lleius  Paterculus  affirms:  Audita  vi- 
sis  libentius  laudamiis;  et  praesentia 
invidia,  practerita  admirationc  proseqiii- 
tniir;  ct  his  nos  obrni,  illis  instrui  credi- 

30  rniis  [We  praise  things  reported  more 
v.illiiigly  than  those  seen ;  and  things  of 
the  present  we  pursue  with  envy,  those  of 
tlie  past  with  admiration,  believing  our- 
selves to  be  hindered  by  the  former  and 

35  helped  by  the  latter].  That  praise  or 
censure  is  certainly  the  most  sincere, 
which  unbribed  posterity  shall  give  us. 

Be  pleased  then,  in  the  first  place,  to 
take  notice,  that  the  Greek  poesy,  which 

40  Crites  has  affirmed  to  have  arrived  to 
perfection  in  the  reign  of  the  old  comedy, 
was  so  far  from  it,  that  the  distinction 
of  it  into  acts  was  not  known  to  them;  01 
if  it  were,  it  is  yet  so  darkly  delivered  to 

45  us,  that  we  cannot  make  it  out. 

All  we  know  of  it  is,  from  the  singing 
of  their  chorus;  and  that  too  is  so  un- 
certain, that  in  some  of  their  plays  we 
have  reason  to  conjecture  they  sung  more 

50  than  five  times.  Aristotle  indeed  di- 
vides the  integral  parts  of  a  play  into 
four.  First,  the  Protasis,  or  entrance, 
which  gives  light  only  to  the  characters 
of   the    persons,   and   proceeds   very   little 

Ct  into  any  part  of  the  action.  Secondly, 
the  Epitasis,  or  working  up  of  the  plot ; 
where  the  play  grows  warmer,  the  de- 
sign  or   action   of   it   is  drawing  on,   and 


282  JOHN  DRYDEN 

you  see  something  proiiiisins:^  that  it  will  tragedies  it  was  only  some  tale  derived 
come  to  pass.  Thirdly,  the  Catastasis,  from  Thebes  or  Troy,  or  at  least  some- 
called  by  the  Romans,  Status,  the  height  thing  that  happened  in  those  two  ages; 
and  full  growth  of  the  play:  we  may  call  which  was  worn  so  thread-bare  by  the 
it  properly  the  counterturn,  which  de-  5  pens  of  all  the  epic  poets,  and  even  by 
stroys  that  expectation,  embroils  the  tradition  itself  of  the  talkative  Greek- 
action  in  new  difficulties,  and  leaves  you  lings  (as  Ben  Jonson  calls  them),  that 
far  distant  from  that  hope  in  which  it  before  it  came  upon  the  stage,  it  was 
found  you;  as  you  may  have  observed  in  already  known  to  all  the  audience;  and 
a  violent  stream,  resisted  by  a  narrow  lo  the  people,  so  soon  as  ever  they  heard  the 
passage, —  it  runs  round  to  an  eddy,  and  name  of  Qidipus,  knew  as  well  as 
carries  back  the  waters  with  more  swift-  the  poet,  that  he  had  killed  his  father 
ness  than  it  brought  them  on.  Lastly,  by  a  mistake,  and  committed  incest  with 
the  Catastrophe,  which  the  Grecians  his  mother,  before  the  play;  that  they 
called  ^''(^ts,  the  French  le  denouement,  15  were  now  to  hear  of  a  great  plague,  an 
and  we  the  discovery,  or  unraveling  of  oracle,  and  the  ghost  of  Laius ;  so  that 
the  plot :  there  you  see  all  things  settling  they  sat  with  a  yawning  kind  of  expecta- 
again  upon  their  first  foundations,  and,  tion,  till  he  was  to  come  with  his  eyes 
the  obstacles  which  hindered  the  design  pulled  out,  and  speak  a  hundred  or  more 
or  action  of  the  play  once  removed,  it  20  verses  in  a  tragic  tone,  in  complaint  of 
ends  with  that  resemblance  of  truth  and  his  misfortunes.  But  one  CEdipus,  Her- 
nature,  that  the  audience  are  satisfied  cules,  or  Medea,  had  been  tolerable ;  poor 
with  the  conduct  of  it.  Thus  this  great  people,  they  escaped  not  so  good  cheap ; 
man  delivered  to  us  the  image  of  a  play;  they  had  still  the  chapon  bouille  [boiled 
and  I  must  confess  it  is  so  lively,  that  25  chicken]  set  before  them,  till  their  ap- 
from  thence  much  light  has  been  derived  petites  were  cloyed  with  the  same  dish, 
to  the  forming  it  more  perfectly  into  and,  the  novelty  being  gone,  the  pleasure 
acts  and  scenes;  but  what  poet  first  vanished;  so  that  one  main  end  of  dra- 
limited  to  five  the  number  of  the  acts,  matic  poesy  in  its  definition,  which  was  to 
I  know  not ;  only  we  see  it  so  firmly  30  cause  delight,  was  of  consequence  de- 
established   in   the   time   of   Horace,   that      stroyed. 

he  gives  it  for  a  rule  in  comedy:  —  Neu  In  their  comedies,  the  Romans  gen- 
hrevior  quinto,  neu  sit  productior  actu  erally  borrowed  their  plots  from  the 
[Let  it  be  neither  shorter  nor  longer  than  Greek  poets ;  and  theirs  was  commonly 
five  acts].  So  that  you  see  the  Grecians  35  a  little  girl  stolen  or  wandered  from  her 
cannot  be  said  to  have  consummated  this  parents,  brought  back  unknown  to  the 
art;  writing  rather  by  entrances,  tfian  by  city,  there  got  with  child  by  some  lewd 
acts,  and  having  rather  a  general  indi-  young  fellow,  who,  by  the  help  of  his 
gested  notion  of  a  play,  than  knowing  servant,  cheats  his  father ;  and  when  her 
how,  and  where  to  bestow  the  particular  40  time  comes  to  cry  Juno  Lucina,  fer  opcm 
graces  of  it.  [Help   me,   O   goddess   of   childbearing]  ! 

But  since  the  Spaniards  at  this  day  one  or  other  sees  a  little  box  or  cabinet 
allow  but  three  acts,  which  they  call  which  was  carried  away  with  her,  and  so 
jornadas,  to  a  play,  and  the  Italians  in  discovers  her  to  her  friends,  if  some  god 
many  of  theirs  follow  them,  when  I  con- 45  do  not  prevent  it.  by  coming  down  in  a 
demn  the  ancients,  I  declare  it  is  not  al-  machine,  and  taking  the  thanks  of  it  to 
together  because  they  have  not  five  acts      himself. 

to  every  play,  but  because  they  have  not  By  the  plot  you  may  guess  much  of  the 

confined  themselves  to  one  certain  num-  characters  of  the  persons.  An  old  father, 
ber;  it  is  building  a  house  without  a  50  who  would  willingly,  before  he  dies,  see 
model;  and  when  they  succeeded  in  such  his  son  well  married;  his  debauched  son, 
undertakings,  they  ought  to  have  sacri-  kind  in  his  nature  to  his  mistress,  but 
ficed  to  Fortune,  not  to  the  Muses.  miserably  in  want  of  money;  a  servant  or 

Next,     for    the    plot,    which    Aristotle      slave,  who  has  so  much  wit  to  strike   in 
called  TO  fivBo';,  and  often  tmv  irpayixdrMviS  with  him,  and  help  to  dupe  his  father;  a 
(rvv^eais,  and  from  him  the  Romans  Fahula,      braggadocio    captain,    a    parasite,    and    a 
it     has     already     been     judiciously     ob-      lady  of  pleasure. 
served    by    a    late    writer,    that    in    their         As  for  the  poor  honest  maid,  on  whom 


the  story  is  built,  and  who  ought  to  be  si  court  [This  is  making  good  use  of 
one  of  the  principal  actors  in  the  play,  so  short  a  time],  says  the  French  poet, 
she  is  commonly  a  mute  in  it;  she  has  who  furnished  me  with  one  of  the  ob- 
the  breeding  of  the  old  Elizabeth  way,  servations :  and  almost  all  their  tragedies 
which  was  for  maids  to  be  seen,  and  not  ^  will  afford  us  examples  of  the  like  nature. 
to  be  heard;  and  it  is  enough  you  know  It  is  true,  they  have  kept  the  continuity, 

she  is  willing  to  be  married,  when  the  or,  as  you  called  it,  liaison  des  scenes, 
fifth  act  requires  it.  somewhat  better:  two  do  not  perpetually 

These  are  plots  built  after  the  Italian  come  in  together,  talk,  and  go  out  togeth- 
mode  of  houses, —  you  see  through  them  lo  er ;  and  other  two  succeed  them,  and  do 
all  at  once;  the  characters  are  indeed  the  the  same  throughout  the  act,  which  the 
imitations  of  nature,  but  so  narrow,  as  English  call  by  the  name  of  single  scen-^s; 
if  they  had  imitated  only  an  eye  or  an  but  the  reason  is,  because  they  have  sel- 
hand,  and  did  not  dare  to  venture  on  the  dom  above  two  or  three  scenes,  properly 
lines  of  a  face,  or  the  proportion  of  a  15  so  called,  in  every  act ;  for  it  is  to  be 
body.  accounted    a   new    scene,    not    only   every 

But  in  how  straight  a  compass  soever  time  the  stage  is  empty,  but  every  per- 
they  have  bounded  their  plots  and  char-  son  who  enters,  though  to  others,  makes 
acters,  we  will  pass  it  by,  if  they  have  reg-  it  so;  because  he  introduces  a  new  busi- 
ularly  pursued  them,  and  perfectly  £o  ness.  Now  the  plots  of  their  plays  being 
observed  those  three  unities  of  time,  narrow,  and  the  persons  few,  one  of  their 
place,  and  action;  the  knowledge  of  acts  was  written  in  a  less  compass  than 
which  you  say  is  derived  to  us  from  them,  one  of  our  well-wrought  scenes;  and  yet 
But,  in  the  first  place,  give  me  leave  to  they  are  often  deficient  even  in  this.  To 
tell  you,  that  the  unity  of  place,  however  25  go  no  farther  than  Terence,  you  find  in 
it  might  be  practised  by  them,  was  never  the  Eunuch,  Antipho  entering  single  in 
any  of  their  rules :  we  neither  find  it  in  the  midst  of  the  third  act,  after  Chremes 
Aristotle,  Horace,  or  any  who  have  writ-  and  Pythias  were  gone  off:  in  the  same 
ten  of  it,  till  in  our  age  the  French  poets  play  you  have  likewise  Dorias  beginning 
first  made  it  a  precept  of  the  stage.  The  30  the  fourth  act  alone ;  and  after  she  has 
unity  of  time,  even  Terence  himself,  who  made  a  relation  of  what  was  done  at 
was  the  best  and  most  regular  of  them,  the  Soldier's  entertainment  (which  by 
has  neglected :  his  H eautontimornmenos,  the  way  was  very  inartificial,  because  she 
or  Self-punisher,  takes  up  visibly  two  was  presumed  to  speak  directly  to  the 
days,  says  Scaliger;  the  two  first  acts  35  audience,  and  to  acquaint  them  with  what 
concluding  the  first  day,  the  three  last  was  necessary  to  be  known,  but  yet 
the  day  ensuing;  and  Euripides,  in  tying  should  have  been  so  contrived  by  the 
himself  to  one  day,  has  committed  an  poet,  as  to  have  been  told  by  persons 
absurdity  never  to  be  forgiven  him;  for  of  the  drama  to  one  another,  and  so  by 
in  one  of  his  tragedies  he  has  made  40  them  to  have  come  to  the  knowledge  of 
Theseus  go  from  Athens  to  Thebes,  the  people),  she  quits  the  stage,  and 
which  was  about  forty  English  miles,  Phsedria  enters  next,  alone  likewise :  he 
under  the  walls  of  it  to  give  battle,  and  also  gives  you  an  account  of  himself,  and 
appear  victorious  in  the  next  act;  and  of  his  returning  from  the  country,  in 
yet,  from  the  time  of  his  departure  to  45  monologue ;  to  which  unnatural  way  of 
the  return  of  the  Nuntius,  who  gives  the  narration  Terence  is  subject  in  all  his 
relation  of  his  victory,  ^thra  and  the  plays.  In  his  Adelphi,  or  Brothers, 
Chorus  have  but  thirty-six  verses ;  which  Syrus  and  Demea  enter  after  the  scene 
is  not  for  every  mile  a  verse.  was  broken  by  the  departure  of  Sostrata, 

The  like  error  is  as  evident  in  Terence  50  Geta,  and  Canthara ;  and  indeed  you  can 
his  Etmiich,  when  Laches,  the  old  man,  scarce  look  into  any  of  his  comedies, 
enters  by  mistake  into  the  house  of  where  you  will  not  presently  discover  the 
Thais;  where,  betwixt  his  exit,   and  the      same  interruption. 

entrance  of  Pythias,  who  comes  to  give  But  as  they  have  failed  both  in  laying 

ample  relation  of  the  disorders  he  has  55  of  their  plots,  and  in  the  management, 
raised  within,  Parmeno,  who  was  left  swerving  from  the  rules  of  their  own 
upon  the  stage,  has  not  above  five  lines  art.  by  misrepresenting  nature  to  us,  in 
to  speak.     C'est  bien  employer  un  temps      which  they  have  ill  satisfied  one  intention 


284  JOHN  DRYDEN 


of  a  play,  which  was  dchght ;  so  in  the  both  l'"rench  and  English,  ought  to  give 
instructive   part    they   have   erred    worse:      place   to   him? 

instead  of  punishing  vice,  and  rewarding  I  fear  (replied  Neander)  that,  in  obey- 

virtue,  they  have  often  shown  a  prosper-  ing  your  commands,  I  shall  draw  some 
ous  wickedness,  and  an  unhappy  piety:  5  envy  on  myself.  Besides,  in  performing 
they  have  set  before  us  a  bloody  image  lliem,  it  will  be  first  necessary  to  speak 
of  revenge  in  Medea,  and  given  her  somewhat  of  Shakspere  and  Fletcher,  his 
dragons  to  convey  her  safe  from  punish-  rivals  in  poesy;  and  one  of  them,  in  my 
ment;  a  Priam  and  Astyanax  murdered,  opinion,  at  least  his  equal,  perhaps  his 
and  Cassandra  ravished,  and  the  lust  and  10  superior. 

murder  ending  in  the  victory  of  him  who  To    begin    then    with    Shakspere.     He 

acted  them.  In  short,  there  is  no  in-  was  the  man  who  of  all  modern,  and  per- 
decorum  in  any  of  our  modern  plays,  haps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and 
which,  if  I  would  excuse,  I  could  not  most  comprehensive  soul.  All  the  images 
shadow  with  some  authority  from  the  15  of  nature  were  still  present  to  him,  and 
ancients.  lie  drew  them  not  laboriously,  but  luckily: 

And  one  further  note  of  them  let  me  when  he  describes  anything,  you  more 
leave  you :  tragedies  and  comedies  were  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who 
not  writ  then,  as  they  are  now,  promiscu-  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning,  give 
ously,  by  the  same  person ;  but  he  who  20  him  the  greater  commendation :  he  was 
found  his  genius  bending  to  the  one,  naturally  learned;  he  needed  not  the 
never  attempted  the  other  way.  This  is  spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature ;  he 
so  plain,  that  I  need  not  instance  to  you  looked  inwards,  and  found  her  there.  I 
that  Aristophanes,  Plautus,  Terence,  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike;  were 
never,  any  of  them,  writ  a  tragedy ;  25  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare 
iEschylus,  Euripides,  Sophocles,  and  him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He 
Seneca  never  meddled  with  comedy.  is  many  times  flat,  insipid;  his  comic  wit 
The  sock  and  buskin  were  not  worn  by  degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious 
the  same  poet.  Having,  then,  so  much  swelling  into  bombast.  But  he  is  al- 
care  to  excel  in  one  kind,  very  little  is  30  ways  great,  when  some  great  occasion  is 
to  be  pardoned  them  if  they  miscarried  presented  to  him :  no  man  can  say,  he 
in  it.  And  this  would  lead  me  to  the  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and 
consideration  of  their  wit,  had  not  Crites  did  not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above 
given  me  sufficient  warning  not  to  be  the  rest  of  poets, 
too  bold  in  my  judgment  of  it;  because,  35 

the  languages  being  dead,  and  many  of  Quantum  lenta  solvent  inter  viburna  cup- 
the  customs  and  little  accidents  on  which  ressi. 

it  depended  lost  to  us,  we  are  not  com-  [As  the  cypresses  tower  above  low-grow- 

petent  judges  of  it.     But  though  I  grant  ing  shrubs.] 

that,   here    and   there,   we   may   miss   the  4° 

application  of  a  proverb  or  a  custom,  yet  The    consideration    of    this    made    Mr. 

a  thing  well  said  will  be  wit  in  all  Ian-  Hales  of  Eton  say,  that  there  was  no 
guages;  and,  though  it  may  lose  some-  subject  of  which  any  poet  ever  writ,  but 
thing  in  the  translation,  yet  to  him  who  he  would  produce  it  much  better  done  in 
reads  it  in  the  original,  't  is  still  the  45  Shakspere ;  and  however  others  are  now 
same :  he  has  an  idea  of  its  excellency,  generally  preferred  before  him,  yet  the 
though  it  cannot  pass  from  his  mind  into  age  wherein  he  lived,  which  had  con- 
any  other  expression  or  words  than  those  temporaries  with  him,  Fletcher  and  Jon- 
in  which  he  finds  it.  son,  never  equaled  them   to  him  in  their 

*     *     *  50  esteem  :  and  in  the  last  king's  court,  when 

As  Neander  was  beginning  to  examine  Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest,  Sir 
The  Silent  Woman,  Eugenius,  earnestly  John  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater 
regarding  him :  I  beseech  you,  Neander  part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our  Shakspere 
(said  he),  gratify  the  company,   and  me      far  above  him. 

in  particular,  so  far  as,  before  you  speak  55  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am 
of  the  play,  to  give  us  a  character  of  the  next  to  speak,  had  with  the  advantage 
author;  and  tell  us  frankly  your  opinion,  of  Shakspere's  wit,  which  was  their 
whether    you    do    not    think    all    writers,      precedent,    great   natural   gifts,    improved 


I 


k 


by  study;  Beaumont  especially  being  so  him;  but  something  of  art  was  wanting 
accurate  a  judge  of  plays,  that  Ben  Jon-  to  the  drama,  till  he  came.  He  managed 
son,  while  he  lived,  submitted  all  his  writ-  his  strength  to  more  advantage  than  any 
ings  to  his  censure,  and  'tis  thought,  who  preceded  him.  You  seldom  find  him 
used  his  judgment  in  correcting,  if  not  5  making  love  in  any  of  his  scenes,  or  en- 
contriving  all  his  plots.  What  value  he  deavoring  to  move  the  passions;  his 
had  for  him,  appears  by  the  verses  he  genius  was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to  do 
writ  to  him;  and  therefore  I  need  speak  it  gracefully,  especially  when  he  knew  he 
no  farther  of  it.  The  first  play  that  came  after  those  wlio  had  performed  both 
brought  Fletcher  and  him  in  esteem,  was  10  to  such  a  height.  Humor  was  his 
their  Philastcr;  for  before  that,  they  had  proper  sphere;  and  in  that  he  delighted 
written  two  or  three  very  unsuccessfully:  most  to  represent  mechanic  people.  He 
as  the  like  is  reported  of  Ben  Jonson,  was  deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients, 
before  he  writ  Every  Man  in  his  Humor.  both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed 
Their  plots  were  generally  more  regular  15  boldly  from  them :  there  is  scarce  a  poet 
than  Shakspere's,  especially  those  which  or  historian  among  the  Roman  authors 
were  made  before  Beaumont's  death ;  of  those  times,  whom  he  has  not  trans- 
and  they  understood  and  imitated  the  lated  in  Scjanits  and  Catiline.  But  he 
conversation  of  gentlemen  much  better ;  has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that 
whose  wild  debaucheries,  and  quickness  20  one  may  see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by 
of  wit  in  repartees,  no  poet  before  them  any  law.  He  invades  authors  like  a 
could  paint  as  they  have  done.  Humor,  monarch;  and  what  would  be  theft  in 
which  Ben  Jonson  derived  from  particu-  other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him. 
lar  persons,  they  made  it  not  their  busi-  With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so 
ness  to  describe;  they  represented  all  25  represents  old  Rome  to  us,  in  its  rites, 
the  passions  very  lively,  but  above  all,  ceremonies,  and  customs,  that  if  one  of 
love.  I  am  apt  to  believe  the  English  their  poets  had  written  either  of  his 
language  in  them  arrived  to  its  highest  tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than  in 
perfection;  what  words  have  since  been  him.  If  there  was  any  fault  in  his  Ian- 
taken  in,  are  rather  superfluous  than  30  guage,  it  was,  that  he  weaved  it  too 
ornamental.  Their  plays  are  now  the  closely  and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies 
most  pleasant  and  frequent  entertain-  especially:  perhaps,  too,  he  did  a  little 
nients  of  the  stage ;  two  of  theirs  being  too  much  Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving 
acted  through  the  year  for  one  of  Shak-  the  words  which  he  translated  almost  as 
spere's  or  Jonson's :  the  reason  is,  because  35  much  Latin  as  he  found  them;  wherein, 
there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  come-  tliough  he  learnedly  followed  their  Ian- 
dies,  and  pathos  in  their  more  serious  guage,  he  did  not  enough  comply  with 
plays,  which  suits  generally  with  all  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare 
men's  humors.  Shakspere's  language  is  him  with  Shakspere,  I  must  acknowledge 
likewise  a  little  obsolete,  and  Ben  Jon-  40  him  the  more  correct  poet,  but  Shak- 
son's  wit  comes  short  of  theirs.  spere  the  greater  wit.     Shakspere  was  the 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  Homer,  or  father  of  our  dramatic  poets : 
am  now  arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him  Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern  of 
while  he  was  himself  (for  his  last  plays  elaborate  writing;  I  admire  him,  but  I 
were  but  his  dotages),  I  think  him  the  45  love  Shakspere.  To  conclude  of  him;  as 
most  learned  and  judicious  writer  which  he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays, 
any  theater  ever  had.  He  was  a  most  so  in  the  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down 
severe  judge  of  himself,  as  well  as  in  his  Discoveries,  we  have  as  many  and 
others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  profitable  rules  for  perfecting  the  stage, 
but  rather  that  he  was  frugal  of  it.  In  so  as  any  w^herewith  the  French  can  furnish 
his   works   you   find   little    to   retrench   or      us. 

alter.     Wit    and     language,     and    humor  *     *     *  (1667) 

also    in    some    measure,    we    had    before 

55 


DANIEL  DEFOE  (1661-1731) 


Defoe  was  the  son  of  a  nonconformist  butcher,  and  attended  a  dissenting  school,  where, 
according  to  his  own  account,  he  received  a  sound  training  in  English  and  other  modern 
languages  as  well  as  in  the  classics ;  his  master,  Morton,  was  a  man  of  advanced  ideas  in 
education,  and  afterwards  became  vice-president  of  Harvard  University.  Defoe  took  part  in 
the  rebellion  of  Monmouth,  'engaged  unsuccessfully  in  trade,  and  welcomed  the  Revolution. 
When  William  III  was  attacked  as  a  foreigner,  Defoe  took  up  his  defence  in  a  satirical  poem. 
The  True-born  Englishman,  which  ran  through  twenty-one  editions  and  was  sold  in  thousands 
in  the  streets.  He  published  a  number  of  political  pamphlets,  and  one  of  them,  The  Shortest 
Way  with  the  Dissenters,  was  so  successful  in  its  irony  that  it  deceived  both  parties  into 
accepting  it  as  a  serious  plea  for  high  church  principles.  When  it  became  known  that  the 
author  was  a  dissenter  and  that  the  tract  was  really  a  plea  for  toleration,  the  high  church 
party  were  furious  at  the  fraud  practised  upon  them,  and  the  dissenters  were  too  sore 
and  bewildered  to  defend  him.  Defoe  was  fined,  imprisoned,  and  condemned  to  be  exposed 
to  public  derision  in  the  pillory  (1703).  But  the  people  covered  the  pillory  with  flowers, 
drank  his  health,  and  bought  copies  of  his  Hymn  to  the  Pillory,  in  which  he  denounced  his 
antagonists  as  '  scandals  to  the  times,'  who  '  are  at  a  loss  to  find  his  guilt,  and  can't  commit  his 
crimes.'  Defoe  was  not  kept  long  in  prison,  and  in  1704  he  began  the  publication  of  the  Review, 
which  was  continued  till  1713  and  marks  an  important  advance  in  the  development  of  journalism. 
As  a  journalist  Defoe  showed  unwearied  diligence,  unsurpassed  enterprise  and  resourcefulness, 
and  a  keen  sense  of  popular  interest.  There  are  few  features  of  the  modern  newspaper  which  are 
not  represented  in  his  writings.  He  wrote  sometimes  for  one  party,  sometimes  for  another, 
and  for  some  years  he  conducted  Tory  papers  in  the  interests  of  the  Whig  government,  by 
which  he  was  employed  in  the  secret  service.  His  style  is  remarkably  simple  and  direct,  and 
the  '  stories  '  he  invented  can  hardly  be  distinguished  from  genuine  narratives.  Of  his  numer- 
ous works,  which  would  make  a  considerable  library  if  reprinted,  the  one  which  has  earned 
most  enduring  popularity  is  Robinson  Crusoe  (1720),  a  realistic  autobiography  of  a  sailor 
cast  away  upon  a  desolate  island.  It  has  been  translated  into  almost  every  literary  language 
and  has  been  followed  by  countless  imitations. 


From  THE  TRUE  BORN  ENGLISHMAN 

A  true  born   Englishman 's  a  contradiction ! 
In   speech,  an  irony;   in  fact,  a  fiction! 
A  banter  made  to  be  a  test  of  fools! 
Which  those  that  use  it,  justly  ridicules ; 
A   metaphor  invented  to  express  5 

A  man  akin  to  all  the  universe ! 

For  as  the  Scots,  as  learned  men  have  said, 
Throughout  the  world  their  wandering  seed 

have  spread, 
So  open-handed  England,  't  is  believed, 
Has  all  the  gleanings  of  the  world  received. 
Some   think,   of   England   'twas,   our   Savior 

meant  n 

The  Gospel  should,  to  all  the  world  be  sent. 
Since,    when    the    blessed    sound    did    hither 


reach. 


They  to  all  nations  might  be  said  to  preach. 


286 


'Tis  well  that  virtue  gives  nobility;  iS 

How   shall   we   else  the  want  of  birth   and 

blood  supply? 
Since  scarce  one  family  is  left  alive, 
Which   does    not    from   some    foreigner   de- 
rive. 
Of  sixty  thousand  English  gentlemen 
Whose  names  and  arms  in  registers  remain, 
We  challenge  all  our  heralds  to  declare     21 
Ten  families  which  English  Saxons  are! 

France  justly  boasts  the  ancient  noble  line 
Of  Bourbon,  Montmorency,  and  Lorraine. 
The  Germans,  too,  their  House  of  Austria 
show,  25 

And   Holland  their  invincible  Nassau  — 
Lines  which  in  heraldry  were  ancient  grown, 
Before  the  name  of  Englishman  was  known. 
Even   Scotland,  too,  her  elder  glory  shows! 
Her  Gordons,  Hamiltons,  and  hcr  Monroes ; 


Douglas,     Mackays,     and     Grahams,     names 

well   known  3" 

Long    before     ancient     England     knew     her 


But  England,  modern  to  the  last  degree, 
Borrows  or  makes  her  own  nobility; 
And  yet  she  boldly  boasts  of  pedigree!       3S 
Repines   that   foreigners   are   put   upon   her, 
And   talks  of  her  antiquity  and  honor! 
Her   S[ackvil]les,   S[avi]les,   C[eci]ls,   Dela- 

fme]res, 
M[ohu]ns   and    M[ontag]ues,    D[ura]s,    and 

V[ee]res; 
Not    one    have    English    names,    yet    all    are 

English  peers !  40 

Your  Houblons,  Papillons,  and  Lethuliers 
Pass    now    for    true    born    English    knights 

and   squires. 
And    make    good    senate    members,    or    lord 

mayors. 
Wealth   (howsoever  got)  in  England,  makes 
Lords,   of  mechanics!   gentlemen,   of   rakes! 
Antiquity  and  birth  are  needless  here.         46 
'Tis  impudence  and  money  make  a  p[ee]r! 


THE    CONCLUSION 

Then  let  us  boast  of  ancestors  no  more. 
Or  deeds  of  heroes  done  in  days  of  yore, 
In  latent  records  of  the  ages  past,  so 

Behind    the    rear   of  time,    in    long  oblivion 

placed. 
For  if  our  virtues  must  in  lines  descend, 
The  merit  with  the   families  would  end, 
And   intermixtures   would  most    fatal   grow, 
For  vice  would  be  hereditary  too ;  55 

The  tainted  blood  would  of  necessity. 
In   voluntary  wickedness  convey! 

Vice,  like  ill-nature,  for  an  age  or  two, 
May  seem  a  generation   to   pursue : 
But  virtue  seldom  does  regard  the  breed,  60 
Fools  do  the  wise,  and  wise  men  fools  suc- 
ceed. 
What  is  it  to  us,  what  ancestors  we  had? 
If    good,    what    better?    or    what    worse,    if 

bad? 
Examples  are  for  imitation  set, 
Yet  all  men  follow  virtue  with  regret.        65 

Could  but  our  ancestors  retrieve  their   fate, 

And   see  their  offspring  thus   degenerate ; 

How  we  contend  for  birth  and  names  un- 
known. 

And  build  on  their  past  actions,  not  our 
own  : 

They'd  cancel  records,  and  their  tombs  de- 
face, 70 


And     openly     disown     the     vile     degenerate 

race ! 
For  fame  of  families  is  all  a  cheat ; 
'Tis   personal   virtue  only  makes  us   great' 

(1701) 


THE   SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  THE 
DISSENTERS 

Sir  Roger  L'  Estrange  tells  us  a  story 
in  his  collection  of  Fables,  of  the  cock 
and  the  horses.  The  cock  was  gotten  to 
roost  in  the  stable  among  the  horses; 
and  there  being  no  racks  or  other  con- 
veniences for  him,  it  seems  he  vi'as 
forced  to  roost  upon  the  ground.  The 
horses  jostling  about  for  room  and  put- 
ting the  cock  in  danger  of  his  life,  he 
gives  them  this  grave  advice,  '  Pray, 
gentlefolks !  let  us  stand  still !  for  fear 
we  should  tread  upon  one  another ! ' 

There  are  some  people  in  the  world, 
who,  now  they  are  unperched,  and  re- 
duced to  an  equality  with  other  people, 
and  under  strong  and  very  just  appre- 
hensions of  being  further  treated  as  they 
deserve,  begin  with  Esop's  cock,  to  preach 
up  peace  and  union  and  the  christian 
duty  of  moderation ;  forgetting  that  when 
they  had  the  power  in  their  hands,  those 
graces  were  strangers  in  their  gates ! 

It  is  now  near  fourteen  years,  that 
the  glory  and  peace  of  the  purest  and 
most  flourishing  church  in  the  world  has 
been  eclipsed,  buffeted,  and  disturbed  by 
a  sort  of  men  whom  God  in  his  provi- 
dence has  suffered  to  insult  over  her, 
and  bring  her  down.  These  have  been 
the  days  of  her  humiliation  and  tribula- 
tion. She  has  borne  with  an  invincible 
patience  the  reproach  of  the  wicked;  and 
God  has  at  last  heard  her  prayers,  and 
delivered  her  from  the  oppression  of  the 
stranger. 

And  now,  they  find  their  day  is  over, 
their  power  gone,  and  the  throne  of  this 
nation  possessed  by  a  royal,  English, 
true,  and  ever  constant  member  of,  and 
friend  to,  the  Church  of  England.  Now 
ll^ey  find  that  they  are  in  danger  of  the 
Church  of  England's  just  resentments. 
Now,  they  cry  out,  '  Peace  !  '  '  Union  !  ' 
'  Forbearance  !''  and  '  Charity  ! ' :  as  if  the 
Church  had  not  too  long  harbored  her 
enemies  under  her  wing,  and  nourished 
the  viperous  brood,  till  they  hiss  and  fly 
in  the  face  of  the  mother  that  cherished 
them ! 


zoo  i^/\iNiiLi^  unrv^ii 

No,  gentlemen,  the  time  of  mercy  is  ecution  of  ilie  known  laws  of  the  land, 
past,  your  day  of  grace  is  over,  you  and  that  with  but  a  gentle  hand  neither, 
should  have  practised  peace,  and  modera-  was  all  that  the  fanatical  party  of  this 
tion,  and  charity,  if  you  exj)ccted  any  land  have  ever  called  persecution.  This 
yourselves.  5  they  have  magnified  to  a  height  that  the 

We  have  heard  none  of  this  lesson  sufferings  of  the  Huguenots  in  France 
for  fourteen  years  past.  We  have  been  were  not  to  be  compared  with  them, 
huffed  and  bullied  with  your  Act  of  Tol-  Now  to  execute  the  known  laws  of  a 
eration.  You  have  told  us  you  are  the  nation  upon  those  who  transgress  them. 
Church  established  by  law,  as  well  as  lo  after  having  first  been  voluntarily  con- 
others ;  have  set  up  your  canting  syna-  scnting  to  the  making  of  those  laws,  can 
gogues  at  our  church  doors;  and  the  never  be  called  persecution,  but  justice. 
Church  and  her  members  have  been  But  justice  is  always  violence  to  the 
loaded  with  reproaches,  with  oaths,  as-  party  offending,  for  every  man  is  inno- 
sociations,  abjurations,  and  what  not !  15  cent  in  his  own  eyes. 
Where  has  been  the  mercy,  the  forbear-  The  first  execution  of  the  laws  against 

ance,  the  charity  you  have  shown  to  Dissenters  in  England  was  in  the  days  of 
tender  consciences  of  the  Church  of  Eng-  King  James  I ;  and  what  did  it  amount 
land  that  could  not  take  oaths  as  fast  to?  Truly,  the  worst  they  suffered  was, 
as  you  made  them ;  that,  having  sworn  20  at  their  own  request,  to  let  them  go  to 
allegiance  to  their  lawful  and  rightful  New  England,  and  erect  a  new  colony; 
king,  could  not  dispense  with  that  oath,  and  give  them  great  privileges,  grants, 
their  king  being  still  alive,  and  swear  and  suitable  powers ;  keep  them  under 
to  your  new  hodge-podge  of  a  Dutch  protection,  and  defend  them  against  all 
government?  These  have  been  turned  25  invaders;  and  receive  no  taxes  or  revenue 
out  of  their  livings,  and  they  and  their      from  them  ! 

families     left     to     starve;     their    estates  This  was  the  cruelty  of  the  Church  of 

double  taxed  to  carry  on  a  war  they  had  England.  Fatal  lenity !  It  was  the  ruin 
no  hand  in,  and  you  got  nothing  by !  of  that  excellent  prince.  King  Charles  L 

What  account  can  you  give  of  the  3°  Had  King  James  sent  all  the  Puritans  in 
multitudes  you  have  forced  to  comply,  England  away  to  the  West  Indies,  we  had 
against  their  consciences,  with  your  new  been  a  national  unmixed  church.  The 
sophistical  politics,  who,  like  new  con-  Church  of  England  had  been  kept  un- 
verts   in   France,    sin   because   they   can-     divided  and  entire ! 

not  starve?  And  now  the  tables  are  35  To  requite  the  lenity  of  the  father,  they 
turned  upon  you,  you  must  not  be  per-  take  up  arms  against  the  son,  conquer, 
secuted !     It  is  not  a  christian  spirit !  pursue,    take,    imprison,    and    at    last    put 

You  have  butchered  one  king,  deposed  to  death  the  anointed  of  God,  and  destroy 
another  king,  and  made  a  mock  king  the  very  being  and  nature  of  government : 
of  a  third,  and  yet,  you  could  have  the  40  setting  up  a  sordid  impostor,  who  had 
face  to  expect  to  be  employed  and  trusted  neither  title  to  govern,  nor  understand- 
by  the  fourth !  Anybody  that  did  not  ing  to  manage,  but  supplied  that  want, 
know  the  temper  of  your  party,  would  with  power,  bloody  and  desperate  coun- 
stand  amazed  at  the  impudence  as  well  sels  and  craft,  without  conscience, 
as  the  folly  to  think  of  it !  45       Had    not    King   James    I    withheld    the 

Your  management  of  your  Dutch  mon-  full  execution  of  the  laws :  had  he  given 
arch,  whom  you  reduced  to  a  mere  King  them  strict  justice,  he  had  cleared  the 
of  Clubs,  is  enough  to  give  any  future  nation  of  them !  And  the  consequences 
princes  such  an  idea  of  your  principles  had  been  plain ;  his  son  had  never  been 
as  to  warn  them  sufficiently  from  com-  5°  murdered  by  them,  nor  the  monarchy 
ing  into  your  clutches ;  and,  God  be  overwhelmed.  It  was  too  much  mercy 
thanked,  the  Queen  is  out  of  your  hands,  shown  them  that  was  the  ruin  of  his 
knows  you,  and  will  have  a  care  of  you !      posterity,    and    the    ruin    of    the    nation's 

There  is  no  doubt  but  the  supreme  peace.  One  would  think  the  Dissenters 
authority  of  a  nation  has  in  itself  aSS  should  not  have  the  face  to  believe  that 
power,  and  a  right  to  that  power,  we  are  to  be  wheedled  and  canted  into 
to  execute  the  laws  upon  any  part  peace  and  toleration,  when  they  know 
of    that     nation     it     governs.     The     ex-      that  they  have  once   requited  us  with   a 


civil  war,  and  once  with  an  intolerable  mistaken  prince,  thinking  to  win  them  by 
and  unrighteous  persecution,  for  our  gentleness  and  love,  proclaimed  a  uni- 
former    civility.  versal    liberty    to    them,    and    rather    dis- 

Nay,  to  encourage  us  to  be  easy  with  countenanced  the  Church  of  England 
them,  it  is  apparent  that  they  never  had  5  than  them.  How  they  requited  him,  all 
the   upper   hand   of  the   Church   but   they      the  world  knows ! 

treated  her  witli  all  the  severity,  with  all  The  late  reign  is  too  fresh  in  the  mem- 

the  reproach  and  contempt  as  was  pos-  ory  of  all  the  world  to  need  a  comment. 
sil)le  !  What  peace  and  what  mercy  did  How  under  pretense  of  joining  with  the 
they  show  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  Church  lo  Church  in  redressing  some  grievances, 
of  England,  in  the  time  of  their  trium-  they  pushed  things  to  that  extremity,  in 
phant  Commonwealth  ?  How  did  they  conjunction  with  some  mistaken  gentle- 
put  all  the  gentry  of  England  to  ran-  men,  as  to  depose  the  late  king;  as  if 
som,  whether  they  were  actually  in  arms  the  grievance  of  the  nation  could  not 
for  the  king  or  not,  making  people  com-  15  have  been  redressed  but  by  the  absolute 
pound   for  their  estates,  and  starve  their      ruin  of  the  prince. 

families !     How  did  they  treat  the  clergy  Here   is   an    instance   of   their   temper, 

of  the  Church  of  England,  sequester  the      their  peace,   and  charity ! 
ministers,    devour    the    patrimony    of    the  To    what    height    they    carried    them- 

Church  and  divide  the  spoil,  by  sharing  20  selves  during  the  reign  of  a  king  of  their 
the  Church  lands  among  their  soldiers,  own,  how  they  crept  into  all  places  of 
and  turning  her  clergy  out  to  starve!  trust  and  profit;  how  they  insinuated 
Just  such  measure  as  they  have  meted,  themselves  into  the  favor  of  the  king,  and 
should  be  measured  to  them  again !  were    at    first    preferred    to    the    highest 

Charity  and  love  is  the  known  doctrine  25  places  in  the  nation,  how  they  engrossed 
of  the  Church  of  England,  and  it  is  plain  the  ministry;  and,  above  all,  how  pit- 
she  has  put  it  in  practise  towards  the  ifuUy  they  managed,  is  too  plain  to  need 
Dissenters,  even  beyond  what  they  ought,      any  remarks. 

till  she  has  been  wanting  to  herself,  and  But  particularly,  their  mercy  and  char- 

in  effect  unkind  to  her  own  sons;  par- 3o  ity,  the  spirit  of  union  they  tell  us  so 
ticularly,  in  the  too  much  lenity  of  King  much  of,  has  been  remarkable  in  Scot- 
James  I,  mentioned  before.  Had  he  so  land.  H  any  man  would  see  the  spirit  of 
rooted  the  Puritans  from  the  face  of  a  Dissenter,  let  him  look  into  Scotland, 
the  land,  which  he  had  an  opportunity  There,  they  made  entire  conquest  of  the 
early  to  have  done,  they  had  not  had  35  Church,  trampled  down  the  sacred  or- 
the  power  to  vex  the  Church,  as  since  ders  and  suppressed  the  episcopal  gov- 
they  have  done.  ernment,   with   an   absolute,   and,   as   they 

In  the  days  of  King  Charles  H,  how  supposed,  irretrievable  victory;  though  it 
did  the  Church  reward  their  bloody  do-  is  possible  they  may  find  themselves  mis- 
ings  with  lenity  and  mercy  !     Except  the  40  taken  ! 

barbarous     regicides     of     the     pretended  Now  it  would  be  a  very  proper  ques- 

court  of  justice,  not  a  soul  suffered  for  tion  to  ask  their  impudent  advocate,  the 
all  the  blood  in  an  unnatural  war.  King  Observator,  '  Pray  how  nmch  mercy  and 
Charles  came  in  all  mercy  and  love,  favor  did  the  members  of  the  Episcopal 
cherished  them,  preferred  them,  em-  45  Church  find  in  Scotland  from  the 
ployed  them,  withheld  the  rigor  of  the  Scotch  Presbyterian  government?'  And 
law  and  oftentimes,  even  against  the  I  shall  undertake  for  the  Church  of  Eng- 
advice  of  his  Parliament,  gave  them  lib-  land,  that  the  Dissenters  shall  still  re- 
erty  of  conscience;  and  how  did  they  ceive  as  much  here,  though  they  de- 
requite    him?     With    the    villainous    con- 50  serve  but  little. 

trivance  to  depose  and  murder  him  and  In  a  small   treatise  of  The  Sufferings 

his  successor,  at  the  Rye  House  Plot !  of  the   Episcopal  Clergy   in   Scotland,   't 

King  James  II,  as  if  mercy  was  the  will  appear  what  usage  they  met  with, 
inherent  quality  of  the  family,  began  his  How  they  not  only  lost  their  livings; 
reign  with  unusual  favor  to  them.  Nor  55  but,  in  several  places,  were  plundered 
could  their  joining  with  the  Duke  of  and  abused  in  their  persons,  the  ministers 
Monmouth  against  him,  move  him  to  do  that  could  not  conform,  were  turned  out, 
himself  justice  upon  them.  But  that  with  numerous  families  and  no  mainte- 
19 


290  DANIEL  DEFOE 


nance,  and  hardly  charity  enough   left  to      heartily    about    the    work,    and    come    off 
relieve    them    with    a    bit   of   bread.     The      from  them,  as  some  animals,  which  they 
cruelties  of  the  party   were   innumerable,      say,    always    desert    a    house    when    it    is 
and  arc  not  to  be  attcmi)tcd  in  this  short      likely  to  fall, 
piece.  S      Secondly.  The     more      numerous,     the 

And  now,  to  prevent  the  distant  cloud  more  danoerous ;  and  therefore  the  more 
which  they  perceive  to  hang  over  their  need  to  suppress  them;  and  God  has  suf- 
heads  from  England,  with  a  true  Presby-  fered  us  to  bear  them  as  goads  in  our 
terian  policy,  they  put  in  for  a  union  of  sides,  for  not  utterly  extinguishing  them 
nations  —  that  England  might  unite  their  lo  long   ago. 

Church   with   the   Kirk   of   Scotland,   and  Thirdly.  If  we  are  to  allow  them,  only 

their- assembly  of  Scotch  canting  long-  because  wc  cannot  suppress  them;  then  it 
cloaks  in  our  convocation.  What  might  ought  to  be  tried,  whether  we  can  or  not? 
have  been,  if  our  fanatic  Whiggish  states-  And  I  am  of  opinion  it  is  easy  to  be 
men  continued,  God  only  knows ;  but  we  i^  done,  and  could  prescribe  ways  and  means, 
hope  we  are  out  of  fear  of  that  now.  if   it   were   proper:    but   I   doubt   not    the 

It  is  alleged  by  some  of  the  faction,  government  will  find  effectual  methods 
and  they  have  begun  to  bully  us  whh  it,  for  the  rooting  of  the  contagion  from  the 
that   '  if  we  won't  unite  with  them,  they      face  of  this  land. 

will  not  settle  the  Crown  with  us  again ;  20  Another  argument  they  use,  which  is 
but  when  her  Majesty  dies,  will  choose  a  this.  That  this  is  a  time  of  war,  and 
king  for  themselves !  '  we  have  need  to  unite  against  the  com- 

If   they   won't,   we   must   make    them;      mon  enemy, 
and  it  is  not  the   first  time  we  have   let  We    answer,    this    common   enemy   had 

them  know  that  w-e  arc  able.  The  25  been  no  enemy,  if  they  had  not  made 
crowns  of  these  kingdoms  have  not  so  him  so.  He  was  quiet,  in  peace,  and  no 
far  disowned  the  right  of  succession,  but  way  disturbed  and  encroaclicd  upon  us; 
they  may  retrieve  it  again;  and  if  Scot-  and  we  know  no  reason  we  had  to  quar- 
land  thinks  to  come  off  from  a   succes-     rel  with  him. 

sive  to  an  elective  state  of  government,  3°  But  further.  We  make  no  question 
England  has  not  promised,  not  to  as-  but  we  are  able  to  deal  with  this  com- 
sist  the  right  heir,  and  put  him  into  pos-  mon  enemy  without  their  help:  but  why 
session,  without  any  regards  to  their  must  we  unite  with  them,  because  of  the 
ridiculous  settlements.  enemy?     Will  they  go  over  to  the  enemy. 

These  are  the  gentlemen!  these,  their  3S  if  we  do  not  prevent  it,  by  a  union  with 
ways  of  treating  the  Church,  both  at  home  them  ?  We  are  very  well  contented  they 
and  abroad  !  should,   and   make   no   question,   we   shall 

Now  let  us  examine  the  reasons  they  be  ready  to  deal  with  them  and  the  com- 
pretend  to  give,  why  we  should  be  favor-  mon  enemy  too;  and  better  without  them 
able  to  them ;  why  we  should  continue  40  than  with  them.  Besides,  if  we  have  a 
and   tolerate   them   among  us.  common   enemy,   there   is   the   more   need 

First.  They  are  very  numerous,  they  to  be  secure  against  our  private  enemies, 
say.  They  are  a  great  part  of  the  nation.  If  there  is  one  common  enemy,  we  have 
and  we  cannot   suppress  them !  the  less  need  to  have  an  enemy  in  our 

To  this,  may   be   answered  :  45  bowels  I 

First.  They  are  not  so  numerous  as  the  It  was   a  great   argument   some   people 

Protestants  in  France :  and  yet  the  used  against  suppressing  the  old  money. 
French  king  effectually  cleared  the  na-  that  '  it  was  a  time  of  war,  and  it  was 
tion  of  them  at  once ;  and  we  don't  find  too  great  a  risk  for  the  nation  to  run. 
he  misses  them  at  home !  ^°  If  we  should  not  master  it,  w^e  should  be 

But  I  am  not  of  the  opinion  they  are  so  undone ! '  And  yet  the  sequel  proved  the 
numerous  as  is  pretended.  Their  party  hazard  was  not  so  great,  but  it  might  be 
is  more  numerous  than  their  persons ;  and  mastered,  and  the  success  w^as  answer- 
those  mistaken  people  of  the  Church  who  able.  The  suppressing  the  Dissenters  is 
are  misled  and  deluded  by  their  wheedling  5S  not  a  harder  work,  nor  a  work  of  less 
artifices  to  join  with  them,  make  thc'r  necessity  to  the  public.  We  can  never 
party  the  greater:  but  those  will  open  enjoy  a  settled,  uninterrupted  union  and 
their  eyes  when  the  government  shall  set      tranquillity  in   this   nation,  till   the   spirit 


of  Whiggism,  faction,  and  schism  is  senters,  and  therefore  it  is  time  enough, 
melted   down   Hke  the   old  money  !  But  this  is  a  weak  answer.     For  first : 

To  talk  of  difficulty  is  to  frighten  our-  if  the  danger  be  real,  the  distance  of  it 
selves  with  chimeras  and  notions  of  a  is  no  argument  against,  but  rather  a  spur 
powerful  party,  which  are  indeed  a  party  5  to  quicken  us  to  prevention,  lest  it  be  too 
without  power.     Difficulties  often  appear      late  hereafter. 

greater  at  a  distance  than  when  they  are  And  secondly:  here  is  the  opportunity, 

searched  into  with  judgment,  and  dis-  and  the  only  one,  perhaps,  that  ever  the 
tinguished  from  the  vapors  and  shadows  Church  had  to  secure  herself  and  destroy 
that  attend  them.  lo  her  enemies. 

We  are  not  to  be  frightened  with  it!  The  representatives  of  the  nation  have 

This  age  is  wiser  than  that,  by  all  our  now  an  opportunity.  The  time  is  come 
own  experience,  and  theirs  too !  King  which  all  good  men  have  wished  for, 
Charles  I  had  early  suppressed  this  party,  that  the  gentlemen  of  England  may  serve 
if  he  had  taken  more  deliberate  measures.  15  the  Church  of  England,  now  they  are 
In  short,  it  is  not  worth  arguing,  to  talk  protected  and  encouraged  by  a  Church  of 
of    their    arms.     Their    Monmouths    and      England  queen ! 

Shaftesburys     and     Argyles     are     gone  !  What  will  you  do  for  your  sister  in  the 

Their  Dutch  sanctuary  is  at  an  end!  day  that  she  shall  be  spoken  for? 
Heaven  has  made  way  for  their  destruc-  20  If  ever  you  will  establish  the  best  chris- 
tion,  and  if  we  do  not  close  with  the  tian  church  in  the  world ;  if  ever  you  will 
divine  occasion,  we  are  to  blame  our-  suppress  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm;  if  ever 
selves !  and  may  hereafter  remember  that  you  will  free  the  nation  from  the  viperous 
we  had,  once,  an  ojiportunity  to  serve  the  brood  that  have  so  long  sucked  the  blood 
Church  of  England,  by  extirpating  her  25  of  their  mother;  if  ever  you  will  leave 
implacable  enemies;  and  having  let  slip  your  posterity  free  from  faction  and  re- 
the  minute  that  Heaven  presented,  may  hellion,  this  is  the  time  !  This  is  the  time 
experimentally  complain,  post  est  occasio  to  pull  up  this  heretical  weed  of  sedition, 
calva  [opportunity  is  bald  behind].  that  has   so   long  disturl^cd   the   peace   of 

Here  are  some  popular  objections  in  3°  the  Church,  and  poisoned  the  good  corn ! 
the   way.  But,  says  another  hot  and  cold  objector. 

As  first,  the  queen  has  promised  this  is  renewing  fire  and  faggot,  reviv- 
them  to  continue  them  in  their  tolerated  ing  the  Act,  de  herctico  comburendo  [for 
liberty;  and  has  told  us  she  will  be  a  the  burning  of  heretics].  This  will  be 
religious  observer  of  her  word.  35  cruelty  in  its  nature,  and  barbarous  to  all 

What   her   Majesty  will   do  we   cannot      the  world, 
help,  but  what,  as  the  head  of  the  Church,  I  answer,  it  is  cruelty  to  kill  a  snake 

she  ought  to  do,  is  another  case.  Her  or  a  toad  in  cold  blood,  but  the  poison  of 
Majesty  has  promised  to  protect  and  de-  their  nature  makes  it  a  charity  to  our 
fend  the  Church  of  England,  and  if  she  40  neighbors  to  destroy  those  creatures,  not 
cannot  effectually  do  that  without  the  for  any  personal  injury  received,  but  for 
destruction  of  the  Dissenters,  she  must,  prevention ;  not  for  the  evil  they  have 
of  course,  dispense  with  one  promise  to  done,  but  the  evil  they  may  do.  Serpents, 
comply  with  another.  toads,    vipers,    etc.,    are    noxious    to    the 

But  to  answer  this  cavil  more  effectu- 45  body,  and  poison  the  sensitive  life:  thcFe 
ally.  Her  Majesty  did  never  promise  to  poison  the  soul,  corrupt  our  posterity,  en- 
maintain  the  toleration  to  the  destruction  snare  our  children,  destroy  the  vitals  of 
of  the  Church ;  but  it  was  upon  supposi-  our  happiness,  our  future  felicity,  and 
tion  that  it  may  be  compatible  with  the  contaminate  the  whole  mass ! 
well-being  and  safety  of  the  Church,  5o  Shall  any  law  be  given  to  such  wild 
which  she  had  declared  she  would  take  creatures?  Some  beasts  are  for  sport, 
especial  care  of.  Now  if  these  two  in-  and  the  huntsmen  give  them  the  advan- 
terests  clash,  it  is  plain  her  Majesty's  tages  of  ground,  but  some  are  knocked  on 
intentions  are  to  uphold,  protect,  defend,  the  head  by  all  possible  ways  of  violence 
and  establish  the  Church;  and  this,  we  55  and  surprise. 
conceive,  is  impossible.  I  do  not  prescribe  fire  and  faggot ;  but 

Perhaps  it  may  be  said,  that  the  Church  as  Scipio  said  of  Carthage,  Dclciida  est 
is  in  no  immediate  danger  from  the  Dis-      Carthago   [Carthage  must  be  destroyed]  ! 


292  DANIEL  DEFOE 


they  are  to  be  rooted  out  of  this  nation,  fines  were  the  reward  of  going  to  a  con- 
if  ever  we  will  live  in  peace,  serve  God,  venticle  to  preach  or  hear,  tlicre  would 
or  enjoy  our  own.  As  for  the  manner,  not  be  so  many  sufferers.  The  spirit  of 
I  leave  it  to  those  hands  who  have  a  right  martyrdom  is  over.  They  that  will  go  to 
to  execute  God's  justice  on  the  nation's  5  church  to  be  chosen  sheriffs  and  mayors, 
and  the  Church's  enemies.  would  go  to  forty  churches  rather  than  be 

But  if  we  must  be  frighted  from  this      hanged  ! 
justice,    under    these    specious    pretenses,  If  one  severe  law  were  made  and  punc- 

and  odious  sense  of  cruelty,  nothing  will  tually  executed  that  whoever  was  found 
l)c  effected.  It  will  be  more  barbarous  ,0  at  a  conventicle  should  be  banished  the 
to  our  own  children  and  dear  posterity,  nation,  and  the  preacher  be  hanged,  we 
when  they  shall  reproach  their  fathers,  should  soon  sec  an  end  of  the  tale.  They 
as  we  ours,  and  tell  us,  '  You  had  an  op-  would  all  come  to  church  again,  and  one 
portunity  to  root  out  this  cursed  race  age  would  make  us  all  one  again, 
from  the  world  under  the  favor  and  pro-  ,^  To  talk  of  five  shillings  a  month  for 
tcction  of  a  true  Church  of  England  not  coming  to  the  sacrament,  and  one 
queen,  and  out  of  your  foolish  pity,  you  shilling  per  week,  for  not  coming  to 
spared  them,  because,  forsooth,  you  would  church :  this  is  such  a  way  of  converting 
not  be  cruel !  And  now  our  Church  is  people  as  was  never  known.  This  is 
suppressed  and  persecuted,  our  religion  20  selling  them  a  liberty  to  transgress,  for  so 
trampled    under    foot,    our    estates    plun-      much  money. 

dered,      our     persons     imprisoned,      and  If  it  be  not  a  crime,  why  don't  we  give 

dragged  to  gaols,  gibbets,  and  scafTolds  !  them  full  license  ?  And  if  it  be,  no  price 
Your  sparing  this  Amalekite  race  is  our  ought  to  compound  for  the  committing  of 
destruction  !  Your  mercy  to  them  proves  25  it,  for  that  is  selling  a  liberty  to  people 
cruelty  to  your  poor  posterity ! '  to  sin  against  God  and  the  government. 

How  just  will  such  reflections  be  when  If  it  be  a  crime  of  the  highest  conse- 

our  posterity  shall  fall  under  the  merciless  quence,  both  against  the  peace  and  wel- 
clutches  of  this  uncharitable  generation;  fare  of  the  nation,  the  glory  of  God,  the 
when  our  Church  shall  be  swallowed  up  30  good  of  the  Church,  and  the  happiness  of 
in  schism,  faction,  enthusiasm,  and  confu-  the  soul,  let  us  rank  it  among  capital 
sion;  when  our  government  shall  be  de-  ofTenses,  and  let  it  receive  a  punishment 
volved    upon    foreigners,    and    our    mon-      in  proportion  to  it. 

archy  dwindled  into  a  republic!  We   hang  men   for  trifles,   and   banish 

It  would  be  more  rational  for  us,  if  we  35  them  for  things  not  worth  naming;  but 
must  spare  this  generation,  to  summon  that  an  offense  against  God  and  the 
our  own  to  a  general  massacre;  and  as  we  Church,  against  the  welfare  of  the  world, 
have  brought  them  into  the  world  free,  to  and  the  dignity  of  religion  shall  be  bought 
send  them  out  so ;  and  not  betray  them  to  off  for  five  shillings :  this  is  such  a  shame 
destruction  by  our  supine  negligence,  and  40  to  a  Christian  government  that  it  is  with 
then  cry,  '  It  is  mercy ! '  regret  I  transmit  it  to  posterity. 

Moses  was  a  merciful  meek  man;  and  If    men    sin    against    God,    affront    his 

yet  with  what  fury  did  he  run  through  the  ordinances,  rebel  against  his  church,  and 
camp,  and  cut  the  throats  of  three  and  disobey  the  precepts  of  their  superiors; 
thirty  thousand  of  his  dear  Israelites  that  45  let  them  suffer,  as  such  capital  crimes 
were  fallen  into  idolatry.  What  was  the  deserve.  So  will  religion  flourish,  and 
reason?  It  was  mercy  to  the  rest,  to  this  divided  nation  be  once  again  united, 
make  these  examples,   to  prevent  the  de-  And    yet    the    title    of    barbarous    and 

struction  of  the  whole  army.  cruel  will  soon  be  taken  off  from  this  law- 

How  many  millions  of  future  souls  we  50  too.  I  am  not  supposing  that  all  the  Dis- 
save  from  infection  and  delusion,  if  the  senters  in  England  should  be  hanged  or 
present  race  of  poisoned  spirits  were  banished.  But  as  in  case  of  rebellions 
purged  from  the  face  of  the  land  !  and   insurrections,   if  a   few  of  the   ring- 

It  is  vain  to  trifle  in  this  matter.  The  leaders  suffer,  the  multitude  are  dis- 
light  foolish  handling  of  them  by  mulcts,  5s  missed;  so  a  fevv  obstinate  people  being 
fines,  etc.;  'tis  their  glory  and  their  ad-  made  examples,  there  is  no  doubt  but  the 
vantage !  If  the  gallows  instead  of  the  severity  of  the  law  would  find  a  stop  in 
counter,    and   the    galleys    instead    of   the      the  compliance  of  the  multitude. 


THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WTiH  THE  DISSENTERS  293 

To  make  the  reasonableness .  of  this  it  is  our  own  fault  if  ever  we  suffer  them 
matter  out  of  question,  and  more  unan-  to  be  so.  Providence  and  the  Church  of 
swerably  plain,  let  us  examine  for  what  it  Eng^land  seem  to  join  in  this  particular, 
is  that  this  nation  is  divided  into  parties  that  now  the  destroyers  of  the  nation's 
and  factions ;  and  let  us  see  how  they  can  5  peace  may  be  overturned ;  and  to  this  end, 
justify  a  separation;  or  we  of  the  Church  the  present  opportunity  seems  to  put  into 
of  England  can  justify  our  bearing  the  our  hands, 
insults   and   inconveniences   of   the   party.  To  this  end,  her  present  Majesty  seems 

One  of  their  leading  pastors,  and  a  man      reserved    to    enjoy    the    crown,    that    the 
of  as  much  learning  as  most  among  them,  10  ecclesiastic  as  well  as  civil  rights  of  the 
in    his    Anszvcr    to    a    pamphlet    entitled      nation  may  be  restored  by  her  hand. 
An    Enquiry    into    the    Occasional    Con-  To  this  end,  the  face  of  affairs  has  re- 

formity,  hath  these  words,  p.  27 : — '  Do  ceived  such  a  turn  in  the  process  of  a  few 
the  religion  of  the  Church  and  the  meet-  months  as  never  has  been  before.  The 
ing  houses  make  two  religions?  Wherein  ir  leading  men  of  the  nation,  the  universal 
do  they  differ?  The  substance  of  the  cry  of  the  people,  the  unanimous  request 
same  religion  is  conmion  to  them  both,  of  the  clergy  agree  in  this,  that  the  de- 
and  the  modes  and  accidents  are  the  liverance  of  our  Church  is  at  hand ! 
things  in  which  only  they  dift'er.'     P.  28 :  For    this    end,    has    Providence    given 

— '  Thirty-nine  Articles  are  given  us  for  20  such     a     parliament,     such     a     convoca- 
the   summary  of  our  religion ;   thirty-six      tion,  such  a  gentry,  and  such  a  queen,  as 
contain   the   substance   of   it   wherein   we      we  never  had  before, 
agree ;    three    are    additional    appendices,  And  what  may  be  the  consequences  of 

about  which  we  have  some  differences.'  a    neglect    of    such    opportunities?     The 

Now,  if,  as  by  their. own  acknowledg-  25  succession  of  the  crown  has  but  a  dark 
ment,  the  Church  of  England  is  a  true  prospect.  Another  Dutch  turn  may  make 
church,  and  the  difference  is  only  in  a  the  hopes  of  it  ridiculous,  and  the  prac- 
few  '  modes  and  accidents,'  why  should  tice  impossible.  Be  the  house  of  our 
we  expect  that  they  will  suffer  the  gal-  future  princes  ever  so  well  inclined,  they 
lows  and  galleys,  corporal  punishment  and  30  will  be  foreigners.  Many  years  will  be 
banishment,  for  these  trifles?  There  is  spent  in  suiting  the  genius  of  strangers 
no  question,  but  they  will  be  wiser.  Even  to  this  crown,  and  the  interests  of  the 
their  own  principles  won't  bear  them  out  nation ;  and  how  many  ages  it  may  be  be- 
in  it.  fore  the  English  throne  be  filled  with  so 

They  will  certainly  comply  with  the  35  much  zeal  and  candor,  so  much  tender- 
laws,  and  with  reason.  And  though,  at  ness  and  hearty  affection  to  the  Church, 
the  first,  severity  may  seem  hard,  the  next  as  we  see  it  now  covered  with,  who  can 
age  will  feel  nothing  of  it;  the  contagion      imagine? 

will    be    rooted    out.     The    disease    being  It   is   high   time,   then,    for  the   friends 

cured,  there  will  be  no  need  of  the  opera-  40  of  the  Church  of  England  to  think  of 
tion.  But  if  they  should  venture  to  trans-  building  up  and  establishing  her  in  such 
gress,  and  fall  into  the  pit,  all  the  world  a  manner  that  she  may  be  no  more  in- 
must  condemn  their  obstinacy,  as  being  vaded  by  foreigners,  nor  divided  by  fac- 
without  ground  from  their  own  prin-  tions,  schisms,  and  error, 
ciples.  45      If  this  could  be  done  by  gentle  and  easy 

Thus  the  pretense  of  cruelty  will  be  methods,  I  should  be  glad :  but  the  wound 
taken  off,  and  the  party  actually  sup-  is  corroded,  the  vitals  begin  to  mortify, 
pressed,  and  the  disquiets  they  have  so  and  nothing  but  amputation  of  members 
often  brought  upon  the  nation,  prevented.      can  complete  the  cure.     All  the  ways  of 

Their  numbers  and  their  wealth  make  50  tenderness  and  compassion,  all  persuasive 
them  haughty;  and  that  is  so  far  from  arguments  have  been  made  use  of  in 
being  an  argument  to  persuade  us  to  for-      vain. 

bear    them,    that    it    is    a   warning   to   us.  The  humor  of  the  Dissenters  has  so  in- 

without  any  more  delay,  to  reconcile  them  creased  among  the  people,  that  they  hold 
to  the  unity  of  the  Church,  or  remove  55  the  Church  in  defiance,  and  the  house  of 
them  from  us.  God     is     an     abomination     among    them. 

At  present,  Heaven  be  praised !  they  are  Nay,  they  have  brought  up  their  posterity 
not  so  formidable  as  they  have  been,  and      in  such  prepossessed  aversion  to  our  holy 


294 


DANIEL  DEFOE 


religion,  that  the  if;norant  inoh  tliink  we      up    a    standard    against    pride    and    Anti- 
are'    all     idolaters     and     \vorship])ers     of      clirist,   that  the   posterity   of  the   sons  of 
Baal,  and  account  it  a  sin  to  come  within      error   may   be   rooted   out    from   the    face 
the  walls  of  our  churches.     The  primitive      of  this  land,  for  ever! 
christians  were  not  more  shy  of  a  heathen    S  (1702) 

temple,   or  of  meat   offered   to   idols,   nor 
the    Tews   of  swine's   flesh,   than   some  of 

our  Dissenters  are  of  the  church  and  the  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  VOLUME 
divine   service    solemnized   therein.  OF  THE  REVIEW 

The  obstinacy  must  be  rooted  out,  with  10 
the  profession  of  it.     While  the   genera-  When   authors   present   their   works   to 

tion    are    left   at    liberty   daily   to  "affront      the    world,    like    a    thief    at   the    gallows, 
God    Almighty,    and    dishonor    his    holy      they  make  a  speech  to  the  people, 
worship,  we  are  wanting  in  our  duty  to  The  author,  indeed,  has  something  like 

God,  and  to  our  mother,  the  Church  of  is  this  to  say,  too,  '  Good  people  all,  take 
Eno-land.  warning  by  me ! '     I  have  studied  to  in- 

How  can  we  answer  it  to  God,  to  the      form  and  to  direct  the  world,  and  what 
Church,    and    to    our    posterity,    to    leave      have  I  had  for  my  labor? 
them    entangled    with    fanaticism,    error,  Profit,  the  press  would  not  allow;  and 

and  obstinacy,  in  the  bowels  of  the  na-  20  therein  I  am  not  deceived,  for  I  expected 
tion;  to  leave  them  an  enemy  in  their  none.  But  good  manners  and  good  Ian- 
streets,  that,  in  time,  may  involve  them  guage,  I  thought  I  might  expect,  because 
in  the  same  crimes,  and  endanger  the  I  gave  no  other;  and  it  were  but  just  to 
utter  extirpation  of  the  religion'  of  the  treat  mankind  as  we  would  be  treated  by 
nation.  25  them.     But    neither    has    this    been    paid 

What    is    the    difference    betwixt    this,      me,   in  debt  to  custom   and  civility, 
and   being   subject   to   the   power    of   the  How   often   have    my   ears,    my   hands, 

Church  of  Rome,  from  whence  we  have  and  my  head  been  to  be  pulled  off !  Im- 
rcformed.  If  one  be  an  extreme  to  the  potent  bullies !  that  attacked  by  truth,  and 
one  hand,  and  one  on  another,  it  is  30  their  vices  stormed,  fill  the  air  with 
equally  destructive  to  the  truth  to  have  rhodomontades  and  indecencies;  but 
errors  settled  among  us,  let  them  be  of  never  show  their  faces  to  the  resentment 
what  nature  they  will.  Both  are  enemies  truth  had  a  just  cause  to  entertain  for 
of   our    Church,    and   of   our   peace ;    and      them, 

why  should  it  not  be  as  criminal  to  admit  3s  I  have  passed  through  clouds  of 
an  enthusiast  as  a  Jesuit?  Why  should  clamor,  cavil,  raillery,  and  objection;  and 
the  papist  with  his  seven  sacraments  be  have  this  satisfaction,  that  truth  being 
worse  than  the  Quaker  with  no  sacra-  the  design,  Finis  coronal  [The  end 
ments     at     all  ?     Why     should     religious      crowns  the  work]  ! 

houses  be  more  intolerable  than  meeting  40  I  am  never  forward  to  value  my  own 
houses?  performances.     'Let  another  man's  mouth 

Alas,  the  Church  of  England  !  What  praise  thee  ! '  said  the  Wise  Man ;  but  I 
with  popery  on  one  hand,  and  schismat-  camiot  but  own  myself  infinitely  pleased, 
ics  on  the  other,  how  has  she  been  and  more  than  satisfied  that  wise  men  read 
crucified  between  two  thieves.  Now,  let  45  this  paper  with  pleasure,  own  the  just  ob- 
us  crucify  the   thieves!  servations  in  it,  and  have  voted  it   useful. 

Let     her     foundations     be     established  The  first  design  I  allow  is  not  yet  pur- 

upon  the  destruction  of  her  enemies!  sued,  and  indeed  I  must  own  the  field  is 
The  doors  of  mercy  being  always  open  to  so  large,  the  design  so  vast,  and  the 
the  returning  part  of  the  deluded  people,  so  necessary  preliminaries  so  many  that 
let  the  obstinate  be  ruled  with  the  rod  of  though  I  cannot  yet  pass  for  an  old  man, 
iron!  I  must  be  so,  if  I  live  to  go  through  with 

Let  all  true  sons  of  so  holy  and  op-      it. 
pressed    a    mother,    exasperated    by    her  This    volume    has    passed    through    my 

afflictions,  harden  their  hearts  against  ss  descriptions  of  the  French  grandeur,  with 
those  who  have  oppressed  her.  its    influence    on    the    aflairs    of    Poland, 

And  may  God  Almighty  put  it  into  the  Sweden,  and  Hungary.  What  assaults 
hearts  of  all  the  friends  of  truth,  to  lift      have  I  met  with  from  the  impatience  of 


rKr.r  iA^^j::.    lu    itin.  KtLVliLW 


295 


the  readers ;  what  uneasiness  of  friends, 
lest  I  was  turned  about  to  the  enemy;  I 
leave  to  their  reading  the  sheets  to  dis- 
cover. 

How  is  this  age  unqualified  to  bear 
feeling  truth,  how  unwilling  to  hear  what 
we  do  not  like,  though  ever  so  necessary 
to  know ! 

And  yet  if  this  French  monarchy  were 
not  very  powerful,  vastly  strong,  its 
power  terrible,  its  increasing  encroach- 
ing measures  formidable;  why  do  we 
(and  justly  too)  applaud,  extol,  con- 
gratulate, and  dignify  the  victorious 
Duke  of  Marlborough  at  such  a  rate?  If 
it  had  been  a  mean  and  contemptible 
enemy,  how  shall  we  justify  the  English 
army's  march  through  so  many  hazards; 
the  nation's  vast  charge;  the  daily  just 
concern  in  every  article  of  this  war; 
and  (as  I  have  frequently  hinted),  why 
not  beat  them,  all  this  while? 

They  who  have  made,  or  may  make,  an 
ill  use  of  the  true  plan  of  French  great- 
ness, which  I  have  laid  down,  must  place 
it  to  the  account  of  their  own  corrupted 
prejudiced  thoughts.  My  design  is  plain 
—  to  tell  you  the  strength  of  your  enemy, 
that  you  may  fortify  yourselves  in  due 
proportion,  and  not  go  out  with  your  ten 
thousands   against   his   twenty   thousands. 

In  like  manner,  I  think  myself  very 
oddly  handled  in  the  case  of  the  Swedes 
and  the  Hungarians.  How  many  com- 
plaints of  ambassadors  for  the  one,  and 
of  fellow  Protestants  for  the  other ! 
And  yet,  after  the  whole  story  is  finished, 
I  have  this  felicity  (than  which  no 
author  can  desire  a  greater)  viz.,  not  one 
thing  I  ever  afifirmed,  but  was  exactly 
true;  not  one  conjecture  have  I  made,  but 
has  appeared  to  be  rational ;  not  one  in- 
ference drawn,  but  the  consequences  have 
proved  just;  and  not  one  thing  guessed 
at,  but  what  has  come  to  pass. 

I  am  now  come  home  to  England,  and 
entered  a  little  into  our  own  afTairs.  In- 
deed, I  have  advanced  some  things  as  to 
trade,  navies,  seamen,  etc.,  which  some 
may  think  a  little  arrogant,  because  per- 
fectly new.  But  as  I  have  offered  noth- 
ing but  what  I  am  always  ready  to  make 
appear  practicable,  I  finish  my  apology 
by  saying  to  the  world.  '  Bring  me  to  the 
test ;  and  the  rest,  I  leave  to  time.' 

In  the  bringing  the  story  of  France 
down  to  the  matter  of  trade.  I  confess 
myself    surprisingly    drawn    into    a    vast 


wilderness  of  a  subject  so  large  that  I 
know  not  where  it  will  end.  The  mis- 
fortune of  which  is,  that  thinking  to  have 
finished  it  with  this  volume,  I  found  my- 
5  self  strangely  deceived,  and  indeed 
amazed,  when  I  found  the  story  of  it 
intended  to  be  the  end  of  this  volume, 
and  hardly  enough  of  it  entered  upon  to 
say  it  is  begun. 

10  However,  the  volume  being  of  neces- 
sity to  be  closed,  I  am  obliged  to  content 
myself  with  taking  what  is  here  as  an 
introduction  to  the  next  volume ;  and  to 
give  this  notice,  that  the  matter  of  our 

15  English  trade  appears  to  be  a  thing  of 
such  consequence  to  be  treated  of,  so 
much  pretended  to,  and  so  little  under- 
stood, that  nothing  could  be  more  profit- 
able to  the  readers,  more  advantageous  to 

20  the  public  interest  of  this  nation,  or  more 
suitable  to  the  greatness  of  this  undertak- 
ing, than  to  make  an  essay  at  the  evils, 
causes,  and  remedies  of  our  general 
negoce. 

25  I  have  been  confirmed  in  my  opinion  of 
the  consequences  and  benefit  of  this  un- 
dertaking by  a  crowd  of  entreaties  from 
persons  of  the  best  judgment,  and  some 
of  extraordinary  genius  in  these  afiairs; 

30  whose  letters  are  my  authority  for  this 
clause,  and  whose  arguments  are  too 
forcible  for  me  to  resist. 

And  this  is  to  me  a  sufficient  apology 
for  a  vast  digression  from  the  affairs  of 

35  France,  which  were  really  in  my  first  de- 
sign, and  to  which  my  title  at  first  too 
straitly  bound  me. 

Whoever  shall  live  to  see  this  under- 
taking  finished,    if   the   author    (or   some 

40  better  pen  after  him)  shall  bring  20  or  30 
volumes  of  this  work  on  the  stage,  it  will 
not  look  so  preposterous  as  it  seems  now 
to  have  one  whole  volume  to  be  employed 
on  the  most  delightful  as  well  as  profit- 

45  able  subject  of  the  English  trade. 

Things  at  short  distance  look  large, 
and  public  patience  is  generally  very 
short ;  but  when  remote,  the  case  alters, 
and   people    see   the   reason   of   things   in 

50  themselves.  It  is  this  remote  prospect  of 
affairs  which  I  have  before  me.  And 
this  makes  me  not  so  much  regard  the 
uneasiness  people  show  at  the  story  be- 
ing frequently  broken  abruptly,  and  run- 

ii  ning  great  lengths  before  it  revolves  upon 
itself  again ;  but  as  time  and  the  course 
of  things  will  bring  all  about  again,  and 
make    the   whole    to    be   of   a   piece    with 


296  DANIEL  DEFOE 


itself,  I  am  content  to  wait  the  approba-  When   I   first   found  the   design  of  this 

tion  of  the  readers,  till  such  time  as  the  paper  (which  had  its  birth  in  tencbris) 
thing-  itself  forces  it  from  the  at  present  [in  darkness],  I  considered  it  would  be 
impatient  readers.  a   thing   very   historical,   very   long;    and 

Readers  are  strange  judges  when  they  5  though  it  could  be  much  better  performed 
see  but  part  of  the  design.  It  is  a  new  than  ever  I  was  likely  to  do  it,  this  age 
thing  for  an  author  to  lay  down  his  had  such  natural  aversion  to  a  solenm 
thoughts  piece-meal.  Importunate  cavils  and  tedious  affair,  that  however  profit- 
assault  him  every  day.  They  claim  to  be  able,  it  would  never  be  diverting,  and 
answered  to-day !  before  to-morrow !  and  10  the  world  would  never  read  it. 
are  so   far  from  staying  till  the   story  is  To   get   over   this   difficulty,   the    secret 

finished,  that  they  can  hardly  stay  till  hand  (I  make  no  doubt)  that  directed  this 
their  letters  come  to  hand,  but  follow  the  birth  into  the  world,  dictated  to  make 
first  with  a  second,  that  with  clamor,  and  some  sort  of  entertainment  or  amusement 
this  sometimes  with  threatening  scoffs,  15  at  the  end  of  every  paper,  upon  the  im- 
banters,  and  raillery  !  mediate  subject,   then   on   the   tongues  of 

Thus  I  am  letter-baited  by  querists;  the  town  —  which  innocent  diversion 
and  I  think  my  trouble  in  writing  civil  would  hand  on  the  more  weighty  and 
private  answers  to  teasing  and  querulous  serious  part  of  the  design  into  the  heads 
epistles,  has  been  equal  to,  if  not  more  20  and  thoughts  of  those  to  whom  it  might 
troublesome    than,    all    the    rest    of    this      be  useful. 

work.     Through  these  difficulties   I   steer  I   take    this    opportunity   to    assure   the 

with  as  much  temper  and  steadiness  world  that  receiving  or  answering  letters 
as  I  can.  I  still  hope  to  give  satisfaction  of  doubts,  difficulties,  cases,  and  ques- 
in  the  conclusion;  and  it  is  this  alone  that  25  tions,  as  it  is  a  work  I  think  myself  very 
makes  the  continuing  of  the  work  toler-  meanly  qualified  for,  so  it  was  the  re- 
able  to  me.  If  I  cannot,  I  have  made  my  motest  thing  from  my  first  design  of  any- 
essay.  thing    in    the    world ;     and     I     could    be 

If  those  that  know  these  things  better  heartily  glad,  if  the  readers  of  this  paper 
than  I  would  bless  the  world  with  further  3°  would  excuse  me  from  it  yet.  But  I  see 
instructions,  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  them,  it  cannot  be,  and  the  world  will  have  it 
and  very  far  from  interrupting  or  dis-  done.  I  have  therefore  done  my  best  to 
couraging  them,  as  these  do  me.  oblige  them ;  but  as  I  have  not  one  word 

Let  not  those  gentlemen  who  are  to  say  for  my  performance  that  way,  so 
critics  in  style,  in  method,  or  manner,  be  35  I  leave  it  where  I  found  it,  a  mere  cir- 
angry,  that  I  have  never  pulled  off  my  cumstance  casually  and  undesignedly  an- 
cap  to  them,  in  humble  excuse  for  my  nexed  to  the  work,  and  a  curiosity, 
loose  way  of  treating  the  world  as  to  though  honestly  endeavored  to  be  com- 
language,    expression,    and    politeness    of      plied  with. 

phrase.  Matters  of  this  nature  differ  40  If  the  method  I  have  taken  in  answer- 
from  most  things  a  man  can  write.  ing  questions  has  pleased  some  wiser  men 
When  I  am  busied  writing  essays  and  more  than  I  expected  it  would,  I  confess 
matters  of  science,  I  shall  address  them  it  is  one  of  the  chief  reasons  why  I  was 
for  their  aid,  and  take  as  much  care  to  induced  to  continue  it. 
avoid  their  displeasure  as  becomes  me ;  45  I  have  constantly  adhered  to  this  rule 
but  when  I  am  upon  the  subject  of  trade  in  all  my  answers  (and  I  refer  my  reader 
and  the  variety  of  casual  story,  I  think  to  his  observation  for  the  proof),  that 
myself  a  little  loose  from  the  bonds  of  from  the  loosest  and  lightest  questions.  I 
cadence  and  perfections  of  style,  and  sat-  endeavor  to  draw  some  useful  inferences, 
isfy  myself  in  my  study  to  be  explicit,  50  and,  if  possible,  to  introduce  something 
easy,  free,  and  very  plain.  And  for  all  solid,  and  something  solemn  in  applying 
the  rest.  Nee  careo,  nee  euro  [I  neither  it.  The  custom  of  the  ancients  in  writing 
need  it,  nor  pay  attention  to  it]  !  fables    is    my    very    ]audal)le    pattern    for 

I  had  a  design  to  say  something  on  the  this;  and  my  firm  resolution,  in  all  1 
entertaining  part  of  this  paper;  but  I  ^'- write,  to  exalt  virtue,  expose  vice,  pro- 
have  so  often  explained  myself  on  that  mote  truth,  and  help  men  to  serious  re- 
head,   that   I   shall   not  trouble  the  world      flection,    is    my    first    moving   cause,    and 


much  about  it.  last  directed  end. 


FROM  AN  ESSAY  UPON  PROJECTS 


1  nil.   E.i^u»^iA  1  iwiN    wr     vvvJiVllLiN  207 

If  any  shall  make  ill  use  of,  wrest,  that  they  should  'think  it  a  necessary 
wrongly  interpret,  wilfully  or  otherwise  ornament  to  a  woman?  or  how  much 
mistake  the  honest  design  of  this  work;  worse  is  a  wise  woman  than  a  fool?  or 
let  such  wait  for  the  end,  when  I  douht  what  has  the  woman  done  to  forfeit  the 
not,  the  author  will  be  cleared  by  their  5  privilege  of  being  taught?  Does  she 
own  vote,  their  want  of  charity  will  ap-  plague  us  with  her  pride  and  imperti- 
pear,  and  they  be  self-condemned  till  they  nence?  Why  did  we  not  let  her  learn, 
come  to  acknowledge  their  error,  and  that  she  might  have  had  more  wit? 
openly  to  justify  Shall  we  upbraid  women  with  folly,  when 

Their  humble  servant,     D.  F.        lo  't  is  only  the  error  of  this  inhuman  cus- 
I  ■  (1705)  toin  that  hindered  them  from  being  made 

"l  wiser? 

The     capacities    of    women    are     sup- 

THE   EDUCATION   OF   WOMEN  posed    to    be    greater,    and    their    senses 

15  quicker  than  those  of  the  men ;  and  what 
they  might  be  capable  of  being  bred  to, 

I  have  often  thought  of  it  as  one  of  is  plain  from  some  instances  of  female 
the  most  barbarous  customs  in  the  world,  wit,  which  this  age  is  not  without, 
considering  us  as  a  civilized  and  a  chris-  which  upbraids  us  with  injustice,  and 
tian  country,  that  we  deny  the  advantages  20  looks  as  if  we  denied  women  the  advan- 
of  learning  to  women.  We  reproach  the  tages  of  education,  for  fear  they  should 
sex  every  day  with  folly  and  imperti-  vie  with  the  men  in  their  improve- 
nence;  while  I  am  confident,  had  they  the      ments.     .     .     . 

advantages  of  education  equal  to  us,  they  They    should    be    taught    all    sorts    of 

would  be  guilty  of  less  than  ourselves.  _    25  breeding    suitable    both    to    their    genius 

One  would  wonder,  indeed,  how  it  and  quality.  And  in  particular,  music 
should  happen  that  women  are  conver-  and  dancing,  which  it  would  be  cruelty 
sible  at  all,  since  they  are  only  beholden  to  bar  the  sex  of  because  they  are  their 
to  natural  parts  for  all  their  knowledge,  darlings.  But  besides  this,  they  should 
Their  youth  is  spent  to  teach  them  to  30  be  taught  languages,  as  particularly 
stitch  and  sew,  or  make  baubles.  They  French  and  Italian,  and  I  would  venture 
are  taught  to  read,  indeed,  and  perhaps  the  injury  of  giving  a  woman  more 
to  write  their  names,  or  so;  and  that  is  tongues  than  one.  They  should,  as  a 
the  height  of  a  woman's  education.  And  particular  study,  be  taught  all  the  graces 
I  would  but  ask  any  who  slight  the  sex  3S  of  speech,  and  all  the  necessary  air  of 
for  their  understanding,  what  is  a  man  conversation,  which  our  common  educa- 
(a  gentleman,  I  mean)  good  for,  that  is  tion  is  so  defective  in  that  I  need  not  ex- 
taught  no  more  ?  I  need  not  give  in-  pose  it.  They  should  be  brought  to  read 
stances,  or  examine  the  character  of  a  books,  and  especially  history;  and  so  to 
gentleman,  with  a  good  estate,  of  a  good  ^o  read  as  to  make  them  understand  the 
family,  and  with  tolerable  parts;  and  ex-  world,  and  be  able  to  know  and  judge 
amine  what  figure  he  makes  for  want  of  of  things  when  they  hear  of  them, 
education.  To  such  whose  genius  would  lead  them 

The  soul  is  placed  in  the  body  like  a  to  it,  I  would  deny  no  sort  of  learning; 
rough  diamond,  and  must  be  polished,  or  45  but  the  chief  thing,  in  general,  is  to  cul- 
the  luster  of  it  will  never  appear.  And  tivate  the  understandings  of  the  sex,  that 
't  is  manifest,  that  as  the  rational  soul  they  may  be  capable  of  all  sorts  of  con- 
distinguishes  us  from  brutes,  so  educa-  versation ;  that  their  parts  and  judgments 
tion  carries  on  the  distinction,  and  makes  being  improved,  they  may  be  as  profitable 
some  less  brutish  than  others.  This  is  ?o  in  their  conversation  as  they  are  pleas- 
too    evident    to    need    any    demonstration.      ant. 

But   why   then   should   women   be   denied  Women,  in  my  observation,  have  little 

the  benefit  of  instruction?  If  knowledge  or  no  difference  in  them,  but  as  they  are 
and  understanding  had  been  useless  addi-  or  are  not  distinguished  by  education, 
tions  to  the  sex,  God  Almighty  would  55  Tempers,  indeed,  may  in  some  degree  in- 
never  have  given  them  capacities;  for  he  fluence  them,  but  the  main  distinguishing 
made  nothing  needless.  Besides,  I  would  part  is  their  breeding, 
ask  such,  what  they  can  see  in  ignorance.  The  whole  sex  are  generally  quick  and 


298  DANIEL  DEFOE 


sharp  —  I    believe,    I    may    be   allowed   to  which  is  seen  in  the  world  between  men 

say,    generally    so:    for    you    rarely    see  and   women,    is    in    their   education;    and 

them   lumpish   and  heavy   when  they   are  this   is   manifested   by   comparing  it  with 

children,    as    boys    will    often    be.     If    a  the     difference     between     one     man     or 

woman    be    well    bred,    and    taught    the  5  woman,  and  another. 

proper   management   of   her   natural    wit.  And  herein  it  is  that  I  take  upon  me  to 

she  proves  generally  very  scnsilile  and  re-  make   such  a  bold  assertion,  that  all  the 

tentive.  world  are  mistaken  in  their  practice  about 

And,    without    partiality,    a    woman    of  women.     For    I    cannot    think    that    God 

sense  and  maimers  is  the  finest  and  most  10  Almighty  ever  made  them  so  delicate,  so 

delicate  part  of  God's  creation,  the  glory  glorious    creatures,    and    furnished    them 

of  her  Maker,  and  the  great  instance  of  with    such    charms,    so   agreeal)le    and    so 

his   singular   regard   to   man,   his   darling  delightful  to  mankind,  with  souls  capable 

creature,   to  whom   he  gave  the   best  gift  of  the   same  accomplishments  with   men; 

either  God  could  bestow  or  man  receive.  15  and  all,  to  be  only  stewards  of  our  houses, 

And  't  is  the  sordidest  piece  of  folly  and  cooks,  and  slaves. 

ingratitude    in    the    world,    to    withhold  Not  that  I  am  for  exalting  the  female 

from    the    sex   the   due   luster   which    the  government  in  the  least;  but,  in  short,  I 

advantages     of     education     give     to     the  would    have   men   take   women    for    com- 

natural   beauty   of  their  minds.  20  panions,   and   educate   them   to   be   fit   for 

A  woman  well  bred  and  well  taught,  it.  A  woman  of  sense  and  breeding  will 
furnished  with  the  additional  accomplish-  scorn  as  much  to  encroach  upon  the  pre- 
ments  of  knowledge  and  behavior,  is  a  rogative  of  man,  as  a  man  of  sense  will 
creature  without  comparison.  Her  so-  scorn  to  oppress  the  weakness  of  the 
ciety  is  the  emblem  of  sublimer  enjoy-  25  woman.  But  if  the  women's  souls  were 
ments,  her  person  is  angelic,  and  her  refined  and  improved  by  teaching,  that 
conversation  heavenly.  She  is  all  soft-  word  would  be  lost.  To  say,  the  weak- 
ness and  sweetness,  peace,  love,  wit,  and  ness  of  the  sex,  as  to-  judgment,  would 
delight.  She  is  every  way  suitable  to  the  be  nonsense ;  for  ignorance  and  folly 
sublimest  wish ;  and  the  man  that  has  30  would  be  no  more  to  be  found  among 
such   a   one   to   his   portion,   has   nothing  women  than  men. 

to  do  but  to  rejoice  in  her,  and  be  thank-  I  remember  a  passage,  which  I  heard 

ful.  from   a   very   fine   woman.     She   had   wit 

On  the  other  hand,   suppose  her  to  be  and    capacity    enough,    an    extraordinary 

the  very  same  woman,  and  rob  her  of  the  35  shape  and  face,  and  a  great  fortune,  but 

benefit    of    education,    and    it    follows: —  had  been  cloistered  up  all  her  time,  and 

If  her  temper  be  good,  want  of  educa-  for  fear  of  being  stolen,  had  not  had  tie 

tion  makes  her  soft  and  easy.  liberty  of  being  taught  the  common  neces- 

Her  wit,   for  want  of  teaching,  makes  sary  knowledge  of  women's  affairs.     And 

her  impertinent  and  talkative.  40  when  she  came  to  converse  in  the  world 

Her  knowledge,   for  want  of  judgment  her  natural   wit   made  her  so  sensible  of 

and   experience,   makes   her    fanciful    and  the  want  of  education,  that  she  gave  this 

whimsical.  short      reflection      on      herself:     'I      am 

If  her  temper  be  bad,  want  of  breeding  ashamed    to    talk    with    my    very    maids,' 

makes  her  worse ;  and  she  grows  haughty,  45  says  she,  '  for  I  don't  know  when  they  do 

insolent,  and  loud.  right  or  wrong.     I  had  more  need  go  to 

If  she  be  passionate,  want  of  manners  school,   than   be   married.' 
makes  her  a  termagant  and  a  scold,  which  I  need  not  enlarge  on  the  loss  the  de- 
is   much   at  one   with   lunatic.  feet  of  education  is  to  the  sex,  nor  argue 

If  she  be  proud,  want  of  discretion  50  the  benefit  of  the  contrary  practice.  'T  is 
(which  still  is  breeding)   makes  her  con-      a  thing  will  be  more  easily  granted  than 

ceited,   fantastic,   and   ridiculous.  remedied.     This   chapter   is   but   an   essay 

And  from  these  she  degenerates  to  be  at  the  thing;  and  I  refer  the  practice  to 
turbulent,    clamorous,    noisy,    nasty,    the      those  happy  days   (if  ever  they  shall  be) 

devil  !     .     .     .  5>  when  men  shall  be  wise  enough  to  mend 

The     great     distinguishing     difference,      it.  '^1697) 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  (i 667-1 745) 


Swift  was  born  in  Dublin  —  a  chance  wliich  all  his  life  he  chose  to  resent  as  the  first  of 
many  insults  of  fortune.  At  Kilkenny  Grammar  School  and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where 
he  was  '  wild,  witty,  and  poor,'  he  had  to  be  supported  by  one  relative,  and  for  the  next 
decade,  he  was  a  discontented  dependent  of  another.  Sir  William  Temple.  During  one  of 
his  disagreements  with  the  latter,  he  left  in  a  huff,  crossed  to  Ireland,  and  went  into  holy  orders. 
Dryden  had  crushed  his  poetic  inclinations  and  incurred  his  lasting  resentment  by  the  solid 
remark,  '  Cousin  Swift,  you  will  never  be  a  poet.'  He  did  not  discover  his  genius  for 
satire  until  about  his  thirtieth  year,  when  he  wrote  A  Talc  of  a  Tub  and  The  Battle  of  the 
Books.  These  were  published  anonymously  in  1704,  preceded  and  followed  by  a  rapid  volley 
of  pamjjhlets  upon  subjects  then  in  dispute.  For  about  ten  years,  he  spent  much  of  his 
time  in  London,  mingled  with  the  reigning  wits  in  tlieir  homes  and  clubs,  amused  his  leisure 
with  squibs  and  verses,  and  projected  the  Scriblerus  Club  whose  cliief  members,  besides  him- 
self, were  Pope,  Arbuthnot,  Allerbury,  Parnell  and  Gay.  In  1710,  personal  interest  united 
with  conscience  to  engage  him  on  the  Tory  side.  He  edited  the  Examiner  (1710-11),  threw 
himself  ferociously  into  political  intrigue,  and,  for  a  time,  wielded  an  extraordinary  personal 
influence.  But,  though  he  could  dictate  the  preferment  of  bishops,  the  author  of  A  Tale  of 
a  Tub  was  powerless  to  secure  a  high  appointment  for  himself.  He  had  to  be  content  with 
the  Deanery  of  St.  Patrick's,  at  Dublin,  whither  after  the  disruption  of  the  Tory  party  in 
1714,  he  permanently  retired, —  an  embittered  and  disappointed  man.  Ten  years  later,  an 
attempt  to  exploit  the  Irish  people  by  a  scheme  of  debased  coinage  called  forth  the  most 
angry,  unscrupulous,  and  masterly  of  his  controversial  series,  the  Letters  of  M.  B.  Drapier 
(1724).  Here,  and  in  his  Modest  Proposal  for  preventing  the  Children  of  Poor  People  from 
being  a  Burden  to  their  Parents,  and  similar  ironical  extravagances,  he  voiced  his  savage 
indignation  at  the  unjust  and  heart-rending  poverty  of  his  adopted  people.  After  the  death 
of  'the  unfortunate  Stella'  (Esther  Johnson),  Swift's  powerful  faculties  began  to  show  signs 
of  derangement.  '  I  shall  die  at  the  top,'  he  had  once  said,  pointing  to  a  tree  which  had  been 
blasted  by  lightning, —  and  the  words  were  prophetic.  Already,  in  the  last  portions  of  Gulli- 
ver's Travels  (172G),  we  see  the  horrible  evidences  of  'a  mind  diseased.'  In  1741,  he  became 
'  furiously  insane,'  then  lapsed  into  idiocy,  and  at  last  was  laid  to  rest  in  his  own  cathedral, 
in  the  city  of  his  birth,  '  where,'  in  the  words  of  his  epitaph,  which  he  himself  composed, 
ferocious  indignation  can  no  longer  tear  the  heart' — 

Ubi  saeva  indignatio 

Cor  ulterius  lacerare  nequit. 

In  dealing  with  Swift,  it  is  never  safe  to  forget  the  deadly  purpose  and  '  intent  to  kill '  which 
inspires  his  grim  horseplay.  He  bitterly  hated  the  world's  shams  and  inconsistencies.  His 
reckless  and  irreverent  energy  of  thought  and  the  acrid  irony  of  his  style  made  him  dangerous 
to  all  he  touched.     His  humor  was  like  fire ;  what  it  played  over,  it  consumed. 


From  A  TALE  OF  A  TUB  considered  of  some  good  legacies  to  be- 


SECTION    II 


queath  you;  and  at  last,  with  much  care, 
as  well  as  expense,  have  provided  each 
Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  of  you  (here  they  are)  a  new  coat, 
who  had  three  sons  by  one  wife,  and  all  5  Now,  you  are  to  understand  that  these 
at  a  birth,  neither  could  the  midwife  tell  coats  have  two  virtues  contained  in  them; 
certainly  which  was  the  eldest.  Their  one  is,  that  with  good  wearing  they  will 
father  died  while  they  were  young;  and  last  you  fresh  and  sound  as  long  as  you 
upon  his  death-bed,  calling  the  lads  to  live;  the  other  is,  that  they  will  grow  in 
him,   spoke   thus :  —  "  the    same    proportion    with    your    bodies, 

'  Sons,    because    I    have    purchased    no      lengthening  and  widening  of  themselves, 
estate,  nor  was  born  to  any,  I  have  long      so  as  to  be  always  fit.     Here ;  let  me  see 

299 


300  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

them  on  you  Ijcl'ore  I  die.  So;  very  open  airj  ;  got  a  list  of  peers  by  heart 
well;  pray,  children,  wear  them  clean,  in  one  company,  and  with  great  familiar- 
and  brush  them  often.  You  will  find  in  ity  retailed  them  in  another.  Above  all, 
my  wilP  (here  it  is)  full  instructions  they  constantly  attended  those  committees 
in  every  particular  concerning  the  wear-  5  of  senators  who  are  silent  in  the  house 
ing  and  management  of  your  coats;  and  loud  in  the  coffee-house;  where  they 
wherein  you  must  be  very  exact,  to  avoid  nightly  adjourn  to  chew  the  cud  of 
the  penalties  I  have  appointed  for  every  politics,  and  are  encompassed  with  a  ring 
transgression  or  neglect,  upon  which  your  of  disciples,  who  lie  in  wait  to  catch  up 
future  fortunes  will  entirely  depend.  I  10  their  droppings.  The  three  brothers  had 
have  also  commanded  in  my  will  that  acquired  forty  other  qualifications  of  the 
you  should  live  together  in  one  house  like  stamp,  too  tedious  to  recount,  and 
like  brethren  and  friends,  for  then  you  by  consequence  were  justly  reckoned  the 
will  be  sure  to  thrive,  and  not  otherwise.'  most  accomplished  persons  in  the  town ; 
Here,  the  story  says,  this  good  father  15  but  all  would  not  suffice,  and  the  ladies 
died,  and  the  three  sons  went  all  together  aforesaid  continued  still  inflexible.  To 
to  seek  their  fortunes.  clear  up  which  difficulty  I  must,  with  the 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  recounting  reader's  good  leave  and  patience,  have 
what  adventures  they  met  for  the  first  recourse  to  some  points  of  weight,  which 
seven  years,  any  farther  than  by  taking  20  the  authors  of  that  age  have  not  suffi- 
notice  that  they  carefully  observed  their      ciently  illustrated. 

father's  will,  and  kept  their  coats  in  very  For  about  this  time  it  happened  a  sect 

good  order:  that  they  traveled  through  arose  ^  whose  tenets  obtained  and  spread 
several  countries,  encountered  a  reason-  very  far,  especially  in  the  grande  mondc, 
able  quantity  of  giants,  and  slew  certain  25  and  among  everybody  of  good  fashion, 
dragons.  "  They  worshipped  a  sort  of  idol,^  who,  as 

Being  now  arrived  at  the  proper  age  their  doctrine  delivered,  did  daily  create 
for  producing  themselves,  they  came  up  men  by  a  kind  of  manufactory  operation, 
to  town,  and  fell  in  love  with  the  ladies,  This  idol  they  placed  in  the  highest  parts 
but  especially  three,  who  about  that  time  3°  of  the  house,  on  an  altar  erected  about 
were  in  chief  reputation;  the  Duchess  three  foot;  he  was  shown  in  the  posture 
d' Argent,  Madame  de  Grands  Titres,  of  a  Persian  emperor,  sitting  on  a  super- 
and  the  Countess  d'Orgueil.  On  their  ficies,  with  his  legs  interwoven  under 
first  appearance  our  three  adventurers  him.  This  god  had  a  goose  for  his  en- 
met  with  a  very  bad  reception;  and  soon  35  sign ;  whence  it  is  that  some  learned  men 
with  great  sagacity  guessnig  out  the  pretend  to  deduce  his  original  from 
reason,  they  quickly  began  to  improve  in  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  At  his  left  hand, 
the  good  qualities  of  the  town;  they  writ,  beneath  the  altar,  hell  seemed  to  open 
and  rallied,  and  rhymed,  and  sung,  and  and  catch  at  the  animals  the  idol  was 
said,  and  said  nothing;  they  drank,  and  40  creating;  to  prevent  which,  certain  of 
fought,  and  whored,  and  slept,  and  swore,  his  priests  hourly  fiung  in  pieces  of  the 
and  took  snuff;  they  went  to  new  plays  uninformed  mass,  or  substance,  and  some- 
on  the  first  night,  haunted  the  chocolate-  times  whole  limbs  already  enlivened, 
houses,  beat  the  watch,  lay  on  bulks,  and  which  that  horrid  gulf  insatiably  swal- 
got  claps;  they  bilked  hackney-coachmen,  45  lowed,  terrible  to  behold.  The  goose  was 
ran  in  debt  with  shop-keepers,  and  lay  also  held  a  subaltern  divinity  or  dens 
with  their  wives;  they  killed  bailiffs,  tninomm  gentium  [god  of  the  lesser 
kicked  fiddlers  down  stairs,  eat  at  peoples],  before  whose  shrine  was  sac- 
Locket's,  loitered  at  Will's;  they  talked  rificed  that  creature  whose  hourly  food 
of  the  drawing-room,  and  never  came  5o  jg  human  gore,  and  who  is  in  so  great 
there;  dined  with  lords  they  never  saw;  renown  abroad  for  being  the  delight  and 
whispered  a  duchess,  and  spoke  never  a  favorite  of  the  Egyptian  Cercopithecus.* 
word;     exposed     the     scrawls     of     their 

laundress  for  billets-doux  of  quality  ;  came  ^xiiis     is    an    occasional     satire    upon     dress    and 

ever  just  from  court   and  were  never  seen  ^'^f\^'Z  '£'^:''rr^':Z^^  '°"°^"- 

in    it  ;    attended    the    levee    sub    aw    [in    the  4  Ti,e     Egyptians     worshipped     a     monkey,     which 

animal     is    very    fond    of     eating    lice,     styled     here 
•  The    New    Testament.  creatures   that    feed   on    human    gore. 


Millions  of  these  animals  were  cruelly  indeed,  that  these  animals,  which  are 
slaughtered  every  day  to  appease  the  vulgarly  called  suits  of  clothes,  or 
hunger  of  that  consuming  deity.  The  dresses,  do,  according  to  certain  com- 
chief  idol  was  also  worshipped  as  the  in-  positions,  receive  different  appellations, 
ventor  of  the  yard  and  needle ;  whether  5  If  one  of  them  be  trimmed  up  with  a 
as  the  god  of  seamen,  or  on  account  of  gold  chain,  and  a  red  gown,  and  white 
certain  other  mystical  attributes,  has  not  rod,  and  a  great  horse,  it  is  called  a 
been   sufificiently  cleared.  lord-mayor:   if   certain   ermines   and    furs 

The  worshippers  of  this  deity  had  also  be  placed  in  a  certain  position,  we  style 
a  system  of  their  belief,  which  seemed  lo  them  a  judge;  and  so  an  apt  conjunction 
to  turn  upon  the  following  fundamentals.  of  lawn  and  black  satin  we  entitle  a 
They  held  the  universe  to  be  a  large  suit      bishop. 

of  clothes,  which  invests  everything;  that  Others     of     these     professors,     though 

the  earth  is  invested  by  the  air;  the  air  agreeing  in  the  main  system,  were  yet 
is  invested  by  the  stars;  and  the  stars  15  more  refined  upon  certain  branches  of  it; 
are  invested  by  the  prinium  mobile.  and  held  that  man  was  an  animal  com- 
Look  on  this  globe  of  earth,  you  will  find  pounded  of  two  dresses,  the  natural  and 
it  to  be  a  very  complete  and  fashionable  celestial  suit,  which  were  the  body  and 
dress.  What  is  that  which  some  call  the  soul :  that  the  soul  was  the  outward, 
land  but  a  fine  coat  faced  with  green?  20  and  the  body  the  inward  clothing;  that 
or  the  sea,  but  a  waistcoat  of  water-  the  latter  was  ex  traduce;  but  the  former 
tabby?  Proceed  to  the  particular  works  of  daily  creation  and  circumfusion;  this 
of  the  creation,  you  will  find  how  cu-  last  they  proved  by  scripture,  because  in 
rious  journeyman  Nature  has  been  to  them  we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our 
trim  up  the  vegetable  beaux;  observe  25  being;  as  likewise  by  philosophy,  because 
how  sparkish  a  periwig  adorns  the  head  they  are  all  in  all,  and  all  in  every  part. 
of  a  beech,  and  what  a  fine  doublet  of  Besides,  said  they,  separate  these  two  and 
white  satin  is  worn  by  the  birch.  To  you  will  find  the  body  to  be  only  a  sense- 
conclude  from  all,  what  is  man  himself  less  unsavory  carcase;  by  all  which  it  is 
but  a  microcoat,^  or  rather  a  complete  30  manifest  that  the  outward  dress  must 
suit    of    clothes    with    all    its    trimmings?      needs  be  the  soul. 

As  to  his  body  there  can  be  no  dispute ;  To  this  system  of  religion  were  tagged 

but  examine  even  the  acquirements  of  several  subaltern  doctrines,  which  were 
his  mind,  you  will  find  tliem  all  con-  entertained  with  great  vogue:  as  partic- 
tribute  in  their  order  towards  furnishing  35  ularly  tlie  faculties  of  the  mind  were 
out  an  exact  dress:  to  instance  no  more;  deduced  by  the  learned  among  them  in 
is  not  religion  a  cloak,  honesty  a  pair  of  this  manner;  embroidery  was  sheer  wit, 
shoes  worn  out  in  the  dirt,  self-love  a  gold  fringe  was  agreeable  conversation, 
surtout,  vanity  a  shirt,  and  conscience  a  gold  lace  was  repartee,  a  huge  long  peri- 
pair  of  breeches?  *  *  *  40  wig  was  humor,  and  a  coat  full  of  powder 
These  postulata  being  admitted,  it  will  was  very  good  raillery  —  all  which  re- 
follow  in  due  course  of  reasoning  that  quired  abundance  of  finesse  and  delica- 
those  beings,  which  the  world  calls  im-  tesse  to  nianage  with  advantage,  as  well 
properly  suits  of  clothes,  are  in  reality  the  as  a  strict  observance  after  times  and 
most  refined  species  of  animals ;  or,  to  pro-  45  fashions. 

ceed  higher,  that  they  are  rational  crea-  I  have,  with  much  pains  and  reading, 

tures  or  men.  For,  is  it  not  manifest  collected  out  of  ancient  authors  this  short 
that  they  live,  and  move,  and  talk,  and  summary  of  a  body  of  philosophy  and 
perform  all  other  offices  of  human  life?  divinity,  which  seems  to  have  been  com- 
are  not  beauty,  and  wit,  and  mien,  and  ?o  posed  by  a  vein  and  race  of  thinking 
breeding,  their  inseparable  proprieties?  very  different  from  any  other  systems 
in  short,  we  see  nothing  but  them,  hear  either  ancient  or  modern.  And  it  was 
nothing  but  them.  Is  it  not  they  who  not  merely  to  entertain  or  satisfy  the 
walk  the  streets,  fill  up  parliament-,  cof-  reader's  curiosity,  but  rather  to  give 
fee-,     play-,     bawdy-houses?     'T  is     true,  55  liiii^   light   into   several   circumstances   of 

the    following    story;    that,    knowing    the 

1  Alluding   to    the    word    mkrocosm,    or    a   little       State   of   dispositions   and   opinions    in    an 

world,  as  man  has  been  called  by  philosophers.  age  SO  remote,  he  may  better  comprehend 


302  JUJNAIHAN    bWlFT 


those  great  events  which  were  the  issue  temper  should  they  find?  —  ohedience 
of  them.  I  advise,  therefore,  the  cour-  was  absolutely  necessary,  and  yet  shoul- 
teous  reader  to  peruse  with  a  world  of  der-knots  appeared  extremely  requisite, 
application,  again  and  again,  whatever  I  After  much  tliought  one  of  tlie  brothers, 
have  written  upon  this  matter.  And  5  who  happened  to  Ic  more  book-learned 
leaving  these  broken  ends,  I  carefully  than  the  other  two,  said  he  had  found  an 
gather  up  the  chief  thread  of  my  story  expedient.  '  'T  is  true,'  said  he,  '  there 
and  proceed.  is     nothing    here    in    this    will,     totidem 

These  opinions,  therefore,  were  so  uni-  verbis  [in  so  many  words],  making  men- 
versal,  as  well  as  the  practices  of  them,  lo  tion  of  shoulder-knots:  but  I  dare  con- 
among  the  refined  part  of  court  and  jecture  we  may  find  them  inclusive,  or 
town,  that  our  three  brother  adventurers,  totidem  syllabis  [in  so  many  syllables].' 
as  their  circumstances  then  stood,  were  This  distinction  was  immediately  ap- 
strangely  at  a  loss.  For,  on  the  one  proved  by  all,  and  so  they  fell  again  to 
side,  the  three  ladies  they  addressed  15  examine  the  will ;  but  their  evil  star  had 
themselves  to,  whom  we  have  named  al-  so  directed  the  matter  that  the  first  syl- 
ready,  were  at  the  very  top  of  the  fash-  lable  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
ion,  and  abhorred  all  that  were  below  it  writing.  Upon  which  disappointment, 
but  the  breadth  of  a  hair.  On  the  other  he  who  found  the  former  evasion  took 
side,  their  father's  will  was  very  precise;  20  heart,  and  said,  'Brothers,  there  are  yet 
and  it  was  the  main  precept  in  it,  with  hopes;  for  though  we  cannot  find  them 
the  greatest  penalties  annexed,  not  to  totidem  verbis,  nor  totidem  syllabis,  I 
add  to  or  diminish  from  their  coats  one  dare  engage  we  shall  make  them  out 
thread,  without  a  positive  command  in  tertio  modo  [by  a  third  method]  or  to- 
the  will.  Now,  the  coats  their  father  25 //J^j;j  Uteris  [in  so  many  letters].' 
had  left  them  were,  'tis  true,  of  very  This  discovery  was  also  highly  com- 
good  cloth,  and  besides  so  neatly  sewn,  mended,  upon  which  they  fell  once  more 
you  would  swear  they  were  all  of  a  to  the  scrutiny,  and  picked  out  S,  H,  O, 
piece;  but  at  the  same  time  very  plain,  U,  L,  D,  E,  R;  when  the  same  planet, 
and  with  little  or  no  ornament:  and  it 30  enemy  to  their  repose,  had  wonderfully 
happened  that  before  they  were  a  month  contrived  that  a  K  was  not  to  be  found, 
in  town  great  shoulder-knots  ^  came  up  Here  was  a  weighty  difficulty !  but  the 
—  straight  all  the  world  was  shoulder-  distinguishing  brother,  for  whom  we  shall 
knots  —  no  approaching  the  ladies'  hereafter  find  a  name,  now  his  hand  was 
ruelles  without  the  quota  of  shoulder- 35  in,  proved  by  a  very  good  argument  that 
knots.  That  fellow,  cries  one,  has  no  K  was  a  modern,  illegitimate  letter,  un- 
soul;  where  is  his  shoulder-knot?  Our  known  to  the  learned  ages,  nor  anywhere 
three  brethren  soon  discovered  their  to  be  found  in  ancient  manuscripts, 
want  by  sad  experience,  meeting  in  their  *  'T  is  true,'  said  he,  *  Calendse  hath  in 
walks  with  forty  mortifications  and  in-  40  Q.  V.  C.^  been  sometimes  writ  with  a 
dignities.  If  they  went  to  the  playhouse  K,  but  erroneously;  for  in  the  best 
the  door-keeper  showed  them  into  the  copies  it  ever  spelt  with  a  C.  And,  by 
twelvepenny  gallery;  if  they  called  a  consequence,  it  was  a  gross  mistake  in 
boat,  says  a  waterman,  '  I  am  first  scul-  our  language  to  spell  '  knot '  with  a  K  '  ; 
ler'  ;  if  they  stepped  to  the  Rose  to  take  45  but  that  from  henceforward  he  would  take 
a  bottle,  the  drawer  would  cry,  '  Friend,  care  it  should  be  writ  with  a  C.  Upon 
we  sell  110  ale '  ;  if  they  went  to  visit  a  this  all  farther  difficulty  vanished  — 
lady,  a  footman  met  them  at  the  door  shoulder-knots  were  made  clearly  out  to 
with  '  Pray  send  up  your  message.'  In  be  jure  paterno  [according  to  the  law  of 
this  unhappy  case  they  went  immediately  50  the  father],  and  our  three  gentlemen 
to  consult  their  father's  will,  read  it  over  swaggered  with  as  large  and  as  flaunting 
and  over,  but  not  a  word  of  the  shoulder-     ones  as  the  best. 

knot.     What     should     they     do?  —  what         But,  as  human  happiness  is  of  a  very 

short  duration,  so  in  those  days  were  hu- 

iBy    this    is    understood    the    first    introducing    oi  ^^  ^^^^    fashionS,    upOU    which    it    entirelv    de- 
pageantry,      and      unnecessary      ornaments      in      the  '■ 
Cluiich,    such    as    were    neither    for   convenience    nor 

edification,    as    a    shoulder-knot,    in    which    there    is  ^  Q„|]^^5f]arn    veteribus    codicibus;    i.    e.    some    an- 

neither    symmetry    nor    use.  cient    manuscripts. 


pends.  Shoulder-knots  had  their  time,  here  before  us  there  is  no  precept  or 
and  we  must  now  imagine  them  in  mention  about  gold  lace,  conceditur 
their  decline;  for  a  certain  lord  came  [it  is  conceded]  but  si  idem  affirmetur  de 
just  from  Paris,  with  fifty  yards  of  nuncnpatorio,  ncgatur  [if  the  same  is  as- 
gold  lace  upon  his  coat,  exactly  trimmed  5  serted  of  the  nuncupatory,  it  is  denied], 
after  the  court  fashion  of  that  month.  For,  brothers,  if  you  remember,  we  heard 
In  two  days  all  mankind  appeared  closed  a  fellow  say  when  we  were  boys  that  he 
up  in  bars  of  gold  lace :  ^  whoever  heard  my  father's  man  say,  that  he 
durst  peep  abroad  without  his  com-  heard  my  father  say,  that  he  would  ad- 
plement    of    gold    lace    was    as    scandal-  lo  vise   his   sons  to  get  gold  lace  on  their 

ous    as    a    ,    and    as    ill    received      coats  as  soon  as  ever  they  could  procure 

among    the     women :     what     should     our      money   to    buy   it.'     '  By    G !    that    is 

three  knights  do  in  this  momentous  af-  very  true,'  cries  the  other;  'I  remember 
fair?  they  had  sufficiently  strained  a  it  perfectly  well,'  said  the  third.  And 
point  already  in  the  aftair  of  shoulder-  15  so  without  more  ado  they  got  the  larg- 
knots:  upon  recourse  to  the  will,  noth-  est  gold  lace  in  the  parish,  and  walked 
ing  appeared  there  but  altiim  silcntium  about  as  fine  as  lords, 
[primeval    silence].     That   of   the    shoul-  A    while    after    there    came    up    all    in 

der-knots  was  a  loose,  flying,  circum-  fashion  a  pretty  sort  of  flame-colored 
stantial  point;  but  this  of  gold  lace  20  satin  for  linings;  and  the  mercer  brought 
seemed  too  considerable  an  alteration  a  pattern  of  it  immediately  to  our  three 
without    better    warrant;    it    did    aliquo      gentlemen;    'An    please    your    worships,' 

modo  cssentiae  adhaercre  [in  some  man-      said  he,  '  my  lord  C ^  and  Sir  J.  W. 

ner  belong  to  the  essence  of  the  matter],  had  linings  out  of  this  very  piece  last 
and  therefore  required  a  positive  pre- 25  night:  it  takes  wonderfully,  and  I  shall 
cept.  But  about  this  time  it  fell  out  not  have  a  remnant  left  enough  to  make 
that  the  learned  brother  aforesaid  had  my  wife  a  pincushion  by  to-morrow 
read  Aristotelis  dialectica,  and  especially  morning  at  ten  o'clock.'  Upon  this  they 
that  wonderful  piece  de  intcrprctatione,  fell  again  to  rummage  the  will,  because 
which  has  the  faculty  of  teaching  its  30  the  present  case  also  required  a  positive 
readers  to  find  out  a  meaning  in  every-  precept  —  the  lining  being  held  by 
thing  but  itself;  like  commentators  on  orthodox  writers  to  be  of  the  essence  of 
the  Revelations,  who  proceed  prophets  the  coat.  After  long  search  they  could 
without  understanding  a  syllable  of  the  fix  upon  nothing  to  the  matter  in  hand, 
text.  '  Brothers,'  said  he,  *  you  are  to  35  except  a  short  advice  of  their  father  in 
be  informed  that  of  wills  duo  sunt  gen-  the  will  to  take  care  of  fire  *  and  put  out 
era  [there  are  two  kinds],  nuncupatory-  their  candles  before  they  went  to  sleep, 
and  scriptory:  that  in  the  scriptory  will  This,  though  a  good  deal  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  helping  very  far  towards  self- 

1  I  cannot  tell  whether  the  author  means  any  ^q  conviction,  yet  not  seeming  wholly  of 
new  innovation  by  this  word  or  whether  it  be  only  f^j.^^  ^^  establish  a  command  (being 
to    introduce   the   new    methods    of    forcing   and   per-  i       j       ,  •  j       r      .1  1 

verting  Scripture.  resolved     to     avoid     farther     scruple     as 

2  By     this     is     meant     tradition,     allowed     by     the        well      aS      futUre      OCCasion      for      SCandal), 

Papists  to  have  equal  authority  with  the  Scripture,      gays  he  that  was  the  Scholar,  '  I  remem- 

"S'ilta'SStory.  whereof  he  speaks  more  par.  4Sber  tO  have  read  m  W.lls  of  a  Codicd 
ticularly  hereafter;  but  here,  only  to  shew  how  annexed,  whlch  IS  Uldced  a  part  of  the 
Scripture  was  perverted  to  prove  it,  which  was  will,  and  what  it  contains  hath  equal 
done  by  giving  equal  authority  with  the  canon  to  authority  with  the  rest.  Now,  I  have 
Apocrypha,     called     here    a    codicil    annexed,      it    is        ,  -j      •  r    ^1  •  -hi 

likely  the  author,  in  every  one  of  these  changes      been   Considering  of   this   Same   Will   here 

in  the  brothers'  dresses,  refers  to  some  particular  50  before  US,  and  I  cannOt  reckon  it  tO  be 
error    in    the    Church    of    Rome,    though    it    is    not         complete    for    want    of    SUch    a    COdicil  :       I 

easy,   I   think,  to  apply  them  all:   but  by  this  of      ^jn    therefore    fasten    One    in    its    proper 

Hanie-colored    satin,     is    manifestly    intended    Purga-  ,                             ,                      1            t     1               1       1     ■ 

tory;    by   gold   lace   may   perhaps   be    understood,    the  plaCC     very     dCXterOUSly  —  1     have     had     it 

lofty    ornaments    and    plate     in     the    churches;     the 

shoulder-knots  and  silver  fringe  are  not  so  obvious,  ,,       '  This   shews   the   time   the   author    writ,    it    being 

at    least    to    me;     but    the     Indian    figures    of    men,  about    fourteen   years    since   those    two   persons    were 

women,    and    children,    plainly    relate    to   the   pictures  reckoned    the    fine    gentlemen    of    the    town. 

in   the    Romish    churches,    of    God    like   an    old   man,  *  That    is,   to    take   care    of    hell;    and,    in   order   to 

of  the   Virgin   Mary,   and   our   Savior   as   a   child.  d  >    that,    to    subdue   and   extinguish    their   lusts. 


304  JUJNAiJrlArM    bWlt*  i 


by  me  some  time  —  it  was  written  l)y  a  fashion,  lonj^  antiquated,  of  embroidery 
dog-keeper  of  my  grandfather's,^  and  with  IncHan  figures  of  men,  women,  and 
talks  a  great  deal,  as  good  luck  would  children.  Here  they  remembered  but 
have  it,  of  this  very  tlame-colored  satin.'  too  well  how  their  father  had  always  ab- 
The  project  was  immediately  a])proved  S  horred  this  fashion ;  that  he  made  sev- 
by  the  other  two ;  an  old  parchment  eral  paragraphs  on  purpose,  importing 
scroll  was  tagged  on  according  to  art  his  utter  detestation  of  it,  and  bestowing 
in  the  form  of  a  codicil  annexed,  and  the  his  everlasting  curse  to  his  sons  when- 
satin   bought   and   worn.  ever   they   should   wear   it.     I'or   all   this. 

Next  winter  a  player,  hired  for  the  lo  in  a  few  days  they  appeared  higher  in 
purpose  by  the  corporation  of  fringe-  the  fashion  than  anybody  else  in  the 
makers,  acted  his  part  in  a  new  comedy,  town.  But  they  solved  the  matter  by 
all  covered  with  silver-fringe,-  and,  ac-  saying  that  these  figures  were  not  at  all 
cording  to  the  laudable  custom,  gave  rise  the  same  with  those  that  were  formerly 
to  that  fashion.  Upon  which  the  15  worn  and  were  meant  in  the  will.  Be- 
brothers,  consulting  their  father's  will,  sides,  they  did  not  wear  them  in  the 
to  their  great  astonishment  found  these  sense  as  forbidden  by  their  father;  but 
words:  'item,  I  charge  and  command  my  as  they  were  a  commendable  custom,  and 
said  three  sons  to  wear  no  sort  of  silver  of  great  use  to  the  public.^  That  these 
fringe  upon  or  about  their  said  coats,'  20  rigorous  clauses  in  the  will  did  there- 
etc,  with  a  penalty,  in  case  of  disobedi-  fore  require  some  allowance  and  a  favor- 
ence,  too  long  here  to  insert.  However,  able  interpretation,  and  ought  to  be  un- 
after  some  pause,  the  brother  so  often  derstood  cum  grano  sails  [with  a  grain 
mentioned    for    his    erudition,    who    was      of  salt]. 

well  skilled  in  criticisms,  had  found  in  25  But  fashions  perpetually  altering  in 
a  certain  author,  which  he  said  should  that  age,  the  scholastic  brother  grew 
be  nameless,  that  the  same  word  which  weary  of  searching  farther  evasions,  and 
in  the  will  is  called  fringe  does  also  solving  everlasting  contradictions.  Re- 
signify  a  broomstick:  and  doubtless  solved,  therefore,  at  all  hazards,  to  com- 
ought  to  have  the  same  interpretation  in  3o  ply  with  the  modes  of  the  world,  they 
this  paragraph.  This  another  of  the  concerted  matters  together,  and  agreed 
brothers  disliked,  because  of  that  ep-  unanimously  to  lock  up  their  father's 
ithet  silver,  which  could  not  he  humbly  will  in  a  strong  box,  brought  out  of 
conceived  in  propriety  of  speech  be  Greece  or  Italy  (I  have  forgot  which), 
reasonably  applied  to  a  broomstick:  but  35  and  trouble  themselves  no  farther  to  ex- 
it was  replied  upon  him  that  this  epithet  amine  it,  but  only  refer  to  its  authority 
was  understood  in  a  mythological  and  whenever  they  thought  fit.  In  conse- 
allegorical  sense.  However,  he  objected  quence  whereof,  a  while  after  it  grew  a 
again  why  their  father  should  forbid  general  mode  to  wear  an  infinite  number 
them  to  wear  a  broomstick  on  their  40  of  points,  most  of  them  tagged  with  sil- 
coats  —  a  caution  that  seemed  unnatural  ver:  upon  which  the  scholar  pronounced, 
and  impertinent;  upon  which  he  was  tak-  ex  cathedra  [from  the  bench],  that 
en  up  short,  as  one  who  spoke  irreverently  points  were  absolutely  jure  paterno,  as 
of  a  mystery,  which  doubtless  was  very  they  might  very  well  remember.  'T  is 
useful  and  significant,  but  ought  not  to  45  true,  indeed,  the  fashion  prescribed 
be  over-curiously  pried  into  or  nicely  somewhat  more  than  were  directly  named 
reasoned  upon.  And,  in  short,  their  in  the  will ;  however,  that  they,  as  heirs- 
father's  authority  being  now  consider-  general  of  their  father,  had  power  to 
ably  sunk,  this  expedient  was  allowed  make  and  add  certain  clauses  for  public 
to  serve  as  a  lawful  dispensation  for  5°  emolument,  though  not  deducible,  totidem 
wearing  their  full  proportion  of  silver  verbis,  from  the  letter  of  the  will,  or 
fringe.  else    mult  a    absurda    sequercntur    [many 

A    while    after     was    revived     an    old      absurdities     would     follow].     This     was 

understood    for   canonical,   and   therefore, 

•  I    believe    this    refers    to    that    part    of    the  55  on   the    following   Sunday,   they   came    to 

Apocrypha     where    mention    is    made    of    Tobit  and        church    all    COVered    with    points, 
his    dog. 

*This    is    certainly    the    farther    introducing  the  ^  Here  they  had  no  occasion  to  examine  the  will: 

pomps    of    habit    and    ornament.  they    remembered. —  First   tdition. 


SECTION    IV 


The    learned    brother,    so    often    men-  I    hope,    when    this    treatise    of    mine 

tioned,  was  reckoned  the  best  scholar  in  shall  be  translated  into  foreign  languages 
all  that  or  the  next  street  to  it,  insomuch  (as  I  may  without  vanity  affirm  that  the 
as,  having  run  something  behindhand  in  labor  of  collecting,  the  faithfulness  in 
the  world,  he  obtained  the  favor  of  a  5  recounting,  and  the  great  usefulness  of 
certain  lord  ^  to  receive  him  into  his  the  matter  to  the  public,  will  amply  de- 
house,  and  to  teach  his  children.  A  serve  that  justice),  that  the  worthy 
while  after  the  lord  died,  and  he,  by  long  members  of  the  several  academies 
practice  of  his  father's  will,  found  the  abroad,  especially  those  of  France  and 
way  of  contriving  a  deed  of  conveyance  lo  Italy,  will  favorably  accept  these  humble 
of  that  house  to  himself  and  his  heirs;  offers  for  the  advancement  of  universal 
upon  which  he  took  possession,  turned  knowledge.  I  do  also  advertise  the  most 
the  young  squires  out,  and  received  his  reverend  fathers,  the  eastern  mission- 
brothers  in  their  stead.  aries,  that  I  have,  purely  for  their  sakes, 
^  ^  ^  15  made  use  of  such  words  and  phrases  as 
will  best  admit  an  easy  turn  into  any  of 
the  oriental  languages,  especially  the 
Chinese.  And  so  I  proceed  with  great 
I  have  now,  with  much  pains  and  study,  content  of  mind,  upon  reflecting  how 
conducted  the  reader  to  a  period  where  20  much  emolument  this  whole  globe  of  the 
he  must  expect  to  hear  of  great  revolu-  earth  is  likely  to  reap  by  my  labors. 
tions.  For  no  sooner  had  our  learned  The  first  undertaking  of  lord  Peter 
brother,  so  often  mentioned,  got  a  warm  was,  to  purchase  a  large  continent,^ 
house  of  his  own  over  his  head  than  he  lately  said  to  have  been  discovered  in 
began  to  look  big  and  take  mightily  25  terra  australis  incognita  fan  unknown 
upon  him;  insomuch  that,  unless  the  country  to  the  south].  This  tract  of  land 
gentle  reader,  out  of  his  great  candor,  he  bought  at  a  very  great  pennyworth 
will  please  a  little  to  exalt  his  idea,  I  from  the  discoverers  themselves  (though 
am  afraid  he  will  henceforth  hardly  some  pretend  to  doubt  whether  they  had 
know  the  hero  of  the  play  when  he  hap- 3o  ever  been  there),  and  then  retailed  it 
pens  to  meet  him ;  his  part,  his  dress,  and  into  several  cantons  to  certain  dealers, 
his  mien  being  so  much  altered.  who  carried  over  colonies,  but  were  all 
He  told  his  brothers  he  would  have  shipwrecked  in  the  voyage.  Upon  which 
them  to  know  that  he  was  their  elder,  lord  Peter  sold  the  said  continent  to 
and  consequently  his  father's  sole  heir ;  3S  other  customers  again,  and  again,  and 
nay,  a  while  after,  he  would  not  allow  again,  and  again,  with  the  same  success. 
them  to  call  him  brother,  but  Mr.  The  second  project  I  shall  mention 
PETER,  and  then  he  must  be  styled  was  his  sovereign  remedy  for  the  worms, 
Father  PETER;  and  sometimes.  My  Lord  especially  those  in  the  spleen.  The  pa- 
PETER.  To  support  this  grandeur,  40  tient  was  to  eat  nothing  after  supper 
which  he  soon  began  to  consider  could  for  three  nights :  ^  as  soon  as  he  went 
not  be  maintained  without  a  better  fondc  to  bed  he  was  carefully  to  lie  on  one  side, 
than  what  he  was  born  to,  after  much  and  when  he  grew  weary  to  turn  upon 
thought,  he  cast  about  at  last  to  turn  the  other;  he  must  also  duly  confine  his 
projector  and  virtuoso,  wherein  he  so  -t^  two  eyes  to  the  same  object.  *  *  * 
well  succeeded,  that  many  famous  dis-  These  prescriptions  diligently  observed, 
coveries,  projects  and  machines,  which  the  worms  would  void  insensibly  by 
bear  great  vogue  and  practice  at  pres-  perspiration,  ascending  through  the 
ent  in  the  world,   are  owing  entirely   to      brain. 

lord  PETER'S  invention.  I  will  de-  ''°  A  third  invention  was  the  erecting  of 
duce  the  best  account  I  have  been  able  a  whispering-ofiice  for  the  public  good 
to  collect  of  the  chief  among  them,  wath-  and  ease  of  all  such  as  are  hypochon- 
out  considering  much  the  order  they  driacal  or  troul)led  with  the  colic;  as 
came  out  in ;  because  I  think  authors 
are  not  well  agreed  as  to  that  point.  5S     ;  That  is    Purgatory. 

°                                       ^  ^  Here    the    autlior    ridicules   the    penances    of   the 

'  This    was    Constantine    the     Great,     from     whom  Church  of  Rome,  wh'rh  may  be  made  as  easy  to  the 

the    popes    pretend    a    donation    of    St.    Peter's    patri-  sinner  as  he  pleases,  provided   he  will   pay  for  them 

mony,   which  they  have  never  been  able  to  produce.  accordingly. 


3o6  JONATHAN  SWIFT 

inidwives/  small  politicians,  friends  virtues,  was  a  quite  different  thing, 
fallen  out,  re])ealing  pucls,  lovers  liappy  For  Peter  would  ])ut  in  a  certain  quan- 
or  in  despair,  bawds,  privy-counsellors,  tity  of  his  powder  i)iniperlinipinq),  after 
pages,  parasites,  and  buffoons;  in  short,  which  it  never  failed  of  success.  The 
of  all  such  as  are  in*danger  of  bursting  s  operation  was  performed  by  spargefac- 
with  too  much  wind.  An  ass's  head  was  tion,  in  a  i)ro])er  time  of  the  moon.  The 
placed  so  conveniently  that  the  party  ef-  patient  who  was  to  be  jMckled,  if  it  were 
fected  nnght  easily  with  his  mouth  accost  a  house,  would  infallibly  be  preserved 
either  of  the  animal's  ears;  to  which  he  from  all  s]:)iders,  rats,  and  weasels;  if 
was  to  apply  close  for  a  certain  space,  lo  the  party  affected  were  a  dog,  he  should 
and  by  a  fugitive  faculty,  peculiar  to  the  be  exempt  from  mange,  and  madness, 
ears  of  that  animal,  receive  immediate  and  hunger.  It  also  infallibly  took  away 
benefit,  either  by  eructation,  or  expira-  all  scabs,  and  lice,  and  scalled  heads  from 
tion,   or   evomitation.  children,     never     hindering     the     patient 

Another  very  beneficial  project  of  lord  is  from  any  duty,  either  at  bed  or  board. 
Peter's    was    an    office    of    insurance    for  But    of    all    Peter's    rarefies    he    most 

tobacco-pipes,^    martyrs    of    the    modern      valued  a  certain  set  of  bulls,  whose  race 

zeal,    volumes   of   poetry,    shadows,   ,      was    by    great    fortune    preserved    in    a 

and  rivers;  that  these,  nor  any  of  these,  lineal  descent  from  those  that  guarded 
shall  receive  damage  by  fire.  Whence  20  the  golden  fleece.  Though  some,  who 
our  friendly  societies  may  plainly  find  pretended  to  observe  them  curiously, 
themselves  to  be  only  transcribers  from  doubted  the  breed  had  not  been  kept  en- 
this  original;  though  the  one  and  the  tirely  chaste,  because  they  had  degen- 
other  have  been  of  great  benefit  to  the  erated  from  their  ancestors  in  some 
undertakers,  as  well  as  of  equal  to  2s  qualities,  and  had  acquired  others  very 
the  public.  extraordinary,     by     a     foreign     mixture. 

Lord  PETER  was  also  held  the  orig-  The  bulls  of  Colchis  are  recorded  to  have 
inal  author  of  puppets  and  raree-shows ;  ^  brazen  feet;  but  whether  it  happened  by 
the  great  usefulness  whereof  being  so  iH  pasture  and  running,  by  an  allay  from 
generally  known,  I  shall  not  enlarge  far-  3o  intervention  of  other  parents,  from 
ther  upon  this  particular.  stolen   mtrigues ;   whether   a  weakness   in 

But  another  discovery  for  which  he  their  progenitors  had  impaired  the  semi- 
was  much  renowned,  was  his  famous  uni-  nal  virtue,  or  by  a  decline  necessary 
versal  pickle.  For,  having  remarked  through  a  long  course  of  time,  the  orig- 
how  your  common  pickle  *  in  use  among  35  inals  of  nature  being  depraved  in  these 
housewives  was  of  no  farther  benefit  latter  sinful  ages  of  the  world;  what- 
than  to  preserve  dead  flesh  and  certain  ever  was  the  cause,  it  is  certain  that  lord 
kinds  of  vegetables,  Peter,  with  great  Peter's  bulls  were  extremely  vitiated  by 
cost  as  well  as  art,  had  contrived  a  pickle  the  rust  of  time  in  the  metal  of  their 
proper  for  houses,  gardens,  towns,  men,  40  feet,  which  was  now  sunk  into  common 
women,  children,  and  cattle;  wherein  he  lead.  However,  the  terrible  roaring  pe- 
could  preserve  them  as  sound  as  insects  culiar  to  their  lineage  was  preserved: 
in  amber.  Now,  this  pickle,  to  the  taste,  as  likewise  that  faculty  of  breathing  out 
the  smell,  and  the  sight,  appeared  ex-  fire  from  their  nostrils,  which,  notwith- 
actly  the  same  with  what  is  in  common  ^s  standing,  many  of  their  detractors  took 
service  for  beef,  and  butter,  and  herrings,  to  be  a  feat  of  art,  to  be  nothing  so 
and  has  been  often  that  way  applied  with  terrible  as  it  appeared,  proceeding  only 
great  success ;  but,  for  its  many  sovereign       from    their    usual    course    of  ^diet     which 

was   of   squibs   and   crackers.-'     However, 

lAs  likewise  of  all  eavesdroppers,  midwives,  etc.  So  they  had  two  peculiar  marks,  which  ex- 
—  First  Edition.  tremely  distinguished  them  from  the  bulls 

2  This  I  take  to  be  the  office  of  indulgences,  the  ^f  Jason,  and  which  I  have  not  met  to- 
ReTormttion'   "''"'"^  *^''''   ""''  °''''""   ^"''   '^^      J^^ther    in    the    description    of    any    other 

»  I    believe   are    the    monkeries   and    ridiculous   pro-  monster    beside    that    in    Horace  ! 

cessions,    etc.,    among    the    papists.  55 

*  This     is     easily     understood     to     be     holy     water,  °  These      are      the      fulminations      of      the      pope, 

composed  of  the  same  ingredients   with   matiy  other  threatening    hell    and    damnation    to    those    princes 

pickles.  who   offend   him. 


Varias    indiicere    plumas;  'To    all    mayors,    sheriffs,    jailors,    con- 

and  [putting  on  gay  plumage.]  stables,    bailiffs,    hangmen,    etc.     Whereas 

Atrum  desinat  in  piscem.  we   are    informed   that   A.    B.    remains   in 

[ending   in    a    foul    fish    below.]  the  hands  of  you,  or  some  of  you,  under 

5  the  sentence  of  death.  We  will  and 
For  these  had  fishes'  tails,  yet  upon  oc-  connnand  you,  upon  sight  hereof,  to  let 
casion  could  outfly  any  bird  in  the  air.  the  said  prisoner  depart  to  his  own  hab- 
Peter  put  these  bulls  upon  several  em-  itation,  whether  he  stands  condemned 
ploys.  Sometimes  he  would  set  them  for  murder,  sodomy,  rape,  sacrilege,  in- 
a-roaring  to  fright  naughty  boys,^  and  lo  cest,  treason,  blasphemy,  etc.,  for  which 
make  them  quiet.  Sometimes  he  would  this  shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant ;  and 
send  them  out  upon  errands  of  great  im-  if  you  fail  hereof,  G —  d — mn  you  and 
portance;  where,  it  is  wonderful  to  re-  yours  to  all  eternity.  And  so  we  bid  you 
count  (and  perhaps  the  cautious  reader  heartily  farewell, 
may  think  much  to  believe  it),  an  appc-  15  Your  most  humble 

titus  scnsihilis  [an  appetite  of  the  senses]  Man's   man, 

deriving  itself  through  the  whole   family  Emperor  PETER,' 

from  their  noble  ancestors,  guardians  of   ■ 

the   golden   fleece,  they   continued   so  ex-  The    wretches,    trusting    to    this,    lost 

tremely   fond  of  gold,  that  if  Peter  sent  20  their   lives   and   money   too. 
them   abroad,   though   it  were   only   upon  I    desire    of    those    whom    the    learned 

a  compliment,  they  would  roar,  and  among  posterity  will  appoint  for  com- 
spit,  and  belch,  and  snivel  out  fire,  and  mentators  upon  this  elaborate  treatise, 
keep  a  perpetual  coil,  till  you  flung  them  that  they  will  proceed  with  great  caution 
a  bit  of  gold ;  but  then,  pulvcris  exigui  25  upon  certain  dark  points,  wherein  all  who 
jactu  [by  throwing  on  a  little  dust],  are  not  vcre  adcpti  [genuine  adepts] 
they  would  grow  calm  and  quiet  as  laml)s.  may  be  in  danger  to  form  rash  and  hasty 
In  short,  whether  by  secret  connivance  conclusions,  especially  in  some  myste- 
or  encouragement  from  their  master,  or  rious  paragraphs,  where  certain  arcana 
out  of  their  own  liquorish  affection  to  30  are  joined  for  brevity  sake,  which  in  the 
gold,  or  both,  it  is  certain  they  were  no  operation  must  be  divided.  And  I  am 
better  than  a  sort  of  sturdy,  swaggering,  certain  that  future  sons  of  art  will  re- 
beggars;  and  where  they  could  not  pre-  turn  large  thanks  to  my  memory  for  so 
vail  to  get  an  alms,  would  make  women  grateful,  so  useful  an  innuendo. 
miscarry,  and  children  fall  into  fits,  who  35  It  will  be  no  difficult  part  to  persuade 
to  this  very  day  usually  call  sprights  the  reader  that  so  many  worthy  discov- 
and  hobgoblins  by  the  name  of  bull-beg-  eries  met  with  great  success  in  the 
gars.  They  grew  at  last  so  very  trouble-  world;  though  I  may  justly  assure  him 
some  to  the  neighborhood,  that  some  that  I  have  related  much  the  smallest 
gentlemen  of  the  north-west  got  a  par- 40  number ;  my  design  having  been  only  to 
eel  of  right  English  bull-dogs,  and  baited  single  out  such  as  will  be  of  most  benefit 
them  so  terribly  that  they  felt  it  ever  for  public  imitation,  or  which  best  serve 
after.  to  give   some   idea  of  the  reach   and  wit 

1  must  needs  mention  one  more  of  of  the  inventor.  And  therefore  it  need 
lord  Peter's  projects,  which  was  very  45  not  be  wondered  at  if  by  this  time  lord 
extraordinary,  and  discovered  him  to  be  Peter  was  become  exceeding  rich :  but, 
master  of  a  high  reach  and  profound  alas !  he  had  kept  his  brain  so  long  and 
invention.  Whenever  it  happened  that  so  violently  upon  the  rack,  that  at  last  it 
any  rogue  of  Newgate  was  condemned  shook  itself,  and  began  to  turn  round 
to  be  hanged,  Peter  would  offer  him  a  50  for  a  little  ease.  In  short,  what  with 
pardon  for  a  certain  sum  of  money;  pride,  projects,  and  knavery,  poor  Peter 
which,  when  the  poor  caitiff  had  made  was  grown  distracted,  and  conceived  the 
all_  shifts  to  scrape  up  and  send,  his  lord-  strangest  imaginations  in  the  world.  In 
ship  would  return  a  piece  of  paper  in  the  height  of  his  fits,  as  it  is  usual  with 
this  form  : — -  55  those  who  run  mad  out  of  pride,  he  would 

,„.,.,.  .      .  J  ,-     J.    ,  <^al^    himself    God    Almightv,^    and    some- 

^  Inat    IS,    kings    who    incurred    liis    displeasure. 

2  This    is    a    copy    of    a    general     pardon,     signed 

servus    servorum    (slave    of    slaves).  '  -j-j^g    p^pp    jg    ^^j    ^^jy   allowed    to    be    the    vicar 


3o8  JONATHAN  SWIFT 


times  monarch  of  the  universe.  I  have  fermented  liquor,  diffused  through  the 
seen  him  (says  my  author)  take  three  mass  of  the  bread.'  Upon  the  strength  of 
old  high-crowned  hats,'  and  clap  them  all  these  conclusions,  next  day  at  dinner  was 
on  his  head  three  story  high,  with  a  huge  the  brown  loaf  served  up  in  all  the 
bunch  of  keys  at  his  girdle,-  and  an  an-  5  formality  of  a  city  feast.  '  Come,  broth- 
gling-rod  in  his  hand.  In  which  guise,  ers,'  said  Peter,  'fall  to,  and  spare  not; 
whoever  went  to  take  him  by  the  hand  here  is  excellent  good  mutton ;  or  hold, 
in  the  way  of  salutation,  Peter  with  now  my  hand  is  in,  I  will  help  you.'  At 
much  grace,  like  a  well-educated  spaniel,  which  word,  in  much  ceremony,  with 
would  present  them  with  his  foot,  and  if  10  fork  and  knife,  he  carves  out  two  good 
they  refused  his  civility,  then  he  would  slices  of  a  loaf,  and  presents  each  on  a 
raise  it  as  high  as  their  chaps,  and  give  plate  to  his  brothers.  The  elder  of  the 
them  a  damned  kick  on  the  mouth,  which  two,  not  suddenly  entering  into  lord 
hath  ever  since  been  called  a  salute.  Peter's  conceit,  began  with  very  civil 
Whoever  walked  by  without  paying  him  15  language  to  examine  the  mystery.  '  My 
their  compliments,  having  a  wonderful  lord,'  said  he,  '  I  doubt,  with  great  sub- 
strong  breath,  he  would  blow  their  hats  mission,  there  may  be  some  mistake.'- — 
off  into  the  dirt.  Meantime  his  affairs  * '  What,'  says  Peter,  '  you  are  pleasant ; 
at  home  went  upside  down,  and  his  two  come  then,  let  us  hear  this  jest  your  head 
brothers  had  a  wretched  time ;  where  his  20  is  so  big  with.' — *  None  in  the  world,  my 
first  boutade  ^  was  to  kick  both  their  lord ;  but,  unless  I  am  very  much  de- 
wives  one  morning  out  of  doors,  and  his  ceived,  your  lordship  was  pleased  a  while 
own  too;  and  in  their  stead  gave  orders  ago  to  let  fall  a  word  about  mutton,  and 
to  pick  up  the  first  three  strollers  that  I  would  be  glad  to  see  it  with  all  my 
could  be  met  with  in  the  streets.  A  while  25  heart.' — '  How,'  said  Peter,  appearing  in 
after  he  nailed  up  the  cellar-door,  and  great  surprise,  '  I  do  not  comprehend  this 
would  not  allow  his  brothers  a  drop  of  at  all.'  Upon  which  the  younger  inter- 
drink  to  their  victuals.*  Dining  one  day  posing  to  set  the  business  aright,  '  My 
at  an  alderman's  in  the  city,  Peter  ob-  lord,'  said  he,  *  my  brother,  I  suppose,  is 
served  him  expatiating,  after  the  manner  3o  hungry,  and  longs  for  the  mutton  your 
of  his  brethren,  in  the  praises  of  his  lordship  has  promised  us  to  dinner.' — 
sirloin  of  beef.  '  Beef,'  said  the  sage  '  Pray,'  said  Peter,  '  take  me  along  with 
magistrate,  'is  the  king  of  meat;  beef  you ;  either  you  are  both  mad,  or  disposed 
comprehends  in  it  the  quintessence  of  to  be  merrier  than  I  approve  of;  if  you 
partridge,  and  quail,  and  venison,  and  35  there  do  not  like  your  piece  I  will  carve 
pheasant,  and  plum-pudding,  and  custard.'  you  another;  though  I  should  take  that  to 
When  Peter  came  home  he  would  needs  be  the  choice  bit  of  tlie  whole  shoulder.' 
take  the  fancy  of  cooking  up  this  doc-  — '  What  then,  my  lord,'  replied  the  first, 
trine  into  use,  and  apply  the  precept,  in  '  it  seems  this  is  a  shoulder  of  mutton 
default  of  a  sirloin,  to  his  brown  loaf.  40  all  this  while?' — 'Pray,  sir,'  says  Peter, 
'  Bread,'  says  he,  '  dear  brothers,  is  the  '  eat  your  victuals,  and  leave  off  your  im- 
staff  of  life;  in  which  bread  is  contained,  pertinence,  if  you  please,  for  I  am  not  dis- 
inclusive,  the  quintessence  of  beef,  mut-  posed  to  relish  it  at  present':  but  the 
ton,  veal,  venison,  partridge,  plum-  other  could  not  forbear,  being  over-pro- 
pudding,  and  custard ;  and,  to  render  all  45  voked  at  the  affected  seriousness  of 
complete,  there  is  intermingled  a  due  Peter's  countenance :  '  By  G — ,  my  lord,' 
quantity  of  water,  whose  crudities  are  said  he,  '  I  can  only  say,  that  to  my  eyes, 
also  corrected  by  yeast  or  barm,  through  and  fingers,  and  teeth,  and  nose,  it  seems 
which    means    it    becomes    a    wholesome      to  be  nothing  but  a  crust  of  bread.'     Upon 

50  which  the  second  put  in  his  word :  '  I 
of  Christ,  but  by  several  divines  is  called  God  upon  never  saw  a  piece  of  mutton  in  my  life 
earth   and  other  blasphemous  titles.  SO    nearly    resembling    a    slice    from    a 

^  The    triple    crown.  ,        ,  i       r  >      <  -r        i  ^i  > 

»The  keys  of  the  Church.  twelvepenny  loaf.'—  Look  ye,  gentlemen, 

'This  word  properly  signifies  a  sudden  jerk,  or      cries  Peter,   in  a  rage;   '  to  convince  you 

lash  of  a  horse,  when  you  do  not  expect  it.  55  what  a  couple  of  blind,  positive,  ignorant, 

JJ^  ^'r  .".!"'r  lUl  'c°„;S„;f^;,  'S;      w/lf"'  P"PPi«  y°"  -e,  I  will  use  but  this 

bread,    and    that    the    bread    is    the    real    and    entire       P'ain    argument:    by    G — ,    it   IS   true,   gOod, 

body  of  Christ.  natural    mutton    as    any    in    Leadenhall- 


iT.     J.  r^i 


1  r\  i  UD  o'-'y 

market;  and  G —  confound  you  both  to  hell  if  they  pretended  to  make  the 
eternally  if  you  offer  to  believe  otherwise.'  least  scruple  of  believing  him.  One  time 
Such  a  thundering  proof  as  this  left  no  he  swore  he  had  a  cow  at  home  which 
farther  room  for  objection;  the  two  un-  gave  as  much  milk  at  a  meal  as  would 
believers  began  to  gather  and  pocket  up  5  fill  three  thousand  churches;  and,  what 
their  mistake  as  hastily  as  they  could.  was  yet  more  extraordinary,  would  never 
'  Why  truly,'   said   the  first,   '  upon  more      turn  sour.     Another  time  he  was  telling 

mature      consideration ' — 'Ay,'      says      of  an  old  sign-post,-  that  belonged  to  his 

the  other,  interrupting  him,  '  now  I  have  father,  with  nails  and  timber  enough  in 
thought  better  on  the  thing,  your  lordship  10  it  to  build  sixteen  large  men  of  war. 
seems  to  have  a  great  deal  of  reason.' —  Talking  one  day  of  Chinese  wagons, 
'  \^ery  well,'  said  Peter;  'here,  boy,  fill  me  which  were  made  so  light  as  to  sail  over 
a  beer-glass  of  claret;  here's  to  you  both  mountains,  'Z — ds,'  said  Peter,  *  where 's 
with  all  my  heart.'  The  two  brethren,  the  wonder  of  that?  By  G — ,  I  saw  a 
much  delighted  to  see  him  so  readily  is  large  house  of  lime  and  stone  travel  over 
appeased,  returned  their  most  humble  sea  and  land  (granting  that  it  stopped 
thanks,  and  said  they  would  be  glad  to  sometimes  to  bait)  above  two  thousand 
pledge  his  lordship.  '  That  you  shall,'  German  leagues.'  And  that  which  was 
said  Peter;  'I  am  not  a  person  to  refuse  the  good  of  it,  he  would  swear  desperately 
you  anything  that  is  reasonable:  wine,  20  all  the  while  that  he  never  told  a  lie  in  his 
moderately  taken,  is  a  cordial;  here  is  a  life;  and  at  every  word,  'By  G — ,  gentle- 
glass  a-piece  for  you  ;  't  is  true  natural  men,  I  tell  you  nothing  but  the  truth  ;  and 
juice  from  the  grape,  none  of  your  damned  the  d — 1  broil  them  eternally  that  will  not 
vintner's   brewings.'     Having  spoke  thus,       believe  me.' 

he  presented  to  each  of  them  another  25  In  short,  Peter  grew  so  scandalous, 
large  dry  crust,  bidding  them  drink  it  that  all  the  neighborhood  began  in  plain 
off,  and  not  be  bashful,  for  it  would  do  words  to  say  he  was  no  better  than  a 
them  no  hurt.  The  two  brothers,  after  knave.  And  his  two  brothers,  long  weary 
having  performed  the  usual  ofiice  in  such  of  his  ill-usage,  resolved  at  last  to  leave 
delicate  conjectures,  of  staring  a  sufii-  3°  him;  but  first  they  humbly  desired  a  copy 
cient  period  at  lord  Peter  and  each  other,  of  their  father's  will,  which  had  now  lain 
and  finding  how  matters  were  likely  to  go,  by  neglected  time  out  of  mind.  Instead 
resolved  not  to  enter  on  a  new  dispute,  of  granting  this  request  he  called  them 
but  let  him  carry  the  point  as  he  pleased ;  damned  .  .  .  rogues,  traitors,  and  the 
for  he  was  now  got  into  one  of  his  mad  35  rest  of  the  vile  names  he  could  muster  up. 
fits,  and  to  argue  or  expostulate  farther  However,  while  he  was  abroad  one  day 
would  only  serve  to  render  him  a  hundred  upon  his  projects,  the  two  youngsters 
times   more   untractable.  watched   their   opportunity,   made   a   shift 

I  have  chosen  to  relate  this  worthy  to  come  at  the  will,^  and  took  a  copia 
matter  in  all  its  circumstances,  because  '»°  vera  [true  copy]  by  which  they  presently 
it  gave  a  principal  occasion  to  that  great  saw  how  grossly  they  had  been  abused; 
and  famous  rupture  ^  which  happened  their  father  having  left  them  equal  heirs, 
about  the  same  time  among  these  breth-  and  strictly  commanded  that  whatever 
ren,  and  was  never  afterwards  made  up.  they  got  should  lie  in  common  among 
But  of  that  I  shall  treat  at  large  in  an-  ^S  them  all.  Pursuant  to  which  their  next 
other  section.  enterprise  was  to  break  open  the  cellar- 

However,  it  is  certain  that  lord  Peter,  door,  and  get  a  little  good  drink,*  to  spirit 
even  in  his  lucid  intervals,  was  very  and  comfort  their  hearts.  In  copying  the 
lewdly  given  in  his  common  conversa-  will  they  had  met  another  precept  against 
tion,  extremely  wilful  and  positive,  and  5°  whoring,  divorce,  and  separate  mainte- 
would  at  any  time  rather  argue  to  the  nance ;  upon  which  their  next  work  ^  was 
death  than  allow  himself  once  to  be  in  to  discard  their  concubines,  and  send  for 
an  error.  Besides,  he  had  an  abominable  2  By  the  sign-post  is  meant  the  cross  of  our 
faculty  of  telling  huge  palpable  lies  upon      Blessed  Savior. 

all  occasions;  and  not  only  swearing  to  55  ^Translated  the  Scriptures  into  the  vulgar 
the    truth,   but   cursing   the   whole    company        '""Administered    the    cup    to    the    laity    at    the    com- 

munion. 
'By  this   rupture   is   meant   the    Reformation.  ^Allowed    the    marriages    of    priests. 


3IO  JONATHAN  SWIFT 


their  wives.  While  all  this  was  in  agita-  ing  where  common  charity  directs  me, 
tion  there  enters  a  solicitor  from  New-  to  the  assistance  of  his  two  brothers  at 
gate,  desiring  lord  Peter  would  please  their  lowest  ebb.  However,  I  shall  by  no 
procure  a  pardon  for  a  thief  that  was  to  means  forget  my  character  of  an  his- 
be  hanged  to-morrow.  But  the  two  s  torian  to  follow  the  truth  step  by  step, 
brothers^'told  him  he  was  a  coxcomb  to  whatever  happens,  or  wherever  it  may 
seek  pardons  from  a  fellow  who  deserved      lead  me. 

to  be  hanged  much  better  than  his  client;  The    two    exiles,    so    nearly    united    m 

and  discovered  all  the  method  of  that  im-  fortune  and  interest,  took  a  lodging  to- 
posture  in  the  same  form  I  delivered  it  a  together;  where,  at  their  first  leisure,  they 
while  ago,  advising  the  solicitor  to  put  his  began  to  reflect  on  the  numberless  mis- 
friend  upon  obtaining  a  pardon  from  the  fortunes  and  vexations  of  their  life  past, 
kino- 1  In  the  midst  of  all  this  clutter  and  and  could  not  tell  on  the  sudden  to  what 
revolution,  in  comes  Peter  with  a  f^le  of  failure  in  their  conduct  they  ought  to  im- 
draf^oons  at  his  heels,^  and  gathering  15  pute  them;  when,  after  some  recollec- 
from  all  hands  what  was  in  the  wind,  he  tion,  they  called  to  mind  the  copy  of 
and  his  gang,  after  several  millions  of  their  father's  will,  which  they  had  so 
scurrilities  and  curses,  not  very  important  happily  recovered.  This  was  imnicdi- 
iiere  to  repeat,  by  main  force  very  fairly  ately  produced,  and  a  firm  resolution 
kicked  them  both  out  of  doors,^  and  would  20  taken  between  them  to  alter  whatever 
never  let  them  come  under  his  roof  from  was  already  amiss,  and  reduce  all  their 
that  day  to  this.  future  measures  to  the  strictest  obedience 

*     *     *  prescribed    therein.     The    main    body    of 

the  will  (as  the  reader  cannot  easily  have 
SECTION  VI  2,  forgot)     consisted    in    certain    admirable 

We  left  lord  Peter  in  open  rupture  with  rules  about  the  wearing  of  their  coats;  in 
his  two  brethren ;  both  for  ever  discarded  the  perusal  whereof,  the  two  brothers 
from  his  house,  and  resigned  to  the  wide  at  every  period  duly  comparing  the  doc- 
world  with  little  or  nothing  to  trust  to.  trine  with  the  practice,  there  was  never 
Which  are  circumstances  that  render  3°  seen  a  wider  difference  between  two 
them  proper  subjects  for  the  charity  of  things;  horrible  downright  transgressions 
a  writer's  pen  to  work  on;  scenes  of  of  every  point.  Upon  which  they  both 
misery  ever  affording  the  fairest  harvest  resolved,  without  further  delay,  to  fall 
for  great  adventures.  And  in  this  the  mimediately  upon  reducing  the  whole  ex- 
world  may  perceive  the  difference  be-  3S  actly  after  their  father's  model, 
tween  the  integrity  of  a  generous  author  But  here  it  is  good  to  stop  the  hasty 

and  that  of  a  common  friend.  The  latter  reader,  ever  impatient  to  see  the  end  of 
is  observed  to  adhere  close  in  prosperity,  an  adventure  before  we  writers  can  duly 
but  on  the  decline  of  fortune  to  drop  sud-  prepare  him  for  it.  I  am  to  record  that 
denly  off.  Whereas  the  generous  author,  10  these  two  brothers  began  to  be  distin- 
iust  on  the  contrary,  finds  his  hero  on  the  guished  at  this  time  by  certain  names, 
dunghill,  from  thence  by  gradual  steps  gne  of  theni  desired  to  be  called  MAR- 
raises  him  to  a  throne,  and  then  im-  Tm,-*  and  the  other  took  the  appellation 
mediately  withdraws,  expecting  not  so  of  JACK.^  These  two  had  lived  in  much 
much  as  thanks  for  his  pains;  in  imita- 45  friendship  and  agreement  under  the 
tion  of  which  example,  I  have  placed  tyranny  of  their  brother  Peter,  as  it  is 
lord  Peter  in  a  noble  house,  given  him  a  the  talent  of  fellow-sufferers  to  do;  men 
title  to  .wear  and  money  to  spend.  There  in  misfortune  being  like  men  in  the 
I  shall  leave  him  for  some  time;  return-      dark,  to  whom  all  colors  are  the  same: 

so  but    when    they    came    forward    into    the 

1  Directed  penitents  not  to  trust  to  pardons  and  world,  and  began  tO  display  themselves 
absolutions  procured  for  money,  but  sent  them  to  ,^  ,^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^j^^  jj  ,^  ^j^^j^.  ^^^_ 
iiuplore    the   mercy    of    God,    from    whence   alone    re-                   .  i  itc 

mission  is  to  be  obtained.  plcxions     appeared     extremely    different; 

2  By    Peter's    dragoons    is    meant    the    civil    power,        which     the     present     pOStUre     of    their     af- 

whicii    those    princes    who    were    bigoted    to    the  55  £^j^j,    ^^^,^    ^l-,^^!    sudden    Opportunity    to 

Rnmi-h    superstition,    employed    rmauist    tlie    reform-  ,.  " 

^^  '  discover. 

*  The    Pope    shuts    all   who    dissent    from    him    out 
of    the    Church.  *  Martin    Luther.  "John    Calvin. 


But  here  the  severe  reader  may  justly  preserve  them  from  falHng.  Resolving, 
tax  me  as  a  writer  of  short  memory,  a  therefore,  to  rid  his  coat  of  a  great 
deficiency  to  which  a  true  modern  can-  quantity  of  gold-lace,  he  picked  up  the 
not  but  of  necessity  be  a  little  subject.  stitches  with  much  caution,  and  dili- 
Because  memory,  being  an  employment  5  gently  gleaned  out  all  the  loose  threads 
of  the  mind  upon  things  past,  is  a  as  he  went,  which  proved  to  be  a  work 
faculty  for  which  the  learned  in  our  illus-  of  time.  Then  he  fell  about  the  em- 
trious  age  have  no  manner  of  occasion,  broidered  Indian  figures  of  men,  women, 
who  deal  entirely  with  invention,  and  and  children;  against  which,  as  you  have 
strike  all  things  out  of  themselves,  or  at  lo  heard  in  its  due  place,  their  father's 
least  by  collision  from  each  other :  upon  testament  was  extremely  exact  and 
which  account  we  think  it  highly  reason-  severe;  these,  with  much  dexterity  and 
able  to  produce  our  great  forgetfulness  as  application,  were,  after  a  while,  quite 
an  argument  unanswerable  for  our  great  eradicated  or  utterly  defaced.  For  the 
wit.  1  ought  in  method  to  have  informed  if  rest,  where  he  observed  the  embroidery 
the  reader,  about  fifty  pages  ago,  of  a  fancy  to  be  worked  so  close  as  not  to  be  got 
lord  Peter  took,  and  infused  into  his  away  without  damaging  the  cloth,  or 
brothers,  to  wear  on  their  coats  whatever  where  it  served  to  hide  or  strengthen  any 
trimmings  came  up  in  fashion;  never  flaw  in  the  body  of  the  coat,  contracted 
pulling  off  any  as  they  went  out  of  the  20  by  the  perpetual  tampering  of  workmen 
mode,  but  keeping  on  all  together,  which  upon  it,  he  concluded  the  wisest  course 
amounted  in  time  to  a  medley  the  most  was  to  let  it  remain,  resolving  in  no  case 
antic  you  can  possibly  conceive ;  and  this  whatsoever  that  the  substance  of  the  stuff 
to  a  degree,  that  upon  the  time  of  their  should  suffer  injury ;  which  he  thought  the 
falling  out  there  was  hardly  a  thread  of  25  best  method  for  serving  the  true  intent 
the  original  coat  to  be  seen;  but  an  in-  and  meaning  of  his  father's  will.  And 
finite  quantity  of  lace,  and  ribbons,  and  this  is  the  nearest  account  I  have  been 
fringe,  and  embroidery,  and  points;  I  able  to  collect  of  Martin's  proceedings 
mean  only  those  tagged  with  silver,^  for  upon  this  great  revolution, 
the  rest  fell  off.  Now  this  material  cir-  3°  But  his  brother  Jack,  whose  adventures 
cumstance,  having  been  forgot  in  due  will  be  so  extraordinary  as  to  furnish  a 
place,  as  good  fortune  hath  ordered,  great  part  in  the  remainder  of  this  dis- 
comes  in  very  properly  here  when  the  course,  entered  upon  the  matter  with 
two  brothers  are  just  going  to  reform  other  thoughts  and  a  quite  dift'erent  spirit, 
their  vestures  into  the  primitive  state  35  For  the  memory  of  lord  Peter's  injuries 
prescribed   by  their   father's  will.  produced    a    degree    of   hatred    and    spite 

They  both  unanimously  entered  upon  which  had  a  much  greater  share  of  in- 
this  great  work,  looking  sometimes  on  citing  him  than  any  regards  after  his 
their  coats;  and  sometimes  on  the  will.  father's  commands;  since  these  appeared, 
Martin  laid  the  first  hand ;  at  one  twitch  4°  at  best,  only  secondary  and  subservient 
brought  off  a  large  handful  of  points;  to  the  other.  However,  for  this  medley 
and,  with  a  second  pull,  stripped  away  ten  of  humor'  he  made  a  shift  to  find  a  very 
dozen  yards  of  fringe.  But  when  he  had  plausible  name,  honoring  it  with  the  title 
gone  thus  far  he  demurred  a  while:  he  of  zeal;  which  is  perhaps  the  most  sig- 
knew  very  well  there  yet  remained  a  ^S  nificant  word  that  has  been  ever  yet 
great  deal  more  to  be  done ;  however,  the  produced  in  any  language :  as  I  think  I 
first  heat  being  over,  his  violence  began  have  fully  proved  in  my  excellent 
to  cool,  and  he  resolved  to  proceed  more  analytical  discourse  upon  that  subject; 
moderately  in  the  rest  of  the  work,  hav-  wherein  I  have  deduced  a  histori-theo- 
ing  already  narrowly  escaped  a  swinging  5°  physi-logical  account  of  zeal,  showing 
rent,  in  pulling  off  the  points,  which,  how  it  first  proceeded  from  a  notion  into 
being  tagged  with  silver  (as  we  have  a  word,  and  thence,  in  a  hot  summer, 
observed  before),  the  judicious  workman  ripened  into  a  tangible  substance.  This 
had,  with  much  sagacity,  double  sewn,  to      work,   containing  three   large  volumes   in 

5^  folio,    I    design    very    shortlv    to    publish 

^Points    tagged     with    silver    are    those    doctrines        ^       ^j^^    modern    way    of    subscription,    not 
that     promote     the     greatness     and     wealth     of     the  ,-     ,     .  1.1  1  -i-  1  r 

Church,    which    have    been    therefore    woven    deepest        doubtUlg    but    the    nobdlty    and    gentry    of 

into  the  body  of  popery.  the   land   will   give    me    all    possible   en- 


^lis  jvjiN/\i  n/\i\    ovviri 


couragement;  having-  had  already  such  a  their  actions  by  any  reflection  upon 
taste  of  what  I  am  able  perform.  Peter,    but    by    observing   the    rules    pre- 

I  record,  therefore,  that  brother  Jack,  scribed  in  their  father's  will.  That  he 
brimful  of  this  miraculous  compound,  re-  should  remember  Peter  was  still  their 
fleeting  with  in(lit;nation  upon  Peter's  5  brother,  whatever  faults  or  injuries  he 
tyranny,  and  farther  provoked  by  the  had  committed ;  and  therefore  they  should 
despondency  of  Martin,  prefaced  his  res-  by  all  means  avoid  such  a  thought  as 
olutions  to  this  purpose.  '  What,'  said  that  of  taking  measures  for  good  and 
he,  '  a  rogue  that  locked  up  his  drink,  evil  from  no  other  rule  than  of  opposi- 
turncd  away  our  wives,  cheated  us  of  our  lo  tion  to  him.  That  it  was  true,  the  testa- 
fortunes;  palmed  his  damned  crusts  upon  ment  of  their  good  father  was  very  exact 
us  for  mutton;  and  at  last  kicked  us  out  in  what  related  to  the  wearing  of  their 
of  doors;  must  we  be  in  his  fashions,  coats:  yet  it  was  no  less  penal  and  strict 
with  a  pox  ?  A  rascal,  besides,  that  all  in  prescribing  agreement,  and  friendship, 
the  street  cries  out  against.'  Having  15  and  affection  Ijetween  them.  And  there- 
thus  kindled  and  inflamed  himself  as  fore,  if  straining  a  point  were  at  all  dis- 
high  as  possible,  and  by  consequence  in  a  pensable,  it  would  certainly  be  so  rather 
delicate  temper  for  beginning  a  reforma-  to  the  advance  of  unity  than  increase  of 
tion,  he  set  about  the  work  immediately ;      contradiction. 

and  in  three  minutes  made  more  despatch  20  MARTIN  had  still  proceeded  as  gravely 
than  Martin  had  done  in  as  many  hours.  as  he  began,  and  doubtless  would  have 
For,  courteous  reader,  you  are  given  to  delivered  an  admirable  lecture  of  moral- 
understand  that  zeal  is  never  so  highly  ity,  which  might  have  exceedingly  con- 
obliged  as  when  you  set  it  a-tearing;  and  tributed  to  my  reader's  repose  both  of 
Jack,  who  doted  on  that  quality  in  him-  25  body  and  mind,  the  true  ultimate  end  of 
self,  allowed  it  at  this  time  its  full  swing.  ethics ;  but  Jack  was  already  gone  a 
Thus  it  happened  that,  stripping  down  a  flight-shot  beyond  his  patience.  And  as 
parcel  of  gold  lace  a  little  too  hastily,  in  scholastic  disputes  nothing  serves  to 
he  rent  the  main  body  of  his  coat  from  rouse  the  spleen  of  him  that  opposes  so 
top  to  bottom ;  and  whereas  his  talent  3°  much  as  a  kind  of  pedantic  affected 
was  not  of  the  happiest  in  taking  up  a  calmness  in  the  respondent ;  disputants 
stitch,  he  knew  no  better  way  than  to  being  for  the  most  part  like  unequal 
darn  it  again  with  packthread  and  a  scales,  where  the  gravity  of  one  side  ad- 
skewer.  But  the  matter  was  yet  in-  vances  the  lightness  of  the  other,  and 
finitely  worse  (I  record  it  with  tears)  35  causes  it  to  fly  up  and  kick  the  beam; 
when  he  proceeded  to  the  embroidery :  so  it  happened  here  that  the  weight  of 
for,  being  clumsy  by  nature,  and  of  Martin's  argument  exalted  Jack's  levity, 
temper  impatient;  withal,  beholding  mil-  and  made  him  fly  out,  and  spurn  against 
lions  of  stitches  that  required  the  nicest  his  brother's  moderation.  In  short.  Mar- 
hand  and  sedatest  constitution  to  extri-  40  tin's  patience  put  Jack  in  a  rage ;  but 
cate ;  in  a  great  rage  he  tore  off  the  whole  that  which  most  afflicted  him  was,  to 
piece,  cloth  and  all,  and  flung  them  into  observe  his  brother's  coat  so  well  reduced 
the  kennel,  and  furiously  thus  continu-  into  the  state  of  innocence ;  while  his 
ing  his  career:  *  Ah,  good  brother  Mar-  own  was  either  wholly  rent  to  his  shirt, 
tin,'  said  he,  '  do  as  I  do,  for  the  love  of  45  or  those  places  which  had  escaped  his 
God ;  strip,  tear,  pull,  rend,  flay  off  all,  cruel  clutches  were  still  in  Peter's  livery, 
that  we  may  appear  as  unlike  the  rogue  So  that  he  looked  like  a  drunken  beau, 
Peter  as  it  is  possible;  I  would  not  for  half  rifled  by  bullies;  or  like  a  fresh 
a  hundred  pounds  carry  the  least  mark  tenant  of  Newgate,  when  he  has  refused 
about  me  that  might  give  occasion  to  the  50  the  payment  of  garnish ;  or  like  a  dis- 
neighbors  of  suspecting  that  I  was  re-  covered  shoplifter,  left  to  the  mercy  of 
lated  to  such  a  rascal.'  But  Martin,  who  Exchange  women ;  or  like  a  bawd  in  her 
at  this  time  happened  to  be  extremely  old  velvet  petticoat,  resigned  into  the 
phlegmatic  and  sedate,  begged  his  secular  hands  of  the  mobile.  Like  any. 
brother,  of  all  love,  not  to  damage  his  55  or  like  all  these,  a  medley  of  rags,  and 
coat  by  any  means;  for  he  never  would  lace,  and  rents,  and  fringes,  unfortunate 
get  such  another:  desired  him  to  consider  Jack  did  now  appear:  he  would  have 
that   it   was   not   their   business   to   form      been   extremely   glad   to   see   his   coat   in 


the    condition   of    Martin's,    but    infinitely  section  xi 

gladder    to    find    that    of    Martin    in    the 

same    predicament    with    his.     However,  After    so    wide    a    compass    as    I    have 

since  neither  of  these  was  likely  to  come  wandered,  I  do  now  gladly  overtake  and 
to  pass,  he  thought  fit  to  lend  the  whole  5  close  in  with  my  subject,  and  shall 
business  another  turn,  and  to  dress  up  henceforth  hold  on  with  it  an  even  pace 
necessity  into  a  virtue.  Therefore,  after  to  the  end  of  my  journey,  except  some 
as  many  of  the  fox's  arguments  as  he  beautiful  prospect  appears  within  sight 
could  muster  up,  for  bringing  Martin  to  of  my  way;  whereof  though  at  present 
reason,  as  he  called  it ;  or,  as  he  meant  lo  I  have  neither  warning  nor  expectation, 
it,  into  his  own  ragged,  bobtailed  condi-  yet  upon  such  an  accident,  come  when  it 
tion;  and  observing  he  said  all  to  little  will,  I  shall  beg  my  reader's  favor  and 
purpose;  what,  alas!  was  left  for  the  company,  allowing  me  to  conduct  him 
forlorn  Jack  to  do,  but,  after  a  million  through  it  along  with  myself.  For  in 
of  scurrilities  against  his  brother,  to  run  15  writing  it  is  as  in  traveling;  if  a  man 
mad  with  spleen,  and  spite,  and  contradic-  is  in  haste  to  be  at  home  (which  I 
tion.  To  be  short,  here  began  a  mortal  acknowledge  to  be  none  of  my  case, 
breach  between  these  two.  Jack  went  having  never  so  little  business  as  when 
immediately  to  new  lodgings,  and  in  a  I  am  there),  and  his  horse  be  tired  with 
few  days  it  was  for  certain  reported  that  20  long  riding  and  ill  ways,  or  be  naturally 
he  had  run  out  of  his  wits.  In  a  short  a  jade,  I  advise  him  clearly  to  make  the 
time  after  he  appeared  abroad,  and  con-  straightest  and  the  commonest  road,  be 
firmed  the  report  by  falling  into  the  it  ever  so  dirty;  but  then  surely  we  must 
oddest  whimseys  that  ever  a  sick  brain  own  such  a  man  to  be  a  scurvy  com- 
conceived.  2";  panion   at  best;  he   spatters  himself  and 

And  now  the  little  boys  in  the  streets  his  fellow-travelers  at  every  step;  all 
began  to  salute  him  with  several  names.  their  thoughts,  and  wishes,  and  conversa- 
Sometimes  they  would  call  him  Jack  the  tion  turn  entirely  upon  the  subject  of 
bald;i  sometimes.  Jack  with  a  lantern;-  their  journey's  end;  and  at  every  splash 
sometimes,  Dutch  Jack ;  ^  sometimes,  30  and  plunge,  and  stumble,  they  heartily 
French  Hugh;*  sometimes,  Tom  the  wish  one  another  at  the  devil, 
beggar  ;s  and  sometimes.   Knocking   Tack  On    the    other    side,    when    a    traveler 

of  the  North.*5  And  it  was  under  "one,  and  his  horse  are  in  heart  and  plight, 
or  some,  or  all  of  these  appellations,  when  his  purse  is  full  and  the  day  before 
which  I  leave  the  learned  reader  to  de-  35  him,  he  takes  the  road  only  where  it  is 
termine,  that  he  has  given  rise  to  the  clean  and  convenient;  entertains  his  com- 
most  illustrious  and  epidemic  sect  of  pany  there  as  agreeably  as  he  can;  but, 
Aeolists;  who,  with  honorable  commem-  "Pon  the  first  occasion,  carries  them 
oration,  do  still  acknowledge  the  re-  ^lo^g  with  him  to  every  delightful  scene 
nowned  JACK  for  their  author  and  40  in  view,  whether  of  art,  of  nature,  or 
founder.  Of  whose  original,  as  well  as  of  both;  and  if  they  chance  to  refuse, 
principles,  I  am  now  advancing  to  gratify      9^1    of    stupidity   or   weariness,    let   them 

the  world  with  a  very  particular  account.      Jog  on   by   themselves   and   be  d n'd; 

he  '11   overtake   them   at  the   next  town ; 
-Melleo   contingens   cuncta    lepore.         "5  at    which    arriving,     he     rides     furiously 

[Touching     everything     with     a     honeyed       through;    the   men,    women   and   children, 
charm .       "^  ^       "^  -^  run  out  of  gaze ;  a  hundred  ^  noisy  curs 

run   barking   after   him,   of   which,   if   he 

,  ~.   ,  .     ^  ,  .      ,  ,        ,  , ,  honors    the    boldest    with    a    lash    of    his 

'  That   IS,    Calvin,    from    calf  us,    bald.  i  •         -^    •  i  r  . 

,  ,„    ^  ,  J        .        ^  ,.  ,  50  whip,   it  IS   rather  out   of  sport  than   re- 

All   those   who  pretend   to   mward   hght.  ^^^^^  .    ^^^^    ^j^^^j^    ^^^^    ^^^^^^^    ^^^^ 

bapists  "'    "'"   '"'   "''   '°   '"'   ^""      ^^^^   t°°   "^^'^   ^"   approach,    he    receives 

*The  Hu-uenots  ^    salute   on    the   chaps   by   an   accidental 

^^/^  ^"^"^"°  ^"  stroke    from    the    courser's    heels,    nor    is 

in  na^derwer'e'c^a,;:^:^'  "^"^^  ^°'"^  '^°""^""  55  fny  ground  lost  by  the  blow.  which  sends 

him   yelping   and   limping  home. 


'  John    Knox,    the   reformer   of    Scotland. 


'  By    these    are   meant    what   the   author    calls    the 
true    critics. 


^ii4  jvji\/A  1  n/\iN   :3vvif  i 


I  now  proceed  to  sum  up  the  singular  medicine.'  In  consequence  of  which  rap- 
adventures  of  my  renowned  Jack;  the  tures,  he  resolved  to  make  use  of  it  in 
state  of  whose  dispositions  and  fortunes  the  necessary  as  well  as  the  most  paltry 
the  careful  reader  does,  no  doubt,  most  occasions  of  life.'  ITe  had  a  way  of 
exactly  remember,  as  I  last  parted  vi'ith  5  working  it  into  any  shape  he  pleased;  so 
them  in  the  conclusion  of  a  former  sec-  that  it  served  him  for  a  nightcaj)  wlien 
tion.  Therefore,  his  next  care  must  be,  he  went  to  bed,  and  for  an  umbrella  in 
from  two  of  the  foregoing,  to  extract  a  rainy  weather.  He  would  lap  a  piece  of 
scheme  of  notions  that  may  best  fit  his  it  about  a  sore  toe,  or,  when  he  had  fits, 
understanding  for  a  true  relish  of  what  ,0  burn  two  inches  under  his  nose;  or,  if 
is   to   ensue.  anything     lay     heavy     on     his     stomach, 

JACK  had  not  only  calculated  the  first  scrape  ofif  and  swallow  as  much  of  tlie 
revolution  of  his  brain  so  prudently  as  powder  as  would  lie  on  a  silver  penny; 
to  give  rise  to  that  epidemic  sect  of  they  were  all  infallible  remedies.  With 
Aeolists.  Init  succeeding  also  into  a  new  ,5  analogy  to  these  refinements,  his  common 
and  strange  variety  of  conceptions,  the  talk  and  conversation  ran  wholly  in  the 
fruitfulness  of  his  imagination  led  him  phrase  of  his  will,  and  he  circumscribed 
into  certain  notions,  which,  although  in  the  utmost  of  his  eloquence  within  that 
appearance  very  unaccountable,  were  not  compass,  not  daring  to  let  slip  a  syllable 
without  their  mysteries  and  their  mean-  ^o  without  authority  from  thence.  .  .  . 
ings,  nor  wanted  followers  to  countenance  He  made  it  a  part  of  his  religion  never 

and  improve  them.  I  shall  therefore  be  to  say  grace  to  his  meat;-  nor  could  all 
extremely  careful  and  exact  in  recount-  the  world  persuade  him,  as  the  common 
ing  such  material  passages  of  this  nature  phrase  is,  to  eat  his  victuals  like  a  chris- 
as  I  have  been  able  to  collect,  either  from  25  tian.^ 

undoubted  tradition  or  indefatigable  read-  He  bore  a  strange  kind  of  appetite  to 

ing;  and  shall  describe  them  as  graph-  snap-dragon,*  and  to  the  livid  snuffs  of 
ically  as  it  is  possible,  and  as  far  as  a  burning  candle,  which  he  would  catch 
notions  of  that  height  and  latitude  can  and  swallow  with  an  agility  wonderful 
be  brought  within  the  compass  of  a  pen.  30  to  conceive;  and,  by  this  procedure. 
Nor  do  I  at  all  question  but  they  will  maintained  a  perpetual  flame  in  his  belly, 
furnish  plenty  of  noble  matter  for  such  which,  issuing  in  a  glowing  steam  from 
whose  converting  imaginations  dispose  both  his  eyes^  as  well  as  his  nostrils  and 
them  to  reduce  all  things  into  types;  his  mouth,  made  his  head  appear,  in  a 
who  can  make  shadows,  no  thanks  to  the  35  dark  night,  like  the  skull  of  an  ass, 
sun;  and  then  mould  them  into  sub-  wherein  a  roguish  boy  had  conveyed  a 
stances,  no  thanks  to  philosophy;  whose  farthing  candle,  to  the  terror  o'f  his 
peculiar  talent  lies  in  fixing  tropes  and  majesty's  liege  subjects.  Therefore,  he 
allegories  to  the  letter,  and  refining  what  made  use  of  no  other  expedient  to  light 
is  literal  into  figure  and  mystery.  4o  himself  home,  but  was  wont  to  say  that 

JACK  had  provided  a  fair  copy  of  his      a  wise  man  was  his  own  lantern, 
father's   will,   engrossed   in   form   upon   a  He  would  shut  his  eyes  as  he  walked 

large  skin  of  parchment;  and  resolving  along  the  streets,  and  if  he  happened  to 
to  act  the  part  of  a  most  dutiful  son,  he  bounce  his  head  against  a  post,  or  fall 
became  the  fondest  creature  of  it  im-  45  into  a  kennel,  as  he  seldom  missed  either 
aginable.  For  although,  as  I  have  often  to  do  one  or  both,  he  would  tell  the  gib- 
told    the    reader,    it    consisted    wholly    in 

certain    plain,    easy    directions,    about    the  'The    author     here     lashes     those     pretenders     to 

management     and    wearing    their     coats       Z^'^^s  Sn"., ^c^lons.'"""  ^"  "^'"^  '^'" 

with     legacies,     and  \  penalties     in     case     of  ?o       2  The    slovenly    way    of    receiving    the    sacrament 

obedience    or    neglect,    yet    he    began    to      among  the  fanatics. 

entertain    a    fancy    fflat    the    matter    was        , '  T'lis    is    a    common    phrase   to  _  express    eating 

1  111  \  1     ,1  1-  i        cleanly,   and   is   meant   for   an   mvective  against   that 

deeper  and  darker,  aikl  therefore  must  j^j^cent  manner  among  some  people  in  receiving 
needs  have  a  great  deal  "^OVe  of  mystery  the  sacrament;  so  in  the  lines  before,  which  is  tn 
at      the      bottom.      '  Gentlet^en,'      said      he,  55  t>e    imderstood    of    the    Dissenters    refusing    to    kneel 

'I    will    prove    this    very    skin    of    parch- 


the    sacrament 
.        -  J      1      1     ■  u  '  ^    cannot     well     find    ont    the    author's     meaning 

ment    to    be    meat,    drink,    and- cloth,    to    be        here,    unless   it    be    the    hot,    untimely,    bhnd    zeal    of 

the  philosopher's  stone  and  tlSe  universal      enthusiasts. 


ing  prentices  who  looked  on  that  he  giant  Laurcalco/  who  was  lord  of  the 
submitted  with  entire  resignation  as  to  silver  bridge.  Most  properly,  therefore, 
a  trip  or  a  blow  of  fate,  with  whom  he  O  eyes,  and  with  great  justice,  may  you 
found,  by  long  experience,  how  vain  it  be  compared  to  those  foolish  lights  which 
was  either  to  wrestle  or  to  cufif;  and  5  conduct  men  through  dirt  and  darkness, 
whoever  durst  undertake  to  do  either  till  they  fall  into  a  deep  pit  or  a  noisome 
would  be  sure  to  come  ofif  with  a  swing-      bog.' 

ing    fall    or    a    bloody    nose.     *  It    was  This  I  have  produced  as  a  scantling  of 

ordained,'  said  he,  '  some  few  days  be-  Jack's  great  eloquence,  and  the  force  of 
fore  the  creation,  that  my  nose  and  this  lo  his  reasoning  upon  such  abstruse  matters, 
very  post  should  have  a  rencounter ;  and  He  was,  besides,  a  person  of  great  de- 

therefore  nature  thought  fit  to  send  us  sign  and  improvement  in  affairs  of 
both  into  the  world  in  the  same  age,  and  devotion,  having  introduced  a  new  deity, 
to  make  us  countrymen  and  fellow-citi-  who  has  since  met  with  a  vast  number 
zens.  Now,  had  my  eyes  been  open,  15  of  worshippers;  by  some  called  Babel,  by 
it  is  very  likely  the  business  might  have  others  Chaos,  who  had  an  ancient  temple 
been  a  great  deal  worse;  for  how  many  of  Gothic  structure  upon  Salisbury  plain, 
a  confounded  slip  is  daily  got  by  a  man  famous  for  its  shrine  and  celebration  by 
with   all   this   foresight  about  him?     Be-      pilgrims. 

sides,  the  eyes  of  the  understanding  see  20  When  he  had  some  roguish  trick  to 
best  when  those  of  the  senses  are  out  play,-  he  would  down  with  his  knees,  up 
of  the  way;  and  therefore  blind  men  are  with  his  eyes,  and  fall  to  prayers,  though 
observed  to  tread  their  steps  with  much  in  the  midst  of  the  kennel.  Then  it  was 
more  caution,  and  conduct,  and  judg-  that  those  who  understood  his  pranks 
ment,  than  those  who  rely  with  too  much  25  would  be  sure  to  get  far  enough  out  of 
confidence  upon  the  virtue  of  the  visual  his  way;  and  whenever  curiosity  at- 
nerve,  which  every  little  accident  shakes  tracted  strangers  to  laugh  or  to  listen, 
out  of  order,  and  a  drop  or  a  film  can  he  would,  of  a  sjidden,  ...  all  be- 
wholly  disconcert;  like  a  lantern  among  spatter  them  with  mud. 
a  pack  of  roaring  bullies  when  they  3o  in  winter  he  went  always  loose  and 
scour  the  streets,  exposing  its  owner  and  unbuttoned,^  and  clad  as  thin  as  possible 
itself  to  outward  kicks  and  buffets,  which  to  let  in  the  ambient  heat;  and  in  summer 
both  might  have  escaped  if  the  vanity  lapped  himself  close  and  thick  to  keep  it 
of   appearing  would   have   suffered  them      out. 

to  walk  in  the  dark.  But  farther,  if  we  35  In  all  revolutions  of  government*  he 
examine  the  conduct  of  these  boasted  would  make  his  court  for  the  office  of 
lights,  it  will  prove  yet  a  great  deal  hangman  general;  and  in  the  exercise 
worse  than  their  fortune.  'T  is  true,  I  of  that  dignity,  where  he  was  very 
have  broke  my  nose  against  this  post,  dexterous,  would  make  use  of  no  other 
because  fortune  either  forgot,  or  did  not  40  vizard  ^  than  a  long  prayer, 
think  it  convenient,  to  twitch  me  by  the  He    had    a    tongue    so    musculous    and 

elbow,  and  give  me  notice  to  avoid  it.  subtile,  that  he  could  twist  it  up  into  his 
But  let  not  this  encourage  either  the  nose,  and  deliver  a  strange  kind  of 
present  age  or  posterity  to  trust  their  speech  from  thence.  He  was  also  the 
noses  into  the  keeping  of  their  eyes,  45  first  in  these  kingdoms  who  began  to 
which  may  prove  the  fairest  way  of  improve  the  Spanish  accomplishment  of 
losing  them  for  good  and  all.  For,  O  ye  braying;  and  having  large  ears,  perpetu- 
eyes,  ye  blind  guides;  miserable  guard-  ally  exposed  and  erected,  he  carried  his 
ians  are  ye  of  our  frail  noses ;  ye,  I  say,  art  to  such  perfection,  that  it  was  a  point 
who    fasten    upon    the    first    precipice    in  50 

view,    and    then    tow    our   wretched    willing  ^  Vide    [See]    Don    Quixote. 

bodies     after     VOU     to     the     very     brink     of  ,  'The    villainies    and    cruelties,    committed    by    en- 

.              -iS    i          1       I       ii     J.       -u    •    1         •  thusiasts  and   fanatics  among  us,   were  all  performed 

destruction.       But       alas  !       that       brmk       is  ^^^^^^  ^^e   disguise   of   religion   and   long   prayers, 

rotten,      our      feet      slip,      and      we      tumble  3  xhey    affect    differences    in    habit    and    behavior, 

down     prone     into     a     gulf,     without     one  55      *  They     are     severe     persecutors     and     all     in     a 

hospitable    shrub    in    the    way    to   break    the  ^°™  ,°L -^   if,   ^'confederates    went,     as    they 

fall  ;     a     fall     to     which     not     any     nose     Ot  called    it,    to   seek   the   Lord,    when    they    resolved    to 

mortal  make  is  equal,  except  that  of  tlic      murder  the  king. 


3i6  JONATHAN  SWIFT 


of  great  difficulty  to  ilistinguish,  either  by  procure  a  basting  sufficient  to  swell  up 
the  view  or  the  sound,  between  the  orig-  his  fancy  and  his  sides,  he  would  return 
inal  and  the  copy.  home    extremely    comforted,    and    full    of 

He  was  troubled  with  a  disease  reverse  terrible  accounts  of  what  he  had  under- 
to  that  called  the  stinging  of  the  taran-  5  gone  for  the  public  good.  '  Observe  this 
tula ;  and  would  run  dog-mad  at  the  noise  stroke,'  said  he,  showing  his  bare  shoul- 
of  music,  especially  a  pair  of  bagpipes.  ders;  'a  plaguy  janizary  gave  it  me  this 
But  he  would  cure  himself  again  by  tak-  very  morning,  at  seven  o'clock,  as,  with 
ing  two  or  three  turns  in  Westminster-  much  ado,  I  was  driving  of¥  the  great 
hall,  or  Billingsgate,  or  in  the  boarding-  lo  Turk.  Neighbors,  mind,  this  broken 
school,  or  the  Royal  Exchange,  or  a  state  head  deserves  a  plaster ;  had  poor  Jack 
coffee-house.  been    tender    of    his    noddle,    you    would 

He  was  a  person  that  feared  no  colors,  have  seen  the  pope  and  the  French  king, 
but  mortally  hated  all,  and,  upon  that  ac-  long  before  this  time  of  day,  among  your 
count,  bore  a  cruel  aversion  against  15  wives  and  your  warehouses.  Dear 
painters,^  insomuch  that,  in  his  parox-  christians,  the  great  Mogul  was  come  as 
ysms,  as  he  walked  the  streets,  he  would  far  as  Whitechapel,  and  you  may  thank 
have  his  pockets  loaden  with  stones  to  these  poor  sides  that  he  hath  not  (God 
pelt   at   the   signs.  bless    us!)     already    swallowed    up    man, 

Having,    from    this    manner    of    living,  20  woman,   and   child.' 
frequent    occasion    to    wash    himself,    he  It    was    highly    worth     observing    the 

would  often  leap  over  head  and  ears  into  singular  effects  of  that  aversion  *  or 
the  water,  though  it  were  in  the  midst  antipathy  which  Jack  and  his  brother 
of  the  winter,  but  was  always  observed  Peter  seemed,  even  to  an  affectation,  to 
to  come  out  again  much  dirtier,  if  pos-  25  bear  toward  each  other.  Peter  had 
sible,  than  he   went  in.  lately    done    some    rogueries    that    forced 

He  was  the  first  that  ever  found  out  him  to  abscond,  and  he  seldom  ventured 
the  secret  of  contriving  a  soporiferous  to  stir  out  before  night,  for  fear  of  bail- 
medicine  to  be  conveyed  in  at  the  ears ;  ^  iffs.  Their  lodgings  were  at  the  two 
it  was  a  compound  of  sulphur  and  balm  3o  most  distant  parts  of  the  town  from  each 
of  Gilead,  with  a  little  pilgrim's  salve.  other;   and   whenever   their   occasions    or 

He  wore  a  large  plaster  of  artificial  humors  called  them  abroad,  they  would 
caustics  on  his  stomach,  with  the  fervor  make  choice  of  the  oddest  unlikely  times, 
of  which  he  could  set  himself  a-groaning,  and  most  uncouth  rounds  they  could  in- 
like  the  famous  board  upon  application  35  vent,  that  they  might  be  sure  to  avoid 
of  a  red-hot  iron.  one   another;    yet,    after    all    this,    it    was 

He  would  stand  in  the  turning  of  a  their  perpetual  fortune  to  meet.  The 
street,  and,  calling  to  those  who  passed  reason  of  which  is  easy  enough  to  ap- 
by,  would  cry  to  one,  '  Worthy  sir,  do  prehend ;  for,  the  frenzy  and  the  spleen 
me  the  honor  of  a  good  slap  in  the  40  of  both  having  the  same  foundation,  we 
chaps.'  2  To  another,  '  Honest  friend,  may  look  upon  them  as  two  pair  of  com- 
pray  favor  me  with  a  handsome  kick  on  passes,  equally  extended,  and  the  fixed 
the  arse:  Madam,  shall  I  entreat  a  small  foot  of  each  remaining  in  the  same 
box  on  the  ear  from  your  ladyship's  fair  center,  which,  though  moving  contrary 
hands?  Noble  captain,  lend  a  reason- 45  ways  at  first,  will  be  sure  to  encounter 
able  thwack,  for  the  love  of  God,  with  somewhere  or  other  in  the  circumfer- 
that  cane  of  yours  over  these  poor  shoul-  ence.  Besides,  it  was  among  the  great 
ders.'  And  when  he  had,  by  such  misfortunes  of  Jack  to  bear  a  huge  per- 
earnest     solicitations,    made     a    shift    to      sonal      resemblance      with      his      brother 

so  Peter.     Their     humor     and     dispositions 

iThey  quarrel  at  the  most  innocent  decency  and  were  not  onlv  the  same,  but  there  was  a 
ornament,    and    defaced    the    statues    and    paintings        ^j^^^     analogy     in     their     shape,     and     size, 

"^SnaUcteTc^TnrcX'S- either  of  hell  and  and  their  mien.  Insomuch,  that  nothing 
damnation,    or   a    fulsome   descrii)tion   of   the   joys      was   niore    frcquent   than    for   a   bailiff  to 

of    heaven;    hoth    in    such    a    dirty,    nauseous    style,   55 

as   to   be    well    resembled   to   pilprim's   salve.  *  The    Papists    and    fanatics,    though    they    appear 

=  The  fanatics  have  always  had  a  way  of  affect-  the  most  averse  to  each  other,  yet  bear  a  near 
ing  to  run  into  persecution,  and  count  vast  merit  resemblance  in  many  things,  as  has  been  observed 
upon    every    little    hardship    they    suffer.  by    learned   men. 


, ^.    .^  ^  — J^^ 

seize    Jack    by    the    shoulder,     and    cry,      EflFugiet  tamen  haec  sceleratus  vincula  Pro- 
'  Mr.   Peter,  you  are  the  king's  prisoner.'  teas. 

Or,    at    other    times,    for    one    of    Peter's       [Still   wicked   Proteus  eludes  these  chains.] 
nearest  friends  to  accost  Jack  with  open 

arms,  '  Dear  Peter,  I  am  glad  to  see  5  It  is  good,  therefore,  to  read  the  max- 
thee ;  pray  send  me  one  of  your  best  ims  of  our  ancestors,  with  great  allow- 
medicines  for  the  worms.'  This,  we  may  ances  to  times  and  persons ;  for,  if  we 
suppose,  was  a  mortifying  return  of  look  into  primitive  records,  we  shall  find 
those  pains  and  proceedings  Jack  had  that  no  revolutions  have  been  so  great 
labored  in  so  long;  and  finding  how  10  or  so  frequent  as  those  of  human  ears, 
directly  opposite  all  his  endeavors  had  In  former  days  there  was  a  curious  in- 
answered  to  the  sole  end  and  intention  vention  to  catch  and  keep  them,  which 
which  he  had  proposed  to  himself,  how  I  think  we  may  justly  reckon  among  the 
could  it  avoid  having  terrible  effects  artcs  perditce  [lost  arts]  ;  and  how  can 
upon  a  head  and  heart  so  furnished  as  15  it  be  otherwise,  when  in  the  latter  cen- 
his?  However,  the  poor  remainders  of  turies  the  very  species  is  not  only  dimin- 
his  coat  bore  all  the  punishment;  the  ished  to  a  very  lamentable  degree,  but  the 
orient  sun  never  entered  upon  his  poor  remainder  is  also  degenerated  so 
diurnal  progress  without  missing  a  piece  far  as  to  mock  our  skilfullest  tenure? 
of  it.  He  hired  a  tailor  to  stitch  up  the  20  For,  if  the  only  slitting  of  one  ear  in 
collar  so  close  that  it  was  ready  to  a  stag  has  been  found  sufficient  to  prop- 
choke  him,  and  squeezed  out  his  eyes  agate  the  defect  through  a  whole  for- 
at  such  a  rate  as  one  could  see  nothing  est,  why  should  we  wonder  at  the 
but  the  white.  \Miat  little  was  left  of  greatest  consequences  from  so  many  lop- 
the  main  substance  of  the  coat  he  rub-  25  pings  and  mutilations  to  which  the  ears 
bed  every  day  for  two  hours  against  a  of  our  fathers,  and  our  own,  have  been 
rough-cast  wall,  in  order  to  grind  away  of  late  so  much  exposed?  It  is  true, 
the  remnants  of  lace  and  embroidery;  indeed,  that  while  this  island  of  ours  was 
but  at  the  same  time  went  on  with  so  under  the  dominion  of  grace,  many  en- 
niuch  violence  that  he  proceeded  a  3°  deavors  were  made  to  improve  the 
heathen  philosopher.  Yet,  after  all  he  growth  of  ears  once  more  among  us. 
could  do  of  this  kind,  the  success  con-  The  proportion  of  largeness  was  not  only 
tinued  still  to  disappoint  his  expecta-  looked  upon  as  an  ornament  of  the  out- 
tion.  For,  as  it  is  the  nature  of  rags  ward  man,  but  as  a  type  of  grace  in  the 
to  bear  a  kind  of  mock  resemblance  to  35  inward.  Lastly,  the  devouter  sisters, 
finery,  there  being  a  sort  of  fluttering  who  looked  upon  all  extraordinary  dilata- 
appearance  in  both  which  is  not  to  be  tions  of  that  member  as  protrusions  of 
distinguished  at  a  distance,  in  the  dark,  zeal,  or  spiritual  excrescences,  were 
or  by  short-sighted  eyes,  so,  in  those  sure  to  honor  every  head  they  sat  upon 
junctures,  it  fared  with  Jack  and  his  40  as  if  they  had  been  marks  of  grace ;  ^ 
tatters,  that  they  offered  to  the  first  view  but  especially  that  of  the  preacher, 
a  ridiculous  flaunting,  which,  assisting  whose  ears  were  usually  of  the  prime 
the  resemblance  in  person  and  air,  magnitude;  which,  upon  that  account, 
thwarted  all  his  projects  of  separation,  he  was  very  frequent  and  exact  in  ex- 
and  left  so  near  a  similitude  between  45  posing  with  all  advantages  to  the  peo- 
them  as  frequently  deceived  the  very  pie;  in  his  rhetorical  paroxysms  turning 
disciples  and  followers  of  both.  sometimes  to  hold  forth  the  one,  and 
sometimes  to  hold  forth  the  other:   from 

which    custom    the    whole    operation    of 

Desiint  non- 50  preaching    is    to    this    very    day,    among 

nulla  [something  is  wanting].         .  their    professors,    styled    by    the    phrase 

of   holding    forth. 

The  old  Sclavonian  proverb  said  well,  Such    was    the    progress   of   the   saints 

that  it  is  with  men  as  with  asses;  who-      for   advancing  the   size  of  that  member; 

ever   would   keep   them   fast   must   find   a  55  and  it  is  thought  the  success  would  have 

very    good    hold    at    their    ears.     Yet    I      been  every  way  answerable,  if,  in  proc- 

think    we    mav    affirm    that    it    hath    been         1  *<;    if   ,h^„    .,   .„.       , 

■r     ,    ,  -       ^    J  ,  As    It    they    had    been    cloven    tongues. —  First 

verified  by  repeated  experience  that—         Edition.  ^ 


3i8  JONATHAN  SWIFT 


ess  of  time,  a  cruel  king  had  not  risen, ^  all  due  points,  to  the  delicate  taste  of 
who  raised  a  bloody  persecution  against  this  our  noble  age.  But,  alas !  with  my 
all  ears  above  a  certain  standard;  upon  utmost  endeavors,  I  have  been  able  only 
which,  some  were  glad  to  hide  their  to  retain  a  few  of  the  heads.  Under 
flourishing  sprouts  in  a  black  border,  5  which,  there  was  a  full  account  how 
others  crept  wholly  under  a  periwig;  Peter  got  a  ])rotcction  out  of  the  king's 
some  were  slit,  others  cropped,  and  a  bench;  and  of  a  reconcilement-^  between 
great  number  sliced  off  to  the  stumps.  Jack  and  him,  upon  a  design  they  had, 
But  of  this  more  hereafter  in  my  general  in  a  certain  rainy  night,  to  trepan 
history  of  ears,  which  I  design  very  10  brother  Martin  into  a  spunging-house, 
speedily  to  bestow  upon  the  public.  and  there  strip  him  to  the  skin.  How 
From  this  brief  survey  of  the  falling  Martin,  with  much  ado,  showed  them 
state  of  ears  in  the  last  age,  and  the  both  a  fair  pair  of  heels.  How  a  new 
small  care  had  to  advance  their  ancient  warrant  came  out  against  Peter ;  upon 
growth  in  the  present,  it  is  manifest  how  15  which,  how  Jack  left  him  in  the  lurch, 
little  reason  we  can  have  to  rely  upon  stole  his  protection,  and  made  use  of  it 
a  hold  so  short,  so  weak,  and  so  slippery,  himself.  How  Jack's  tatters  came  into 
and  that  whoever  desires  to  catch  man-  fashion  in  court  and  city;  how  he  got 
kind  fast  must  have  recourse  to  some  upon  a  great  horse,*  and  eat  custard.^ 
other  methods.  Now,  he  that  will  20  But  the  particulars  of  all  these,  with 
examine  human  nature  with  circuraspec-  several  others  which  have  now  slid  out 
tion  enough  may  discover  several  handles,  of  my  memory,  are  lost  beyond  all  hopes 
whereof  the  six  -  senses  afford  one-  of  recovery.  For  which  misfortune, 
a-piece,  beside  a  great  number  that  are  leaving  my  readers  to  condole  with  each 
screwed  to  the  passions,  and  some  few  25  other,  as  far  as  they  shall  find  it  to  agree 
riveted  to  the  intellect.  Among  these  with  their  several  constitutions,  but  con- 
last,  curiosity  is  one,  and  of  all  others,  juring  them  by  all  the  friendship  that 
affords  the  firmest  grasp:  curiosity,  that  has  passed  between  us,  from  the  title- 
spur  in  the  side,  that  bridle  in  the  mouth,  page  to  this,  not  to  proceed  so  far  as  to 
that  ring  in  the  nose,  of  a  lazy  and  im- 30  injure  their  healths  for  an  accident  past 
patient  and  a  grunting  reader.  By  this  remedy  —  I  now  go  on  to  the  ceremonial 
handle  it  is,  that  an  author  should  seize  part  of  an  accomplished  writer,  and 
upon  his  readers;  which  as  soon  as  he  therefore,  by  a  courtly  modern,  least  of 
has  once  compassed,  all  resistance  and  all  others  to  be  omitted, 
struggling  are  in  vain;  and  they  become  35  *  *  *  ( i7oa^ 
his  prisoners  as  close  as  he  pleases,  till  \  /  ^J 
weariness    or    dulness    force    him    to    let 

go  his  grip.  A   MEDITATION   UPON   A   BROOM- 

"^  And   therefore,    I,    the    author    of   this  STICK,  according  to  the  style  and 

miraculous  treatise,   having  hitherto,  be-  40      manner  of  the   hon.   robert   boyle's 

yond     expectation,     maintained,     by     the  meditations 

aforesaid   handle,    a    firm    hold    upon    my  „,..,.,         ...                       , 

4.1          J         -4.  •        -a            ^      \     t.  This   smgle   stick,   which   you   now   bc- 

Sfentle  readers,  it  is  with  great  reluctance  ,    ,  ,    .      ,    9       ,      1   •        ■      ^:    ^         1     .   j 

f,    ^   T             ^1       *i                II  J   *             •*  nold   inglonously   lying   in   that   neglected 

that  I   am   at   length   compelled   to   remit  '='              j     j     ^                      & 

my     grasp;     leaving    them,    in    the    perusal  45       Mn      the     reign     of      King     James     the      Second 

of     what     remains,     to     that     natural     OSci-  ?''«       Presbyterians        by       the       king's       invitation, 

•    1             i^     •    ^1         i    •!_           T                      1  iomed      with      the      Papists,      against      the      Church 

fancy    inherent    in    the    tribe.      I    can    only  „f    England,    and    addressed    him    for    repeal    of    the 

assure     thee,     courteous     reader,     for     both  penal    laws    and    test.     The    king,    by    his    dispensins 

our     comforts,     that     mv     concern     is     alto-  power,     gave     liberty     of     conscience,     which     both 

gether   equal   to   thine    for   my   unhappineSS  ^of^T   ^^    Presbyterians    made    use    of;    but.    upon 

?     ,       .       ^               ...                    -^                ^'  -    the    Revolution,    the    Papists    being    down    of   course, 

in   losing,   or   mislaying   among  my    papers,  the    Presbyterians    freely   continued   their   assemblies, 

the      remaining     part     of     these     memoirs;  by    virtue    of    King   James's   indulgence,    before    they 

which    consisted    of    accidents,    turns,    and  '^^d   a   toleration   by   law.     This   I    believe   the   author 

adventures,     both     new,     agreeable,     and      Tking  le'^f  ft  SSr""'   ''■°""'°"'    ^"' 

surprising;     and     therefore     calculated,     m   55      *  SW     Humphry     Edwyn,     a     Presbyterian,     when 

lord-mayor    of    London,    in    1697,    had    the    insolence 

'  This   was    King   Charles   the    Second,   who,   at    his        to    go   in    his    formalities   to    a   conventicle,    with    the 
restoration,    turned    out    all    the    dissenting    teachers        ensigns    of    his    office, 
that   would    not   conform.  ''  Custard     is     a     famous     dish     at     a     lord-mayor's 

'  Including    Scaliger's.  feast. 


L\\jx  Kjjr\.i 


6^ 

corner,  I  once  knew  in  a  flourishing  kicked  out  of  doors,  or  made  use  of  to 
state  in  a  forest;  it  was  full  of  sap,  full  kindle  flames  for  others  to  warm  them- 
of  leaves,  and   full  of  boughs;   but  now      selves  by. 

in   vain   does   the    busy   art   of   man   pre-  (1704) 

tend   to    vie    with    nature,    by    tying   that    5 
withered   bundle   of   twigs   to   its   sajJess 

trunk;  'tis  now  at  best  but  the  reverse  A  MODEST  PROPOSAL 

of  what  it  was,  a  tree  turned  upside  for  preventing  the  children  of  poor 
down,    the    branches    on    the    earth,    and  people  in  irelanu  from  ueing  a  bur- 

the  root  in  the  air;  'tis  now  handled  10  den  to  their  parents  or  country, 
by  every  dirty  wench,   condemned  to  do  and  for  making  them  beneficial  to 

her  drudgery,   and,   by  a  capricious  kind  xhe  public 

of    fate,    destined    to    make    other    things 

clean,    and    be    nasty    itself;    at    length,  It  is  a  melancholy  object  to  those  who 

worn  to  the  stumps  in  the  service  of  15  walk  through  this  great  town  or  travel 
the  maids,  it  is  either  thrown  out  of  in  the  country,  when  they  see  the  streets, 
door,  or  condemned  to  the  last  use,  of  the  roads,  and  cabin  doors,  crowded  with 
kindling  a  lire.  When  I  beheld  this,  I  beggars  of  the  female  sex,  followed  by 
sighed,  and  said  within  myself:  three,  four,  or  six  children,  all  in  rags 
SURELY  MAN  IS  A  BROOMSTICK  !  20  and  importuning  every  passenger  for  an 
nature  sent  him  into  the  world  strong  alms.  These  mothers,  instead  of  being 
and  lusty,  in  a  thriving  condition,  wear-  able  to  work  for  their  honest  livelihood, 
ing  his  own  hair  on  his  head,  the  proper  are  forced  to  employ  all  their  time  in 
branches  of  this  reasoning  vegetable,  strolling  to  beg  sustenance  for  their  help- 
until  the  axe  of  intemperance  has  lopped  25  less  infants:  who  as  they  grow  up  either 
off  his  green  boughs,  and  left  him  a  turn  thieves  for  want  of  work,  or  leave 
withered  trunk;  he  then  flies  to  art,  and  their  dear  native  country  to  fight  for  the 
puts  on  a  periwig,  valuing  himself  upon  pretender  in  Spain,  or  sell  themselves  to 
an    unnatural    bundle    of    hairs,    all    cov-      the  Barbadoes. 

ered  with  powder,  that  never  grew  on  3o  I  think  it  is  agreed  by  all  parties  that 
his  head;  but  now  should  this  our  broom-  this  prodigious  number  of  children  in 
stick  pretend  to  enter  the  scene,  proud  the  arms,  or  on  the  backs,  or  at  the  heels 
of  those  birchen  spoils  it  never  bore,  of  their  mothers,  and  frequently  of  their 
and  all  covered  with  dust,  though  the  fathers,  is  in  the  present  deplorable  state 
sweepings  of  the  finest  lady's  chamber,  35  of  the  kingdom  a  very  great  additional 
Y/e  should  be  apt  to  ridicule  and  despise  grievance;  and,  therefore,  whoever  could 
its  vanity.  Partial  judges  that  we  are  find  out  a  fair,  cheap,  and  easy  method 
of  our  own  excellences,  and  other  men's  of  making  these  children  sound,  useful 
defaults !  members    of    the    commonwealth,    would 

But  a  broomstick,  perhaps  you  will  40  deserve  so  well  of  the  public  as  to  have 
•jay,  is  an  emblem  of  a  tree  standing  on  his  statue  set  up  for  a  preserver  of  the 
its   head;   and   pray,   what   is   man   but   a      nation. 

topsy-turvy  creature,  his  animal  faculties  But  my  intention  is  very  far  from  be- 

perpetually  mounted  on  his  rational;  his  ing  confined  to  provide  only  for  the  chil- 
head  where  his  heels  should  be,  grovel-  a'->  dren  of  professed  beggars ;  it  is  of  a 
ing  on  the  earth!  and  yet,  with  all  his  much  greater  extent,  and  shall  take  in 
faults,  he  sets  up  to  be  a  universal  re-  the  whole  number  of  infants  at  a  certain 
former  and  corrector  of  abuses,  a  re-  age  who  are  born  of  parents  in  effect 
mover  of  grievances;  rakes  into  every  as  little  able  to  support  them  as  those 
slut's  corner  of  nature,  bringing  hidden  50  who  demand  our  charity  in  the  streets, 
corruption     to    the     light,     and    raises    a  As  to  my  own  part,  having  turned  my 

mighty  dust  where  there  was  none  be-  thoughts  for  many  years  upon  this  im- 
fore;  sharing  deeply  all  the  while  in  portant  subject,  and  maturely  weighed 
the  very  same  pollutions  he  pretends  to  the  several  schemes  of  other  projectors, 
sweep  away:  his  last  days  are  spent  in  55  I  have  always  found  them  grossly  mis- 
slavery  to  women,  and  generally  the  least  taken  in  the  computation.  It  is  true,  a 
deserving,  till,  worn  out  to  the  stumps,  child  just  dropped  from  its  dam  maybe 
like     his     brother     besom,     he     is     either      supported   by   her   milk   for  a   solar   vear. 


320  JONATHAN  SWIFT 


with  little  other  nourishment;  at  most  the  age  of  six,  even  in  a  part  of  the  king- 
not  above  the  value  of  2s.,  which  the  dom  so  renowned  for  the  quickest  pro- 
mother   may   certainly    get,   or   the    value      ficiency  in  that  art. 

in    scraps,    by    her    lawful    occupation    of  I  am  assured  by  our  merchants,  that  a 

begging;  and  it  is  exactly  at  one  year  5  boy  or  a  girl  before  twelve  years  old  is 
old  that  I  propose  to  provide  for  them  no  salable  connnodity;  and  even  when 
in  such  a  manner  as  instead  of  being  a  they  come  to  this  age  they  will  not  yield 
charge  upon  their  parents  or  the  parish,  above  three  pounds,  or  three  jjounds  and 
or  wanting  food  and  raiment  for  the  rest  half-a-crown  at  most  on  the  exchange : 
of  their  lives,  they  shall  on  the  contrary  lo  which  cannot  turn  to  account  either  to 
contribute  to  the  feeding,  and  partly  to  the  parents  or  kingdom,  the  charge  of 
the    clothing,    of   many    tliousands.  nutriment  and  rags  having  been   at   least 

There    is*    likewise    another    great    ad-       four  times  that  value, 
vantage   in  my  scheme,  that  it  will  pre-  I   shall   now   therefore   humbly   propose 

vent   those  voluntary   abortions,  and   that  15  my  own  thoughts,  which  I  hope  will  not 
horrid     practice     of     women     murdering      be   liable   to   the  least  objection, 
their  bastard  children,  alas  !  too  frequent  I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  knowing 

among  us !  sacrificing  the  poor  innocent  American  of  my  acquaintance  in  London, 
babes  I  doubt  more  to  avoid  the  expense  that  a  young  healthy  child  well  nursed 
than  the  shame,  which  would  move  tears  20  is  at  a  year  old  a  most  delicious,  nourish- 
and  pity  in  the  most  savage  and  inhuman  ing,  and  wholesome  food,  whether  stewed, 
breast.  roasted,  baked,  or  boiled ;  and  I  make  no 

The  number  of  souls  in  this  kingdom  doubt  that  it  will  equally  serve  in  a 
being  usually  reckoned  one  million  and  fricassee  or  a  ragout. 
a  half,  of  these  I  calculate  there  may  be  25  I  do  therefore  humbly  offer  it  to  pub- 
about  two  hundred  thousarxi  couple  lie  consideration  that  of  the  hundred  and 
whose  wives  are  breeders;  from  which  twenty  thousand  children  already  com- 
number  I  subtract  thirty  thousand  couples  puted,  twenty  thousand  may  be  reserved 
who  are  able  to  maintain  their  own  chil-  for  breed,  whereof  only  one-fourth  part 
dren,  although  I  apprehend  there  cannot  Soto  be  males;  which  is  more  than  we  al- 
be  so  many,  under  the  present  distresses  low  to  sheep,  black  cattle  or  swine;  and 
of  the  kingdom ;  but  this  being  granted,  my  reason  is,  that  these  children  are 
there  will  remain  an  hundred  and  seventy  seldom  the  fruits  of  marriage,  a  circum- 
thousand  breeders.  I  again  substract  fifty  stance  not  much  regarded  by  our  savages, 
thousand  for  those  women  who  miscarry,  35  therefore  one  male  will  be  sufficient  to 
or  whose  children  die  by  accident  or  dis-  serve  four  females.  That  the  remaining 
ease  within  the  year.  There  only  re-  hundred  thousand  may,  at  a  year  old,  be 
mains  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  offered  in  the  sale  to  the  persons  of 
children  of  poor  parents  annually  born,  quality  and  fortune  through  the  kingdom ; 
The  question  therefore  is.  how  this  num- 40  always  advising  the  mother  to  let  them 
bar  shall  be  reared  and  provided  for,  suck  plentifully  in  the  last  month,  so  as 
which,  as  I  have  already  said,  under  the  to  render  them  plump  and  fat  for  a  good 
present  situation  of  affairs,  is  utterly  table.  A  child  will  make  two  dishes  at 
impossible  by  all  the  methods  hitherto  an  entertainment  for  friends;  and  when 
proposed.  For  we  can  neither  employ  4S  the  family  dines  alone,  the  fore  or  hind 
them  in  handicraft  or  agriculture;  we  quarter  will  make  a  reasonable  dish,  an.! 
neither  build  houses  (I  mean  in  the  seasoned  with  a  little  pepper  or  salt  will 
country)  nor  cultivate  land:  they  can  be  very  good  boiled  on  the  fourth  dav, 
very  seldom  pick  up  a  livelihood  by  steal-      especially  in  winter. 

ing^  till  they  arrive  at  six  years  old,  except  so      I  have  reckoned  upon  a  medium  that  a 
where  they  are  of  towardly  parts,  although      child    just    born    will    weigh    12    pounds, 
I  confess  they  learn  the  rudiments  much      and   in   a   solar  year,   if  tolerably  nursed, 
earlier,  during  which  time,  they  can  how-      increaseth  to  28  pounds, 
ever    be    properly    looked    upon    only    as  I    grant    this    food    will    be    somewhat 

probationers,  as  I  have  been  informed  by  '''  dear,  and  therefore  very  proper  for  land- 
a  principal  gentleman  in  the  county  of  lords,  who,  as  they  have  already  devoured 
Cavan,  who  protested  lo  me  that  he  never      most  of  the  parents,  seem  to  have  the  best 


knew  above  one  or  two  instances  imder      title  to  the  children. 


Infant's  flesh  will  be  in  season  through-  ents,  if  alive,  or  otherwise  by  their  near- 
out  the  year,  but  more  plentiful  in  March,  est  relations.  But  with  due  deference  to 
and  a  little  before  and  after;  for  we  are  so  excellent  a  friend  and  so  deserving  a 
told  by  a  grave  author,  an  eminent  patriot,  I  cannot  be  altogether  in  his 
French  physician,  that  fish  being  a  pro-  5  sentiments ;  for  as  to  the  males,  my 
lific  diet,  there  are  more  children  born  American  acquaintance  assured  me/from 
in  Roman  Catholic  countries  about  nine  frequent  experience,  that  their  flesh  was 
months  after  Lent  than  at  any  other  generally  tough  and  lean,  like  that  of  our 
season;  therefore,  reckoning  a  year  after  school-boys  by  continual  exercise,  and 
Lent,  the  markets  will  be  more  glutted  lo  their  taste  disagreeable;  and  to  fatten 
than  usual,  because  the  number  of  popish  them  would  not  answer  the  charge. 
infants  is  at  least  three  to  one  in  this  Then  as  to  the  females,  it  would,  I  think, 
kingdom:  and  therefore  it  will  have  one  with  humble  submission  be  a  loss  to  the 
other  collateral  advantage,  by  lessening  public,  because  they  soon  would  become 
the  number  of  papists  among  us.  15  breeders  themselves ;  and  besides^  it  is  not 

I  have  already  computed  the  charge  of  improbable  that  some  scrupulous  people 
nursing  a  beggar's  child  (in  which  list  might  be  apt  to  censure  such  a  practice 
I  reckon  all  cottagers,  laborers,  and  four-  (although  indeed  very  unjustly),  as  a 
fifths  of  the  farmers)  to  be  about  two  little  bordering  upon  cruelty;  which,  I 
shillings  per  annum,  rags  included;  and  20  confess,  hath  always  been  with  me  the 
I  believe  no  gentleman  would  repine  to  strongest  objection  against  any  project, 
give  ten  shillings  for  the  carcass  of  a  however  so  well  intended, 
good    fat    child,    which,    as    I    have    said,  But   in   order  to  justify  my   friend,   he 

will  make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutri-  confessed  that  this  expedient  was  put 
tive  meat,  when  he  hath  only  some  par-  25  into  his  head  by  the  famous  Psalmanazar, 
ticular  friend  or  his  own  family  to  dine  a  native  of  the  island  Formosa,  who  came 
with  him.  Thus  the  squire  will  learn  to  from  thence  to  London  above  twenty 
be  a  good  landlord,  and  grow  popular  years  ago,  and  in  conversation  told  my 
.  among  his_  tenants ;  the  mother  will  have  friend,  that  in  his  country  when  any 
eight  shillings  net  profit,  and  be  fit  for  30  young  person  happened  to  be  put  to  death, 
work  till   she  produces   another  child.  the   executioner   sold   the   carcass   to   per- 

Those  who  are  more  thrifty  (as  I  must  sons  of  quality  as  a  prime  dainty;  and 
confess  the  times  require)  may  flay  the  that  in  his  time  the  body  of  a  plump 
carcass;  the  skin  of  which  artificially  girl  of  fifteen,  who  was  crucified  for  an 
dressed  will  make  admirable  gloves  for  35  attempt  to  poison  the  emperor,  was  sold 
ladies,  and  summer  boots  for  fine  gentle-  to  his  imperial  majesty's  prime  minister 
men.  '      of   state,    and  other   great   mandarins   of 

As  to  our  city  of  Dublin,  shambles  may  the  court,  in  joints  from  the  gibbet,  at 
be  appointed  for  this  purpose  in  the  most  four  hundred  crowns.  Neither  indeed 
convenient  parts  of  it,  and  butchers  we  40  can  I  deny,  that  if  the  same  use  were 
may  be  assured  will  not  be  wanting;  al-  made  of  several  plump  young  girls  in 
though  I  rather  recommend  buying  the  this  town,  who  without  one  single  groat 
children  alive  than  dressing  them  hot  to  their  fortunes  cannot  stir  abroad 
from  the  knife  as  we  do  roasting  pigs.  without  a  chair,  and  appear  at  playhouse 

A  very  worthy  person,  a  true  lover  of  45  and   assemblies   in    foreign   fineries   which 
his   country,   and  whose  virtues   I   highly      they    never    will    pay    for,    the    kingdom 
esteem,  was  lately  pleased  in  discoursing      would  not  be  the  worse. 
on  this  matter  to  offer  a  refinement  upon  Some    persons    of    a    desponding    spirit 

my  scheme.  He  said  that  many  gentle-  are  in  great  concern  about  that  vast 
men  of  this  kingdom,  having  of  late  de-  50  number  of  poor  people,  who  are  aged, 
stroyed  their  deer,  he  conceived  that  the  diseased,  or  maimed,  and  I  have  been 
want  of  venison  might  be  well  supplied  desired  to  employ  my  thoughts  what 
by  the  bodies  of  young  lads  and  maidens,  course  may  be  taken  to  case  the  nation 
not  exceeding  fourteen  years  of  age  nor  of  so  grievous  an  encumbrance.  But  I 
under  twelve ;  so  great  a  number  of  both  55  am  not  in  the  least  pain  upon  that  matter, 
sexes  in  every  country  being  now  ready  because  it  is  very  well  known  that  they 
to  starve  for  want  of  work  and  service ;  are  every  day  dying  and  rotting  by  cold 
and  these  to  be  disposed  of  by  their  par-      and  famine,  and  filth  and  vermin,  as  fast 


3^^ J^^-^----^-^-       ^.,.x     X 

as  can  be  reasonably  expected.  And  as  gentlemen,  vvlio  justly  value  themselves 
to  the  young  laborers,  they  are  now  in  as  upon  their  knowledge  in  good  eating: 
hopeful  a  condition;  they  cannot  get  and  a  skilful  cook,  who  understands  how 
work,  and  consequently  pine  away  for  to  oblige  his  guests,  will  contrive  to  make 
want' of  nourishment,  to  a  degree  that  if  sit  as  expensive  as  they  please, 
at   any   time   they   are   accidentally   hired  Sixthly,  This  would  be  a  great  induce- 

to  common  labor,  they  have  not  strength  ment  to  marriage,  which  all  wise  nations 
to  perform  it;  and  thus  the  country  and  have  either  encouraged  by  rewards  or 
themselves  are  happily  delivered  from  the  enforced  by  laws  and  penalties.  It  would 
evils  to  come.  '°  increase     the     care     and     tenderness     of 

I  have  too  long  digressed,  and  therefore  mothers  toward  their  children,  when 
shall  return  to  my  subject.  I  think  the  they  were  sure  of  a  settlement  for  life 
advantages  by  the  proposal  which  I  have  to  the  poor  babes,  provided  in  some  sort 
made  are  obvious  and  many,  as  well  as  by  the  public,  to  their  annual  profit  in- 
of  the  highest  importance.  15  stead    of    expense.     We    should    see    an 

For  first,  as  I  have  already  observed,  honest  emulation  among  the  married 
it  would  greatly  lessen  the  number  of  women,  which  of  them  could  bring  the 
papists,  with  whom  we  are  yearly  over-  fattest  child  to  the  market.  Men  would 
run,  being  the  principal  breeders  of  the  become  as  fond  of  their  wives  during  the 
nation  as  well  as  our  most  dangerous  20  time  of  their  pregnancy  as  they  are  now 
enemies;  and  who  stay  at  home  on  pur-  of  their  mares  in  foal,  their  cows  in  calf, 
pose  with  a  design  to  deliver  the  king-  their  sows  when  they  are  ready  to  far- 
dom  to  the  pretender,  hoping  to  take  their  row;  nor  ofYer  to  beat  or  kick  them  (as  is 
advantage  by  the  aljsence  of  so  many  too  frequent  a  practice)  for  fear  of  a 
good  protestants,  who  have  chosen  rather  25  miscarriage. 

to  leave  their  country  than  stay  at  home  Many  other  advantages  might  be  enu- 

and  pay  tithes  against  their  conscience  merated.  For  instance,  the  addition  of 
to   an  episcopal   curate.  some  thousand  carcasses  in  our  exporta- 

Secondly,  The  poorer  tenants  will  have  tion  of  barreled  beef,  the  propagation  of 
;-:omething  valuable  of  their  own,  which  r^  swine's  flesh,  and  improvement  in  the  art 
by  law  may  be  made  liable  to  distress  of  making  good  bacon,  so  much  wanted 
und  help  to  pay  their  landlord's  rent,  among  us  by  the  great  destruction  of  pigs, 
their  corn  and  cattle  being  already  seized,  too  frequent  at  our  tables;  which  are  no 
ind  money  a  thing  unknown.  way  comparable  in  taste  or  magnificence 

Thirdly,  Whereas  the  maintenance  of  3S  to  a  well-grown,  fat,  yearling  child,  which 
an  hundred  thousand  children,  from  two  roasted  whole  will  make  a  consideral)le 
years  old  and  upward,  cannot  be  com-  figure  at  a  lord  mayor's  feast  or  any  other 
puted  at  less  than  ten  shillings  a-piece  public  entertainment.  But  this  and  many 
per  annum,  the  nation's  stock  will  be  others  I  omit,  being  studious  of  brevity, 
thereby  increased  fifty  thousand  pounds  4°  Supposing  that  one  thousand  families 
per  annum,  beside  the  profit  of  a  new  in  this  city  would  be  constant  customers 
dish  introduced  to  the  tables  of  all  gentle-  for  infants'  flesh,  beside  others  who  might 
men  of  fortune  in  the  kingdom  who  have  have  it  at  merry-meetings,  particularly 
any  refinement  in  taste.  And  the  money  weddings  and  christenings,  I  compute  that 
will  circulate  among  ourselves,  the  goods  4S  Dublin  would  take  off  annually  about 
being  entirely  of  our  own  growth  and  twenty  thousand  carcasses;  and  the  rest 
manufacture.  of  the  kingdom  (where  probably  they  will 

Fourthly,  The  constant  breeders,  beside  be  sold  somewhat  cheaper)  the  remaining 
the    gain    of   eight    shillings    sterling   per      eighty   thousand. 

aimum  by  the  sale  of  their  children,  will  5°  I  can  think  of  no  one  objection  that 
be  rid  of  the  charge  of  maintaining  them  will  possibly  be  raised  against  this  pro- 
after  the  first  year.  posal,  unless  it  should  be  urged  that  the 

Fifthly,  This  food  would  likewise  bring  number  of  people  will  be  thereby  much 
great  custom  to  taverns ;  where  the  vint-  lessened  in  the  kingdom.  This  I  freely 
ners  will  certainly  be  so  prudent  as  to  5S  own,  and  was  indeed  one  principal  de- 
procure  the  best  receipts  for  dressing  it  sign  in  offering  it  to  the  world.  I  desire 
to  perfection,  and  consequently  have  the  reader  will  observe,  that  I  calculate 
their    houses    frequented    by    all    the    fine      my  remedy  for  this  one  individual  king- 


dom  of  Ireland  and  for  no  other  that  ever  glad  to  eat  up  our  whole  nation  without 
was,  is,  or  I  think  ever  can  be  upon  earth.      it. 

Therefore  let  no  nian  talk  to  me  of  other  After   all,    I    am    not    so   violently    bent 

expedients:  of  taxing  our  absentees  at  upon  my  own  opinion  as  to  reject  any 
five  shillings  a  pound;  of  using  neither  s  offer  proposed  by  wise  men,  which  shall 
clothes  nor  household  furniture  except  be  found  equally  innocent,  cheap,  easy, 
what  is  of  our  own  growth  and  manu-  and  effectual.  But  before  something  of 
facture;  of  utterly  rejecting  the  materials  that  kind  shall  be  advanced  in  contradic- 
and  instruments  that  promote  foreign  tion  to  my  scheme,  and  offering  a  better, 
luxury;  of  curing  the  expensivencss  of  lo  I  desire  the  author  or  authors  will  be 
pride,  vanity,  idleness,  and  gaming  in  our  pleased  maturely  to  consider  two  points, 
women;  of  introducing  a  vein  of  parsi-  First,  as  things  now  stand,  how  they  will 
mony,  prudence,  and  temperance;  of  be  able  to  find  food  and  raiment  for  an 
learning  to  love  our  country,  wherein  we  hundred  thousand  useless  mouths  and 
differ  even  from  Laplanders  and  the  ;-,  lacks.  And  secondly,  there  being  a 
inhabitants  of  Topinamboo;  of  quitting  round  million  of  creatures  in  human 
our  animosities  and  factions,  nor  act  any  figure  throughout  this  kingdom,  whose 
longer  like  the  Jews,  who  were  murdering  whole  subsistence  put  into  a  common 
one  another  at  the  very  moment  their  city  stock  would  leave  them  in  debt  two  mil- 
was  taken;  of  being  a  little  cautious  not  20  lions  of  pounds  sterling,  adding  those  who 
to  sell  our  country  and  conscience  for  are  beggars  by  profession  to  the  bulk  of 
nothing;  of  teaching  landlords  to  have  farmers,  cottagers,  and  laborers,  with 
at  least  one  degree  of  mercy  toward  their  their  wives  and  children  who  are  beggars 
tenants;  lastly,  of  putting  a  spirit  of  in  effect:  I  desire  those  politicians  who 
honesty,  industry,  and  skill  into  our  shop-  2s  dislike  my  overture,  and  may  perhaps  be 
keepers;  who,  if  a  resolution  could  now  so  bold  as  to  attempt  an  answer,  that 
be  taken  to  buy  only  our  native  goods,  they  will  first  ask  the  parents  of  these 
would  immediately  unite  to  cheat  and  ex-  mortals,  w^hether  they  would  not  at  this 
act  upon  us  in  the  price,  the  measure,  and  day  think  it  a  great  happiness  to  have 
the  goodness,  nor  could  ever  yet  be  30  been  sold  for  food  at  a  year  old  in  the 
brought  to  make  one  fair  proposal  of  just  manner  I  prescribe,  and  thereby  have 
dealing,  though  often  and  earnestly  in-  avoided  such  a  perpetual  scene  of  mis- 
vited  to  it.  fortunes  as  they  have  since  gone  through 

Therefore  I  repeat,  let  no  man  talk  by  the  oppression  of  landlords,  the  im- 
to  me  of  these  and  the  like  expedients,  till  3S  possibility  of  paying  rent  without  money 
he  hath  at  least  some  glimpse  of  hope  that  or  trade,  the  want  of  common  sustenance, 
there  will  be  ever  some  hearty  and  sincere  with  neither  house  nor  clothes  to  cover 
attempt   to   put  them   in  practice.  them     from     the     inclemencies     of     the 

But  as  to  myself,  having  been  wearied      weather,  and  the  most  inevitable  prospect 
out    for   many   years   with    offering   vain,  40  of  entailing  the   like  or  greater   miseries 
idle,    visionary    thoughts,    and    at    length      upon  their  breed  for  ever, 
utterly  despairing  of  success  I  fortunately  I  profess,  in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart, 

fell  upon  this  proposal;  which,  as  it  is  that  I  have  not  the  least  personal  interest 
wholly  new,  so  it  hath  something  solid  in  endeavoring  to  promote  this  necessary 
and  real,  of  no  expense  and  little  trouble,  45  work,  having  no  other  motive  than  the 
full  in  our  own  power,  and  whereby  we  public  good  of  my  country,  by  advancing 
can  incur  no  danger  in  disobliging  Eng-  our  trade,  providing  for  infants,  reliev- 
land.  For  this  kind  of  commodity  will  ing  the  poor,  and  giving  some  pleasure 
not  bear  exportation,  the  flesh  being  of  to  the  rich.  I  have  no  children  by  which 
too  tender  a  consistence  to  admit  a  long  50  I  can  propose  to  get  a  single  penny;  the 
continuance  in  salt,  although  perhaps  I  youngest  being  nine  years  old,  and  my 
could    name    a    country    wdiich    would    be      wife  past  child-bearing. 

(1729) 

55 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE  (1672-1729) 

Steele,  like  Swift,  was  born  in  Dublin.  He  passed,  with  Addison,  through  Charterhouse 
School  to  Oxford,  but  soon  left  the  university  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  amiy.  By  1701,  he 
had  gained  a  captaincy  in  the  Tower  Guards  and  was  a  vivacious  figure  among  the  wits  who 
haunted  the  coffee-houses,  clubs,  and  theaters  of  London.  Several  comedies,  in  which  he 
made  a  manly  and  effective  effort  to  win  a  place  for  decency  on  the  English  stage,  were  still 
sprightly  enough  to  sustain  his  reputation  as  a  wit  and  good  fellow.  He  was  soon  taken  on 
by  the  government  and,  in  1707,  was  commissioned  to  write  The  Gazette.  While  ofhcially 
'  keeping  that  paper  very  innocent  and  very  insipid,'  Steele  discovered  the  possibilities  of 
periodical  writing.  Two  years  later  he  began  The  Tatler,  picking  up  as  a  disguise  the  char- 
acter of  a  fictitious  astrologer,  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  which  Swift  had  let  drop  after  provoking 
the  town  to  hilarious  scoffing  at  one  Partridge,  an  almanac-maker.  Addison  soon  penetrated 
the  disguise  and  was  eagerly  welcomed  as  a  contributor.  After  about  a  year,  Steele  and 
Addison  together  devised  the  more  commodious  plan  of  The  Spectator.  The  novel  periodical 
created  and  supplied  a  new  kind  of  literary  demand.  Its  freedom  from  party  bias,  and  the 
penetrating  and  yet  urbane  irony  of  its  portrayals  and  criticisms  of  English  manners  gave 
it  a  wide  appeal.  The  Spectator  became  a  part  of  the  'tea-equipage'  in  London  clubs  and 
coffee-houses  and  wide-awake  provincial  homes.  It  turned  out  a  valuable  pecuniary  asset ; 
but  the  partnership  did  not  last.  Steele  was  a  turbulent  politician;  Addison  disapproved  of 
his  factious  spirit;  and,  after  the  earlier  numbers  of  The  Guardian  (1713),  they  ceased  to 
collaborate.  None  of  the  later  periodicals  of  either  approximated  the  success  of  The  Spectator. 
Steele  was  now  approaching  the  liveliest  part  of  his  life.  He  had  a  stormy  parliamentary 
experience,  was  made  supervisor  of  the  Drury  Lane  Theater,  and  George  I  knighted  him  for 
energetic  championship  of  the  Hanoverian  succession. 

His  prosperity  was  brief,  however.  Through  his  opposition  to  the  Peerage  Bill  (1719),  he 
lost  the  support  of  his  party  and  received  some  sore  knocks  from  his  old  friend.  He  was 
frequently  in  money  difficulties,  and  finally,  broken  in  health  as  well  as  fortune,  he  took  refuge 
in  Wales,  not  as  Swift  venomously  rimed,  '  from  perils  of  a  hundred  gaols,'  but  from  the 
expenses  of  a  London  establishment,  so  that  his  debts  might  be  paid  before  his  death.  Steele's 
Irish  imprudences  are  sometimes  exaggerated  for  the  sake  of  contrasting  him  with  Addison. 
He  was  not,  in  practice,  above  the  fashionable  vices  of  his  times,  and  he  was  sinfully  reckless 
in  money  matters.  He  was,  nevertheless,  a  sincere  champion  of  virtue  and  lover  of  piety; 
he  was  chivalrous  toward  women,  generous  and  forgiving  toward  his  friends,  and  intrepid 
where  his  political  conscience  was  involved.  The  uncalculating  prodigality  and  sweetness  of  his 
nature  are  reflected  in  his  pages,  and  have  made  many  besides  Thackeray  '  own  to  liking  Dick 
Steele  the  man,  and  Dick  Steele  the  author,  much  better  than  much  better  men  and  much 
better  authors.' 


From  THE  TATLER  public-spirited    as   to    neglect    their    own 

affairs  to  look  into  transactions  of  state. 

[N^o-   !•]  Now^  these  gentlemen,  for  the  most  part, 

THE  ADVERTISEMENT  being   persons   of    strong   zeal   and   weak 

5  intellects,  it  is  both  a  charitable  and 
Though  the  other  papers  which  are  necessary  work  to  offer  something 
published  for  the  use  of  the  good  people  whereby  such  worthy  and  well-aftectcd 
of  England  have  certainly  very  whole-  members  of  the  commonwealth  may  be 
some  effects  and  are  laudable  in  their  instructed,  after  their  reading,  what  to 
particular  kinds,  they  do  not  seem  to  lo  think;  which  shall  be  the  end  and  pur- 
come  up  to  the  main  design  of  such  pose  of  this  my  paper,  wherein  I  shall 
narrations,  which,  I  humbly  presume,  from  time  to  time  report  and  consider 
should  be  principally  intended  for  the  all  matters  of  what  kind  soever  that  shall 
use     of     politic     persons,     who     are     so      occur  to  me,  and  publish  such  my  advices 

324 


and   reflections   every   Tuesday,  Thursday      casting  a  figure,  tell  you  all  that  will  hap- 
and   Saturday   in   the  week,   for  the   con-      pen  before  it  comes  to  pass, 
venience   of   the   post.     I   resolve   also   to  But   this   last    faculty   I   shall   use   very 

have  something  which  may  be  of  enter-  sparingly,  and  speak  but  of  few  things 
tainment  to  the  fair  sex,  in  honor  of  s  until  they  are  passed,  for  fear  of  divulg- 
whom  I  have  invented  the  title  of  this  ing  matters  which  may  offend  our  supe- 
paper.     I    therefore    earnestly    desire    all      riors.  Tuesday,  April  12,  1709. 

persons,  without  distinction,  to  take  it  in  ♦     *     * 

for  the  present  gratis,  and  hereafter  at 
the    price    of    one    penny,    forbidding    all  10  j-^,        „    ^ 
hawkers  to  take  more  for  it  at  their  peril.       l-^°'  ^°^-] 

And  I  desire  all  persons  to  consider  that  A.  RECOLLECTION 

I  am  at  a  very  great  charge  for  proper 

materials   for  this  work,  as  well  as  that.  The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew 

before  I  resolved  upon  it,  I  had  settled  15  was  upon  the  death  of  my  father,  at 
a  correspondence  in  all  parts  of  the  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five  years  of 
known  and  knowing  world.  And  foras-  age;  but  was  rather  amazed  at  what  all 
much  as  this  globe  is  not  trodden  upon  the  house  meant  than  possessed  with  a 
by  mere  drudges  of  business  only,  but  real  understanding  why  nobody  was  will- 
that  men  of  spirit  and  genius  are  justly  20  ing  to  play  with  me.  I  remember  I  went 
to  be  esteemed  as  considerable  agents  in  into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  and  my 
it,  we  shall  not  upon  a  dearth  of  news  mother  sat  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had 
present  you  with  musty  foreign  edicts,  or  my  battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-beat- 
dull  proclamations,  but  shall  divide  our  ing  the  coffin,  and  calling  'Papa';  for  I 
relation  of  the  passages  which  occur  in  25  know  not  how,  I  had  some  slight  idea 
action  or  discourse  throughout  this  town,  that  he  was  locked  up  there.  My  mother 
as  well  as  elsewhere,  under  such  dates  of  catched  me  in  her  arms,  and  transported 
places  as  may  prepare  you  for  the  matter  beyond  all  patience  of  the  silent  grief  she 
you  are  to  expect,  in  the  following  man-  was  before  in,  she  almost  smothered  me 
ner:  30  in  her  embrace,  and  told  me  in  a  flood  of 

All  accounts  of  gallantry,  pleasure,  and  tears,  '  Papa  could  not  hear  me,  and 
entertainment  shall  be  under  the  article  would  play  with  me  no  more,  for  they 
of  White's  Chocolate-house;  poetry,  under  were  going  to  put  him  under  ground, 
that  of  Will's  Coffee-house ;  learning,  whence  he  could  never  come  to  us  again.' 
under  the  title  of  Grecian;  foreign  and  35  She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  of  a 
domestic  news,  you  will  have  from  Saint  noble  spirit,  and  there  was  a  dignity  in 
James's  Coffee-house;  and  what  else  I  her  grief  amidst  all  the  wildness  of  her 
have  to  offer  on  any  other  subject  shall  be  transport,  which,  methought  struck  me 
dated  from  my  own  apartment.  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow  which,  before 

I  once  more  desire  my  reader  to  con-  4°  I  was  sensible  of  what  it  was  to  grieve, 
sider  that,  as  I  cannot  keep  an  ingenious  seized  my  very  soul,  and  has  made  pity 
man  to  go  daily  to  Wills  under  twopence  the  weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since. 
each  day,  merely  for  his  charges;  to  The  mind  in  infancy  is,  methinks,  like  the 
White's  under  sixpence ;  nor  to  the  body  in  embryo,  and  receives  impressions 
Grecian,  without  allowing  him  some  plain  45  so  forcible  that  they  are  as  hard  to  be 
Spanish,  to  be  as  able  as  others  at  the  removed  by  reason,  as  any  mark  with 
learned  table;  and  that  a  good  observer  which  a  child  is  born  is  to  be  taken  away 
cannot  speak  with  even  kidney  at  Saint  by  any  future  application.  Hence  it  is 
James's  without  clean  linen;  I  say,  these  that  good-nature  in  me  is  no  merit;  but. 
considerations  will,  I  hope,  make  all  per-  5°  having  been  so  frequently  overwhelmed 
sons  willing  to  comply  with  my  humble  with  her  tears  before  I  knew  the  cause  of 
request  (when  my  gratis  stock  is  ex-  any  affliction,  or  could  draw  defenses 
hausted)  of  a  penny  a  piece;  especially  from  my  own  judgment.  I  imbibed  com- 
since  they  are  sure  of  some  proper  amuse-  miseration,  remorse,  and  an  unmanlv 
ment,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  55  gentleness  of  mind,  which  has  since  in- 
want  means  to  entertain  them,  having,  snared  me  into  ten  thousand  calamities, 
besides  the  force  of  my  own  parts,  the  and  from  whence  I  can  reap  no  advantage, 
power  of  divination,   and   that   I   can,   by      except  it  be  that,  in  such  a  humor  as  I  am 


326  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


now  in,  I  can  the  better  indulge  myself  beloved  than  esteemed.  His  tenants 
in  the  softnesses  or  humanity,  and  enjoy  grow  rich,  his  servants  look  satisfied,  all 
that  sweet  anxiety  which  arises  from  the  the  young  women  profess  love  to  him. 
memory  of  past  afflictions.  and  the  young  men  are  glad  of  his  com- 

June  5,  1710.        s  pany ;    when   he    comes   into   a   house,    he 
calls    the    servants    by    their    names,    and 
talks  all  the  way  up  stairs  to  a  visit.     1 
From  THE  SPECTATOR  must  not  omit,  that  Sir  Roger    is    a   jus- 

tice of  the  quorum;  that  he  fills  the  chair 
I  -^'o-  2.]  ,0  at  a  quarter-sessions  with  great  abilities, 

THE  CI  UB  '^"'■^    three   months   ago,   gained   universal 

applause,  by  explaining  a  passage  in  the 
The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman      game-act. 
of  Worcestershire,  of  ancient  descent,   a  The    gentleman    next    in    esteem    and 

baronet,  his  name  is  Sir  Roger  de  15  authority  among  us,  is  another  bachelor, 
Coverley.  His  great  grandfather  was  in-  who  is  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple; 
ventor  of  that  famous  country-dance  a  man  of  great  probity,  wit,  and  under- 
which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  standing;  but  he  has  chosen  his  place  of 
that  shire  are  very  well  acquainted  with  residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  of 
the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger.  He  20  an  old  humorsome  father,  than  in  pursuit 
is  a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  of  his  own  inclinations.  He  was  placed 
his  behavior,  but  his  singularities  proceed  there  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and 
from  his  good  sense,  and  are  contradic-  is  the  most  learned  of  any  of  the  house 
tions  to  the  manners  of  the  world,  only  in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle  and 
as  he  thinks  the  world  is  in  the  wrong.  25  Longinus  are  much  better  understood  by 
However,  this  humor  creates  him  no  him  than  Littleton  or  Coke.  The  fatHer 
enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  with  sour-  sends  up  every  post  questions  relating  to 
ness  or  obstinacy;  and  his  being  uncon-  marriage  articles,  leases  and  tenures,  in 
fined  to  modes  and  forms,  makes  him  but  the  neighborhood;  all  which  questions  he 
the  readier  and  more  capable  to  please  30  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer  and 
and  oblige  all  who  know  him.  When  he  take  care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying 
is  in  town,  he  lives  in  Soho  Square,  It  the  passions  themselves,  when  he  should 
is  said,  he  keeps  himself  a  bachelor,  by  be  inquiring  into  the  debates  among  men 
reason  he  was  crossed  in  love  by  a  per-  which  arise  from  them.  He  knows  the 
verse  beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county  3S  argument  of  each  of  the  orations  of 
to  him.  Before  this  disappointment,  Sir  Demosthenes  and  Tully;  but  not  one  case 
Roger  was  what  you  call  a  fine  gentle-  in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No 
man,  had  often  supped  with  my  Lord  one  ever  took  him  for  a  fool,  but  none, 
Rochester  and  Sir  George  Etherege,  except  his  intimate  friends,  know  he  has 
fought  a  duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  40  a  great  deal  of  wit.  This  turn  makes 
town,  and  kicked  Bully  Dawson  in  a  him  at  once  both  disinterested  and  agree- 
public  coffee  house  for  calling  him  young-  able;  as  few  of  his  thoughts  are  drawn 
ster.  But,  being  ill  used  by  the  above  from  business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit 
mentioned  widow,  he  was  very  serious  for  conversation.  His  taste  of  books  is 
for  a  year  and  a  half;  and  though,  his  45  a  little  too  just  for  the  age  he  lives  in; 
temper  being  naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  he  has  read  all,  but  approves  of  very 
got  over  it,  he  grew  careless  of  himself,  few.  His  familiarity  with  the  customs, 
and  never  dressed  afterwards.  He  con-  manners,  actions,  and  writings  of  the 
tinues  to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the  ancients,  makes  him  a  very  delicate  ob- 
same  cut  that  were  in  fashion  at  the  50  server  of  what  occurs  to  him  in  the  pres- 
time  of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  ent  world.  He  is  an  excellent  critic,  and 
humors,  he  tells  us,  has  been  in  and  out  the  time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  busi- 
twelve  times  since  he  first  wore  it.  He  ness ;  exactly  at  five  he  passes  through 
is  now  in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  New  Inn,  crosses  through  Russell  court, 
gay,  and  hearty;  keeps  a  good  house  both  ss  and  takes  a  turn  at  Will's,  till  the  play 
in  town  and  country;  a  great  lover  of  begins;  he  has  his  shoes  rubbed,  and  his 
mankind:  but  there  is  such  a  mirthful  periwig  powdered  at  the  barber's  as  you 
cast    in    his    Ijehavior,    that    he    is    rather      go  into  the   Rose.     It  is   for  the  good  of 


the  audience  when  he  is  at  a  play;  for  merit  is  placed  in  so  conspicuous  a  view, 
the  actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  impudence  should  get  the  better  of  mod- 
him.  esty.     When   he   has   talked   to   this   pur- 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  pose,  I  never  heard  him  make  a  sour 
Andrew  Freeport,  a  merchant  of  great  s  expression,  but  frankly  confess  that  he 
eminence  in  the  city  of  London.  A  left  the  world,  because  he  was  not  fit  for 
person  of  indefatigable  industry,  strong  it.  A  strict  honesty  and  an  even  regular 
reason,  and  great  experience.  His  no-  behavior  are  in  themselves  obstacles  to 
tions  of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  him  that  must  press  through  crowds  who 
and  (as  every  rich  man  has  usually  some  lo  endeavor  at  the  same  end  with  himself, 
sly  way  of  jesting,  which  would  make  no  the  favor  of  a  commander.  He  will, 
great  figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man)  he  however,  in  his  way  of  talk,  excuse  gen- 
calls  the  sea  the  British  Common.  He  erals  for  not  disposing  according  to  men's 
is  acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its  desert,  or  inquiring  into  it :  for,  says  he, 
parts,  and  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  stupid  k  that  great  man  who  has  a  mind  to  help 
and  barbarous  way  to  extend  dominion  me,  has  as  many  to  break  through  to 
by  arms,  for  true  power  is  to  be  got  by  come  at  me,  as  I  have  to  come  at  him : 
arts  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue,  therefore,  he  will  conclude,  that  the  man 
that  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well  who  would  make  a  figure,  especially  in  a 
cultivated,  we  should  gain  from  one  na-  20  military  way,  must  get  over  all  false 
tion, —  and  if  another,  from  another.  I  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron  against 
have  heard  him  prove,  that  diligence  the  importunity  of  other  pretenders,  by 
makes  more  lasting  acquisitions  than  a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vindica- 
valor,  and  that  sloth  has  ruined  more  tion.  He  says,  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to 
nations  than  the  sword.  He  abounds  in  2s  he  backward  in  asserting  what  you  ought 
several  frugal  maxims,  amongst  which  to  expect,  as  it  is  a  military  fear  to  be 
the  greatest  favorite  is,  '  A  penny  saved  slow  in  attacking  when  it  is  your  duty. 
is  a  penny  got.'  A  general  trader  of  With  this  candor  does  the  gentleman 
good  sense  is  pleasanter  company  than  speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same 
a  general  scholar ;  and  Sir  Andrew  hav-  30  frankness  runs  through  all  his  conversa- 
ing  a  natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  tion.  The  military  part  of  his  life  has 
perspicuity  of  his  discourse  gives  the  furnished  him  with  many  adventures,  in 
same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another  the  relation  of  which  he  is  very  agree- 
man.  He  has  made  his  fortunes  himself;  able  to  the  company;  for  he  is  never 
and  says  that  England  may  be  richer  35  over-bearing,  though  accustomed  to  com- 
than  other  kingdoms,  by  as  plain  methods  mand  men  in  the  utmost  degree  below 
as  he  himself  is  richer  than  other  men;  him;  nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  an 
though  at  the  same  time  I  can  say  this  of  habit  of  obeying  men  highly  above  him. 
him,  that  there  is  not  a  point  in  the  com-  But,   that  our   society   may   not   appear 

pass  but  blows  home  a  ship  in  which  he  40  a  set  of  humorists,  unacquainted  with  the 
is  an  owner.  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age,   we 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room  have  among  us  the  gallant  Will  Honey- 
sits  Captain  Sentry,  a  gentleman  of  great  comb,  a  gentleman  who,  according  to  his 
courage,  good  understandmg,  but  in-  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his 
vincible  modesty.  He  is  one  of  those  4S  life,  but,  having  ever  been  very  careful 
that  deserve  very  well,  but  are  very  of  his  person,  and  always  had  a  very  easy 
awkward  at  putting  their  talents  within  fortune,  time  has  made  but  a  very  little 
the  observation  of  such  as  should  take  impression,  either  by  wrinkles  on  his 
notice  of  them.  He  was  some  years  a  forehead,  or  traces  on  his  brain.  His 
captain,  and  behaved  himself  with  great  50  person  is  well  turned,  of  a  good  height. 
gallantry  in  several  engagements  and  at  He  is  very  ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse 
several  sieges;  but  having  a  small  estate  with  which  men  usually  entertain  women. 
of  his  own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well,  and 
Roger,  he  has  quitted  a  way  of  life,  in  remembers  habits  as  others  do  men.  He 
which  no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his  S5  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and 
merit,  who  is  not  something  of  a  courtier  laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of 
as  well  as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard  him  every  mode,  and  can  inform  vou  from 
often  lament,  that  in  a  profession  where      what  Frenchwomen  our  wives  and  daugh- 


328  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


ters    had    this    manner    of    curHng    their      [No.  6.] 
hair,    that    way    of    placing    their    hoods; 

and  whose  vanity  to  shew  her  foot  made         SIR  ROGER  ON  MEN  OF  PARTS 
that  part  of  the  dress  so  sliort  in  such  a 

year.  In  a  word,  all  his  conversation  s  I  know  no  evil  under  the  sun  so  great 
and  knowledge  have  been  in  the  female  as  the  abuse  of  the  understanding,  and 
world;  as  other  men  of  his  age  will  take  yet  there  is  no  one  vice  more  common, 
notice  to  you  what  such  a  minister  said  It  has  diffused  itself  through  both  sexes, 
upon  such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will  and  all  qualities  of  mankind ;  and  there 
tell  you,  when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  lo  is  hardly  that  person  to  be  found,  who  is 
danced  at  court,  such  a  woman  was  then  not  more  concerned  for  the  reputation  of 
smitten,  another  was  taken  with  him  at  wit  and  sense,  than  honesty  and  virtue, 
the  head  of  his  troop  in  the  Park.  For  But  this  unhappy  affectation  of  lacing 
all  these  important  relations,  he  has  ever  wise  rather  than  honest,  witty  than  good- 
about  the  same  time  received  a  kind  is  natured,  is  the  source  of  most  of  the  ill 
glance  or  a  blow  of  a  fan  from  some  habits  of  life.  Such  false  impressions 
celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  present  are  owing  to  the  abandoned  writings  of 
lord    such-a-one.  men   of  wit,   and   the   awkward   imitation 

This  way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  of  the  rest  of  mankind, 
enlivens  the  conversation,  among  us  of  20  For  this  reason.  Sir  Roger  was  saying 
a  more  sedate  turn ;  and  I  find  there  is  last  night,  that  he  was  of  opinion  that 
not  one  of  the  company,  but  myself,  who  none  but  men  of  fine  parts  deserve  to  be 
rarely  speak  at  all,  but  speaks  of  him  as  hanged.  The  reflections  of  such  men  are 
of  that  sort  of  man  who  is  usually  called  so  delicate  upon  all  occurrences  which 
a  well-bred  fine  gentleman.  To  conclude  25  they  are  concerned  in,  that  they  should 
his  character,  where  women  are  not  con-  be  exposed  to  more  than  ordinary  in- 
cerned,  he  is  an  honest  worthy  man.  famy     and     punishment,     for     offending 

I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account  against  such  quick  admonitions  as  their 
him  whom  I  am  next  to  speak  of,  as  one  of  own  souls  give  them,  and  blunting  the 
our  company;  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom,  3o  fine  edge  of  their  minds  in  such  a  man- 
but  when  he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man  ner,  that  they  are  no  more  shocked  at 
else  a  new  enjoyment  of  himself.  He  is  vice  and  folly,  than  men  of  slower  ca- 
a  clergyman,  a  very  philosophic  man,  of  pacities.  There  is  no  greater  monster  in 
general  learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  being,  than  a  very  ill  man  of  great  parts, 
and  the  most  exact  good  breeding.  He  3S  He  lives  like  a  man  in  a  palsy,  with  one 
has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a  very  weak  side  of  him  dead.  While  perhaps  he  en- 
constitution;  and  consequently  cannot  joys  the  satisfaction  of  luxury,  of  wealth, 
accept  of  such  cares  and  business  as  pre-  of  ambition,  he  has  lost  the  taste  of  good 
ferments  in  his  function  would  oblige  will,  of  friendship,  of  innocence.  Scare- 
him  to ;  he  is  therefore  among  divines  40  crow,  the  beggar  in  Lincoln's-inn-fields. 
what  a  chamber-councillor  is  among  who  disabled  himself  in  his  right  leg,  and 
lawyers.  The  probity  of  his  mind,  and  asks  alms  all  day  to  get  himself  a  warm 
the  integrity  of  his  life,  create  him  fol-  supper  at  night,  is  not  half  so  despicable 
lowers,  as  being  eloquent  or  loud  ad-  a  wretch,  as  such  a  man  of  sense.  The 
vances  others.  He  seldom  introduces  the  4;  beggar  has  no  relish  above  sensations; 
subject  he  speaks  upon;  but  we  are  so  he  finds  rest  more  agreeable  than  mo- 
far  gone  in  years  that  he  observes,  when  tion ;  and  while  he  has  a  warm  fire,  never 
he  is  among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have  reflects  that  he  deserves  to  be  whipped, 
him  fall  on  some  divine  topic,  which  he  Every  man  who  terminates  his  satisfac- 
always  treats  with  much  authority,  as  5°  tions  and  enjoyments  within  the  supply 
one  who  has  no  interest  in  this  world,  as  of  his  own  necessities  and  passions  is, 
one  who  is  hastening  to  the  object  of  all  says  Sir  Roger,  in  my  eye  as  poor  a  rogue 
his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope  from  his  as  Scarecrow.  '  But,'  continued  he,  '  for 
decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my  the  loss  of  public  and  private  virtue  we 
ordinary  comi)anions.  5S  are   beholden   to   your  men   of   fine   parts 

Friday,  March  2,   1710-11.  forsooth;  it  is  with  them  no  matter  what 

is  done,  so  it  be  done  with  an  air.     But 
to  me  who  am  so  whimsical  in  a  corrupt 


oirv  jwjyjn^jx  win    ivir^iN    \jr    ir/YKio  329 

age  as  to  act  according  to  nature  and  man  who  appears  in  public,  and  whoever 
reason,  a  selfish  man  in  the  most  shining  does  not  proceed  upon  that  foundation, 
circumstance  and  equipage,  appears  in  injures  his  country  as  fast  as  he  succeeds 
the  same  condition  with  the  fellow  above  in  his  studies.  When  modesty  ceases  to 
mentioned,  but  more  contemptible  in  pro-  s  be  the  chief  ornament  of  one  sex,  and 
portion  to  what  more  he  robs  the  public  integrity  of  the  other,  society  is  upon  a 
of  and  enjoys  above  him.  I  lay  it  down  wrong  basis,  and  we  shall  be  ever  after 
therefore  for  a  rule,  that  the  whole  man  without  rules  to  guide  our  judgment  in 
is  to  move  together;  that  every  action  what  is  really  becoming  and  ornamental, 
of  any  importance,  is  to  have  a  prospect  10  Nature  and  reason  direct  one  thing,  pas- 
of  public  good:  and  that  the  general  sion  and  humor  another.  To  follow  the 
tendency  of  our  indifferent  actions  ought  dictates  of  these  two  latter,  is  going  into 
to  be  agreeable  to  the  dictates  of  rea-  a  road  that  is  both  endless  and  intricate ; 
son,  of  religion,  of  good  breeding;  with-  when  we  pursue  the  other,  our  passage  is 
out  this,  a  man,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  15  delightful,  and  what  we  aim  at  easily 
is  hopping  instead  of  walking,  he  is  not      attainable. 

in  his  entire  and  proper  motion.'  I  do  not  doubt  but  England  is  at  pres- 

While  the  honest  knight  was  thus  be-  ent  as  polite  a  nation  as  any  in  the  world ; 
wildering  himself  in  good  starts,  I  looked  but  any  man  who  thinks  can  easily  see, 
intentively  upon  him,  which  made  him,  20  that  the  affectation  of  being  gay  and  in 
I  thought,  collect  his  mind  a  little.  fashion,  has  very  near  eaten  up  our  good 
'  What  I  aim  at,'  says  he,  '  is,  to  repre-  sense  and  our  religion.  Is  there  anything 
sent,  that  I  am  of  opinion,  to  polish  our  so  just  as  that  mode  and  gallantry  should 
understandings  and  neglect  our  manners  be  built  upon  exerting  ourselves  in  what 
is  of  all  things  the  most  inexcusable.  25  is  proper  and  agreeable  to  the  institu- 
Reason  should  govern  passion,  but  in-  tions  of  justice  and  piety  among  us? 
stead  of  that,  you  see,  it  is  often  sub-  And  yet  is  there  anything  more  common, 
servient  to  it;  and,  as  unaccountable  as  than  that  we  run  in  perfect  contradic- 
one  would  think  it,  a  wise  man  is  not  tion  to  them?  All  which  is  supported  by 
always  a  good  man.'  This  degeneracy  30  no  other  pretension,  than  that  it  is  done 
is  not  only  the  guilt  of  particular  persons,  with  what  we  call  a  good  grace, 
but  also  at  some  times  of  a  whole  people;  Nothing  ought  to  be  held  laudable  or 

and  perhaps  it  may  appear  upon  examina-  becoming,  but  what  nature  itself  should 
tion,  that  the  most  polite  ages  are  the  prompt  us  to  think  so.  Respect  to  all 
least  virtuous.  This  may  be  attributed  35  kinds  of  superiors  is  founded,  methinks, 
to  the  folly  of  admitting  wit  and  learn-  upon  instinct;  and  yet  what  is  so  ridicu- 
ing  as  merit  in  themselves,  without  con-  lous  as  age?  I  make  this  abrupt  transi- 
sidering  the  application  of  them.  By  tion  to  the  mention  of  this  vice,  more 
this  means  it  becomes  a  rule,  not  so  much  than  any  other,  in  order  to  introduce  a 
to  regard  what  we  do,  as  how  we  do  it.  ^o  little  story,  which  I  think  a  pretty  in- 
But  this  false  beauty  will  not  pass  upon  stance  that  the  most  polite  age  is  in 
men  of  honest  minds  and  true  taste.  Sir  danger  of  being  the  most  vicious. 
Richard    Blackmore   says,    with   as    much  '  It  happened  at  Athens,  during  a  public 

good  sense  as  virtue,  '  It  is  a  mighty  dis-  representation  of  some  play  exhibited  in 
honor  and  shame  to  employ  excellent  4S  honor  of  the  commonwealth,  that  an  old 
faculties  and  abundance  of  wit,  to  gentleman  came  too  late  for  a  place 
humor  and  please  men  in  their  vices  and  suitable  to  his  age  and  quality.  Many 
follies.  The  great  enemy  of  mankind,  of  the  young  gentlemen,  who  observed 
notwithstanding  his  wit  and  angelic  the  difficulty  and  confusion  he  was  in, 
faculties,  is  the  most  odious  being  in  the  50  made  signs  to  him  that  they  would  ac- 
whole  creation.'  He  goes  on  soon  after  commodate  him  if  he  came  where  they 
to  say,  very  generously,  that  he  under-  sat.  The  good  man  bustled  through  the 
took  the  writing  of  his  poem  'to  rescue  crowd  accordingly;  but  when  he  came  to 
the  Muses  out  of  the  hands  of  ravishers,  the  seats  to  which  he  was  invited,  the 
to  restore  them  to  their  sweet  and  chaste  55  jest  was  to  sit  close  and  expose  him,  as 
mansions,  and  to  engage  them  in  an  em-  he  stood  out  of  countenance,  to  the  whole 
ployment  suitable  to  their  dignity.'  This  audience.  The  frolic  went  round  all  the 
certainly  ought  to  be  the  purpose  of  every      Athenian    benches.     But    on    those    occa- 


330  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


sions  there  were  also  particular  places  j^reat  circumstance  in  his  life,  with  an  air 
assigned  for  foreigners.  When  the  good  which  I  thought  raised  my  idea  of  him 
man  skulked  towards  the  boxes  appointed  above  what  I  had  ever  had  before ;  and 
for  the  Lacedaemonians,  that  honest  gave  me  the  picture  of  that  cheerful 
people,  more  virtuous  than  polite,  rose  5  mind  of  his,  before  it  received  that 
up  all  to  a  man,  and  with  the  greatest  stroke  which  has  ever  since  affected  his 
respect  received  him  among  them.  The  words  and  actions.  But  he  went  on  as 
Athenians    being    suddenly    touched    with       follows:  — 

a  sense  of  the   Spartan  virtue  and  their  '  I   came  to  my   estate   in   my  twenty- 

own  degeneracy,  gave  a  thunder  of  ap-  lo  second  year,  and  resolved  to  follow  the 
plause ;  and  the  old  man  cried  out,  "  The  steps  of  the  most  worthy  of  my  ancestors 
Athenians  understand  what  is  good,  but  who  have  inhabited  this  spot  of  earth 
the  Lacedaemonians  practise  it."  before    me,    in    all   the    methods   of   hos- 

Wednesday,  March  17,  1710-II.  pitality   and   good   neighborhood,   for  the 

15  sake  of  my  fame ;  and  in  country  sports 

and    recreations,    for    the    sake    of    my 

[No.  1 13. J  health.     In  my  twenty-third   year  I   was 

SIR  ROGER  IN  LOVE  obliged  to  serve  as  sheriff  of  the  county; 

and  m  my  servants,  officers,  and  whole 
In  my  first  description  of  the  com-  20  equipage,  indulged  the  pleasure  of  a 
pany  in  which  I  pass  most  of  my  time,  young  man  (who  did  not  think  ill  of 
it  may  be  remembered,  that  I  mentioned  his  own  person)  in  taking  that  public 
a  great  affliction  which  my  friend  Sir  occasion  of  showing  my  figure  and  be- 
Roger  had  met  with  in  his  youth ;  which  havior  to  advantage.  You  may  easily 
was  no  less  than  a  disappointment  in  25  imagine  to  yourself  what  appearance  I 
love.  It  happened  this  evening,  that  we  made,  who  am  pretty  tall,  ride  well,  and 
fell  into  a  very  pleasing  walk  at  a  dis-  was  very  well  dressed,  at  the  head  of  a 
tance  from  his  house.  As  soon  as  we  whole  county,  with  music  before  me,  a 
came  into  it,  *  It  is,'  quoth  the  good  old  feather  in  my  hat,  and  my  horse  well 
man,  looking  round  him  with  a  smile,  30  bitted.  I  can  assure  you  I  was  not  a 
'  very  hard,  that  any  part  of  my  land  little  pleased  with  the  kind  looks  and 
should  be  settled  upon  one  who  has  used  glances  I  had  from  all  the  balconies  and 
me  so  ill  as  the  perverse  widow  did;  windows  as  I  rode  to  the  hall  where  the 
and  yet  I  am  sure  I  could  not  see  a  sprig  assizes  were  held.  But,  when  I  came 
of  any  bough  of  this  whole  walk  of  trees,  35  there,  a  beautiful  creature  in  a  widow's 
but  I  should  reflect  upon  her  and  her  habit  sat  in  a  court  to  hear  the  event  of 
severity.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  a  cause  concerning  her  dower.  This 
hand  of  any  woman  in  the  world.  You  commanding  creature  (who  was  born  for 
are  to  know,  this  was  the  place  wherein  the  destruction  of  all  who  behold  her) 
I  used  to  muse  upon  her;  and  by  that  40 put  on  such  a  resignation  in  her  counte- 
custom  I  can  never  come  into  it,  but  the  nance,  and  bore  the  whispers  of  all 
same  tender  sentiments  revive  in  my  around  the  court  with  such  a  pretty  un- 
mind,  as  if  I  had  actually  walked  with  easiness,  I  warrant  you,  and  then  re- 
that  beautiful  creature  under  these  covered  herself  from  one  eye  to  another, 
shades.  I  have  been  fool  enough  to  ^s  until  she  was  perfectly  confused  by 
carve  her  name  on  the  bark  of  several  meeting  something  so  wistful  in  all  she 
of  these  trees;  so  unhappy  is  the  condi-  encountered,  that  at  last,  with  a  nuirrain 
tion  of  men  in  love,  to  attempt  the  re-  to  her,  she  cast  her  bewitching  eye  upon 
moving  of  their  passion  by  the  methods  me.  I  no  sooner  met  it  but  I  l)Owcd  like 
which  serve  only  to  imprint  it  deeper.  50a  great  surprised  booby;  and  knowing 
She  has  certainly  the  finest  hand  of  any  her  cause  to  be  the  first  which  came  on, 
woman  in  the  world.'  I  cried,  like  a  captivated  calf  as  I  was, 

Here  followed  a  profound  silence ;  and  "  Make  way  for  the  defendant's  wit- 
I  was  not  displeased  to  observe  my  friend  nesses."  This  sudden  partiality  made  all 
falling  so  naturally  into  a  discourse  55  the  county  immediately  see  the  sheriff 
which  I  had  ever  before  taken  notice  he  also  was  become  a  slave  to  the  fine 
industriously  avoided.  After  a  very  long  widow.  During  the  time  her  cause  was 
pause,  he  entered  upon  an  account  of  this      upon   trial,   she   behaved   herself,   I   war- 


rant  you,  with  such  a  deep  attention  to  and  the  skill  of  beauty,  she  will  arm  her- 
her  business,  took  opportunities  to  have  self  with  her  real  charms,  and  strike 
little  billets  handed  to  her  counsel,  then  you  with  admiration  instead  of  desire, 
would  be  in  such  a  pretty  confusion,  It  is  certain  that  if  you  were  to  behold 
occasioned,  you  must  know,  by  acting  be-  5  the  whole  woman,  there  is  that  dignity 
fore  so  much  company,  that  not  only  I  in  her  aspect,  that  composure  in  her 
but  the  whole  court  was  prejudiced  in  motion,  that  complacency  in  her  manner, 
her  favor;  and  all  that  the  next  heir  to  that  if  her  form  makes  you  hope,  her 
her  husband  had  to  urge  was  thought  merit  makes  you  fear.  But  then  again, 
so  groundless  and  frivolous,  that  when  10  she  is  such  a  desperate  scholar  that  no 
it  came  to  her  counsel  to  reply,  there  country  gentleman  can  approach  her 
was  not  half  so  much  said  as  every  one  without  being  a  jest.  As  I  was  going 
besides  in  the  court  thought  he  could  to  tell  you,  when  I  came  to  her  house, 
have  urged  to  her  advantage.  You  I  was  admitted  to  her  presence  with  great 
must  understand,  sir,  this  perverse  15  civility;  at  the  same  time  she  placed  her- 
wonian  is  one  of  those  unaccountable  self  to  be  first  seen  by  me  in  such  an 
creatures  that  secretly  rejoice  in  the  attitude,  as  I  think  you  call  the  posture 
admiration  of  men,  but  indulge  them-  of  a  picture,  that  she  discovered  new 
selves  in  no  farther  consequences,  charms,  and  I  at  last  came  towards  her 
lience  it  is  that  she  has  ever  had  a  train  20  with  such  an  awe  as  made  me  speechless, 
of  admirers,  and  she  removes  from  her  This  she  no  sooner  observed  but  she  made 
slaves  in  town  to  those  in  the  country,  her  advantage  of  it,  and  began  a  dis- 
according to  the  seasons  of  the  year,  course  to  me  concerning  love  and  honor, 
She  is  a  reading  lady,  and  far  gone  in  as  they  both  are  followed  by  pretenders, 
the  pleasures  of  friendship.  She  is  al-  2s  and  the  real  votaries  to  them.  When  she 
ways  accompanied  by  a  confidante,  who  discussed  these  points  in  a  discourse 
is  witness  to  her  daily  protestations  which,  I  verily  believe,  was  as  learned 
against  our  sex,  and  consequently  a  bar  as  the  best  philosopher  in  Europe  could 
to  her  first  steps  towards  love,  upon  the  possibly  make,  she  asked  me  whether 
strength  of  her  own  maxims  and  declara-  3°  she  was  so  happy  as  to  fall  in  with  my 
tions.  sentiments    on    these    important    particu- 

'  However,  I  must  needs  say,  this  ac-  lars.  Her  confidante  sat  by  her,  and  on 
complished  mistress  of  mine  has  dis-  my  being  in  the  last  confusion  and 
tinguished  me  above  the  rest,  and  has  silence,  this  malicious  aid  of  hers  turning 
been  known  to  declare  Sir  Roger  de  35  to  her,  says,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  observe 
Coverley  vv'as  the  tamest  and  most  humane  Sir  Roger  pauses  upon  this  subject,  and 
of  all  the  brutes  in  the  country.  I  was  seems  resolved  to  deliver  all  his  senti- 
told  she  said  so  by  one  who  thought  he  ments  upon  the  matter  when  he  pleases 
rallied  me;  and  upon  the  strength  of  this  to  speak."  They  both  kept  their  counte- 
slender  encouragement  of  being  thought  40  nances,  and  after  I  had  sat  half  an  hour 
least  detestable,  I  made  new  liveries,  meditating  how  to  behave  before  such 
new-paired  my  coach-horses,  sent  them  profound  casuists,  I  rose  up  and  took  my 
all  to  town  to  be  bitted,  and  taught  to  leave.  Chance  has  since  that  time 
throw  their  legs  well,  and  move  all  to-  thrown  me  very  often  in  her  way,  and 
gether,  before  I  pretended  to  cross  the  45  she  as  often  directed  a  discourse  to  me 
country,  and  wait  upon  her.  As  soon  which  I  do  not  understand.  This  bar- 
as  I  thought  my  retinue  suitable  to  the  barity  has  kept  me  ever  at  a  distance 
character  of  my  fortune  and  youth,  I  set  from  the  most  beautiful  object  my  eyes 
out  from  hence  to  make  my  addresses,  ever  beheld.  It  is  thus  also  she  deals 
The  particular  skill  of  this  lady  has  50  with  all  mankind,  and  you  must  make  love 
ever  been  to  inflame  your  wishes,  and  to  her  as  you  would  conquer  the  sphinx, 
yet  command  respect.  To  make  her  mis-  by  posing  her.  But  were  she  like  other 
tress  of  this  art,  she  has  a  greater  share  women,  and  that  there  were  any  talking 
of  knowledge,  wit,  and  good  sense  than  to  her,  how  constant  must  the  pleasure 
is  usual  even  among  men  of  merit.  5;  of  that  man  be,  who  could  converse  with 
Then  she  is  beautiful  beyond  the  race  a  creature  —  But,  after  all,  you  may  be 
of  women.  If  you  will  not  let  her  go  sure  her  heart  is  fixed  on  some  one  or 
on  with  a  certain  artifice  with  her  eyes,      other:   and  yet   I   have   been   credibly   in- 


332  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


formed  —  but  who  can  believe  half  that  next  four-ancl-tvventy  hours,  till  the 
is  said!  —  They  say  she  sings  excellently;  many  different  objects  I  must  needs  meet 
her  voice  in  her  onlinary  speech  has  with  should  tire  my  imagination,  and 
something  in  it  inexpressibly  sweet.  give  me  an  inclination  to  a  repose  more 
You  must  know  I  dined  with  her  5  profound  than  I  was  at  that  time  ca- 
at  a  public  table  the  day  after  I  first  saw  pable  of.  I  beg  people's  pardon  for  an 
her,  and  she  helped  me  to  some  tansy  in  odd  humor  I  am  guilty  of,  and  was  often 
the  eye  of  all  the  gentlemen  in  the  coun-  that  day,  which  is  saluting  any  person 
try.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  hand  of  whom  I  like,  whether  I  know  him  or  not. 
any  woman  in  the  world.  I  can  assure  lo  This  is  a  particularity  would  be  tolerated 
you,  sir,  were  you  to  behold  her,  you  in  me,  if  they  considered  that  the  great- 
would  be  in  the  same  condition;  for  as  est  pleasure  I  know  I  receive  at  my  eyes, 
her  speech  is  music,  her  form  is  angelic.  and  that  I  am  obliged  to  an  agreeable 
But  I  find  I  grow  irregular  while  I  am  person  for  coming  abroad  into  my  view, 
talking  of  her;  but  indeed  it  would  be  15  as  another  is  for  a  visit  of  conversation 
stupidity  to  be  unconcerned  at  such  per-      at  their  own  houses. 

fection.     Oh,   the  excellent  creature !   she  The   hours   of   the   day   and   night   are 

is  as  inimitable  to  all  women,  as  she  is  taken  up  in  the  cities  of  London  and 
inaccessible  to   all   men.'  Westminster  by  people  as  different  from 

I   found  my  friend  begin  to  rave,  and  20  each    other    as    those    who    are    born    in 

insensibly    led    him    towards    the    house,      different    centuries.     Men    of    six   o'clock 

that  we  might  be  joined  by  some  other      give  way  to  those  of  nine,  they  of  nine 

company;    and    am    convinced    that    the      to  the  generation  of  twelve;  and  they  of 

widow  is  the  secret  cause  of  all  that  in-      twelve  disappear,  and  make  room  for  the 

consistency  which  appears  in  some  parts  25  fashionable    world,    who   have    made   two 

of  my  friend's  discourse;  though  he  has      o'clock  the  noon  of  the  day. 

so    much    command    of    himself    as    not  When  we  first  put  off  from  shore,  we 

directly  to  mention  her,  yet  according  to      soon    fell    in    with    a    fleet    of    gardeners, 

that  of  Martial,  which  one  knows  not  how      bound    for    the    several    market    ports    of 

to   render   into   English,   diim   facet   haiic  3o  London ;    and    it    was    the    most    pleasing 

loquitur    [even    when    silent    he    talks    of      scene   imaginable  to  see  the  cheerfulness 

lier].  with  which  those  industrious  people  plied 

Tuesday,   July  10,  171 1.  their  way  to  a  certain  sale  of  their  goods. 

^     ^     ^  '  The  banks  on  each  side  are  as  well  peo- 

3S  pled,    and    beautified    with    as    agreeable 

plantations,    as    any    spot    on    the    earth ; 

[No.   454.]  but    the    Thames    itself,    loaded    with    the 

A  DAY  IN  LONDON  product  of  each  shore,  added  very  much 

to   the   landscape.     It   was   very   easy   to 

It  is  an  expressible  pleasure  to  know  40  observe  by  their  sailing  and  the  counte- 
a  little  of  the  world,  and  to  be  of  no  nances  of  the  ruddy  virgins  who  were 
character   or   significancy   in   it.  supercargoes,    the    parts    of    the    town    to 

To  be  ever  unconcerned,  and  ever  look-  which  they  were  bound.  There  was  an 
ing  on  new  objects  with  an  endless  curi-  air  in  the  purveyors  for  Covent  Garden, 
osity,  is  a  delight  known  only  to  those  45  who  frequently  converse  with  morning 
who  are  turned  for  speculation:  nay,  rakes,  very  unlike  the  seeming  sobriety 
they  who  enjoy  it  must  value  things  only  of  those  bound  for  Stocks  Market, 
as    they    are   the   objects   of   speculation,  Nothing   remarkable    happened    in   our 

without  drawing  any  worldly  advantage  voyage;  but  I  landed  with  ten  sail  of 
to  themselves  from  them,  but  just  as  they  50  apricot-boats,  at  Strand  Bridge,  after 
are  what  contribute  to  their  amusement,  having  put  in  at  Nine  Elms,  and  taken 
or  the  improvement  of  the  mind.  I  lay  in  melons,  consigned  by  Mr.  Cuft'e,  of 
one  night  last  week  at  Richmond;  and  that  place,  to  Sarah  Sewell  and  Company, 
being  restless,  not  out  of  dissatisfaction,  at  their  stall  in  Covent  Garden.  We 
but  a  certain  busy  inclination  one  some-  55  arrived  at  Strand  Bridge  at  six  of  the 
times  has,  I  rose  at  four  in  the  morning,  clock,  and  were  unloading,  when  the 
and  took  boat  for  London,  with  a  resolu-  hackney-coachmen  of  the  foregoing  night 
tion  to  rove  by  boat  and  coach   for  the      took    their    leave    of    each    other    at    the 


r\.  ujr^L    ii\    J_^JiNiJUiN  333 


Darkhouse,  to  go  to  bed  before  the  day  laced  shoe  on  her  left  foot,  with  a  care- 
was  too  far  spent.  Chimney-sweepers  less  gesture,  just  appearing  on  the 
passed  by  us  as  we  made  up  to  the  market,  opposite  cushion,  held  her  both  firm  and 
and  some  raillery  happened  between  one  in  a  proper  attitude  to  receive  the  next 
of    the     fruit-wenches     and    those     black    5  jolt. 

men  about  the  Devil  and  Eve,  with   al-  As  she  was  an  excellent  coach-woman, 

lusion  to  their  several  professions.  I  many  were  the  glances  at  each  other 
could  not  believe  any  place  more  enter-  which  we  had  for  an  hour  and  a  half  in 
taining  than  Covent  Garden,  where  I  all  parts  of  the  town,  by  the  skill  of  our 
strolled  from  one  fruit-shop  to  another,  10  drivers,  till  at  last  my  lady  was  conven- 
with  crowds  of  agreeable  young  women,  iently  lost,  with  notice  from  her  coach- 
around  me,  who  were  purchasing  fruit  man  to  ours  to  make  off,  and  he  should 
for  their  respective  families.  It  was  hear  where  she  went.  This  chase  was 
almost  eight  of  the  clock  before  I  could  now  at  an  end,  and  the  fellow  who  drove 
leave  that  variety  of  objects.  I  took  15  her  came  to  us,  and  discovered  that  he 
coach  and  followed  a  young  lady,  who  was  ordered  to  come  again  in  an  hour, 
tripped  into  another  just  before  me,  at-  for  that  she  was  a  silk-worm.  I  was 
tended  by  her  maid.  I  saw  immediately  surprised  with  this  phrase,  but  found  it 
she  was  of  the  family  of  the  Vainloves.  was  a  cant  among  the  hackney  fraternity 
There  are  a  set  of  these,  who,  of  all  20  for  their  best  customers,  women  who 
things,  affect  the  play  of  blindman's-  ramble  twice  or  thrice  a  week  from  shop 
buff,  and  leading  men  into  love  for  they  to  shop,  to  turn  over  all  the  goods  in 
know  not  whom,  who  are  fled  they  know  town  without  buying  anything.  The 
not  where.  This  sort  of  woman  is  usu-  silk-worms  are,  it  seems,  indulged  by  the 
ally  a  jaunty  slattern;  she  hangs  on  her  25  tradesmen;  for,  though  they  never  buy, 
clothes,  plays  her  head,  varies  her  pos-  they  are  ever  talking  of  new  silks,  laces, 
ture,  and  changes  place  incessantly,  and  and  ribbons,  and  serve  the  owners  in 
all  with  an  appearance  of  striving  at  the  getting  them  customers,  as  their  common 
same  time  to  hide  herself,  and  yet  give  dunners  do  in  making  them  pay. 
you  to  understand  she  is  in  humor  to  30  The  day  of  people  of  fashion  began 
laugh  at  you.  You  must  have  often  seen  now  to  break,  and  carts  and  hacks  were 
the  coachmen  make  signs  with  their  fin-  mingled  with  equipages  of  show  and 
gers,  as  they  drive  by  each  other,  to  in-  vanity,  when  I  resolved  to  walk  it,  out 
timate  how  much  they  have  got  that  day.  of  cheapness ;  but  my  unhappy  curiosity 
They  can  carry  on  that  language  to  give  35  is  such,  that  I  find  it  always  my  interest 
intelligence  where  they  are  driving.  In  to  take  a  coach,  for  some  odd  adventure 
an  instant  my  coachman  took  the  wink  to  among  beggars,  ballad-singers,  or  the 
pursue,  and  the  lady's  driver  gave  the  like,  detains  and  throws  me  into  expense, 
hint  that  he  was  going  through  Longacre  It  happened  so  immediately,  for  at  the 
toward  St.  James's ;  while  he  whipped  up  40  corner  of  Warwick  Street,  as  I  was  lis- 
James  Street,  we  drove  for  King  Street,  tening  to  a  new  ballad,  a  ragged  rascal, 
to  save  the  pass  at  St.  Martin's  Lane,  a  beggar  who  knew  me,  came  up  to  me, 
The  coachmen  took  care  to  meet,  jostle,  and  began  to  turn  the  eyes  of  the  good 
and  threaten  each  other  for  way,  and  company  upon  me,  by  telling  me  he  was 
be  entangled  at  the  end  of  Newport  45  extreme  poor,  and  should  die  in  the  street 
Street  and  Longacre.  The  fright,  you  for  want  of  drink,  except  I  immediately 
must  believe,  brought  down  the  lady's  would  have  the  charity  to  give  him  six- 
coach-door,  and  obliged  her,  with  her  pence  to  go  into  the  next  ale-house  and 
mask  off,  to  inquire  into  the  bustle, —  save  his  life.  He  urged  with  a  melan- 
when  she  sees  the  man  she  would  avoid.  5o  choly  face,  that  all  his  family  had  vlied 
The  tackle  of  the  coach-window  is  so  of  thirst.  All  the  mob  have  humor,  and 
bad  she  cannot  draw  it  up  again,  and  two  or  three  began  to  take  the  jest;  by 
she  drives  on,  sometimes  wholly  dis-  which  Mr.  Sturdy  carried  his  point,  and 
covered,  and  sometimes  half  escaped,  ac-  let  me  sneak  off  to  a  coach.  As  I  drove 
cording  to  the  accident  of  carriages  in  55  along,  it  was  a  pleasing  reflection  to  see 
her  way.  One  of  these  ladies  keeps  her  the  world  so  prettily  checkered  since  I 
seat  in  a  hackney-coach  as  well  as  the  left  Richmond,  and  the  scene  still  filling 
best  rider  does  on  a  managed  horse.     The      with  children  of  a  new  hour.     This  satis- 


334  SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


faction  increased  as  1  moved  towards  the  I   went   afterward  to   Robin's,  and  saw 

city;  and  gay  signs,  well-disposed  streets,  people  who  had  dined  with  me  at  the 
magnificent  pnblic  structures,  and  wealthy  five-penny  ordinary  just  before,  give 
shops  adorned  with  contented  faces,  made  bdls  for  the  value  of  large  estates;  and 
the  joy  still  rising  till  we  came  into  s  could  not  but  behold  with  great  pleasure 
the  center  of  the  city,  and  center  of  the  property  lodged  in  and  transferred  in  a 
world  of  trade,  ihc  Kxchange  of  London.  moment  from,  such  as  would  never  be 
As  other  men  in  the  crowds  about  me  masters  of  half  as  much  as  is  seemingly 
were  pleased  with  their  hopes  and  bar-  in  them,  and  given  from  them,  every 
gains,  I  found  my  account  in  observing  lo  day  they  live.  But  before  five  in  the 
them,  in  attention  to  their  several  in-  afternoon  I  left  the  city,  came  to  my 
terests.  I,  indeed,  looked  upon  myself  as  common  scene  of  Covent  Garden,  and 
the  richest  man  that  walked  the  Exchange  passed  the  evening  at  Will's  in  attending 
that  day;  for  my  benevolence  made  me  the  discourses  of  several  sets  of  people, 
share  the  gains  of  every  bargain  that  15  who  relieved  each  other  within  my  hear- 
was  made.  It  was  not  the  least  of  my  ing  on  the  subjects  of  cards,  dice,  love, 
satisfaction  in  my  survey,  to  go  up  learning,  and  politics.  The  last  subject 
stairs  and  pass  the  shops'  of  agreeable  kept  me  till  I  heard  the  streets  in  the 
females;  to  observe  so  many  pretty  hands  possession  of  the  bellman,  who  had  now 
busy  in  the  folding  of  ribbons,  and  the  20  the  world  to  himself,  and  cried,  '  Past 
utmost  eagerness  of  agreeable  faces  in  two  o'clock.'  This  roused  me  from  my 
the  sale  of  patches,  pins,  and  wires,  on  seat;  and  I  went  to  my  lodgings,  led  by 
each  side  of  the  counters,  was  an  amuse-  a  light,  whom  I  put  into  the  discourse 
ment  in  which  I  could  longer  have  in-  of  his  private  economy,  and  made  him 
dulged  myself,  had  not  the  dear  creatures  25  crjve  me  an  account  of  the  charge,  hazard, 
called  to  me,  to  ask  what  I  wanted,  profit,  and  loss  of  a  family  that  depended 
when  I  could  not  answer,  '  Only  to  look  upon  a  link,  with  a  design  to  end  my 
at  you.'  I  went  to  one  of  the  windows  trivial  day  with  the  generosity  of  six- 
which  opened  to  the  area  below,  where  pence,  instead  of  a  third  part  of  that 
all  the  several  voices  lost  their  distinc-  30  sum.  When  I  came  to  my  chambers,  1 
tion,  and  rose  up  in  a  confused  humming,  writ  down  these  minutes,  but  was  at  a 
which  created  in  me  a  reflection  that  loss  what  instruction  I  should  propose 
could  not  come  into  the  mind  of  any  but  to  my  reader  from  the  enumeration  of  so 
of  one  a  little  too  studious;  for  I  said  many  insignificant  matters  and  occur- 
to  myself  with  a  kind  of  pun  in  thought,  35  rences ;  and  I  thought  it  of  great  use,  if 
'  What  nonsense  is  all  the  hurry  of  this  they  could  learn  wnth  me  to  keep  their 
world  to  those  who  are  above  it?'  In  minds  open  to  gratification,  and  ready 
these,  or  not  much  wiser  thoughts,  I  had  to  receive  it  from  anything  it  meets 
like  to  have  lost  my  place  at  the  chop-  with.  This  one  circumstance  will  make 
house,  where  every  man,  according  to  40  every  face  you  see  give  you  the  satisfac- 
the  natural  bashfulness  or  sullenness  of  tion  you  now  take  in  beholding  that  of  a 
our  nation,  eats  in  a  public  room  a  mess  friend;  will  make  every  object  a  pleasing 
of  broth,  or  chop  of  meat,  in  dumb  si-  one;  will  make  all  the  good  which  arrives 
lence,  as  if  they  had  no  pretense  to  speak  to  any  man  an  increase  of  happiness  to 
to  each  other  on  the   foot  of  being  men,  45  yourself. 

except    they    were    of    each    other's    ac-  Monday,  August  11,  1712. 

quaintance. 


i 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  (1672-1719) 

From  a  refined  clerical  home,  Addison  was  sent  to  Charterhouse  School  and  thence,  at  fifteen 
to  Oxford,  where  he  distinguished  himself  as  a  scholar  and  rose  to  a  fellowship  at  Magdalen 
College  (Uil»7-99),  By  his  twenty-second  year,  he  was  known  as  a  cultivated  writer  of 
English  and  Latin  verses  and  Drydon  had  welcomed  him  to  the  world  of  letters.  While  he 
was  considering  the  church,  the  Whig  government,  desiring  to  enlist  the  service  of  his  pen, 
granted  him  a  pension  which  enabled  him  to  spend  four  years  in  study  and  travel  on  the 
continent.  Returning,  in  1704,  to  a  mean  London  lodging,  he  was  directly  sought  out  by  the 
Whig  leaders  and  commissioned  to  celebrate  the  recent  victory  of  Marlborough  at  Blenheim. 
His  poem.  The  Campaign,  proved  satisfactory,  and  he  was  rewarded  with  lucrative  secretary- 
ships, one  of  which  took  him  to  Ireland,  where  he  was  eminently  successful  and  popular. 
Meantime,  he  had  become  a  leader  among  the  coffee-house  wits  and  had  won  the  friendship 
of  Swift.  Pie  renewed  his  Charterhouse  intimacy  with  Steele,  was  responsible  for  '  many 
applauded  strokes'  in  the  latter's  comedy,  The  Tender  Husband  (1705),  and  contributed  to 
The  Tutler  (1709),  42  of  its  271  numbers.  With  Steele,  he  started  The  Speetator  (1711-12) 
which  appeared  daily  and  ran  to  555  numbers,  of  which  Addison  wrote  274.  In  Hie  Spectator, 
Addison's  genius  found  its  aptest  expression.  No  other  periodical  writing  has  every  combined, 
in  so  high  a  degree,  immediate  journalistic  effectiveness  and  permanent  literary  charm.  This 
success  was  promptly  followed  by  that  of  his  tragedy,  Cato  (1713),  which,  though  intrinsically 
undramatic,  became  immensely  famous  because  of  its  supposed  political  sentiments.  When 
the  Whigs  returned  to  power,  he  was  made  chief  secretary  for  Ireland;  carried  on,  for  a 
time,  a  party  periodical  called  The  Freeholder;  became  in  1716  commissioner  for  trade 
and  the  colonies,  and,  in  1717,  secretary  of  state.  Ill-health  and,  possibly,  ill-success  as  a 
public  speaker  induced  him  to  resign  his  post  after  a  few  months.  In  the  midst  of  new 
literary  plans  and  an  unkind  political  squabble  with  his  old  friend  Steele,  he  was  cut  off  by 
death  when  only  forty-seven  years  of  age.  A  fine  elegy,  by  his  friend  Tickell,  gives  us  a  good 
idea  of  his  impressive  night  burial  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Addison's  central  qualities  are  discretion  and  self-possession.  He  '  always  preferred  cheer- 
fulness to  mirth,'  and  those  who  look  for  sensational  elements,  whether  in  style  or  behavior, 
will  find  him  lame.  A  i)rofane  person  once  pronounced  him  '  a  parson  in  a  tye-wig,'  and 
another  vindictively  declared,  '  One  day  or  other  you  '11  see  that  man  a  bishop.'  But  the 
chiefs  of  a  witty  and  sociable  age  owned  (hat,  after  the  bottle  had  been  round  and  among 
friends,  he  was  the  most  delightful  companion  alive.  As  a  writer,  he  profoundly  influenced 
English  manners  nnd  morals  by  demonstrating  that  urbanity  and  good  breeding  might  be 
associated  with  learning,  and  that  virtue  is  not  necessarily  incompatible  with  elegance  and  wit. 
Of  his  merit  as  a  prose  stylist,  no  one  has  spoken  more  roundly  than  Dr.  Johnson  in  his 
measured  statement,  that  '  Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar  but  not 
coarse,  and  ele'^ant  but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of 
Addison,' 


From  THE  SPECTATOR  staiiding  of  an  author.     To   gratify  this 

curiosity,     which     is     so     natural     to     a 

t^*-*'  ^-J  reader,  I  design  this  paper,  and  my  next, 

THE     SPECTATOR    INTRODUCES        ^^   prefatory   discourses   to   my   following 

HIMSELF  5  writings,  and  shall  give  some  account  in 

them  of  the  several  persons  that  are  en- 

I   have  observed   that   a   reader   seldom      gaged  in  this  work.     As  the  chief  trouble 

peruses    a    book    with    pleasure,    till    he      of    compiling,    digesting,    and    correcting, 

knows  whether  the  writer  of  it  be  a  black      will   fall   to  my  share,   I   must  do  myself 

or  a  fair  man,  of  a  mild  or  choleric  dis- lo  the    justice    to    open    the    work    with'  my 

position,    iTiarried    or    a    bachelor,     with      own    history. 

other  particulars  of  the  like  nature,  that  I   was   born   to  a   small   hereditary  es- 

conduce   very   much    to   the   right   under-      tate,  which,  according  to  the  tradition  of 

335 


330  jusiirn  AJjjJisuiN 

the  village  where  it  lies,  was  bounded  osity  raised,  that  having  read  the  con- 
by  the  same  hedges  and  ditches  in  Wil-  troversies  of  some  great  men  concerning 
liam  the  Conqueror's  time  that  it  is  at  the  antiquities  of  Egypt,  I  made  a  voyage 
present,  and  has  been  delivered  down  to  Grand  Cairo,  on  purpose  to  take  the 
from  father  to  son  whole  and  entire,  5  measure  of  a  pyramid ;  and  as  soon  as  I 
without  the  loss  or  accjuisition  of  a  single  had  set  myself  right  in  that  particular, 
field  or  meadow,  during  the  space  of  six  returned  to  my  native  country  with  great 
hundred    years.     There    runs    a    story    in      satisfaction. 

the  family,  that  my  mother,  near  the  time  I   have   passed  my   latter  years   in   this 

of  my  birth,  dreamed  that  her  son  was  lo  city,  where  I  am  frequently  seen  in  most 
become  a  judge;  whether  this  might  pro-  public  places,  though  there  are  not  above 
ceed  from  a  law-suit  which  was  then  half-a-dozen  of  my  select  friends  that 
depending  in  the  family,  or  my  father's  know  me ;  of  whom  my  next  paper  shall 
being  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  cannot  de-  give  a  more  particular  account.  There 
termine ;  for  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  think  is  is  no  place  of  general  resort,  wherein  I 
it  presaged  any  dignity  that  I  should  ar-  do  not  often  make  my  appearance :  some- 
rive  at  in  my  future  life,  though  that  times  I  am  seen  thrusting  my  head  into 
was  the  interpretation  which  the  neigh-  a  round  of  politicians,  at  Will's,  and  lis- 
borhood  put  upon  it.  The  gravity  of  my  tening  with  great  attention  to  the  narra- 
behavior  at  my  very  first  appearance  in  the  20  tives  that  are  made  in  those  little  circular 
world  seemed  to  favor  my  mother's  aiidiences.  Sometimes  I  smoke  a  pipe  at 
dream:  for  as  she  often  told  me,  I  threw  Child's,  and  whilst  I  seem  attentive  to 
away  my  rattle  before  I  was  two  months  nothing  but  the  Postman,  overhear  the 
old,  and  would  not  make  use  of  my  coral  conversation  of  every  table  in  the  room, 
until  they  had  taken  away  the  bells  from  25 1  appear  on  Sunday  nights  at  St.  James's 
it.  coffee-house,  and  sometimes  join  the  little 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there  committee  of  politics  in  the  inner  room, 
being  nothing  in  it  remarkable,  I  shall  as  one  who  comes  there  to  hear  and  im- 
pass  it  over  in  silence.  I  find,  that  dur-  prove.  My  face  is  likewise  very  well 
ing  my  nonage,  I  had  the  reputation  of  30  known  at  the  Grecian,  the  Cocoa-tree, 
a  very  sullen  youth,  but  was  always  a  and  in  the  theaters  both  of  Drury-Lane 
favorite  of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used  and  the  Hay-market.  I  have  been  taken 
to  say,  that  my  parts  were  solid,  and  for  a  merchant  upon  the  exchange  for 
would  wear  well.  I  had  not  been  long  above  these  ten  years,  and  sometimes 
at  the  university,  before  I  distinguished  35  pass  for  a  Jew  in  the  assembly  of  stock- 
myself  by  a  most  profound  silence;  for,  jobbers  at  Jonathan's:  in  short,  wher- 
during  the  space  of  eight  years,  except-  ever  I  see  a  cluster  of  people,  I  always 
ing  in  the  public  exercises  of  the  college,  mix  with  them,  though  I  never  open  my 
I  scarce  uttered  the  quantity  of  an  hun-  lips  but  in  my  own  club, 
dred  words ;  and  indeed  do  not  remember  40  Thus  I  live  in  the  world  rather  as  a 
that  I  ever  spoke  three  sentences  to-  spectator  of  mankind,  than  as  one  of  the 
gether  in  my  whole  life.  Whilst  I  was  species,  by  which  means  I  have  made  my- 
in  this  learned  body,  I  applied  myself  self  a  speculative  statesman,  soldier, 
with  so  much  diligence  to  my  studies,  merchant  and  artisan,  without  ever  med- 
that  there  are  very  few  celebrated  books,  45  dling  with  any  practical  part  in  life.  I 
either  in  the  learned  or  the  modern  am  very  well  versed  in  the  theory  of  a 
tongues,  which  I  am  not  acquainted  with,      husband  or  a  father,  and  can  discern  the 

Upon  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was  errors  in  the  economy,  business,  and  di- 
resolved  to  travel  into  foreign  countries,  version  of  others,  better  than  those  who 
and  therefore  left  the  university,  with  50 are  engaged  in  them;  as  standers-by  dis- 
the  character  of  an  odd  unaccountable  cover  blots,  which  are  apt  to  escape  those 
fellow,  that  had  a  great  deal  of  learning,  who  are  in  the  game.  I  never  espoused 
if  I  would  but  shew  it.  An  insatiable  any  party  with  violence,  and  am  resolved 
thirst  after  knowledge  carried  me  into  to  observe  an  exact  neutrality  between 
all  the  countries  of  Europe,  in  which  ssthe  whigs  and  tories,  unless  I  shall  be 
there  was  anything  new  or  strange  to  be  forced  to  declare  myself  by  the  hostilities 
seen;  nay,  to  such  a  degree  was  my  curi-      of   either   side.     In    short,    I   have    acted 


r^    '^\j  \^  i>i  ±  IN.  J.     JKJ  i\  UrV  1 


66^ 

in  all  the  parts  of  my  life  as  a  looker-on,  concerned  with  me  in  this  work;  for, 
which  is  the  character  I  intend  to  pre-  as  I  have  before  intimated,  a  plan  of  it 
serve  in  this  paper.  _  is  laid  and  concerted,  as  all  other  matters 

I  have  given  the  reader  just  so  much  of  importance  are,  in  a  club.  However, 
of  my  history  and  character,  as  to  let  him  5  as  my  friends  have  engaged  me  to  stand 
see  I  am  not  altogether  unqualified  for  in  the  front,  those  who  have  a  mind  to 
the  business  I  have  undertaken.  As  for  correspond  with  me  may  direct  their  let- 
other  particulars  in  my  life  and  adven-  ters  to  the  Spectator,  at  Mr,  Buckley's 
tures,  I  shall  insert  them  in  following  in  Little  Britain.  For  I  must  further 
papers,  as  I  shall  see  occasion.  In  the  lo  acquaint  the  reader,  that,  though  our  club 
meantime,  when  I  consider  how  much  I  meet,  only  on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays, 
have  seen,  read,  and  heard,  I  begin  to  we  have  appointed  a  committee  to  sit 
blame  my  own  taciturnity;  and  since  I  every  night,  for  the  inspection  of  all  such 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination,  to  com-  papers  as  may  contribute  to  the  advance- 
municate  the  fulness  of  my  heart  in  15  ment  of  the  public  weal, 
speech,  I  am  resolved  to  do  it  in  writing,  Thursday,  March  i,  1710-11. 

and  to  print  myself  out,  if  possible,  be- 
fore I  die.  I  have  been  often  told  by 
my   friends,    that    it   is   a   pity   so   many      L^O*  II2.J 

useful    discoveries    which    I    have    made  20  ^  COUNTRY  SUNDAY 

should   be   in   the   possession  of   a   silent 

man.     For  this  reason,  therefore,  I  shall  I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a 

publish  a  sheet-full  of  thoughts  every  country  Sunday,  and  think,  if  keeping 
morning,  for  the  benefit  of  my  contem-  holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a  human 
poraries :  and  if  I  can  any  way  contribute  25  institution,  it  would  be  the  best  method 
to  the  diversion  or  improvement  of  the  that  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the 
country  in  which  I  live,  I  shall  leave  it  polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It 
when  I  am  summoned  out  of  it,  with  the  is  certain  the  country  people  would  soon 
secret  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  have  degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages  and 
not  lived  in  vain.  30  barbarians,  were  there  not  such   frequent 

There  are  three  very  material  points  returns  of  a  stated  time  in  which  the 
v.'hich  I  have  not  spoken  to  in  this  paper;  whole  village  meet  together  with  their 
and  which,  for  several  important  rea-  best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanliest  habits, 
sons,  I  must  keep  to  myself,  at  least  for  to  converse  with  one  another  upon  indif- 
some  time :  I  mean,  an  account  of  my  35  ferent  subjects,  hear  their  duties  ex- 
name,  my  age,  and  my  lodgings.  I  must  plained  to  them,  and  join  together  in 
confess,  I  would  gratify  my  reader  in  adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sun- 
anything  that  is  reasonable;  but  as  for  day  clears  away  the  rust  of  the  whole 
these  three  particulars,  though  I  am  sen-  week,  not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their 
sible  they  might  tend  very  much  to  the  40  minds  the  notions  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts 
embellishment  of  my  paper,  I  cannot  yet  both  the  sexes  upon  appearing  in  their 
come  to  a  resolution  of  communicating  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting  all 
them  to  the  public.  They  would  indeed  such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a 
draw  me  out  of  that  obscurity  which  I  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  village,  A  coun- 
have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  and  expose  45  try  fellow  distinguishes  himself  as  much 
me  in  public  places  to  several  salutes  and  in  the  churchyard,  as  a  citizen  does  upon 
civilities,  which  have  been  always  very  the  Change,  the  whole  parish-politics  be- 
disagreeable  to  me;  for  the  greatest  pain  ing  generally  discussed  in  that  place 
I  can  suffer,  is  the  being  talked  to,  and  either  after  sermon  or  before  the  bell 
being  stared  at.     It  is  for  this  reason  like-  50  rings. 

wise,    that    I    keep    my    complexion    and  My    friend    Sir    Roger,    being    a    good 

dress  as  very  great  secrets;  though  it  is  churchman,  has  beautified  the  inside  of 
not  impossible  that  I  may  make  discover-  his  church  with  several  texts  of  his  own 
ies  of  both  in  the  progress  of  the  work  choosing:  he  has  likewise  given  a  hand- 
I  have  undertaken.  55  some  pulpit-cloth,  and  railed  in  the  com- 

After  havmg  been  thus  particular  upon  munion  table  at  his  own  expense.  He 
myself,  I  shall,  in  to-morrow's  paper,  give  has  often  told  me,  that  at  his  coming  to 
an   account   of  those   gentlemen   who   are      his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very 


338  JOSEPH  ADDISON 


irregular;  and  that  in  order  to  make  Ijetvveen  a  double  row  of  his  tenants,  that 
them  kneel  and  join  in  the  responses,  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  side;  and 
he  gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  every  now  and  then  inquires  how  such 
a  common-prayer  book:  and  at  the  same  a  one's  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father 
time  employed  an  itinerant  singing  mas-  5  do,  whom  he  docs  not  see  at  church; 
ter,  who  goes  about  the  country  for  that  which  is  understood  as  a  secret  reprimand 
purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly  in  the  to  the  person  that  is  absent, 
tunes  of  the  i)salms;  upon  which  they  now  The   chaplain   has   often   told   me,   that 

very  much  value  themselves,  and  indeed  upon  a  catechising  day,  when  Sir  Roger 
outdo  most  of  the  country  churches  that  lo  has  been  pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers 
I  have  ever  heard.  well,  he  has  ordered  a  bible  to  be  given 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  him  next  day  for  his  encouragement;  and 
congregation,  he  keeps  them  in  very  good  sometimes  accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of 
order,  and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir  Roger  has  like- 
it  besides  himself;  for  if,  by  chance,  he  r,  wise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to  the 
has  been  surprised  into  a  short  nap  at  clerk's  place ;  and  that  he  may  encourage 
sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it  he  the  young  fellows  to  make  themselves 
stands  up  and  looks  about  him,  and  if  perfect  in  the  church-service,  has  prom- 
he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either  ised,  upon  the  death  of  the  present  in- 
wakes  them  himself,  or  sends  his  serv-  20  cumbent,  who  is  very  old,  to  bestow  it 
ants   to  them.     Several   other   of  the   old      according  to  merit. 

knight's    particularities    break    out    upon  The    fair    understanding    between    Sir 

these  occasions:  sometimes  he  will  be  Roger  and  his  chaplain,  and  their  mu- 
lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  singing-  tual  concurrence  in  doing  good,  is  the 
psalms,  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  25  more  remarkable,  because  the  very  next 
the  congregation  have  done  with  it;  village  is  famous  for  the  differences  and 
sometimes,  when  he  is  pleased  with  the  contentions  that  rise  between  the  parson 
matter  of  his  devotion,  he  pronounces  and  the  squire,  who  live  in  a  perpetual 
'  Amen '  three  or  four  times  to  the  same  state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always 
prayer;  and  sometimes  stands  up  when  30  preaching  at  the  squire,  and  the  squire  to 
everybody  else  is  upon  their  knees,  to  be  revenged  on  the  parson  never  comes 
count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of  to  church.  The  squire  has  made  all  his 
his  tenants  are  missing.  tenants  atheists,  and  tithe-stealers ;  while 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  the  parson  instructs  them  every  Sunday 
to  hear  my  old  friend,  in  the  midst  of  35  in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  and  insinuates 
the  service,  calling  out  to  one  John  to  them  in  almost  every  sermon  that  he 
Matthews  to  mind  what  he  was  about,  is  a  better  man  than  his  patron.  In  short 
and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This  matters  have  come  to  such  an  extremity, 
John  Matthews  it  seems  is  remarkable  that  the  squire  had  not  said  his  prayers 
for  being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time  40  either  in  public  or  private  this  half  year: 
was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diversion.  and  that  the  parson  threatens  him,  if  he 
This  authority  of  the  knight,  though  ex-  does  not  mend  his  manners,  to  pray  for 
erted  in  that  odd  manner  which  accom-  him  in  the  face  of  the  whole  congregation, 
panics   him   in   all   circumstances   of   life.  Feuds   of   this   nature,   though   too   fre- 

has  a  very  good  effect  upon  the  parish,  45  quent  in  the  country,  are  very  fatal  to 
who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see  any  the  ordinary  people ;  who  are  so  used  to 
thing  ridiculous  in  his  behavior;  besides  be  dazzled  with  riches,  that  they  pay  as 
that  the  general  good  sense  and  worthi-  much  deference  to  the  understanding  of 
ness  of  his  character  makes  his  friends  a  man  of  an  estate,  as  of  a  man  of  learn- 
oljserve  these  little  singularities  as  foilssoing:  and  are  very  hardly  brought  to  re- 
that  rather  set  off  than  blemish  his  good  gard  any  truth,  how  important  soever 
qualities.  it  may  be,  that  is  preached  to  them,  when 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  no-      they  know  there  are  several  men  of  five 
body  presumes   to   stir  till   Sir   Roger  is      hundred  a  year  who  do  not  believe  it. 
gone    out    of    the    church.     The    knight  55  Monday,  July  9,  171 1. 

walks  down  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel 


[No.   122.]  long   for   a   trespass   in   breaking   one    of 

cTr>   Tsr^r-T-r,    a  t^  ^     r-  ^'^  hedges,  till  he  was  forced  to  sell  the 

blK  KOGh-R  AT  THE  ASSIZES  ground  it  enclosed  to  defray  the  charges 

,  of   the    prosecution:    his    father    left   him 

A  mans  first  care  should  be  to  avoid   5  fourscore  pounds  a  year;  but  he  has  cast 
the  reproaches  of  his  own  heart;  his  next,      and  been  cast  so  often,  that  he  is  not  now 
to  escape   the   censures   of   the   world:   if      worth  thirty.     I  suppose  he  is  going  upon 
the    last    interferes    with    the    former,    it      the  old  business  of  the  willow  tree  ' 
ought  to  be  entirely  neglected;  but  other-  As  Sir  Roger  was  giving  me  this  ac- 

wise  there  cannot  be  a  greater  satisfac-  lo  count  of  Tom  Touchy,  Will  Wimble  and 
tion  to  an  honest  mind,  than  to  see  those,  his  two  companions  stopped  short  till  he 
approbations  which  it  gives  itself  sec-  came  up  to  them.  After  having  paid 
ondcd  by  the  applauses  of  the  public:  a  their  respects  to  Sir  Roger,  Will  told  him 
man  is  more  sure  of  conduct,  when  the  that  Mr.  Touchy  and  he  must  appeal  to 
verdict  which  he  passes  upon  his  own  15  him  upon  a  dispute  that  arose  between 
behavior  is  thus  warranted  and  confirmed  them.  Will  it  seems  had  been  giving  his 
by  the  opinion  of  all  that  know  him.  fellow-traveler  an  account  of  his  angling 

My  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger  is  one  of  one  day  in  such  a  hole;  when  Tom 
those  who  is  not  only  at  peace  within  Touchy,  instead  of  hearing  out  his  story, 
himself,_but  beloved  and  esteemed  by  all  20  told  him  that  Mr.  such-a-one,  if  he 
about  him.  He  receives  a  suitable  trib-  pleased,  might  '  take  the  law  of  him  '  for 
ute  for  his  universal  benevolence  to  man-  fishing  in  that  part  of  the  river.  My 
kind,  in  the  returns  of  affection  and  good-  friend  Sir  Roger  heard  them  both  upon 
will,  which  are  paid  him  by  every  one  a  round  trot;  and  after  having  paused 
that  lives  within  his  neighborhood.  I  2s  some  time,  told  them,  with  the  air  of  a 
lately  met  with  two  or  three  odd  instances  man  who  would  not  give  his  judgment 
of  that  general  respect  which  is  shewn  rashly,  that  '  much  might  be  said  on  both 
to  the  good  old  knight.  He  would  sides.'  They  were  neither  of  them  dis- 
needs  carry  Will  Wimble  and  myself  with  satisfied  with  the  knight's  determination, 
him  to  the  county  assizes :  as  we  were  .^-  because  neither  of  them  found  himself  in 
upon  the  road  Will  Wimble  joined  a  the  wrong  by  it:  upon  which  we  made 
couple  of  plain  men  who  rode  before  us,  the  best  of  our  way  to  the  assizes. 
and  conversed  with  them  for  some  time;  The    court    was    set   before    Sir    Roger 

during  which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  ac-  came ;  but  notwithstanding  all  the  justices 
quainted   me   with   their   characters.  35  had   taken   their   places   upon    the   bench, 

'  The  first  of  them,'  says  he,  '  that  has  they  made  room  for  the  old  knight  at  the 
a  spaniel  by  his  side,  is  a  yeoman  of  head  of  them ;  who,  for  his  reputation  in 
about  an  hundred  pounds  a  year,  an  the  country,  took  occasion  to  whisper  in 
honest  man:  he  is  just  within  the  game-  the  judge's  ear,  'that  he  was  glad  his 
act,  and  qualified  to  kill  an  hare  or  a  4o  lordship  had  met  with  so  much  good 
pheasant :  he  knocks  down  his  dinner  weather  in  his  circuit.'  I  was  listening 
with  his  gun  twice  or  thrice  a  week:  and  to  the  proceedings  of  the  court  with  much 
by  that  means  lives  much  cheaper  than  attention,  and  infinitely  pleased  with  that 
those  who  have  not  so  good  an  estate  as  great  appearance  of  solemnity  which  so 
himself.  He  would  be  a  good  neighbor  45  properly  accompanies  such  a  public  ad- 
if  he  did  not  destroy  so  many  partridges :  ministration  of  our  laws;  when,  after 
in  short  he  is  a  very  sensible  man;  shoots  about  an  hour's  sitting,  I  observed  to  my 
flying;  and  has  been  several  times  fore-  great  surprise,  in  the  midst  of  a  trial,  that 
man  of  the  petty  jury.  _         _         my  friend   Sir  Roger  was  getting  up  to 

'  That  other  that  rides  along  v^^ith  him  "^^  speak.     I  was  in  some  pain  for  him  till  I 
is    Tom    Touchy,    a    fellow    famous    for      found  he  had  acquitted  himself  of  two  or 
"  taking  the  law "  of  everybody.     There  is      three    sentences,    with    a    look    of    much 
not  one  in  the  town  where  he  lives  that      business  and  great  intrepidity. 
he    has    not   sued    at    a   quarter-sessions.  Upon    his    first    rising    the    court    was 

The  rogue  had  once  the  impudence  to  go  "~  hushed,  and  a  general  whisper  ran  among 
to  law  with  the  widow.  His  head  is  full  the  country  people  that  Sir  Roger  '  was 
of  costs,  damages,  and  ejectments:  he  up.'  The  speech  he  made  was  so  little 
plagued  a  couple  of  honest  gentlemen  so      to   the   purpose,   that   I   shall   not   trouble 


340  JOSEPH  ADDISON 


my  readers  with  an  account  of  it;  and  I  inj^  it  was  made  to  frown  and  stare  in 
believe  was  not  so  much  designed  by  the  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  I  could 
knight  himself  to  inform  the  court,  as  to  still  discover  a  distant  resemblance  of  my 
give  him  a  figure  in  my  eye,  and  keep  up  old  friend.  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing  me 
his  credit  in   the  country.  5  laugh,  desired   me   to  tell  him   truly   if   I 

I  was  highly  delighted,  when  the  court  thought  it  possible  for  people  to  know 
rose,  to  see  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  him  in  that  disguise.  I  at  first  kept  my 
gathering  about  my  old  friend,  and  striv-  usual  silence :  but  upon  the  knight's  con- 
ing who  should  compliment  him  most;  at  juring  me  to  tell  him  whether  it  was  not 
the  same  time  that  the  ordinary  people  lo  still  more  like  himself  than  a  Saracen,  I 
gazed  ui)on  him  at  a  distance,  not  a  little  composed  my  countenance  in  the  best 
admiring  his  courage,  that  was  not  afraid  manner  I  could,  and  replied  '  That  much 
to  speak  to  the  judge.  might  be  said  on  both  sides.' 

In  our  return  home  we  met  with  a  very  These     several     adventures,     with     the 

odd  accident ;  which  I  cannot  forbear  re-  15  knight's  behavior  in  them,  gave  me  as 
lating,  because  it  shews  how  desirous  all  pleasant  a  day  as  ever  I  met  with  in  any 
who  know  Sir  Roger  are  of  giving  him      of  my  travels. 

marks   of  their   esteem.     When   we   were  Friday,  July  20,  171 1. 

arrived  upon  the  verge  of  his  estate,  we 
stopped  at  a  little  inn  to  rest  ourselves  20 
and  our  horses.     The  man  of  the  house      L^^°-  ^3i-J 

had,   it   seems,   been    formerly   a   servant  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

in  the  knight's   family;  and  to  do  honor 

to  his   old  master,   had   some  time   since.  It  is  usual  for  a  man  who  loves  country 

unknown  to  Sir  Roger,  put  him  up  in  a  25  sports  to  preserve  the  game  on  his  own 
sign-post  before  the  door;  so  that  'the  grounds,  and  divert  himself  upon  those 
Knight's  Head'  had  hung  out  upon  the  that  belong  to  his  neighbor.  My  friend 
road  about  a  week  before  he  himself  Sir  Roger  generally  goes  two  or  three 
knew  anything  of  the  matter.  As  soon  miles  from  his  house,  and  gets  into  the 
as  Sir  Roger  was  acquainted  with  it,  3o  frontiers  of  his  estate,  before  he  beats 
finding  that  his  servant's  indiscretion  pro-  about  in  search  of  a  hare  or  partridge, 
ceeded  wholly  from  affection  and  good-  on  purpose  to  spare  his  own  fields,  where 
will,  he  only  told  him  that  he  had  made  he  is  always  sure  of  finding  diversion 
him  too  high  a  compliment;  and  when  the  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst.  By 
fellow  seemed  to  think  that  could  hardly  be,  35  this  means  the  breed  about  his  house 
added  with  a  more  decisive  look,  that  it  has  time  to  increase  and  multiply  besides 
was  too  great  an  honor  for  any  man  un-  that  the  sport  is  the  more  agreeable  where 
der  a  duke ;  but  told  him  at  the  same  the  game  is  the  harder  to  come  at,  and 
time,  that  it  might  be  altered  with  a  very  where  it  does  not  lie  so  thick  as  to  pro- 
few  touches,  and  that  he  himself  would  40  duce  any  perplexity  or  confusion  in  the 
be  at  the  charge  of  it.  Accordingly,  they  pursuit.  For  these  reasons  the  country 
got  a  painter  by  the  knight's  directions  to  gentleman,  like  the  fox,  seldom  preys 
add  a  pair  of  whiskers  to  the   face,  and      near  his  own  home. 

by   a   little    aggravation    of   the    features  In   the    same   manner   I   have   made    a 

to  change  it  into  the  Saracen's  Head.  I  45  month's  excursion  out  of  town,  which  is 
should  not  have  known  this  story,  had  the  great  field  of  game  for  sportsmen  of 
not  the  inn-keeper,  upon  Sir  Roger's  my  species,  to  try  my  fortune  in  the 
alighting,  told  him  in  my  hearing,  that  country,  where  I  have  started  several 
his  honor's  head  was  brought  back  last  subjects,  and  hunted  them  down,  with 
night  with  the  alterations  that  he  had  ?o  some  pleasure  to  myself,  and  I  hope  to 
ordered  to  be  made  in  it.  Upon  this  my  others.  I  am  here  forced  to  use  a  great 
friend  with  his  usual  cheerfulness  related  deal  of  diligence  before  I  can  spring  any- 
the  particulars  above-mentioned,  and  thing  to  my  mind,  whereas  in  town, 
ordered  the  head  to  be  brought  into  the  whilst  I  am  following  one  character,  it 
room.  I  could  not  forbear  discovering  ;5  is  ten  to  one  but  I  am  crossed  in  my  way 
greater  expressions  of  mirth  than  ordi-  by  another,  and  put  up  such  a  variety 
nary  upon  the  appearance  of  this  mon-  of  odd  creatures  in  both  sexes,  that  they 
strous    face,    under    which,    notwithstand-      foil  the  scent  of  one  another,  and  puzzle 


I  i->     K^\J  \J  l\   i  I\  1 


^ 

the  chase.     My  greatest  difficulty  in  the      is  more  in  me  than  he  discovers,  and  that 
country   is  to  find  sport,  and  in  town  to      I  do  not  hold  my  tongue  for  nothing, 
choose  it.     In  the  mean  time,  as  I  have  For  these  and  other  reasons  I  shall  set 

given  a  whole  month's  rest  to  the  cities  out  for  London  to-morrow,  having  found 
of  London  and  Westminster,  I  promise  5  by  experience  that  the  country  is  not  a 
myself  abundance  of  new  game  upon  my  place  for  a  person  of  my  temper,  who 
return   thither.    _  does  not  love  jollity,  and  what  they  call 

It  is  indeed_  high  time  for  me  to  leave  good  neighborhood.  A  man  that  is  out 
the  country,  since  I  find  the  whole  neigh-  of  humor  when  an  unexpected  guest 
borhood  begin  to  grow  very  inquisitive  10  breaks  in  upon  him,  and  does  not  care 
after  my  name  and  character;  my  love  for  sacrificing  an  afternoon  to  every 
of  solitude,  taciturnity,  and  particular  chance  comer, —  that  will  be  the  master 
way  of  life,  having  raised  a  great  curi-  of  his  own  time,  and  the  pursuer  of  his 
osity  in  all  these  parts.  own  inclinations, —  makes  but  a  very  un- 

The  notions  which  have  been  framed  15  sociable  figure  in  this  kind  of  life.  I 
of  me  are  various;  some  look  upon  me  shall  therefore  retire  into  the  town,  if 
as  very  proud,  some  as  very  modest,  and  I  may  make  use  of  that  phrase,  and  get 
some  as  very  melancholy.  Will  Wimble,  into  the  crowd  again  as  fast  as  I  can, 
as  my  friend  the  butler  tells  me,  observ-  in  order  to  be  alone,  I  can  there  raise 
ing  me  very  much  alone,  and  extremely  20  what  speculations  I  please  upon  others 
silent  when  I  am  in  company,  is  afraid  without  being  observed  myself,  and  at 
I  have  killed  a  man.  The  country  the  same  time  enjoy  all  the  advantages 
people  seem  to  suspect  me  for  a  conjurer;  of  company  with  all  the  privileges  of 
and  some  of  them  hearing  of  the  visit  solitude.  In  the  meanwhile,  to  finish  the 
which  I  made  to  Moll  White,  will  needs  25  month,  and  conclude  these  my  rural 
have  it  that  Sir  Roger  has  brought  down  speculations,  I  shall  here  insert  a  letter 
a  cunning  man  with  him,  to  cure  the  old  from  my  friend  Will  Honeycomb,  who 
woman,  and  free  the  country  from  her  has  not  lived  a  month  for  these  forty 
charms.  So  that  the  character  which  I  years  out  of  the  smoke  of  London,  and 
go  under  in  part  of  the  neighborhood,  3o  rallies  me  after  his  way  upon  my  country 
is  what  they  here  call  a  '  white  w^itch.'  life. 

A  justice  of  peace,  who  lives  about  five 
miles  off,  and  is  not  of  Sir  Roger's  party,      '  Dear  Spec, 

has,  it  seems,  said  twice  or  thrice  at  his  '  I    suppose    this    letter    will    find    thee 

table,  that  he  wishes  Sir  Roger  does  not  35  picking  up  daisies,  or  smelling  to  a  lock 
harbor  a  Jesuit  in  his  house ;  and  that  he  of  hay,  or  passing  away  thy  time  in  some 
thinks  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  innocent  country  diversion  of  the  like 
would  do  very  well  to  make  me  give  some  nature.  I  have  however  orders  from  the 
account  of  myself.  club  to   summon  thee  up   to  town,   being 

On  the  other  side,  some  of  Sir  Roger's  40  all  of  us  cursedly  afraid  thou  wilt  not  be 
friends  are  afraid  the  old  knight  is  im-  able  to  relish  our  company,  after  thy 
posed  upon  by  a  designing  fellow,  and  as  conversations  with  Moll  White  and  Will 
they  have  heard  that  he  converses  very  Wimble.  Pr'ythee  don't  send  up  any 
promiscuously  when  he  is  in  town,  do  not  more  stories  of  a  cock  and  a  bull,  nor 
know  but  he  has  brought  down  with  him  45  frighten  the  town  with  spirits  and 
some  discarded  Whig,  that  is  sullen,  and  witches.  Thy  speculations  begin  to  smell 
says  nothing  because  he  is  out  of  place.       confoundedly    of    woods     and     meadows. 

Such  is  the  variety  of  opinions  which  If  thou  dost  not  come  up  quickly,  we 
are  here  entertained  of  me,  so  that  I  pass  shall  conclude  that  thou  art  in  love  with 
among  some  for  a  disaffected  person,  5o  one  of  Sir  Roger's  dairy-maids.  Service 
and  among  others  for  a  popish  priest;  to  the  knight.  Sir  Andrew  is  grown  the 
among  some  for  a  wizard,  and  among  cock  of  the  club  since  he  left  us,  and  if 
others  for  a  murderer;  and  all  this  for  no  he  does  not  return  quickly,  will  make 
other  reason,  that  I  can  imagine,  but  be-  every  mother's  son  of  us  common- 
cause  I  do  not  hoot,  and  hollow,  and  ^5  wealth's  men. 
make  a  noise.     It  is  true,  my  friend   Sir  '  Dear     Spec, 

Roger  tells  them  that  it  is  my  wav,  and  '  Thine  eternally, 

that    I    am   only   a   philosopher:    but   this  '  WILL 'HONEYCOMB.' 

will  not  satisfy  them.     They  think   tliere  Tuesday,  July  31,  171 1. 


342  JOSEPH  ADDISON 


[No.  335.]  John  tells  me  he  has  got  the  fore-wheels 

mended.' 
SIR  ROGER  AT  THE  PLAY  The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet 

me  there  at  the  appointed  hour,  bid  Sir 
My  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  5  Roger  fear  nothing,  for  that  he  had  put 
when  we  last  met  together  at  the  ckil),  on  the  same  sword  which  he  made  use 
told  me  that  he  had  a  great  mind  to  see  of  at  the  battle  of  Stccnkirk.  Sir 
the  new  tragedy  with  me,  assuring  me  at  Roger's  servants,  and  among  the  rest, 
the  same  time,  that  he  had  not  been  at  my  old  friend  the  butler,  had,  I  found, 
a  play  these  twenty  years.  '  The  last  I  10  provided  themselves  with  good  oaken 
saw,'  said  Sir  Roger,  'was  The  Com-  plants,  to  attend  their  master  upon  this 
mittee,  which  I  should  not  have  gone  to  occasion.  When  we  had  placed  him  in 
neither,  had  not  I  been  told  before-hand  his  coach,  with  myself  at  his  left  hand, 
that  it  was  a  good  Church  of  England  the  Captain  before  him,  and  his  butler 
comedy.'  He  then  proceeded  to  inquire  15  at  the  head  of  his  footmen  in  the  rear, 
of  me  who  this  '  Distressed  Mother '  we  convoyed  him  in  safety  to  the  play- 
was ;  and  upon  hearing  that  she  was  house,  where,  having  marched  up  the 
Hector's  widow,  he  told  me  that  her  hus-  entry  in  good  order,  the  Caj)tain  and  I 
band  was  a  brave  man,  and  that  when  went  in  with  him,  and  seated  him  be- 
he  was  a  school-boy  he  had  read  his  life  2otwixt  us  in  the  pit.  As  soon  as  the  house 
at  the  end  of  the  dictionary.  My  friend  was  full,  and  the  candles  lighted,  my  old 
asked  me,  in  the  next  place,  if  there  friend  stood  up  and  looked  about  him 
would  not  be  some  danger  in  coming  with  that  pleasure,  which  a  mind  sea- 
home  late,  in  case  the  Mohocks  should  soned  with  humanity  naturally  feels  in 
be  abroad.  '  I  assure  you,*  says  he,  *  I  25  itself,  at  the  sight  of  a  multitude  of 
thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  hands  last  people  who  seem  pleased  with  one  another, 
night;  for  I  observed  two  or  three  lusty  and  partake  of  the  same  common  enter- 
black  men  that  followed  me  half  way  up  tainment.  I  could  not  but  fancy  myself. 
Fleet-street,  and  mended  their  pace  be-  as  the  old  man  stood  up  in  the  middle 
hind  me,  in  proportion  as  I  put  on  to  get  30  of  the  pit,  that  he  made  a  very  proper 
away  from  them.  You  must  know,'  con-  center  to  a  tragic  audience.  Upon  the 
tinned  the  knight,  with  a  smile,  '  I  entering  of  Pyrrhus,  the  knight  told  me 
fancied  they  had  a  mind  to  hunt  me;  for  that  he  did  not  believe  the  king  of  France 
I  remember  an  honest  gentleman  in  my  himself  had  a  better  strut.  I  was  indeed 
neighborhood,  who  was  served  such  a  35  very  attentive  to  my  old  friend's  remarks, 
trick  in  King  Charles  IPs  time,  for  because  I  looked  upon  them  as  a  piece 
which  reason  he  has  not  ventured  him-  of  natural  criticism;  and  was  well 
self  in  town  ever  since.  I  might  have  pleased  to  hear  him,  at  the  conclusion  of 
shewn  them  very  good  sport,  had  this  almost  every  scene,  telling  me  that  he 
been  their  design ;  for  as  I  am  an  old  40  could  not  imagine  how  the  play  would 
fox-hunter,  I  should  have  turned  and  end.  One  while  he  appeared  much  con- 
dodged,  and  have  played  them  a  thou-  cerned  for  Andromache,  and  a  little 
sand  tricks  they  had  never  seen  in  their  while  after  as  much  for  Hermione ;  and 
lives  before.'  Sir  Roger  added,  that  if  was  extremely  puzzled  to  think  what 
these  gentlemen  had  any  such  intention,  45  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 
they    did    not   succeed    very    well    in    it;  When    Sir    Roger    saw    Andromache's 

'  for  I  threw  them  out,'  says  he,  '  at  the  obstinate  refusal  to  her  lover's  impor- 
end  of  Norfolk-street,  where  I  doubled  tunities,  he  whispered  me  in  the  ear, 
the  corner,  and  got  shelter  in  my  lodg-  that  he  was  sure  she  would  never  have 
ings  before  they  could  imagine  what  was  5- him;  to  which  he  added,  with  a  more 
become  of  me.  However,'  says  the  than  ordinary  vehemence,  '  You  can't  ini- 
knight,  '  if  Captain  Sentry  will  make  agine,  sir,  what  it  is  to  have  to  do  with 
one  with  us  to-morrow  night,  and  if  a  widow.'  Upon  Pyrrhus  his  threaten- 
you  will  both  of  you  call  upon  me  about  ing  afterwards  to  leave  her.  the  knight 
four  o'clock,  that  we  may  be  at  the  house  55  shook  his  head,  and  muttered  to  himself, 
before  it  is  full,  I  will  have  my  own  '  Ay,  do  if  you  can.'  This  part  dwelt 
coach    in    readiness    to    attend    you,    for      so   much   upon   my    friend's   imagination, 


that  at  the  close  of  the  third  act,  as  I  was  afterwards  Orestes  in  his  raving  fit,  he 
thinking  of  something  else,  he  whispered  grew  more  than  ordinary  serious,  and 
me  in  my  ear,  'These  widows,  sir,  are  the  took  occasion  to  moralize  (in  his  way) 
most  perverse  creatures  in  the  world.  upon  an  evil  conscience,  adding,  that 
But  pray,'  says  he,  '  you  that  are  a  critic,  5  Orestes,  in  his  madness,  looked  as  if  he 
is   this   play   according  to   your   dramatic      saw  something. 

rules,    as    you    call    them?     Should    your  As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the 

people  in  tragedy  always  talk  to  be  un-  house,  so  we  were  the  last  that  went  out 
derstood?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single  of  it;  being  resolved  to  have  a  clear 
sentence  in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  lo  passage  for  our  old  friend,  whom  we  did 
the  meaning  of.'  not   care   to   venture   among   the   justling 

The  fourth  act  very  unluckily  began  of  the  crowd.  Sir  Roger  went  out  fully 
before  I  had  time  to  give  the  old  gentle-  satisfied  with  his  entertainment,  and  we 
man  an  answer :  '  Well,'  says  the  knight,  guarded  him  to  his  lodging  in  the  same 
sitting  down  with  great  satisfaction,  '  I  15  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the  play- 
suppose  we  are  now  to  see  Hector's  house ;  being  highly  pleased  for  my  own 
ghost.'  He  then  renewed  his  attention,  part,  not  only  with  the  performance  of 
and  from  time  to  time  fell  a-praising  the  the  excellent  piece  which  had  been  pre- 
widow.  He  made,  indeed,  a  little  mis-  sented,  but  with  the  satisfaction  which  it 
take  as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom  at  his  20  had  given  to  the  old  man. 
first  entering  he  took  for  Astyanax :  but  Tuesday,  March  25,  1712. 

he  quickly  set  himself  right  in  that  par- 
ticular,   though,    at    the    same    time,    he 
owned    he    should    have    been    very    glad        ^. 
to  have  seen  the  little  boy.     'Who,'  says  2s  L^^o.  517.J 

he,  'must  needs  be  a  very  fine  child  by  XHE  DEATH   OF   SIR  ROGER 

the  account  that  is  given  of  him.'     Upon 

Hermione's  going  off  with  a  menace  to  We   last  night  received  a  piece   of  ill 

Pyrrhus,  the  audience  gave  a  loud  clap ;  news  at  our  club,  which  very  sensibly 
to  which  Sir  Roger  added,  '  On  my  word,  .^0  afflicted  every  one  of  us.  I  question  not 
a  notable  young  baggage ! '  but     my     readers     themselves     will     be 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  si-  troubled  at  the  hearing  of  it.  To  keep 
lence  and  stillness  in  the  audience  during  them  no  longer  in  suspense.  Sir  Roger 
the  whole  action,  it  was  natural  for  them  de  Coverley  is  dead.  He  departed  this 
to  take  the  opportunity  of  the  intervals  3S  life  at  his  house  in  the  country,  after  a 
between  the  acts,  to  express  their  opinion  few  weeks'  sickness.  Sir  Andrew  Free- 
of  the  players,  and  of  their  respective  port  has  a  letter  from  one  of  his  cor- 
parts.  Sir  Roger  hearing  a  cluster  of  respondents  in  those  parts,  that  informs 
them  praise  Orestes,  struck  in  with  them,  him  the  old  man  caught  a  cold  at  the 
and  told  them  that  he  thought  his  friend  40  county  sessions,  as  he  was  very  warmly 
Pylades  was  a  very  sensible  man ;  as  they  promoting  an  address  of  his  own  pen- 
were  afterwards  applauding  Pyrrhus,  Sir  ning,  in  which  he  succeeded  according 
Roger  put  in  a  second  time,  '  And  let  me  to  his  wishes.  But  this  particular  comes 
tell  you.'  says  he,  '  though  he  speak  but  from  a  whig  justice  of  peace,  who  was 
little,  I  like  the  old  fellow  in  whiskers  as  45  always  Sir  Roger's  enemy  and  anta^o- 
well  as  any  of  them.'  Captain  Sentry,  nist.  I  have  letters  both  from  the  chap- 
seeing  two  or  three  wags  who  sat  near  lain  and  Captain  Sentry  which  mention 
us,  lean  with  an  attentive  ear  towards  nothing  of  it,  but  are  filled  with  many 
Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should  particulars  to  the  honor  of  the  good 
smoke  the  knight,  plucked  him  by  the  5°  old  man.  I  have  likewise  a  letter  from 
elbow,  and  whispered  something  in  his  the  butler,  who  took  so  much  care  of  me 
ear,  that  lasted  till  the  opening  of  the  last  summer  when  I  was  at  the  knight's 
fifth  act.  The  knight  was  wonderfully  house.  As  my  friend  the  butler  men- 
attentive  to  the  account  which  Orestes  tions,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart, 
gives  of  Pyrrhus  his  death,  and  at  the  55  several  circumstances  the  others  have 
conclusion  of  it  told  me,  it  was  such  a  passed  over  in  silence,  I  shall  give  my 
bloody  piece  of  work,  that  he  was  glad  reader  a  copy  of  his  letter,  without  any 
it  was  not  done  upon  the  stage.     Seeing      alteration  or  diminution. 


344  JUbKFH  ADDISON 


'  Honored  Sir,  lived  two  years  longer,   Coverley  church 

'  Knowing  that  you  was  my  old  mas-  should  have  a  steeple  to  it.  The  chap- 
ter's good  friend,  I  could  not  forbear  lain  tells  everybody  that  he  made  a  very 
sending  you  the  melancholy  news  of  his  good  end,  and  never  speaks  of  him  with- 
death,  which  has  afflicted  the  whole  5  out  tears.  He  was  buried,  according  to 
country  as  well  as  his  poor  servants,  his  own  directions,  among  the  family  of 
who  loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than  the  Coverleys,  on  the  left  hand  of  his 
we  did  our  lives.  I  am  afraid  he  caught  father  Sir  Arthur.  The  coffin  was  car- 
his  death  the  last  county  sessions,  where  ried  by  six  of  his  tenants,  and  the  pall 
he  would  go  to  see  justice  done  to  a  poor  lo  held  up  by  six  of  the  quorum:  the  whole 
widow  woman,  and  her  fatherless  chil-  parish  followed  the  corpse  with  heavy 
dren,  that  had  been  wronged  by  a  neigh-  hearts,  and  in  their  mourning  suits,  the 
boring  gentleman;  for  you  know,  sir,  my  men  in  frize,  and  the  women  in  riding- 
good  master  was  always  the  poor  man's  hoods.  Captain  Sentry,  my  master's 
friend.  Upon  his  coming  home,  the  first  15  nepliew,  has  taken  possession  of  the  hall- 
complaint  he  made  was,  that  he  had  lost  house,  and  the  whole  estate.  When  my 
his  roast-beef  stomach,  not  being  able  old  master  saw  him  a  little  before  his 
to  touch  a  sirloin,  which  was  served  up  death,  he  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and 
according  to  custom ;  and  you  know  he  wished  him  joy  of  the  estate  which  was 
used  to  take  great  delight  in  it.  From  20  falling  to  him,  desiring  him  only  to  make 
that  time  forward  he  grew  worse  and  a  good  use  of  it,  and  to  pay  the  several 
worse,  but  still  kept  a  good  heart  to  the  legacies,  and  the  gifts  of  charity  which 
last.  Indeed  we  were  once  in  great  he  told  him  he  had  left  as  quit-rents  upon 
hope  of  his  recovery,  upon  a  kind  the  estate.  The  captain  truly  seems  a 
message  that  was  sent  him  from  the  25  courteous  man,  though  he  says  but  little, 
widow  lady  whom  he  had  made  love  to  He  makes  much  of  those  whom  my  mas- 
the  forty  last  years  of  his  life,  but  this  ter  loved,  and  shews  great  kindness  to 
only  proved  a  lightning  before  death,  the  old  house-dog,  that  you  know  my 
He  has  bequeathed  to  this  lady,  as  a  poor  master  was  so  fond  of.  It  would 
token  of  his  love,  a  great  pearl  necklace,  30  have  gone  to  your  heart  to  have  heard 
and  a  couple  of  silver  bracelets  set  with  the  moans  the  dumb  creature  made  on 
jewels,  which  belonged  to  my  good  old  the  day  of  my  master's  death.  He  has 
lady  his  mother:  he  has  bequeathed  the  never  joyed  himself  since;  no  more  has 
fine  white  gelding,  that  he  used  to  ride  any  of  us.  'T  was  the  melancholiest  day 
a  hunting  upon,  to  his  chaplain,  because  35  for  the  poor  people  that  ever  happened 
he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him,  in  \\'orcestershire.  This  is  all  from, 
and  has  left  you  all  his  books.     He  has,  '  Honored     Sir,    your    most    sorrowful 

moreover,   bequeathed  to   the   chaplain   a      servant, 

very    pretty    tenement    with    good    lands  '  Edward  Biscuit.' 

about  it.  It  being  a  very  cold  day  when  40  '  P.  S.  My  master  desired,  some 
he  made  his  will,  he  left  for  mourn-  weeks  before  he  died,  that  a  book  which 
ing,  to  every  man  in  the  parish,  a  great  con:es  up  to  you  by  the  carrier,  should 
frize-coat,  and  to  every  woman  a  black  be  given  to  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  in  his 
riding-hood.  It  was  a  moving  sight  to  name.' 
see  him  take  leave  of  his  poor  servants,  45 

commending  us  all  for  our  fidelity,  whilst  This    letter,    notwithstanding    the    poor 

we  were  not  able  to  speak  a  word  for  butler's  manner  of  writing  it,  gave  us 
weeping.  As  we  most  of  us  are  grown  such  an  idea  of  our  good  old  friend,  that 
gray-headed  in  our  dear  master's  service,  upon  the  reading  of  it  there  was  not  a 
he  has  left  us  pensions  and  legacies,  50  dry  eye  in  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  open- 
which  we  may  live  very  comfortably  ing  the  book,  found  it  to  be  a  collection 
upon  the  remaining  part  of  our  days,  of  acts  of  parliament.  There  was  in  par- 
He  has  bequeathed  a  great  deal  more  in  ticular  the  act  of  uniformity,  with  some 
charity,  which  is  not  yet  come  to  my  passages  in  it  marked  by  Sir  Roger's 
knowledge,  and  it  is  peremptorily  said  55  own  hand.  Sir  Andrew  found  that  they 
in  the  parish,  that  he  has  left  money  to  related  to  two  or  three  points,  which  he 
build  a  steeple  to  the  church ;  for  he  was  had  disputed  with  Sir  Roger  the  last 
heard   to   say   some   time   ago  that   if  he      time  he   appeared  at  the   club.     Sir  An- 


drew,  who  would  have  been  merry  at  Patch  for  the  pubhc  good  so  much  as 
such  an  incident  on  another  occasion,  at  for  their  own  private  advantage,  it  is 
the  sight  of  the  old  man's  hand-writing  certain,  that  there  are  several  women  of 
burst  into  tears,  and  put  the  book  into  honor  who  Patch  out  of  principle,  and 
his  pocket.  Captain  Sentry  informs  me,  5  with  an  eye  to  the  interest  of  their 
that  the  knight  has  left  rings  and  mourn-  country.  Nay,  I  am  informed  that  some 
ing  for  every  one  in  the  club.  of   them    adhere    so    steadfastly    to   their 

Thursday,  October  23,  1712.  party,    and    are    so    far    from    sacrificing 

their  zeal  for  the  public  to  their  passion 
j-^      r,    -.  10  for  any  particular  person,  that  in  a  late 

[JNo.  61.J  draught   of  marriage-articles   a   lady  has 

PARTY  PATCHES  stipulated  with   her  husband,   that  what- 

ever  his   opinions    are,    she    shall    be   at 
About  the  middle  of  last  winter  I  went      liberty    to    patch    on    which    sides    she 
to    see    an    opera    at    the    theater    in    the  15  pleases. 

Hay-market,  where  I  could  not  but  take  I  must  here  take  notice  that  Rosalinda, 

notice  of  two  parties  of  very  fine  women,  a  famous  whig  partisan,  has  most  un- 
that  had  placed  themselves  iii  the  op-  fortunately  a  very  beautiful  mole  on  the 
posite  side-boxes,  and  seemed  drawn  up  tory  part  of  her  forehead;  which  being 
in  a  kind  of  battle-array  one  against  20  very  conspicuous,  has  occasioned  many 
another.  After  a  short  survey  of  them,  mistakes,  and  given  an  handle  to  her 
I  found  they  were  Patched  differently;  enemies  to  misrepresent  her  face,  as 
the  faces,  on  one  hand,  being  spotted  on  though  it  had  revolted  from  the  whig 
the  right  side  of  the  forehead,  and  those  interest.  But,  whatever  this  natural 
upon  the  other  on  the  left :  I  quickly  25  patch  may  seem  to  insinuate,  it  is  well 
perceived  that  they  cast  hostile  glances  known  that  her  notions  of  government 
upon  one  another;  and  that  their  Patches  are  still  the  same.  This  unlucky  mole, 
were  placed  in  those  ditTerent  situations,  however,  has  misled  several  coxcombs; 
as  party-signals  to  distinguish  friends  and  like  the  hanging  out  of  false  colors, 
from  foes.  In  the  middle-boxes,  be-  3°  made  some  of  them  converse  with  Rosa- 
tween  these  two  opposite  bodies,  were  linda  in  what  they  thought  the  spirit 
several  ladies  who  patched  indifferently  of  her  party,  when  on  a  sudden  she  has 
on  both  sides  of  their  faces,  and  seemed  given  them  an  unexpected  fire,  that  has 
to  sit  there  with  no  other  intention  but  sunk  them  all  at  once.  If  Rosalinda  is 
to  see  the  opera.  Upon  enquiry  I  found,  35  unfortunate  in  her  mole,  Nigranilla  is  as 
that  the  body  of  Amazons  on  my  right  unhappy  in  a  pimple,  which  forces  her, 
hand  were  whigs,  and  those  on  my  left,  against  her  inclinations,  to  patch  on  the 
tories :    and    that    those   who    had    placed      whig  side. 

themselves    in   the    middle-boxes   were   a  I  am  told  that  many  virtuous  mat'ons, 

neutral  party,  whose  faces  had  not  yet  4°  who  formerly  have  been  taught  tc  be- 
declared  themselves.  These  last,  how-  lieve  that  this  artificial  spotting  of  the 
ever,  as  I  afterwards  found,  diminished  face  was  unlawful,  are  now  reconciled 
daily,  and  took  their  party  with  one  side  by  a  zeal  for  their  cause,  to  what  they 
or  the  other;  insomuch  that  I  observed  could  not  be  prompted  by  a  concern  for 
in  several  of  them,  the  patches,  which  45  their  beauty.  This  way  of  declaring 
were  before  dispersed  equally,  are  now  war  upon  one  another,  puts  me  in  mind 
nil  gone  over  to  the  whig  or  tory  side  of  what  is  reported  of  the  tigress,  that 
of  the  face.  The  censorious  say,  that  several  spots  rise  in  her  skin  when  she 
the  men  whose  hearts  are  aimed  at,  are  is  angry;  or  as  Mr.  Cowley  has  im- 
very  often  the  occasions  that  one  part  50  itated  the  verses  that  stand  as  the  motto 
of  the  face  is  thus  dishonored,  and  lies  of  this  paper, 
under  a  kind  of  disgrace,  while  the  other 

is   so   much   set   oft'   and   adorned   by   the      —  She  swells  with  angry  pride, 
owner;  and  that  the  Patches  turn  to  the      And  calls  forth  all  her  spots  on  ev'ry  side, 
right  or  to  the  left,  according  to  the  prin-  55 

ciples  of  the  man  who  is  most  in  favor.  When    I    was   in   the   theater   the   time 

But  whatever  may  be  the  motives  of  a  above-mentioned,  I  had  the  curiositv  to 
few    fantastical    coquettes,    who    do    not      count    the    Patches    on    both    sides,  '  and 


346  JOSEPH  ADDISON 


found  the  tory  Patches  to  be  about  against  those  who  are  perhaps  of  the 
twenty  stronger  than  the  whig;  but  to  same  family,  or  at  least  of  the  same  reh- 
make  amends  for  this  small  inequality,  gion  or  nation,  but  against  those  who 
I  the  next  morning  found  the  whole  are  the  oi)en,  professed,  undoubted  en- 
puppet-shew  filled  with  faces  spotted  s  emies  of  their  faith,  liberty  and  coun- 
after  the  whiggish  manner.  Whether  or  try.  When  the  Romans  were  pressed 
no  the  ladies  had  retreated  hither  in  with  a  foreign  enemy,  the  ladies  volun- 
order  to  rally  their  forces,  I  cannot  tell;  tarily  contributed  all  their  rings  and 
but  the  next  night  they  came  in  so  great  jewels  to  assist  the  government  under 
a  body  to  the  opera,  that  they  out-num-  lo  the  public  exigence,  which  appeared  so 
bered  the  enemy.  laudable    an   action   in    the   eyes   of   their 

This  account  of  Party-patches  will,  I  countrymen,  that  from  thenceforth  it 
am  afraid,  appear  improbable  to  those  was  permitted  by  a  law  to  pronounce 
who  live  at  a  distance  from  the  fashion-  public  orations  at  the  funeral  of  a  woman 
able  world;  but  as  it  is  a  distinction  of  is  in  praise  of  the  deceased  person,  which 
a  very  singular  nature,  and  what  per-  till  that  time  was  peculiar  to  men. 
haps  may  never  meet  with  a  parallel,  I  Would  our  English  ladies,  instead  of 
think  I  should  not  have  discharged  the  sticking  on  a  patch  against  those  of  their 
office  of  a  faithful  Spectator,  had  I  not  own  country,  show  themselves  so  truly 
recorded  it.  20  public-spirited    as    to    sacrifice   every   one 

I  have,  in  former  papers,  endeavored  her  necklace  against  the  common  enemy, 
to  expose  this  party-rage  in  women,  as  it  what  decrees  ought  not  to  be  made  in 
only  serves  to  aggravate  the  hatred  and      favor  of  them? 

animosities    that    reign    among   men,    and  Since  I  am  recollecting  upon  this  sub- 

in  a  great  measure  deprives  the  fair  sex  25  ject  such  passages  as  occur  to  my  mem- 
of  those  peculiar  charms  with  which  ory  out  of  ancient  authors,  I  cannot  omit 
nature  has  endowed  them.  a     sentence     in     the     celebrated     funeral 

When  the  Romans  and  Sabines  were  oration  of  Pericles,  which  he  made  in 
at  war,  and  just  upon  the  point  of  giving  honor  of  those  brave  Athenians  that 
battle,  the  women  who  were  allied  to  3o  v/ere  slain  in  a  fight  with  the  Lacedce- 
both  of  them,  interposed  with  so  many  monians.  After  having  addressed  him- 
tears  and  entreaties,  that  they  prevented  self  to  the  several  ranks  and  orders  of 
the  mutual  slaughter  which  threatened  his  countrymen,  and  shown  them  how 
both  parties,  and  united  them  together  they  should  behave  themselves  in  the 
in  a  firm  and  lasting  peace.  35  public  cause,  he  turns  to  the  female  part 

I  would  recommend  this  noble  example  of  his  audience;  'And  as  for  you  (says 
to  our  British  ladies,  at  a  time  when  their  he)  I  shall  advise  you  in  very  few 
country  is  torn  with  so  many  unnatural  words :  Aspire  only  to  those  virtues  that 
divisions,  that  if  they  continue,  it  will  are  peculiar  to  your  sex ;  follow  your 
be  a  misfortune  to  be  born  in  it.  The  40  natural  modesty,  and  think  it  your  great- 
Greeks  thought  it  so  improper  for  women  est  commendation  not  to  be  talked  of 
to  interest  themselves  in  competitions  and  one  way  or  other.' 
contentions,  that   for  this  reason,  among  Saturday,  June  2,  171 1. 

others,  they   forbad  them,  under  pain  of 
death,    to    be    present    at    the    Olympic  45 
games,    notwithstanding    these    were    the      L-'^O.  253.J 
public  diversions  of  all  Greece.  DETRACTION  AMONG  POETS 

As  our  English  women  excel  those  of 
all    nations    in    beauty,    they    should    en-  There  is  nothing  which  more  denotes 

deavor  to  outshine  them  in  all  other  ac-  5o  a    great    mind,    than    the    abhorrence    of 
complishments  proper  to  the  sex,  and  to      envy      and       detraction.     This      passion 
distinguish   themselves  as  tender  mothers      reigns     more     among     bad     poets,     than 
and    faithful    wives,    rather    than    as    fu-      among  any  other  set  of  men. 
rious    partisans.     Female    virtues    are    of  As   there   are   none   more   ambitious   of 

a  domestic  turn.  The  family  is  the  55  fame,  than  those  who  are  conversant  in 
proper  province  for  private  women  to  poetry,  it  is  very  natural  for  such  as 
shine  in.  If  they  must  be  showing  have  not  succeeded  in  it,  to  depreciate 
their    zeal    for    the   public,    let    it    not    be      the  works  of  those  who  have.     For  since 


DETRACTION  AMONG  POETS  347 

they  cannot  raise  themselves  to  the  rep-  tions  follow  one  another  like  those  in 
utation  of  their  fellow-writers,  they  must  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  without  that 
endeavor  to  sink  it  to  their  own  pitch,  methodical  regularity  which  would  have 
if  they  would  still  keep  themselves  upon  a  been  requisite  in  a  prose  author.  They 
level   with   them.  5  are  some  of  them  uncommon,  but  such  as 

The  greatest  wits  that  ever  were  pro-  the  reader  must  assent  to,  when  he  sees 
duced  in  one  age,  lived  together  in  so  them  explained  with  that  elegance  and 
good  an  understanding,  and  celebrated  perspicuity  in  which  they  are  deliv- 
one  another  with  so  much  generosity,  ered.  As  for  those  which  are  the 
that  each  of  them  receives  an  additional  10  most  known,  and  the  most  received,  they 
luster  from  his  contemporaries,  and  is  are  placed  in  so  beautiful  a  light,  and 
more  famoLis  for  having  lived  with  illustrated  with  such  apt  allusions,  that 
men  of  so  extraordinary  a  genius,  than  if  they  have  in  them  all  the  graces  of  nov- 
he  had  himself  been  the  sole  wonder  of  elty,  and  make  the  reader,  who  was  be- 
the  age.  I  need  not  tell  my  reader,  that  15  fore  acquainted  with  them,  still  more 
I  here  point  at  the  reign  of  Augustus,  convinced  of  their  truth  and  solidity. 
and  I  believe  he  will  be  of  my  opinion.  And  here  give  me  leave  to  mention  what 
that  neither  Virgil  nor  Horace  would  Monsieur  Boileau  has  so  very  well  en- 
have  gained  so  great  a  reputation  in  the  larged  upon  in  the  preface  to  his  works, 
world,  had  they  not  been  the  friends  and  20  that  wit  and  fine  writing  doth  not  con- 
admirers  of  each  other.  Indeed  all  the  sist  so  much  in  advancing  things  that  are 
great  writers  of  that  age,  for  whom  new,  as  in  giving  things  that  are  known 
singly  we  have  so  great  an  esteem,  stand  an  agreeable  turn.  It  is  impossible  for 
up  together  as  vouchers  for  one  another's  us,  who  live  in  the  latter  ages  of  the 
reputation.  But  at  the  same  time  that  25  world,  to  make  observations  in  criticism, 
Virgil  was  celebrated  by  Gallus,  Prop-  morality,  or  in  any  art  or  science,  which 
ertius,  Horace,  Varius,  Tucca  and  Ovid,  have  not  been  touched  upon  by  others, 
we  know  that  Bavins  and  M?evius  were  We  have  little  else  left  us,  but  to  rep- 
his   declared   foes   and   calumniators.  resent  the  common  sense  of  mankind  in 

In  our  own  country  a  man  seldom  sets  3o  more  strong,  more  beautiful,  or  more 
up  for  a  poet,  without  attacking  the  uncommon  lights.  If  a  reader  examines 
reputation  of  all  his  brothers  in  the  art.  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  he  will  find  but 
The  ignorance  of  the  moderns,  the  very  few  precepts  in  it,  which  he  may 
scribblers  of  the  age,  the  decay  of  poetry,  not  meet  with  in  Aristotle,  and  which 
are  the  topics  of  detraction,  with  which  35  were  not  commonly  known  by  all  the 
he  makes  his  entrance  into  the  world ;  poets  of  the  Augustan  age.  His  way 
but  how  much  more  noble  is  the  fame  of  expressing  and  applying  them,  not 
that  is  built  on  candor  and  ingenuity,  his  invention  of  them,  is  what  we  are 
according  to  those  beautiful  lines  of  Sir      chiefly  to  admire. 

John  Denham,  in  his  poem  on  Fletcher's  40  For  this  reason  I  think  there  is  noth- 
works !  ing    in    the    world    so    tiresome    as    the 

works  -of   those    critics   who   write   in   a 
But    whither    am    I    strayed?     I    need    not      positive    dogmatic    way,     without    either 
raise  language,   genius  or  imagination.     If  the 

Trophies  to  thee  from  other  men's  dispraise :  4S  reader  would  see  how  the  best  of  the 
Nor   is   thy   fame  on   lesser   ruins   built,  Latin  critics  writ,  he  may  find  their  man- 

Nor  needs  thy  juster  title  the  foul  guilt  ner    very    beautifully     described     in    the 

Of  eastern  Kings,  who  to  secure  their  reign      characters    of    Horace,    Petronius,    Quin- 
Must  have  their  brothers,  sons,  and  kindred      tilian   and   Longinus,   as   they   are   drawn 
slain.  ^0  in  the  essay  of  which  I  am  now  speak- 

ing. 

I    am    sorry    to    find    that    an    author,  Since  I  have  mentioned  Longinus,  who 

who  is  very  justly  esteemed  among  the  in  his  reflections  has  given  us  the  same 
best  judges,  has  admitted  some  strokes  kind  of  sublime,  which  he  observes  in 
of  this  nature  into  a  very  fine  poem,  I  ^;  the  several  passages  that  occasioned 
mean  The  Art  of  Criticism,  which  was  them ;  I  cannot  but  take  notice,  that  our 
published  sorne  months  since,  and  is  a  English  author  has  after  the  same  man- 
master-piece    in    its   kind.     The    observa-      ner    exemplified    several    of    his    precepts 


348  JOSEPH  ADDISON 


in  the  very  precepts  themselves.     I   sliall  piece   in    its   kind;   the   Essay   on    Trans- 
produce    two    or   three    instances    of   this  latcd    Verse,    the    Essay    on    the    Art    of 
kind.     Speaking    of    the    insipid    smooth-  Poetry,  and  the  Essay  upon  Criticism. 
ness   which    some    readers    are    so    much  Thursday,  December  20,  171 1. 
in  love  Vi^ith,  he  has  the  following  verses.  5 

These  equal  syllables  alone  require,  [No.  26.] 

Though  oft  the  ear  the  OPEN  vowels  tire,  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

While  expletives  then-  feeble  aid  do  join, 

And  ten   low   words  oft   creep  in   one  dull  ,0      When  I  am  in  a  serious  humor,  I  very 
line.  often    walk    by    myself    in     Westminster 

Abbey;  where  the  gloominess  of  the 
The  gaping  of  the  vowels  m  the  sec-  place  and  the  use  to  which  it  is  applied, 
ond  line,  the  expletive  do  in  the  third,  ^^jth  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and 
and  the  ten  monosyllables  m  the  fourth,  ,5  ^i^^  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it, 
give  such  a  beauty  to  this  passage,  as  ^^e  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of 
would  have  been  very  much  admired  in  melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtfulness. 
an  ancient  poet.  The  reader  may  ob-  ^hat  is  not  disagreea])le.  I  yesterdav 
serve  the  followmg  lines  in  the  same  ^^^^^^  ^  ^i^qI^  afternoon  in  the  church- 
'^^^^-  20  yard,  the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amus- 

.  A     .u  in?     myself     with     the     tombstones     and 

A   needless  alexandrine  ends  the   song,  .*'./.         ,1    <.  t        ^      •<-!    •     u 

T,,    ^  ,.,  ^  A        ^       A  -4.      1  inscriptions  that  1  met  witli  in  those  sev- 

That  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  ,    '     .  .  ,,       1      ,       T\r     .      r  .1 

,        J      I  '        o  ^j.^1  regions  of  the  dead.     Most  of  them 

eng  1  a  o  ig  recorded  nothing  ejse  of  the  buried  per- 

And  afterwards  ^^  ^°"'  '^"^  ^^^^*  ^^^  ^^^  ^°^"  "P^^"*  °"^  ^^y- 

'  and  died  upon  another,  the  whole  history 

'T  'is    not    enough    no    harshness    gives    of-      of  his  life   being  comprehended   in   those 

fense  two   circumstances,    that   are    common   to 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense,  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but  look  upon 
Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephir  gently  blows,  3^^  these  registers  of  existence,  whether  of 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  num-      brass    or    marble,    as    a    kind    of    satire 

BERs  flows;  upon  the  departed  persons:  who  had  left 

But    when    loud    surges    lash    the    sounding      no  other  memorial  of  them,  but  that  they 

shore,  were  born  and  that  they  died.     They  put 

The   HOARSE,   rough   VERSE   should   like   the  35  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned 

torrent  roar.  in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have 

When  AjAx  strives,  some  rock's  vast  weight      sounding  names  given  them,  for  no  other 

to  throw,  reason  but  that   they  may  be  killed,   and 

The  line  too  labors,   and  the  words   move      are     celebrated     for     nothing     but     being 

SLOW  :  40  knocked  on  the  head. 

Not    so,    when    swift    Camilla    scours    the 

p]ain^  TXavKOD   re    MeSovrd   re   OepaiXoxov   re.     Horn. 

Flies    o'er    th'    unbending    corn,    and    skims       Glaucumqiic,  Medontaque,   Thersilochumque. 

along  the  main.  Virg. 

45 

The  beautiful  distich  upon  Ajax  in  the  The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described 

foregoing   lines,    puts    me    in    mind   of    a  in  holy  writ   by  '  the  path  of  an  arrow." 

description  in  Homer's  Odyssey.     *     *     *  which  is  immediately  closed  up  and  lost. 

It   would  be  endless  to  quote   verses  out  Upon  my  going  into  the  church,   I  en- 

of  Virgil  which  have  this  particular  kind  So  tertained    myself   with   the   digging   of   a 

of  beauty  in  the  numbers ;  but  I  may  take  grave ;    and    saw    in    every    shovel-full   of 

an   occasion    in   a    future   paper   to    shew  it  that  was  thrown  up,  the   fragment  of 

several  of  them  which  have  escaped  the  a  bone  or  skull  intermixt  with  a  kind  of 

observation  of  others.  fresh    moldering    earth,    that    some    time 

I    cannot   conclude   this   paper   without  S5  or  other  had  a  place   in  the  composition 

taking  notice,   that  we  have  three  poems  of  an   human   body.     Upon   this,   I   began 

in    our    tongue,    which    are    of   the    same  to    consider    with    myself    what    innumer- 

nature,     and    each     of    them     a     master-  able    multitudes    of    people    lay    confused 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  349 


together  under  the  pavement  of  that  an-  the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had 
cient  cathedral ;  how  men  and  women,  performed  in  the  service  of  his  country, 
friends  and  enemies,  priests  and  soldiers,  it  acquaints  us  only  with  the  manner  of 
monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled  his  death,  in  which  it  was  impossible  for 
amongst  one  another,  and  blended  to-  5  him  to  reap  any  honor.  The  Dutch, 
gether  in  the  same  common  mass;  how  whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for  want  of 
beauty,  strength,  and  youth,  with  old-age,  genius,  shew  an  infinitely  greater  taste 
weakness  and  deformity,  lay  undistin-  of  antiquity  and  politeness  in  their 
guished  in  the  same  promiscuous  heap  of  buildings  and  works  of  this  nature,  than 
matter.  10  what  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  country.  The  monuments  of  their  ad- 
magazine  of  mortality,  as  it  were,  in  the  mirals,  which  have  been  erected  at  the 
lump;  I  examined  it  more  particularly  by  public  expense,  represent  them  like 
the  accounts  which  I  found  on  several  of  themselves;  and  are  adorned  with  ros- 
the  monuments  which  are  raised  in  every  15  tral  crowns  and  naval  ornaments,  with 
quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  beautiful  festoons  of  sea-weed,  shells, 
them    were    covered    with    such    extrava-      and  coral. 

gant   epitaphs,   that,    if   it   were   possible  But  to  return  to  our  subject.     I  have 

for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted  left  the  repository  of  our  English  kings 
with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises  20  for  the  contemplation  of  another  day, 
which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon  when  I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for 
him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  so  serious  an  amusement.  I  know  that 
modest,  that  they  deliver  the  character  entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to 
of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timor- 
Hebrew,  and  by  that  means  are  not  un-  25  ous  minds,  and  gloomy  imaginations ; 
derstood  once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  but  for  my  own  part,  though  I  am  al- 
poetical  quarter,  I  found  there  were  ways  serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is 
poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  mon-  to  be  melancholy;  and  can  therefore  take 
uments  which  had  no  poets.  I  observed  a  view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn 
indeed  that  the  present  war  had  filled  the  30  scenes,  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her 
church  with  many  of  these  uninhabited  most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this 
monuments,  which  had  been  erected  to  means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those 
the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  objects,  which  others  consider  with  ter- 
were  perhaps  buried  in  the  plains  of  ror.  When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of 
Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean.  35  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  me ;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the 
with  several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are  beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes 
written  with  great  elegance  of  expres-  out;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of 
sion  and  justness  of  thought,  and  there-  parents  upon  a  tomb-stone,  my  heart 
fore  do  honor  to  the  living  as  well  as  40  melts  with  compassion ;  when  I  see  the 
to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I  con- 
to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or  sider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those 
politeness  of  a  nation,  from  the  turn  of  whom  we  must  quickly  follow;  when  I 
their  public  monuments  and  inscriptions,  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed 
they  should  be  submitted  to  the  perusal  4S  them,  when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed 
of  men  of  learning  and  genius,  before  side  by  side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided 
they  are  put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloud-  the  world  with  their  contests  and  dis- 
esly  Shovel's  monument  has  very  often  putes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  aston- 
given  me  great  offense :  Instead  of  the  ishment  on  the  little  competitions,  fac- 
brave  rough  English  admiral,  which  was  5°  tions  and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I 
the  distinguishing  character  of  that  plain  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of 
gallant  man,  he  is  represented  on  his  some  that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six 
tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau,  dressed  in  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that  great 
a  long  periwig,  and  reposing  himself  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contem- 
upon  velvet  cushions  under  a  canopy  of  55  poraries,  and  make  our  appearance  to- 
state.  The  inscription  is  answerable  to  gether. 
the  Monument;  for  instead  of  celebrating  Friday,   March  30,   171 1. 


ALEXANDER  POPE  (1688-1744) 

Pope  was  born  in  London,  the  year  of  the  protestant  revolution.  His  parents,  who  were 
catholics,  shortly  retired  to  a  country  home  near  Windsor  Forest,  and  there  the  poet  passed 
most  of  his  boyhood.  Deformed  and  sickly  from  his  birth,  he  was  reared  with  great  tender- 
ness and  compliance  and,  after  his  twelfth  year,  was  chiefly  self-educated.  He  read  widely 
and  at  random  among  English  authors  and  was  an  eager,  though  inexact,  student  of  the 
ancient  classics.  At  a  remarkably  early  age,  he  became  avid  of  literary  fame  and  displayed 
a  talent  for  acquainting  himself  with  the  literary  personalities  of  the  day.  Before  he  was 
twelve,  he  had  visited  Will's  coffee-house  in  order  to  have  a  look  at  the  great  Dryden  and, 
while  yet  a  boy,  had  passed  from  the  courting  to  the  quarreling  stage  with  Wycherley.  His 
precocity  as  a  verse-maker,  which  he  never  troubled  himself  to  disparage,  is  celebrated  in  the 
well-known  couplet : 

As  yet   a   child,  nor  yet  a  fool   to   fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers  for  the  numbers  came. 

He  claimed  to  have  written  his  Pastorals  at  sixteen.  They  were  printed  in  1709,  and  imme- 
diately attracted  attention.  His  Messiah  and  his  Essay  on  Criticism  won  the  encomiums  of 
The  Spectator  and  admitted  him  to  Addison's  circle.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  ( 1712-14 1  con- 
firmed his  reputation,  and  his  translation  of  the  Iliad  (1715-18)  and  the  Odysscij  (com- 
pleted 1726)  procured  him  a  competence.  'Thanks  to  Homer,'  he  'could  live  and  thrive, 
indebted  to  no  prince  or  peer  alive.'  He  purchased  a  villa  on  the  Thames  at  Twickenham, 
and  there  spent  the  last  twenty-five  years  of  his  life,  improving  his  '  grotto '  and  gardens, 
entertaining  wits  and  social  celebrities,  and  polishing  off  his  rivals  in  finished  satirical  verse 
of  which  the  monumental  example  is  The  Dunciad,  published  in  1728,  but  afterward  much 
altered  and  amplified.  His  best  known  attempt  at  philosophical  poetry  is  the  superficial, 
but  eminently  quotable.  Essay  on  Man  (1732—4).  Pope  is  chiefly  valued  for  the  smoothness 
and  sweetness  of  his  versification,  and  for  his  gift  of  turning  into  brief  and  memorable 
phrase  '  what  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed.'  Though  not  a  great  poet  in  (he 
highest  sense  of  that  term,  he  is  often  glowing  and  sometimes  powerful  in  declamation;  while 
for  mischievous  innuendo  and  sustained  condensation  and  point  he  has  no  equal  in  English 
poetry.  His  satire,  unlike  Drydeu's,  is  usually  personal  and  frequently  poisoned  by  the  same 
envy  and  malice  which  impaired  his  character  and  conduct.  '  Leave  Pope  as  soon  as  you  can  ; 
he  is  sure  to  play  you  some  devilish  trick  else,'  Addison  wrote  to  Lady  Montagu, —  one 
victim  of  Pope's  shiftiness  to  another.  Pope's  physical  inferiority  made  him  preternaturally 
sensitive  and  distorted  his  social  outlook.  He  could  be  pitifully  base  and  treacherous  where 
his  vanity  was  engaged,  and  his  literary  career  was  a  tissue  of  trivial  deceits  and  mean 
animosities.  Yet  we  cannot  but  admire  the  indomitableness  of  the  mind  which,  in  spite 
of  physical  suffering  and  humiliation,  fought  its  way  by  fair  means  and  foul,  to  the  chief 
place  in  the  literature  of  its  time. 


AN  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM 

I 

'T  is  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 

Appear   in    writing  or   in   judging   ill ; 

But,  of  the  two,  less  dangerous  is  the  of- 
fense 

To  tire  our  patience,  than  mislead  our 
sense. 

Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this,  5 


Ten    censure    wrong    for    one    who    writes 

amiss ; 
A   fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose. 
Now    one    in    verse    makes    many    more    in 

prose. 
'T  is  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches, 

none 
Go  just  alike,  yet   each  believes  his  own.   'o 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but   rare, 
True  taste  as  seldom  is  the  critic's  share; 


350 


AN  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM 


351 


Both   must   alike    from    Heaven   derive   their 

light, 
These    born    to    judge,    as    well    as    those    to 

write. 
Let  such  teach  others  who  tliemselves  ex- 
cel, 'S 
And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well. 
Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,  't  is  true, 
But  are  not  critics  to  their  judgment  too? 
Yet    if    we    look    more    closely,    we    shall 

find 
Most   have   the   seeds   of   judgment   in   their 

mind :  20 

Nature  affords  at  least  a  glimmering  light ; 
The   lines,   though    touched   but    faintly,    are 

drawn   right. 
But  as  the  slightest  sketch,  if  justly  traced. 
Is  by  ill-coloring  but  the  more  disgraced, 
So  by  false  learning  is  good  sense  defaced ; 
Some  are  bewildered  in  the  maze  of  schools, 
And    some    made    coxcombs    nature    meant 

but   fools.  27 

In    search    of   wit   these   lose   their   common 

sense, 
And  then  turn  critics  in  their  own  defense ; 
Each  burns  alike,  who  can,  or  cannot  write. 
Or  with  a  rival's  or  an  eunuch's  spite.       31 
All   fools  have  still  an  itching  to  deride. 
And    fain    would    be    upon    the    laughing 

side. 
If    ]\Ia'vius    scribble   in   .A.pollo's    spite. 
There  are  who  judge  still  worse  than  he  can 

write.  35 

Some    have    at    first    for    wits,    then    poets 

passed. 
Turned  critics  next,  and  proved  plain   fools 

at    last. 
Some    neither   can    for    wits    nor    critics 

pass, 
As  heavy  mules  are  neither  horse  nor  ass. 
Those    half-learned    witlings,    numerous    in 

our  isle,  40 

As    half-formed    insects    on    the    banks    of 

Nile ; 
Unfinished    things,   one   knows    not    what    to 

call. 
Their    generation  's    so   equivocal : 
To    tell    'em,    would    a    hundred   tongues   re- 
quire. 
Or    one    vain    wit's,    that    might    a    hundred 

tire.  45 

But  you  who  seek  to  give  and  merit  fame, 
And  justly  bear  a  critic's  noble  name. 
Be    sure    yourself    and    your    own    reach    to 

know. 
How    far    your    genius,    taste,    and    learning 

go; 
Launch   not  beyond  your  depth,  but  be   dis- 
creet, so 


And  mark  that  point   where   sense   and  dul- 
ness  meet. 
Nature  to  all  things  fixed  the  limits  fit, 
And   wisely   curbed   proud   man's   pretending 

wit. 
As  on  the  land   while  here  the  ocean  gains, 
In   other  parts  it   leaves   wide   sandy  plains ; 
Thus  in  the  soul  while  memory  prevails,  56 
The  solid  power  of  understanding   fails; 
Where   beams   of   warm   imagination   play, 
The    memory's    soft    figures    melt    away. 
One  science  only  will  one  genius  fit ;  60 

So  vast  is  art,  so  narrow  human  wit : 
Not   only  bounded  to   peculiar   arts, 
But  oft  in  those  confined  to   single  parts. 
Like    kings    we    lose    the    conquests    gained 

before, 
By  vain  ambition   still  to  make  them   more; 
Each   might   his   several   province   well   com- 
mand, 66 
Would    all    but    stoop    to    what    they    under- 
stand. 
First    follow    Nature,    and   your   judgment 
frame 
By    her    just    standard,    which    is    still    the 

same  : 
Unerring   Nature,   still   divinely   bright,        70 
One   clear,    unchanged,    and    universal    light. 
Life,   force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all   impart. 
At   once    the    source,    and    end,    and   test    of 

Art. 
Art    from   that    fund    each    just    supply   pro- 
vides. 
Works    without    show,    and     without    pomp 
presides :  75 

In   some   fair  body  thus  the   informing   soul 
With  spirits  feeds,  with  vigor  fills  the  whole, 
Each   motion   guides,   and   every  nerve   sus- 
tains; 
Itself   unseen,   but   in   the   effects,   remains. 
Some,  to  whom  Heaven  in  wit  has  been  pro- 
fuse, 80 
Want  as  much  more,  to  turn  it  to  its  use ; 
For   wit  and  judgment  often   are  at   strife, 
Ihough    meant    each    other's    aid,    like    man 

and  wife. 
'T  is    more   to   guide    than    spur   the    Muse's 
steed ;  84 

Restrain  his  fury,  than  provoke  his  speed; 
The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse. 
Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check  his 
course. 
Those  rules  of  old  discovered,  not  devised, 
Are  Nature  still,  but  Nature  methodized  ; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but   restrained  90 

By    the    same    laws    which    first    herself    or- 
dained. 
Hear  how  learned  Greece  her  useful  rules 
indites. 


352 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


When     to    repress,    and    wlien    indulge    our 

flights: 
High     on     Parnassus'     top     lur     sons     slie 

showed. 
And    pointed    out    tliose    anhious    pallis    lliey 

trod ;  ys 

Held  from  afar,  aloft,  the  innnortal  prixe, 
And  urged  the  rest  by  equal  steps  to  rise. 
Just     precepts     thus     from     great     examples 

given. 
She  drew  from  them  what  they  derived  from 

Heaven. 
The  generous  critic  fanned  the  poet's  fire, 
And   taught   the    world    with    reason   to   ad- 
mire. 101 
Then  criticism  the  Muses'  handmaid  proved, 
To   dress   her   charms,   and   make   her   more 

beloved : 
But     following     wits     from     that     intention 

strayed. 
Who  could  not  win  the  mistress,  wooed  the 

maid;  105 

Against     the    poets    their     own     arms     they 

turned, 
Sure  to  hate  most  the  men  from  whom  they 

learned. 
So  modern   'pothecaries,   taught   the   art 
By  doctor's  bills  to  play  the  doctor's  part. 
Bold  in  the  practice  of  mistaken  rules,     no 
Prescribe,     apply,     and     call     tlieir     masters 

fools. 
Some  on  the  leaves  of  ancient  authors  prey. 
Nor  time   nor   moths   e'er    spoiled   so   much 

as   they. 
Some  dryly  plain,  without  invention's  aid, 
Write    dull    receipts,    how    poems    may    be 

made.  ns 

These  leave  the  sense,  their  learning  to  dis- 
play, 
And  those  explain  the  meaning  quite  away. 
You,     then,     whose     judgment     the     right 

course    would    steer. 
Know   well   each  ancient's  proper  character ; 
His   fable,  subject,  scope  in  every  page;   i^" 
Religion,   country,   genius  of   his  age: 
Without  all  these  at  once  before  your  eyes. 
Cavil   you   may,   but   never   criticise. 
Be  Homer's   works  your   study  and   delight, 
Read  them   by  day,   and  meditate   by   night ; 
Thence    form    your    judgment,    thence    your 

maxims    bring,  126 

And     trace     the     Muses     upward     to     their 

spring. 
Still   with   itself   compared,   his   text  peruse; 
And    let    your    comment    be    the    Mantuan 

Muse. 
When   first   young   Maro   in   his   boundless 

mind  130 


A  work  to  outlast  immortal  Rome  designed, 

I'erliaps  he  seemed   above  the  critic's  law. 

And  but  fr(jm  nature's  fountains  scorned 
to   draw; 

I'.nt    wlun    to   examine    every    part   he   came. 

Nature  and  llonu'r  were,  he  found,  the 
same.  "3.1 

Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold  de- 
sign ; 

And  rules  as  strict  his  labored  work  con- 
fine, 

-As  if  the  Stagirite  o'erlooked  each  line. 

Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a  just  es- 
teem ; 

To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them.  "4° 

Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare, 

For  there  's  a  happiness  as  well  as  care. 

.Music   resembles   poetry,   in    each 

Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods 
teach. 

And  which  a  master-hand  alone  can 
reach.  '45 

If,   where  the   rules   not   far   enough  extend, 

(Since  rules  were  made  but  to  promote 
their   end) 

Some   lucky  license  answer  to  the   full 

The   intent  proposed,  that   license   is   a   rule. 

Thus   Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take,         150 

May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track ; 

From  vulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder 
part, 

/\nd  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of 
art, 

Which  without  passing  through  the  judg- 
ment,  gains  '54 

The  heart,  and  all  its  end  at  once  attains. 

Li  prospects  thus,  some  objects  please  our 
eyes, 

Which   out   of   nature's   common   order   rise, 

The   shapeless   rock,   or  hanging  precipice. 

Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  of- 
fend. 

And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not 
mend.  '^o 

But  though  the  ancients  thus  their  rules  in- 
vade, 

(.\.s  kings  dispense  with  laws  themselves 
have  made) 

Moderns,  beware!  or  if  you  must  offend 

Against  the  precept,  ne'er  transgress  its  end ; 

Let  it  be  seldom  and  compelled  by  need;   '65 

And  have,  at  least,  their  precedent  to  plead. 

The   critic   else  proceeds   without   remorse. 

Seizes  your  fame,  and  puts  his  laws  in  force. 
I  know  there  are,  to  whose  presumptuous 
thoughts 

Those  freer  beauties,  even  in  them,  seem 
faults.  170 


AN  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM 


353 


Some  figures  monstrous  and  mis-shaped  ap- 
pear, 
Considered   singly,   or  beheld   too   near, 
Which,    but    proportioned    to    their    light    or 

place, 
Due  distance  reconciles  to  form  and  grace. 
A  prudent  chief  not  always  must  display  '75 
His  powers  in  equal  ranks,  and  fair  array. 
But  with  the  occasion  and  the  place  com- 
ply, 
Conceal   his    force,   nay,   seem   sometimes   to 

fly. 

Those  oft  are  stratagems  which  errors  seem. 

Nor  is  it  Homer  nods,  but  we  that  dream. 

Still    green    with    bays    each    ancient    altar 

stands,  i8i 

Above  the  reach   of   sacrilegious   hands; 

Secure  from  flames,  from  envy's  fiercer 
rage. 

Destructive   war,    and   all-involving   age. 

See,  from  each  clime  the  learned  their  in- 
cense bring!  185 

Hear,  in  all  tongues,  consenting  peans  ring! 

In   praise  so  Just  let  every  voice  be  joined, 

And    fill   the   general    chorus   of   mankind. 

Hail,  bards  triumphant !  born  in  happier 
days ; 

Immortal   heirs  of  universal  praise!  190 

Whose  honors   with   increase  of   ages  grow, 

As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they 
flow; 

Nations  unborn  your  mighty  names  shall 
sound, 

\nd  worlds  applaud  that  must  not  yet  be 
found ! 

Oh,  may  some  spark  of  your  celestial  fire, 

The  last,  the  meanest  of  your  sons  in- 
spire, 19-j 

(That  on  weak  wings,  from  far,  pursues 
your  flights ; 

Glows  while  he  reads,  but  trembles  as  he 
writes) 

To  teach   vain  wits  a   science   little  known, 

To  admire  superior  sense,  and  doubt  their 
own !  200 


n 


Of  all  the  causes  which  conspire  to  blind 
Man's    erring    judgment,    and    misguide    the 

mind, 
What    the    weak    head    with    strongest    bias 

rules. 
Is  pride,  the  never-failing  vice  of  fools. 
Whatever  nature  has   in   worth  denied,     205 
She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needful  pride; 
For  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 


What    wants    in    blood    and    spirits,    swelled 

with    wind  : 
Pride,   where   wit    fails,   steps   in   to   our   de- 
fense, 
And  fills  up  ail  the  mighty  void  of  sense. 
1  f     once     right     reason     drives     that     cloud 

away,  211 

Truth  breaks  upon   us   with   resistless  day. 
Trust    not    yourself;    but    your    defects    to 

know. 
Make  use  of  every   friend  —  and   every   foe. 
A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing;  215 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring: 
There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain. 
And   drinking   largely   sobers   us   again. 
Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  im- 
parts. 
In    fearless   youth   we   tempt   the   heights   of 

arts,  220 

While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 
Short    views    we    take,    nor    see    the    lengths 

behind ; 
But    more    advanced,    behold    with    strange 

surprise 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 
So    pleased    at    first    the    towering    Alps    we 

try,  225 

Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the 

sky. 
The  eternal   snows  appear  already  past, 
And    the    first    clouds    and    mountains    seem 

the   last ; 
But,  those  attained,   we  tremble  to  survey 
The  growing  labors  of  the   lengthened   way. 
The  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wandering 

eyes,  231 

Hills    peep    o'er    hills,    and    Alps    on    Alps 

arise  ! 
A   perfect   judge   will    read   each   work   of 

wit 
With   the    same   spirit   that   its   author   writ: 
Survey  the   whole,  nor   seek  slight   faults   to 

find  235 

Where  nature  moves,  and  rapture  warms  the 

mind; 
Nor  lose,  for  that  malignant  dull  delight. 
The  generous  pleasure  to  be  charmed   with 

wit. 
But  in  such  lays  as  neither  ebb,  nor  flow. 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low,  240 

That  shunning  faults,  one  quiet  tenor  keep; 
We  cannot  blame  indeed,  but  we  may  sleep. 
In   wit,  as  nature,  what  afi'ccts  our  hearts 
Is   not   the   exactness   of  peculiar   parts; 
'T  is  not  a  lip,  or  eye,  we  beauty  call,       245 
But  the  joint   force  and  full   result  of  all. 
Thus  when  we  view  some  well-proportioned 

dome, 


23 


354 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


(The   world's   just   wonder,   and   e'en   thine, 

O  Rome!) 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise, 
All  comes  united  to  the  admiring  eyes;     250 
No  monstrous  height,  or  breadth,  or  length 

appear; 
The  whole   at  once  is  bold,   and   regular. 
Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall 

be. 
In  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end,      255 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  in- 
tend ; 
And  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true. 
Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due ; 
As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 
To  avoid  great  errors,   must  the  less  com- 
mit: ^6° 
Neglect  the  rules   each  verbal   critic  lays, 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles,  is  a  praise. 
Most   critics,   fond  of   some   subservient   art. 
Still   make  the  whole  depend  upon   a  part : 
They  talk   of   principles,   but   notions   prize. 
And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice.  266 
Once  on  a  time,  La  Mancha's  knight,  they 
say, 
A  certain  bard  encountering  on  the  way. 
Discoursed  in  terms  as  jusf,  with  looks  as 

sage. 
As  e'er  could  Dennis  of  the  Grecian  stage; 
Concluding    all    were    desperate     sots     and 
fools,  271 

Who  durst  depart  from  Aristotle's  rules. 
Our  author,  happy  in  a  judge  so  nice. 
Produced  his  play,  and  begged  the  knight's 

advice; 
Made    him    observe    the    subject,    and    the 
plot,  275 

The  manners,  passions,  unities,  what  not? 
All    which,    exact    to    rule,    were    brought 

about, 
Were  but  a  combat  in  the  lists  left  out. 
'  What !    leave    the    combat    out  ? '    exclaims 

the  knight; 
Yes,  or  we  must  renounce  the  Stagirite.  280 
'  Not    so,    by    Heaven '    (he    answers    in    a 

rage), 
'  Knights,  squires,  and  steeds,  must  enter  on 

the   stage.' 
So  vast  a  throng  the  stage  can  ne'er  con- 
tain. 
'  Then  build  a  new,  or  act  it  in  a  plain.' 
Thus     critics,     of     less     judgment     than 
caprice,  285 

Curious  not  knowing,  not  exact  but  nice. 
Form   short   ideas ;   and  offend   in   arts 
(As  most  in  manners)  by  a  love  to  parts. 
Some  to  conceit  alone  their  taste  confine. 


And  glittering  thoughts  struck  out  at   every 

line ;  -90 

Pleased   with   a   work  where  nothing's  just 

or  fit; 
One  glaring  chaos  and   wild  heap  of   wit. 
Poets   like   painters,   thus   unskilled   to   trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace, 
With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part,  295 
And    hide    with    ornaments    their    want    of 

art. 
True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  ex- 
pressed; 
Something,   whose  truth  convinced  at   sight 

we  find, 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 
As    shades    more    sweetly    recommend    the 

light,  301 

So  modest  plainness   sets  off  sprightly  wit. 
For   works   may   have   more   wit   than   does 

'em  good. 
As  bodies  perish  thro'  excess  of  blood.  304 
Others  for  language  all  their  care  express, 
And  value  books,  as  women,  men  for  dress: 
Their  praise  is  still, —  the  style  is  excellent: 
The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 
Words    are    like    leaves ;    and    where    they 

most    abound,  309 

Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found; 
False   eloquence,   like   the   prismatic   glass, 
Its   gaudy  colors   spreads   on   every  place; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey, 
All  glares  alike,   without   distinction   gay: 
But    true    expression,    like    the    unchanging 

sun,  315 

Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon, 
It  gilds  all   objects,  but  it  alters  none. 
Expression    is    the    dress    of    thought,    and 

still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable; 
A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed. 
Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed:  321 
For   different    styles   with   different   subjects 

sort. 
As   several   garbs   with   country,  town,  and 

court. 
Some    by    old   words    to    fame    have    made 

pretense. 
Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in  their 

sense ;  325 

Such    labored    nothings,    in    so    strange    a 

style. 
Amaze  the  unlearned,  and  make  the  learned 

smile. 
Unlucky,  as   Fungoso  in  the  play. 
These   sparks   with  awkward   vanity  display 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday;  33o 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best, 


AN   KbSAY  ON  CRITICISM 


355 


As    apes    our    grandsires,    in    their    doublets 

dressed. 
In   words,   as   fashions,  the   same  rule   will 

hold  ; 
Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new,  or  old: 
Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside.        336 
But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song ; 
And  smooth  or   rough,    with  them,  is   right 

or  wrong: 
In  the  bright  Muse  thougli  tliousand  charms 

conspire,  339 

Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear, 
Not  mend  their  minds ;  as  some  to  church 

repair, 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 
These   equal   syllables  alone  require,  344 

Though   oft   the   ear   the   open    vowels   tire ; 
While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join ; 
And   ten   low   words  oft   creep   in  one  dull 

line : 
While  they   ring   round   the   same   unvaried 

chimes. 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 
Where'er    you    find    'the    cooling    western 

breeze,'  350 

In   the   next   line,   it   '  whispers  through   the 

trees ' ; 
If   crystal   streams   'with  pleasing  murmurs 

creep,' 
The  reader  's  threatened   (not  in  vain)  with 

'  sleep ' : 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fraught 
With    some    unmeaning    thing    they    call    a 

thought,  355 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow 

length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes, 

and   know 
What 's    roundly    smooth    or    languishingly 

slow; 
And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a  line,        360 
Where    Denham's    strength,    and    Waller's 

sweetness   jom. 
True  ease  in  writing  comes   from  art,  not 

chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to 

dance. 
'T  is  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offense. 
The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense : 
Soft     is    the     strain     when     Zephyr    gently 

blows,  366 

And  the   smooth   stream   in   smoother  num- 
bers flows; 
But    when    loud    surges    lash    the    sounding 

shore. 


The    hoarse,    rough    verse    should    like    the 
torrent   roar : 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight 
to  throw,  370 

The    line   too    labors,   and    the    words   move 
slow; 

Not    so,    when    swift    Camilla    scours    the 
plain, 

Flies    o'er    the   unbending   corn,    and    skims 
along  the  main. 

Hear   how   Timotheus'  varied   lays   surprise. 

And    bid    alternate    passions    fall    and    rise! 

While,   at   each   change,  the   son  of   Libyan 
Jove  376 

Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with 
love ; 

Now    his    fierce    eyes    with    sparkling    fury 
glow, 

Now    sighs    steal    out,    and    tears    begin    to 
flow: 

Persians    and    Greeks    like    turns    of    nature 
found,  380 

And    the    world's    victor    stood    subdued    by 
sound  ! 

The  power  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow, 

And   what  Timotheus   was,   is  Dryden  now. 
Avoid    extremes;    and    shun    the    fault    of 
such. 

Who  still  are  pleased  too  little  or  too  much. 

At   every  trifle   scorn  to  take  offense,       386 

That    always    shows    great    pride,    or    little 
sense; 

Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the 
best. 

Which    nauseate    all,    and    nothing    can    di- 
gest. 

Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture  move; 

For    fools    admire,    but    men    of    sense    ap- 
prove: 391 

As    things    seem    large    which    we    through 
mists   descry, 

Dulness    is   ever   apt   to   magnify. 

Some  foreign  writers,  some  our  own  de- 
spise; 394 

The  ancients  only,  or  the  moderns  prize. 

Thus    wit,    like    faith,    by   each    man    is    ap- 
plied 

To  one  small  sect,  and  all  are  damned  be- 
side. 

Meanly  they  seek  the  blessing  to  confine, 

And  force  that  sun  but  on  a  part  to  shine. 

Which    not    alone    the    southern    wit    sub- 
limes, 400 

But   ripens   spirits  in  cold  northern  climes ; 

Which    from    the    first    has    shone    on    ages 
past, 

Enlights    the    present,    and    shall    warm    the 
last; 


356 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


Though  each  may  feci  increases  and  decays, 

And  see  now  clearer  and  now  darker  days. 

Regard   not   then  if  wit  be  old  or  new,     406 

But    blame    the    false,    and    value    still    the 
true. 
Some  ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their 
own, 

But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  town ; 

They  reason  and  conclude  by  precedent,  410 

And  own  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  in- 
vent. 

Some  judge  of  authors'  names,  not  works, 
and   then 

Nor  praise  nor  blame  the  writings,  but  the 
men. 

Of  all  this  servile  herd  the  worst  is  he 

That  in  proud  dullness  joins  with  quality.  41s 

A  constant  critic  at  the  great  man's  board, 

To   fetch   and   carry  nonsense   for  my   lord. 

What  woeful   stuff  this  madrigal  would  be. 

In  some  starved  hackney  sonneteer,  or, me? 

But  let  a  lord  once  own  the  happy  lines,  420 

How   the   wit   brightens ;   how   the   style   re- 
fines! 

Before  his  sacred  name  flies  every  fault, 

And      each      exalted      stanza      teems      with 
thought ! 
The  vulgar  thus  through  imitation  err; 

As  oft  the  learned  by  being  singular;       4-^5 

So  much  they  scorn  the  crowd,  that  if  the 
throng 

By    chance    go    right,    they    purposely    go 
wrong ; 

So   schismatics  the  plain  believers  quit, 

And  are  but  damned   for  having  too  much 
wit. 

Some  praise  at  morning  what  they  blame  at 
night ;  430 

But  always  think  the  last  opinion  right. 

A  Muse  by  these  is  like  a  mistress  used, 

This  hour  she  's  idolized,  the  next  abused ; 

While  their  weak  heads  like  towns  unforti- 
fied, 

'Twixt    sense    and    nonsense    daily    change 
their   side.  435 

Ask    them    the    cause;    they're    wiser    still, 
they   say ; 

And  still  to-morrow 's  wiser  than  to-day. 

We    think    our    fathers    fools,    so    wise    we 
grow 

Our  wiser  sons,  no  doubt,  wili  think  us  so. 

Once    school-divines    this    zealous    isle    o'er- 
spread ;  440 

Who    knew    most    Sentences,    was    deepest 
read ; 

Faith,   Gospel,   all    seemed   made  to  be   dis- 
puted : 

And  none  had  sense  enough  to  be  confuted: 


Scotists    and    Thomists,    now    in    peace    re 

main. 
Amidst     their     kindred     cobwebs     in     Duck 

Lane,  445 

If  faith  itself  has  different  dresses  worn. 
What    wonder    modes    in    wit    should    take 

their  turn  ? 
Oft,  leaving  what  is  natural  and  fit. 
The  current  folly  proves  the  ready  wit ; 
And  authors  think  their  reputation  safe. 
Which  lives  as  long  as  fools  are  pleased  to 

laugh.  451 

Some  valuing  those  of  their  own  side  of 

mind, 
Still  make  themselves  the  measure  of  man- 
kind: 
Proudly  we  think  we  honor  merit  then. 
When    we    but    praise    ourselves    in    other 

men.  455 

Parties  in  wit  attend  on  those  of  state, 
And   public   faction   doubles   private   hate. 
Pride,   malice,   folly,  against   Dryden   rose. 
In  various  shapes  of  parsons,  critics,  beaus; 
But   sense   survived,   when   merry  jests   were 

past ;  460 

For  rising  merit  will  buoy  up  at  last. 
Might  he  return,  and  bless  once  more  our 

eyes. 
New   Blackmores   and  new  Milbourns  must 

arise: 
Nay,    should    great    Plomer    lift    his    awful 

head,  464 

Zoilus  again  would  start  up  from  the  dead. 
Envy   will   merit,   as  its   shade,  pursue ; 
But    like    a    shadow,    proves    the    substance 

true; 
For    envied    wit,    like    Sol    eclipsed,    makes 

known 
The  opposing  body's  grossness,  not  its  own. 
When    first    that    sun    too    powerful    beams 

displays,  47° 

It  draws  up  vapors  which  obscure  its  rays ; 
But  ev'n  those  clouds  at  last  adorn  its  way. 
Reflect  new  glories,  and  augment  the  day. 
Be  thou  the  first  true  merit  to  defend. 
His   praise   is   lost,   who   stays   till   all  com- 
mend. 475 
Short  is  the  date,  alas ;  of  modern  rhymes. 
And  't  is  but  just  to  let  them  live  betimes. 
No  longer  now  that  golden  age  appears. 
When    patriarch-wits    survived    a    thousand 

years : 
Now   length   of    fame    (our   second   life)    is 

lost,  480 

And    bare    threescore    is    all    ev'n    that    can 

boast ; 
Our    sons    their    fathers'    failing    language 

see, 


I 


/\iN   r.:3:3/\i   win   «^Ki  i  ici:5ivi 


6b/ 


And  such  as  Chaucer  is,  shall  Dryden  be. 

So  when  the  faithful  pencil  has  designed 

Some  bright  idea  of  the  master's  mind,  485 

Where   a   new   word   leaps   out   at   his   com- 
mand. 

And   ready   nature  waits  upon   his  hand  ; 

When  the  ripe  colors  soften  and  unite. 

And  sweetly  melt  into  just  shade  and  light ; 

When    mellow    years    their    full    perfection 
give,  490 

And  each  bold  figure  just  begins  to  live. 

The  treacherous  colors  the   fair  art  betray, 

And  all  the  bright  creation   fades  away ! 
Unhappy   wit,   like   most   mistaken   things. 

Atones  not   for  that  envy  which   it  brings. 

In  youth  alone  its  empty  praise  we  boast. 

But  soon  the  short-lived  vanity  is  lost :  497 

Like    some     fair     flower    the    early    spring 
supplies, 

That    gaily    blooms,    but    even    in    blooming 
dies. 

What  is  this  wit.  which  must  our  cares  em- 
ploy? 500 

The  owner's  wife,  that  other  men  enjoy; 

Then    most    our    trouble    still    when    most 
admired. 

And   still   the   more   we   give,   the   more    re- 
quired ; 

Whose  fame  with  pains  we  guard,  but  lose 
with   ease,  S04 

Sure  some  to  vex,  but  never  all  to  please ; 

'T  is    what    the    vicious    fear,    the    virtuous 
shun, 

By  fools  't  is  hated,  and  by  knaves  undone ! 
If   wit   so  much   from   ignorance  undergo, 

Ah,  let  not  learning  too  commence  its   foe ! 

Of  old,  those  met  rewards  who  could  excel, 

And  such  were  praised  who  but  endeavored 
well:  SI  I 

Though    triumphs    were    to    generals    only 
due, 

Crowns  were  reserved  to  grace  the  soldiers 
too. 

Now,     they     who     reach     Parnassus'     lofty 
crown. 

Employ    their    pains    to    spurn    some    others 
down;  515 

And    while     self-love    each    jealous    writer 
rules, 

Contending  wits  become  the  sport  of  fools : 

But   still   the   worst   with   most    regret   com- 
mend, 

For  each  ill  author  is  as  bad  a  friend. 

To    what    base    ends,    and    by    what    abject 
ways,  5-0 

Are   mortals   urged  through    sacred    lust   of 
praise ! 


Ah,  ne'er  so  dire  a  thirst  of  glory  boast, 
Nor  in  the  critic  let  the  man  be  lost. 
Good-nature     and     good-sense     must     ever 

join  ; 
To    err   is   human,   to    forgive,   divine.      525 
Rut  if  m  noble  minds  some  dregs  remain 
Not    yet    purged    off,    of    spleen    and    sour 

disdain  ; 
Discharge    that    rage    on    more    provoking 

crimes. 
Nor  fear  a  dearth  in  these  flagitious  times. 
No    pardon    vile    obscenity    should    find,    53o 
'Jhough  wit  and  art  conspire  to  move  your 

mind  ; 
But  dulness  with  obscenity  must  prove 
As   shameful   sure  as  impotence  in  love. 
In    the    fat    age    of    pleasure,    wealth,    and 

ease, 
Sprung    the    rank    weed,    and    thrived    with 

large  increase :  535 

When  love  was  all  an  easy  Alonarch's  care; 
Seldom  at  council,  never  in  a  war : 
Jilts    ruled   the   state,   and    statesmen    farces 

writ; 
Nay,    wits    had    pensions,    and    young    lords 

had  wit : 
The  fair  sat  panting  at  a  courtier's  play,  54° 
And  not  a  mask  went  unimproved  away: 
The  modest   fan  was  lifted  up  no  more. 
And    virgins    smiled   -at    what    they    blushed 

before. 
The  following  license  of  a  foreign  reign 
Did  all  the  dregs  of  bold  Socinus  drain;  545 
Then     unbelieving     priests      reformed     the 

nation, 
And     taught     more     pleasant     methods     of 

salvation ; 
Where    Heaven's    free    subjects    might    their 

rights   dispute. 
Lest  God  himself  should  seem  too  absolute: 
Pulpits  their  sacred  satire  learned  to  spare 
And  vice  admired  to  find  a  flatterer  there! 
Encouraged    thus,    wit's    Titans    braved    the 

skies,  552 

And      the      press      groaned      with      licensed 

blasphemies. 
These    monsters,    critics !    with    your    darts 

engage. 
Here  point  your  thunder,  and   exhaust  your 

rage !  555 

Yet     shun     their     fault,     who,     scandalously 

nice. 
Will  needs  mistake  an  author  into  vice; 
All   seems  infected  that  the  infected   spy. 
As  all  looks  yellow  to  the  jaundiced  eye. 
*     *     * 

(1711) 


358 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK 
CANTO  I 

What    dire    offense    from    amorous    causes 

springs, 
What     mighty     contests     rise     from    trivial 

things, 
I  sing — This  verse  to  Caryl,  Muse!  is  due: 
This,  even  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view: 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 
I  f  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays.      6 
Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess !   could 

compel 
A   well-bred  lord  to  assault  a  gentle  belle? 
Oh,     say     what     stranger     cause,     yet     un- 
explored. 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord?  lo 
In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage, 
And    in    soft    bosoms    dwells    such    mighty 

rage? 
Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timor- 
ous ray, 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the 

day: 
Now   lap-dogs   give   themselves   the   rousing 

shake,  'S 

And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake : 
Thrice    rung    the    bell,    the    slipper   knocked 

the  ground. 
And    the    pressed    watch    returned    a    silver 

sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed. 
Her    guardian    sylph    prolonged    the    balmy 

rest :  20 

'Twas  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning   dream   that   hovered  o'er  her 

head; 
A  youth  more  glittering  than  a  birth-night 

beau 
(That  e'en  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to 

glow). 
Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 
And    thus    in    whispers    said,   or    seemed    to 

say.  26 

'  Fairest    of    mortals,    thou    distinguished 

care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air! 
If     e'er     one     vision     touched     thy     infant 

thought. 
Of    all    the    nurse    and    all    the    priest    have 

taught  30 

Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen, 
The   silver   token,   and    the   circled   green. 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers, 
With     golden     crowns     and     wreaths     of 

heavenly  flowers; 


Hear     and     believe !     thy     own     importance 

know,  35 

Nor    bound     thy    narrow     views    to    things 

below. 
Some     secret     truths,     from     learned    pride 

concealed, 
To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed : 
What   though  no  credit   doubting  wits  may 

give? 
The   fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe.  4° 
Know,  then,  unnumbered  spirits  round  thee 

fly- 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky: 

These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing, 

Hang   o'er   the   box,   and   hover   round   the 

Ring, 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air,  4S 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair. 
As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old. 
And    once    enclosed    in    woman's    beauteous 

mould ; 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air.         5° 
Think  not,  when  woman's  transient  breath 

is  fled. 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead; 
Succeeding  vanities  she   still  regards. 
And    though    she   plays    no    more,   o'erlooks 

the  cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive,     SS 
And   love   of  ombre,  after  death   survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire: 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name. 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away,  61 
And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 
The    graver    prude    sinks    downward    to    a 

gnome. 
In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair,  6s 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 
'  Know    further    yet ;    whoever    fair    and 

chaste 
Rejects    mankind,    is    by    some    sylph     em- 
braced: 
For    spirits,    freed    from    mortal    laws,    with 

ease 
Assume   what   sexes   and   what    shapes   they 

please.  7° 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids, 
In   courtly  balls,  and  midnight  masquerades, 
Safe     from     the     treacherous     friend,     the 

daring   spark. 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark. 
When    kind    occasion    prompts    their    warm 

desires,  75 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK 


359 


When     music     softens,    and     when     dancing 

fires  ? 
'T  is    but    their    sylph,    the    wise    celestials 

know, 
Though  honor  is  the  word  with  men  below, 
Some    nymphs   there    are,    too   conscious    of 

their  face. 
For    life    predestined    to    the    gnomes'    em- 
brace. 80 
These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 

pride, 
When  offers  are  disdained,  and  love  denied : 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweep- 
ing train. 
And  garters,   stars,  and  coronets  appear,  85 
And    in    soft    sounds   '  Your   Grace '   salutes 

their  ear. 
'T  is  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul. 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll, 
Teach     infant    cheeks     a    bidden    blush     to 

know. 
And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau.  90 

'Oft,    when    the    world    imagine    women 

stray. 
The     sylphs    through    mystic    mazes    guide 

their  way. 
Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue. 
And  old   impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall  95 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  ball  ? 
When     Florio     speaks,     what     virgin    could 

withstand. 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand? 
With  varying  vanities,  from  every  part. 
They    shift    the    moving    toyshop    of    their 

heart;  100 

Where    wigs    with    wigs,    with    sword-knots 

sword-knots   strive. 
Beaux    banish    beaux,    and    coaches    coaches 

drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call ; 
Oh,   blind   to   truth !    the    sylphs    contrive    it 

all.  i°4 

'Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection  claim, 
A   watchful   sprite,  and  Ariel   is   my   name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas !  some  dread  event  impend. 
Ere  to  the  main  this  morning  sun  descend, 
But   Heaven   reveals  not   what,   or  how,   or 

where:  m 

Warned     by     the     sylph,     O     pious     maid, 

beware ! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can : 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man ! ' 
He   said;    when    Shock,    who   thought    she 

slept  too  long, 


Leaped  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with  his 

tongue.  116 

'T  was  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true. 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux ; 
Wounds,     charms,     and     ardors     were     no 

sooner  read. 
But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head. 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  dis- 
played, 121 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,    robed    in    white,    the    nymph    intent 

adores. 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears.     125 
To   that    she   bends,    to   that    her   eyes    she 

rears; 
The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side. 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear; 
From    each    she    nicely    culls    with    curious 

toil,  131 

And   decks   the   goddess   with  the   glittering 

spoil. 
This  casket   India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
.'\nd  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and   elephant   unite,       »3S 
Transformed    to    combs,    the    speckled,    and 

the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puff.s,    powders,    patches,    bibles,    billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace. 
And    calls    forth    all    the    wonders    of    her 

face ;  142 

Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
.'\nd   keener  lightnings   quicken  in   her  eyes. 
The    busy    sylphs     surround    their    darling 

care,  14s 

These    set    the    head,    and    those    divide    the 

hair. 
Some    fold    the    sleeve,    whilst    others    plait 

the  gown ; 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 


CANTO     II 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main. 
Than,   issuing   forth,  the  rival   of  his  beams 
Launched     on     the     bosom     of     the     silver 

Thames. 
Fair      nymphs,      and      well-dressed      youths 

around   her   shone,  ■; 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 


36o 

On   her   white  breast  a  sparkling  cross   she 

wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those; 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,   hut  never  once  offends. 
Rright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
.And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet    graceful    ease,    and    sweetness    void    of 
pride,  '5 

Might   hide  her   faults,   if  belles  had   faults 

"    to  hide ; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors   fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  'em  all. 
This   nymph,   to   the   destruction    of   man- 
kind. 
Nourished    two    locks,   which   graceful    hung 
behind  ~° 

In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With     shining     ringlets     the     smooth     ivory 

neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And     mighty    hearts     are    held     in     slender 

chains. 
With  hairy  springes,  we  the  birds  betray,  ^s 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey. 
Fair   tresses   man's   imperial   race   ensnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
The    adventurous    baron    the    bright    locks 
admired  ; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way,     3i 
By   force  to  ravish,  or  by   fraud  betray; 
For  when   success  a  lover's  toil  attends, 
Few    ask,    if    fraud    or    force    attained    his 
ends. 
For    this,    ere    Phoebus    rose,    he    had    im- 
plored 35 
Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power  adored, 
But  chiefly  Love  —  to  Love  an  altar  built. 
Of    twelve    vast    French    romances,    neatly 

gilt. 
There    lay    three    garters,    half    a    pair    of 

gloves; 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves;  4o 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous   sighs  to   raise 

the  fire. 
Then   prostrate    falls,   and   begs   with   ardent 

eyes 

Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize : 

The  powers  gave  car,  and  granted  half  his 

prayer,  45 

The  rest,  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 

The    sunbeams    trembling    on    the    floating 

tides ; 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die ; 
Smooth   flow   the   waves,  the   zephyrs   gently 

play,  51 

Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All    but    the    sylph  —  with    careful    thoughts 

oppressed, 
The  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air;  55 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair: 
Soft     o'er     the     shrouds     aerial     whispers 

breathe. 
That    seemed   but   zephyrs   to   the   train   be- 
neath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold, 
Waft   on   the   breeze,   or   sink  in   clouds   of 

gold ;  6o. 

Transparent     forms,     too     fine     for     mortal 

sight. 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew. 
Thin   glittering  textures   of   the  filmy   dew. 
Dipt  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies,    6s 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes, 
While     every     beam     new     transient     colors 

flings, 
Colors  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their 

wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed  ;     7o 
His   purple   pinions  opening  to   the   sun. 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun. 
'  Ye    sylphs    and    sylphids,    to    your    chief 

give  ear! 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 
Ye    know    the    spheres,    and    various    tasks 

assigned  75 

By  laws  eternal  to  the  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some   guide   the   course   of   wandering  orbs 

on  high. 
Or   roll   the   planets   through    the   boundless 

sky.  8o 

Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale 

light 
Pursue    the    stars    that    shoot    athwart    the 

night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip   their  pinions   in   the   painted  bow, 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main, 
Or   o'er   the   glebe   distil   the   kindly   rain.  86 
Others   on   earth   o'er   human   race   preside. 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions 

guide : 
Of  these  the  chief,  the  care  of  nations  own. 
And    guard    with    arms    divine    the    British 
throne.  9o 


THE  KAFE  Ut   THE  LOCK 


301 


'  Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair, 

Not    a    less    pleasing,    though    less    glorious 
care; 

To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 

Nor   let  the  imprisoned   essences  exhale ; 

To     draw     fresh     colors     from     the     vernal 
flowers ;  95 

To    steal    from    rainbows    ere    they   drop    in 
showers, 

A  brighter  wash ;  to  curl  their  waving  hairs. 

Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs ; 

Nay,  oft  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 

To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow.  10° 
'  This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  bright- 
est fair 

That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care ; 

Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  slight ; 

But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped 
in   night. 

Whether    the    nymph     shall     break    Diana's 
law,  105 

Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw; 

Or    stain    her   honor,   or   her   new  brocade ; 

Forget  her   prayers,   or  miss  a  masquerade ; 

Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball ; 

Or  whether  Heaven  has  doomed  that  Shock 
must  fall.  no 

Haste,    then,    ye    spirits !     to    your    charge 
repair; 

The    fluttering    fan   be   Zephyretta's   care ; 

The  drops  to  thee,   Brillante,  we  consign ; 

And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine ; 

Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favorite  lock ; 

Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of   Shock. 
'  To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note. 

We   trust    the    important    charge,    the    petti- 
coat: 

Oft   have   we   known   that   seven-fold    fence 
to  fail. 

Though    stiff    with    hoops,    and   armed    with 
ribs  of  whale;  120 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 

And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around, 
'  Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 

His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large, 

Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his 
sins,  125 

Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins; 

Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 

Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye : 

Gums   and    pomatums    shall    his    flight    re- 
strain, 

While  clogged   he  beats  his  silken   wings   in 
vain;  130 

Or  alum  styptics  with  contractmg  power 

Shrink     his     thin     essence     like     a     rivelled 
flower : 

Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 


The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill,  134 

In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow. 

And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below !  ' 
He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  de- 
scend ; 

Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend ; 

Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 

Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear ; 

With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they 
wait,  141 

Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of 
fate. 


CANTO    HI 

Close    by    those    meads,    for    ever    crowned 

with  flowers. 
Where  Thames   with   pride  surveys  his   ris- 

mg  tcwers. 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame. 
Which      from     the     neighboring     Hampton 

takes  its  name. 
Here   Britain's  statesmen   oft  the   fall    fore- 
doom s 
Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home; 
Here  thou,  great  Anna!  whom  three  realms 

obey, 
Doth    sometimes    counsel    take  —  and    some- 
times tea. 
Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court;  1° 
In    various    talk   the   instructive   hours   they 

passed. 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last ; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  queen. 
And     one     describes     a     charming     Indian 

screen  ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyest 
At   every  word   a   reputation   dies.  16 

Snuff,    or    the    fan,    supply    each    pause    of 

chat. 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 
Meanwhile,    declining    from    the    noon    of 

day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray; 
The   hungry  judges   soon  the   sentence   sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine; 
The   merchant    from    the    Exchange    returns 

in  peace, 
And  the  long  labors  of  the  toilet  cease.  24 
Belinda   now,   whom   thirst   of   fame   invites, 
Burns      to      encounter      two      adventurous 

knights. 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom ; 
And    swells    her    breast    with    conquests   yet 

to  come. 
Straight    the    three    bands    prepare    in    arms 

to  join. 


362 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine.  30 
Soon    as    she    spreads    her    hand,    the    aerial 

guard 
Descend,  and   sit  on   each   important  card : 
First,  Ariel   perched  upon   a    Matadore, 
Then  each,  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 
For    sylphs,    yet    mindful    of    their    ancient 

race,  3S 

Are,    as    when   women,   wondrous    fond    of 

place. 
Behold,  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With   hoary  whiskers  and  a   forky  beard ; 
And   four  fair  queens  whose  hands   sustain 

a  flower, 
The     expressive     emblem     of     their     softer 

power ;  40 

Four    knaves    in    garbs    succinct,    a    trusty 

band, 
Caps   on  their  heads,  and  halberts   in  their 

hand ; 
And    parti-colored   troops,    a    shining    train. 
Draw   forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The  skillful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with 

care :  45 

Let  spades  be  trumps !  she  said,  and  trumps 

they   were. 
Now  moved  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord  ! 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the 

board.  5° 

As  many  more   Manillio    forced  to  yield, 
And    marched    a    victor    from    the    verdant 

field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained    but    one    trump    and    one    plebeian 

card. 
With  his  broad  saber  next,  a  chief  in  years. 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears,         56 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed. 
The  rest,  his  many-colored  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  en- 
gage, 
Proves    the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage.  60 
Even    mighty    Pam,   that   kings   and    queens 

o'erthrew. 
And   mowed  down   armies  in  the  fights   of 

Loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war !  now  destitute  of  aid. 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield;  65 
Now  to   the   baron    fate   inclines   the  field. 
His   warlike   Amazon    her   host   invades. 
The     imperial     consort     of     the     crown     of 

spades, 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died. 
Spite   of   his   haughty   mien,   and   barbarous 

pride :  70 


What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head. 

His  giant   limbs,  in   state  unwieldy   spread ; 

That    long    behind    he    trails    his    pompous 
robe. 

And,  of  all  monarchs  only  grasps  the  globe? 
The  ])aron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace; 

The   embroidered   king  who   shows  but  half 
his    face,  76 

And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  powers  com- 
bined. 

Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 

Clubs,    diamonds,    hearts,    in    wild    disorder 
seen. 

With    throngs   promiscuous    strew   the    level 
green.  80 

Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs. 

Of   Asia's   troops,  and   Afric's   sable   sons, 

With    like    confusion    different    nations    fly. 

Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye. 

The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall,  85 

In    heaps    on    heaps;    one    fate    o'erwhelms 
them  all. 
The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 

And  wins  (oh,  shameful  chance!)  the  queen 
of  hearts. 

At  this  the  blood  the  virgin's  cheek  forsook, 

A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look; 

She   sees,   and   trembles   at  the  approaching 
ill,  91 

Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 

And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 

On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 

An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth;  the  king  un- 
seen 95 

Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  cap- 
tive queen : 

He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 

And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 

The    nymph    exulting    fills    with    shouts    the 
sky; 

The  walls,  the  wood,  and  long  canals  reply. 

Oh,    thoughtless    mortals !    ever    blind    to 

fate,  101 

Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 

Sudden,     these    honors     shall    be     snatched 
away. 

And  cursed  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 
For  lo !   the  board  with  cups  and  spoons 
is  crowned,  los 

The    berries    crackle,    and    the    mill    turns 
round ; 

On   shining  altars   of  Japan  they   raise 

The  silver  lamp ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze : 

From     silver     spouts     the    grateful     liquors 
glide. 

While    China's   earth    receives   the   smoking 
tide:  no 

At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 


And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band  ; 
Some,    as    she    sipped,    the    fuming    liquor 

fanned, 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  dis- 
played, IIS 
Trembling,   and  conscious   of  the  rich  bro- 
cade. 
Coffee    (which  makes  the   politician   wise. 
And    see  through   all    things   with   his   half- 

shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain,  i^o 
Ah,   cease,   rash   youth !    desist   ere    't  is   too 

late. 
Fear   the   just   gods,   and   think   of    Scylla's 

fate! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays   for   Nisus'  injured   hair ! 
But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 
will,  1^5 

How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case : 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 
Present    the    spear,    and    arm    him    for    the 
fight.  130 

He  takes   the  gift   with   reverence,   and   ex- 
tends 
The  little  engine  on  his  finger's  ends; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread. 
As  o'er  the    fragrant  steams  she  bends  her 

head. 
Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the 
hair;  136 

And    thrice    they    twitched    the    diamond    in 

her  ear; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 

drew  near. 
Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought; 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined. 
He  watched  the  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art. 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  ex- 
pired, 145 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 
The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  for- 
fex  wide, 
To  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
Even  then,  before  the   fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed ; 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in 
twain,  '51 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again) 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 


1        X  LLll,    i^V^V^XS.  ^JUJ 

From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever! 
Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from  her 

eyes,  155 

And   screams  of  horror  rend  the  affrighted 

skies. 
Not    louder    shrieks    to    pitying   Heaven    are 

cast. 
When    husbands,    or    when    lapdogs    breathe 

their   last; 
Or    when    rich    China    vessels,    fallen    from 

high. 
In    glittering    dust    and    painted     fragments 

lie!  160 

'  Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples 

twine,' 
(The    victor    cried,)    'the    glorious    prize    is 

mine !  ' 
While    fish    in    streams,   or   birds    delight    in 

air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair. 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read,  i6s 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed. 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order 

blaze. 
While    nymphs    take    treats,    or    assignations 

give. 
So   long  my   honor,   name,   and   praise   shall 

live!  170 

What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives 

its  date. 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate ! 
Steel  could  the  labor  of  the  gods  destroy. 
And   strike   to   dust   the   imperial   towers   of 

Troy; 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  con- 
found, 175 
And   hew-  triumphal   arches   to   the   ground. 
What   wonder   then,    fair   nymph  !    thy   hairs 

should  feel 
The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel  ?  ' 


CANTO     IV 

But   anxious    cares   the   pensive    nymph    op- 
pressed. 
And  secret  passions  labored   in   her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive. 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  sur- 
vive. 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss,  5 
Not  ancient   ladies   when   refused   a   kiss. 
Not  tyrants   fierce  that  unrepcnting   die, 
Not    Cynthia    when    her    manteau  's    pinned 

awry, 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair, 


364 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


As  thou,  sad  virgin,  for  thy  ravished  hair.  1° 
For,    that    sad    moment,    when    the    sylphs 

withdrew 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down     to     the     central     earth,     his     proper 

scene,  'S 

Repaired    to    search    the    gloomy    cave    of 

Spleen. 
Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome. 
And  in  a  vapor  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows. 
Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air,  21 
And  screened  in  shades  from  day's  detested 

glare, 
She  sighs  for  ever  on  her  pensive  bed, 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her  head. 
Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne,  alike  in 

place,  25 

But  differing   far  in   figure  and  in    face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid. 
Her    wrinkled    form    in    black    and    white 

arrayed ; 
With  store  of  prayers,  for  mornings,  nights, 

and  noons. 
Her   hand    is    filled ;    her    bosom    with   lam- 
poons. 30 
There  Affectation,  with   a  sickly  mien. 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen. 
Practiced  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside, 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride, 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown,   for  sickness,  and  for 

show.  36 

The   fair  ones   feel   such  maladies  as  these. 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  dis- 
ease. 
A  constant  vapor  o'er  the  palace  flies; 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise; 
Dreadful,    as    hermit's    dreams    in    haunted 

shades,  41 

Oi    bright,   as  visions   of   expiring  maids. 
Now  glaring  fiends,  and   snakes   on   rolling 

spires. 
Pale    specters,    gaping    tombs,    and    purple 

fires: 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes,  45 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 
Unnumbered    throngs    on    every    side    are 

seen, 
Of    bodies    changed    to    various     forms    by 

Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held  out, 
One    bent ;    the    handle    this,    and    that    the 

spout :  50 

A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod,  walks; 


Here    sighs    a    jar,    and    there    a    goose-pie 

talks ; 
Men    prove    with    child,    as    powerful    fancy 

works. 
And    maids,    turned    bottles,    call    aloud    for 

corks. 
Safe  past  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic 

band,  S5 

A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand. 
Then  thus  addressed  the  power:  'Hail,  way- 
ward queen ! 
Who  rule  the  sex,  to  fifty   from  fifteen: 
Parent  of  vapors  and  of  female  wit, 
Who  give  the  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit,  60 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways. 
Make     some    take     physic,     others     scribble 

plays ; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay. 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray. 
A   nymph   there   is,   that   all   thy  power   dis- 
dains, 65 
And  thousands  more   in   equal  mirth  main- 
tains. 
But    oh !    if    e'er   thy    gnome    could    spoil    a 

grace, 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face. 
Like  citron-waters  matrons'  cheeks  inflame. 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game;  7° 
If  e'er  with  airy  horns  I  planted  heads, 
Or  rumpled  petticoats,  or  tumbled  beds, 
Or    caused    suspicion    when    no    soul    was 

rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lap-dog  gave  disease,      75 
Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes  could 

ease: 
Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin, 
That    single    act    gives    half    the    world    the 

spleen.' 
The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his 

prayer.  80 

A    wondrous   bag   with   both   her   hands   she 

binds. 
Like    that    where    once    Ulysses    held    the 

winds ; 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs. 
Sighs,    sobs,   and  passions,   and   the   war   of 

tongues. 
A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears,    §5 
Soft    sorrows,    melting   griefs,    and    flowing 

tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away, 
Spreads  his  black  wings,  and.  slowly  mounts 

to  day. 
Sunk    in    Thalestris'    arms    the    nymph    he 

found. 
Her  eyes  dejected  and  her  hair  unbound.  9o 


iHH   KAFU  Ut     IHE  LUCK 


3t>5 


Full    o'er   their   heads    the    swelling   bag   he 

rent, 
And  all  the   furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris   fans  the  rising  fire. 
'  O   wretched   maid !  '   she   spread   her  hands, 

and  cried,  95 

(While       Hampton's       echoes,       'Wretched 

maid!'    replied) 
'  Was    it    for    this    you    took    such    constant 

care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound, 
For     this     with     torturing     irons     wreathed 

around  ? 
For    this    with    fillets    strained    your    tender 

head,  '°i 

And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead? 
Gods!  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair, 
While  the   fops   envy,   and   the   ladies   stare! 
Honor  forbid!  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine  >o5 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear   the   horrid   things  they   say. 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast, 
And  all  your  honor  in  a  whisper  lost!     no 
How   shall   I,  then,  your  helpless   fame  de- 
fend? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend! 
And   shall   this   prize,   the   inestimable   prize, 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And    heightened    by   the    diamond's    circling 

rays,  I'S 

On  that  rapacious  hand   for  ever  blaze? 
Sooner    shall    grass    in    Hyde    Park    Circus 

grow. 
And    wits    take    lodgings    in    the    sound    of 

Bow; 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall. 
Men,     monkeys,     lap-dogs,     parrots,     perish 

all!'  120 

She   said ;   then   raging  to    Sir   Flume   re- 
pairs. 
And    bids    her    beau    demand    the    precious 

hairs. 
(Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain. 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane) 
With    earnest    eyes,    and    round    unthinking 

face,  1-25 

He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the  case. 
And  thus  broke  out  — '  My  lord,  why,  what 

the  devil? 
Z ds !    damn   the    lock!    'fore    Gad,   you 

must  be  civil ! 
Plague  on 't  !   'tis  past  a  jest  —  nay  prithee, 

pox ! 
Give  her  the  hair,"  he  spoke,  and  rapped  his 

box.  130 


*  It  grieves  me  much,'  replied  the  peer  again, 
'  Who   speaks   so   well   should   ever   speak   in 

vain. 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,   I   swear, 
(Which    never    more    shall    join    its    parted 

hair; 
Which  never  more  its  honors   shall  renew, 
Clipped   from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it 

grew)  136 

That   while  my  nostrils  draw  the   vital   air, 
This    hand,    which    won    it,    shall    for    ever 

wear.' 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,     in  proud  triumph 

spread 
The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head. 
But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome !  forbears  not 

so;  141 

He    breaks    the    vial    whence    the    sorrows 

flow. 
Then  see !  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  ap- 
pears. 
Her  eyes  half  languishing,  half  drowned  in 

tears; 
On    her    heaved    bosom    hung   her   drooping 

head,  145 

Which,    with    a    sigh,    she   raised;   and   thus 

she  said : 
'  For  ever  cursed  be  this  detested  day. 
Which   snatched   my  best,   my   favorite   curl 

away ! 
Happy !  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If    Hampton    Court    these    eyes    had    never 

seen!  iso 

Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid. 
By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betrayed. 
Oh,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle  or  distant  northern  land; 
Where   the   gilt   chariot    never   marks   the 

way. 
Where    none    learn    ombre,    none    e'er    taste 

bohea!  156 

There     kept     my     charms     concealed     from 

mortal  eye. 
Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind   with   youthful   lords 

to  roam? 
Oh,   had   I    stayed,   and   said   my   prayers   at 

home!  160 

'T  was  this,  the   morning  omens    seemed  to 

tell, 
Thrice   from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch- 
box  fell; 
The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind. 
Nay,    Poll    sat    mute,    and    Shock    was    most 

unkind ! 
A  sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of 

fate,  165 

In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late ! 


366 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


See    the    poor    remnants    of    these    slighted 

hairs! 
My  hands   shall  rend  what  e'en  thy  rapine 

spares ; 
These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break, 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck; 
The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone,  '7i 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own ; 
Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands, 
And    tempts    once    more,    thy    sacrilegious 

hands.  '74 

Oh,  hadst  thou,  cruel !  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these !  ' 


CANTO    V 

She  said:  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears. 
But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's 

ears. 
In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 
For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails? 
Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  remain,5 
While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 
Then    grave    Clarissa    graceful    waved    her 

fan ; 
Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began: 
'  Say,     why     are     beauties     praised     and 

honored  most, 
The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain  man's 

toast?  '° 

Why    decked    with    all    that    land    and    sea 

afford, 
Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 
Why    round   our   coaches   crowd   the   white- 
gloved  beaux, 
Why    bows    the    side-box    from    its    inmost 

rows? 
How    vain    are    all    these    glories,    all    our 

pains,  15 

Unless    good    sense    preserve    what    beauty 

gains: 
That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front-box 

grace : 
'  Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face ! ' 
Oh !  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day. 
Charmed    the    smallpox,   or   chased    old   age 

away ;  ^o 

Who    would    not    scorn    what    housewife's 

cares  produce. 
Or   who   would   learn   one   earthly   thing   of 

use? 
To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a  saint. 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 
But  since,  alas !  frail  beauty  must  decay,     -5 
Curled    or    uncurled,    since    locks    will    turn 

to  gray; 


Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fade, 

And    she    who    scorns    a    man    must    die    a 
maid  ; 

What  then  remains  but  well  our  power  to 
use, 

And    keep    good    humor    still    whate'er    we 
lose?  30 

And  trust  me,  dear !   good  humor  can  pre- 
vail. 

When    airs,    and    flights,    and    screams,    and 
scolding  fail. 

Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll ; 

Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the 
soul.' 
So   spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause   en- 
sued; 35 

Belinda      frowned,     Thalestris     called     her 
prude. 

'  To  arms,  to  arms ! '  the  fierce  virago  cries, 

And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 

All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack; 

Fans    clap,    silks    rustle,    and    tough    whale- 
bones crack;  40 

Heroes'    and     heroines'     shouts     confusedly 
rise, 

And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 

No    common    weapons    in    their    hands    are 
found. 

Like   gods   they   fight,    nor   dread    a   mortal 
wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  en- 
gage, ^  45 

And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions 
rage; 

'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars ;  Latona,  Hermes  arms ; 

And   all   Olympus   rings   with   loud  alarms : 

Jove's    thunder    roars,    Heaven    trembles    ail 
around, 

Blue    Neptune    storms,   the   bellowing   deeps 
resound :  so 

Earth     shakes     her     nodding     towers,     the 
ground  gives  way, 

And   the   pale   ghosts    start   at   the   flash   of 
day! 
Triumphant  Umbriel  on  a  sconce's  height 

Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the 
fight : 

Propped  on  their  bodkin  spears,  th-e  sprites 
survey  55 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray.  i 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thales-     | 
tris  flies, 

And    scatters   death    around    from   both   her 
eyes, 

A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng. 

One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song.     60 

'  O  cruel  nymph !  a  living  death  I  bear,' 

Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 


A    mournful    glance    Sir    Fopling    upwards 

cast, 
'Those  eyes  are  made   so  killing '— was   his 

last. 
Thus  on  Meander's  flowery  margin  lies       ^^5 
The  expirir.g  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 
When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa 

down, 
Chloe    stepped    in    and    killed    him    with    a 

frown  ; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain. 
But,  at  her   smile,  the  beau   revived   again. 
Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
Weighs    the    men's    wits    against    the    lady's 

hair ;  72 

The  doubtful   beam  long  nods   from  side  to 

side ; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  sub- 
side. 
See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  Baron  flies,     75 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes  : 
Nor    feared   the   chief    the   unequal    fight   to 

try, 
Who   sought    no    more   than   on   his    foe   to 

die. 
But   this  bold  lord  with  manly  strength  en- 
dued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued : 
Just    where   the   breath    of    life   his   nostrils 

drew,  S^ 

A  charge  of  snufF  the  wily  virgin  threw; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just. 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,    with    starting   tears   each   eye   o'er- 

flows,  85 

And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 
'  Now    meet    thy    fate,'    incensed    Belinda 

cried. 
And   drew  a  deadly  bodkin   from  her   side. 
(The   same,   his   ancient   personage   to   deck, 

whose  fires 
Her   great   great   grandsire   wore   about   his 

neck,  90 

In    three    seal-rings;    which    after,    melted 

down, 
Formed    a     vast    buckle     for    his     widow's 

gown : 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew. 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs. 
Which    long    she    wore,    and    now    Belinda 

wears.)  96 

'  Boast    not    my    fall,'   he   cried,    '  insulting 
foe! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as   low, 
Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind: 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind  !     'oo 
Rather  than  .so,  ah,  let  me  still  survive, 


And    burn     in     Cupid's     flames  —  but    burn 

alive.' 
'  Restore    the    lock  1  '    she    cries ;    and    all 

around 
'  Restore    the    lock !  '    the    vaulted    roofs    re- 
bound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in   so  loud  a  strain       io5 
Roared     for    the    handkerchief    that    caused 

his  pain. 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  crossed. 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept  with 

pain. 
In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blessed. 
So  Heaven  decrees !   with  Heaven  who  can 

contest?  >>2 

Some    thought    it    mounted    to    the    lunar 

sphere. 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured 

there. 
There    heroes'    wits    are    kept    in    ponderous 

vases,  us 

And     beaux'     in     snufi'-boxes     and     tweezer 

cases. 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are 

found. 
And    lovers'    hearts    with    ends    of     riband 

bound, 
The     courtier's    promises,     and     sick    man's 

prayers,  "9 

The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs, 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea. 
Dried   butterflies,   and   tomes   of   casuistry. 
But  trust  the   Muse  —  she  saw   it   upward 

rise. 
Though   marked   by   none   but   quick,   poetic 

eyes  : 
(So    Rome's   great    founder   to   the   heavens 

withdrew,  '^S 

To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view) 
A   sudden   star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air. 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright. 
The    heavens    bespangling    with    dishevelled 

light.  130 

The  sylphs  behold   it   kindling  as  it  flies. 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through  the 

skies. 
This  the  beau  monde  shall   from  the  Mall 

survey, 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray. 
This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  \'enus  take.  135 
And    send    up    vows    from    Rosamonda's 

lake. 
This   Partridge  soon   shall   view   in   cloudless 

skies. 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes; 


368 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


And  hence  the  egregious  wizard  shall  fore- 
doom 

The  fate  of  Louis  and  the  fall  of  Rome.  140 
Then  cease,  bright  nymph!  to  mourn  thy 
ravished   hair. 

Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining 
sphere ! 

Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast. 

Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 

For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye,     '45 

When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall 
die: 

When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 
must, 

And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust, 

This  lock,  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to 
fame, 

And     'midst    the     stars     inscribe     Belinda's 

I  so 

name.  ^ 

(1712,  1714) 


From    EPISTLE   TO   DR.    ARBUTHNOT 

Why   did    I    write?    what    sin    to   me    un- 
known 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade,  s 

No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed. 
The   Muse  but   served  to  ease  some  friend, 

not  wife. 
To  help  me  through   this   long  disease,  my 

life, 
To  second,  Arbuthnot!  thy  art  and  care. 
And    teach    the    being    you     preserved,    to 
bear.     ... 
Soft  were  my  numbers ;   who   could  take 
offense 
While    pure   description    held   the   place   of 

sense? 
Like  gentle  Fanny's  was  my  flowery  theme, 
A  painted  mistress,  or  a  purling  stream.  14 
Yet  then  did  Gildon  draw  his  venal  quill;— 
I   wished  the  man  a  dinner,  and  sat  still. 
Yet  then  did  Dennis  rave  in   furious  fret; 
I  never  answered  —  I  was  not  in  debt. 
If   want  provoked,   or   madness  made   them 

print, 
I  waged  no  war  with  Bedlam  or  the  Mint.  20 
Did   some  more   sober  critic  come  abroad. 
If   wrong,    I    smiled;    if    right,    I   kissed   the 
rod. 


Were  others   angry:    I   excused  them  too; 
Well  might  they  rage,  I  gave  them  but  theif 
due. 


A  man's  true  merit  't  is  not  hard  to  find ;  25 
But  each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind, 
That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness. 
This,  who  can  gratify?  for  who  can  guess? 
The  bard  whom  pilfered  Pastorals  renown. 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half  a  crown, 
Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear, 
And  strains  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight 
lines  a  year ;  3-' 

He,   who   still   wanting,  though  he   lives   on 

theft, 
Steals   much,   spends   little,  yet  has  nolhiii- 

left: 
And   he,   who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense 
leaning,  3j 

Means    not,    but    blunders    round    about    a 

meaning : 
And   he,   whose   fustian 's   so  sublimely  bad, 
It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad: 
All  these,  my  modest  satire  bade  translate. 
And    owned    that   nine    such    poets    made    a 
Tate.  40 

How  did   they  fume,  and  stamp,  and  roar, 

and  chafe! 
And  swear,  not  Addison  himself  was  safe. 
Peace    to    all    such!    but    were    there  one 
whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires ; 
Blessed    with   each   talent   and   each   art   to 
please,  45 

And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with 

ease : 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear,    like    the    Turk,    no    brother   near   the 

throne. 
View    him    with    scornful,    yet    with    jealous 

eyes. 
And   hate    for   arts   that   caused  himself   to 
rise;  so 

Damn    with    faint   praise,    assent   with    civil 

leer. 
And    without    sneering,    teach    the    rest    to 

sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just   hint   a    fault,   and  hesitate   dislike; 
Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend,  ss 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend ; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged. 
And  so  obliging,  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little   senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause;       6° 
While    wits    and    Templars    every    sentence 

raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise  — 
Who   but   must   laugh,   if   such   a   man   there 

be> 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  .-\tticus  were  he! 
*     *     * 

(1735) 


JAMES  THOMSON  (1700-1748) 


Thomson  was  a  Scotchman  who,  at  the  height  of  Pope's  reign,  went  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
literary  London,  lie  arrived  in  need  of  a  pair  of  shoes  and  lost  the  packet  of  recommenda- 
tions which  he  had  tied  up  in  his  handkerchief ;  but  he  was  kindly  received  by  his  brother 
poets,  and  enjoyed  sufficient  patronage  from  the  rich  to  preserve  him  from  actual  want. 
The  four  parts  of  The  Seasons  which  appeared  in  rapid  succession  (172O-30)  made  his 
reputation,  and  a  series  of  stifif  tragedies  in  blank  verse  had  a  lukewarm  success  on  the 
stage.  Politically,  he  adhered  to  the  opposition  and  was  one  of  a  group,  including  the 
poet  Collins,  which  gathered,  around  Lord  Lyttleton  at  Hagley,  under  the  '  precarious 
patronage'  of  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales.  Thomson  was  an  indolent  man  'more  fat  than 
bard  beseems,'  luxurious  and  procrastinating,  and  the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life  originated 
little  that  was  important.  The  Castle  of  Indolence,  which  commemorates  the  Hagley  com- 
pany, was  begun  in  1733,  though  not  completed  until  two  years  before  his  death.  Dull  in 
unfamiliar  society,  Thomson  was  loyally  and  deeply  beloved  by  those  who  intimately  knew 
him.  His  warm  and  truthful  delineations  of  nature  and  his  resource  in  the  older  harmonies 
of  English  verse  helped  to  inaugurate  a  new  era  in  poetry.  Notwithstanding  these  tendencies. 
Pope  regarded  him  with  respect  and  favor.  In  the  next  generation.  Dr.  Johnson  abated  his 
prejudice  against  blank  verse  in  favor  of  The  Seasons,  and  forgot  his  hostility  to  Spenserisra 
in  commenting  on  The  Castle  of  Indolence.  'He  thinks  always  as  a  man  of  genius;  he 
looks  round  on  Nature  and  on  Life  with  the  eye  which  Nature  bestows  only  on  a  poet,'  was 
Johnson's  summary  of  his  abilities. 


From    SUMMER 

Low    walks    the    sun,    and    broadens    by    de- 
grees. 
Just    o'er    the    verge    of    day.     The    shifting 

clouds 
Assembled   gay,    a   richly   gorgeous   train. 
In  all  their  pomp  attend  his  setting  throne. 
Air,  earth,  and  ocean  smile  immense.     And 
now,  5 

As  if  his  weary  chariot  sought  the  bowers 
Of  Amphitrite,  and  her  tending  nymphs  — 
So  Grecian  fable  sung  —  he  dips  his  orb; 
Now    half    immersed;    and    now    a    golden 

curve 
Gives   one   bright    glance,    then    total    disap- 
pears.     *      *      *  10 
Confessed   from  yonder  slow-extinguished 
clouds, 
All  ether  softening,  sober  evening  takes 
Her  wonted  station   in  the  middle  air; 
A  thousand  shadows  at  her  beck.     First  this 
She    sends    on    earth ;    then    that    of    deeper 
dye  1 5 
Steals   soft  behind;   and  then  a  deeper  still. 
In   circle    following   circle,   gathers   round. 
To  close  the  face  of  things.     A  fresher  gale 


24 


Begins    to    wave     the    wood,    and    stir    the 

stream. 
Sweeping   with    shadowy   gust   the   fields    of 

corn :  20 

While    the    quail    clamors    for    his    running 

mate. 
Wide    o'er    the    thistly    lawn,    as    swells    the 

breeze, 
A   whitening  shower  of  vegetable  down 
Amusive    floats.     The   kind   impartial   care 
Of    nature    nought    disdains:    thoughtful    to 

feed  25 

Her    lowest    sons,    and    clothe    the    coming 

year. 
From  field  to   field  the   feathered  seeds   she 

wings. 
His     folded     flock    secure,    the     shepherd 

home 
Hies  merry-hearted  ;  and  by  turns  relieves 
The  ruddy  milkmaid  of  her  brimming  pail ; 
The     beauty     whom     pfthaps     his     witless 

heart —  3i 

Unknowing     what     the    joy-rnixed     anguish 

means  — 
Sincerely  loves,  by  that  ttest  language  shewn 
Of  cordial  glances,  anc'',  obliging  deeds. 
Onward     they    pass    o'er    many    a    panting 

height,  35 

369 


370 


JAMES  THOMSON 


And  valley  sunk,  and   unfrequented;   where 
At  fall  of  eve  the  fairy  people  throng, 
In  various  game  and  revelry,  to  pass 
The  summer  night,   as   village   stories  tell. 
But  far  ahout  they  wander  from  the  grave  4° 
Of  him  whom  his  ungentle  fortune  urged 
Against  his  own  sad  breast  to  lift  the  hand 
Of  impious  violence.     The  lonely  tower 
Is  also  shunned;  whose  mournful  chambers 

hold  — 
So   night-struck   fancy  dreams  —  the  yelling 

ghost.  45 

Among  the  crooked  lanes,  on  every  hedge. 

The  glowworm  lights  his  gem;  and  through 

the  dark 
A  moving  radiance  twinkles.     Evening  yields 
The  world  to  night ;  not  in  her  winter  robe 
Of  massy  Stygian  woof,  but  loose  arrayed  5o 
In  mantle  dun.     A   faint  erroneous  ray, 
Glanced     from    the    imperfect    surfaces    of 

things, 
Flings  half  an  image  on  the  straining  eye; 
While    wavering    woods,    and    villages,    and 

streams, 
And  rocks,  and  mountain-tops,  that  long  re- 
tained 55 
The  ascending  gleam,  are  all  one  swimming 

scene. 
Uncertain  if  beheld.     Sudden  to  heaven 
Thence  weary  vision  turns;  where,  leading 

soft 
The  silent  hours  of  love,  with  purest  ray 
Sweet   Venus   shines;   and    from  her  genial 

rise,  6o 

When  daylight  sickens  till  it  springs  afresh, 
Unrivaled  reigns,  the  fairest  lamp  of  night. 
*     *     * 

(1727) 


From   AUTUMN 

But  see  the  fading  many-colored  woods. 
Shade    deepening    over    shade,    the    country 

round 
Imbrown;  a  crowded  umbrage  dusk  and  dun. 
Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To    sooty    dark.     These    now   the    lonesome 

muse,  5 

Low  whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strewn 

walks. 
And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 
Meantime,    light    shadowing    all,    a    sober 

calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether :   whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn  'o 
The  gentle  current:   while  illumined  wide, 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the   sun, 


And    through    thdr    lucid    veil    his    softened 

force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful   world.     Then  is  the 

time. 
For   those    whom   virtue   and   whom   nature 

charm,  is 

To    steal    themselves    from    the    degenerate 

crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things : 
To   tread    low-thoughted   vice  beneath   their 

feet; 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace ; 
And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks.     20 

Thus   solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead. 
And    through    the    saddened    grove,    where 

scarce  is  heard 
One   dying  strain,   to   cheer  the   woodman's 

toil. 
Haply    some    widowed    songster    pours    his 

plaint,  25 

Far,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny 

copse ; 
While   congregated   thrushes,   linnets,    larks, 
And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains 

so  late 
Swelled    all    the    music    of    the    swarming 

shades. 
Robbed  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shiver- 
ing sit  30 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock: 
With    not    a    brightness    waving    o'er    their 

plumes, 
And  naught  save  chattering  discord  in  their 

note. 
O  let  not,  aimed  from  some  inhuman  eye, 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year       35 
Destroy;    and   harmless,   unsuspecting   harm, 
Lay  the  weak  tribes  a  miserable  prey 
In  mingled  murder,  fluttering  on  the  ground! 
The    pale    descenduig    year,    yet    pleasing 

still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires;  for  now  the  leaf  40 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove; 
Oft  startling  such  as  studious  walk  below, 
And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams ; 
Till    choked,    and    matted    with    the    dreary 

shower,  46 

The  forest  walks,  at  every  rising  gale. 
Roll   wide   the   withered   waste,  and  whistle 

bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields ; 
And,    shrunk    into    their    beds,    the    flowery 

race  50 

Their    simny    robes    resign.     E'en    what    re- 
mained 


Of    stronger    fruits    falls    from    the    naked 

tree; 
And    woods,    fields,    gardens,    orchards    all 

around, 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul.    .    .    . 
The  western  sun  withdraws  the  shortened 
day,  55 

And  humid  evening,  gliding  o'er  the   sky, 
In   her    chill    progress,    to   the    ground   con- 
densed 
The  vapor  throws.     Where  creeping  waters 

ooze, 
Where  marshes   stagnate,  and   where  rivers 

wind, 
Cluster  the  rolling  fogs,  and  swim  along  60 
The    dusky-mantled    lawn.     Meanwhile    the 

moon. 
Full   orbed,   and   breaking  through  the   scat- 
tered clouds, 
Shews   her   broad    visage    in   the   crimsoned 

east. 
Turned  to  the  sun  direct  her  spotted  disk, 
Where  mountains  rise,  umbrageous  dales  de- 
scend, 65 
And  caverns  deep  as  optic  tube  descries, 
A  smaller  earth,  gives  us  his  blaze  again. 
Void  of  its  flame,  and  sheds  a  softer  day. 
Now  through  the  passing  clouds  she  seems 

to  stoop. 
Now  up  the  pure  cerulean  rides  sublime.     7o 
Wide  the  pale  deluge  floats,  and   streaming 

mild 
O'er    the    skied    mountain    to    the    shadowy 

vale, 
While  rocks  and  floods  reflect  the  quivering 

gleam ; 
The  whole  air  whitens  with  a  boundless  tide 
Of     silver     radiance    trembling     round     the 
world.  75 


(1730) 


From  WINTER 


Through     the     hushed     air     the     whitening 

shower  descends. 
At  first  thin-wavering,  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the 

day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white :     5 
'T  is    brightness    all,    save    where    the    new 

snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head ;   and   ere  the   languid 

sun 
Faint  from  the  west,  emits  his  evening  ray ; 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid,  and  chill,  10 


^^^^ ^ 

Is  one  wide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  laborer- 
ox 
Stands    covered    o'er    with    snow,    and    then 

demands 
The    fruit    of    all    his    toil.     The    fowls    of 

heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around  is 
The   winnowing   store,    and    claim    the    little 

boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.  One  alone. 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky. 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted 
man  21 

His    annual   visit.     Half-afraid,   he   first 
Against     the     window     beats;     then,     brisk, 

alights 
On  the  warm  hearth;  then  hopping  o'er  the 

floor. 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance,  25 

And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders   where 

he  is: 
Till  more  familiar  grown,  the  table  crumbs 
Attract     his     slender     feet.     The     foodless 

wilds 
Pour    forth    their    brown    inhabitants.     The 

hare. 
Though  timorous   of  heart,   and  hard  beset 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and 
dogs,  31 

And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks. 
Urged    on   by    fearless   want.     The   bleating 

kine 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next,  the  glisten- 
ing earth. 
With  looks  of  dumb  despair;  then,  sad  dis- 
persed, 35 
Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of 
snow.                  *     *     * 
As    thus    the    snows    arise,    and    foul    and 
fierce 
All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air, 
In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields  the   swain 
Disastered  stands;  sees  other  hills  ascend,  40 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow,  and  other  scenes. 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain  ; 
Nor  finds   the   river  nor  the   forest,   hid 
Beneath  the   formless  wild;  but  wanders  on 
From    hill    to    dale,    still    more    and    more 
astray,                                                              45 
Impatient     flouncing     through     the     drifted 

heaps. 
Stung     with     the     thoughts     of     home;     the 

thoughts  of  home 
Rush    on    his    nerves,    and    call    their    vigor 
forth 


372 


JAMES  THOMSON 


In    many    a    vain    attempt.     Plow    sinks    his 

soul ! 
What    black    despair,    what    horror,    fills    his 

heart !  3" 

When     for     the     dusky     spot     which     fancy 

feigned, 
His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow, 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste, 
Far    from   the   track   and   blessed   abode    of 

man ; 
While     round    him    night    resistless    closes 

fast,  55 

And  every  tempest  howling  o'er  his  head, 
Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 
Of    covered    pits,    unfathomably    deep, 
A  dire  descent!  beyond  the  power  of  frost; 
Of  faithless  bogs;  of  precipices  huge  6i 

Smoothed  up  with  snow ;  and  what  is  land 

unknown. 
What   water  of   the   still   unfrozen   spring, 
In   the  loose   marsh  or   solitary  lake. 
Where  the   fresh   fountain   from  the  bottom 

boils.  65 

These  check  his  fearful  steps,  and  down  he 

sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift. 
Thinking  o'er  all   the  bitterness   of   death. 
Mixed  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man. 
His   wife,  his  children,  and  his   friends,  un- 
seen. 71 
In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 
The    fire    fair    blazing,    and    the    vestment 

warm ; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into   the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas!     76 
Nor  wife  nor  children  more  shall  he  behold, 
Nor    friends,    nor    sacred   home.     On    every 

nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes,  shuts  up  sense, 
And  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold,     8° 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse, 
Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  northern 

blast. 


(1726) 


A   HYMN 


These,    as    they    change.    Almighty    Father, 

these. 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is     full     of    thee.     Forth     in     the     pleasing 

Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 


Wide-flush    the    fields ;    the    softening   air    is 

balm ;  5 

Echo     the     mountains     round ;     the     forest 

smiles ; 
And  every  sense,  and  cNcry  heart  is  joy. 
Then     comes     thy     glory     in     the     summer- 
months, 
With    light    and   heart    refulgent.     Then   thy 

sun 
Shoots   full   perfection   through  the   swelling 

year:  10 

And     oft     thy     voice     in     dreadful     thunder 

speaks ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
Ry  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering 

gales. 
Thy  bounty   shines  in   autumn   unconfined, 
And    spreads    a   connnon    feast    for    all    that 

lives.  15 

In    winter    awful     thou!     with    clouds    and 

storms 
Around    thee    thrown,    tempest    o'er   tempest 

roll'd 
Majestic  darkness!  on  the  whirlwind's  wing. 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore, 
And    humblest    Nature    with    thy    northern 

blast.  20 

Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force 

divine, 
Deepfclt,  in  these  appear!  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined :  24 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole ; 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But    wandering   oft,   with   brute   unconscious 

gaze, 
Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty 

hand, 
That,   ever-busy,   wheels    the    silent   spheres ; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep ;   shoots,  steaming, 

thence  31 

The     fair     profusion     that     o'erspreads     the 

spring: 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 
Feeds    every    creature ;    hurls    the    tempest 

forth  ; 
And,   as   on    earth   this   grateful   change   re- 
volves, 35 
With   transport    touches   all    the    springs   of 

life. 

Nature,   attend !    join   every   living   soul. 
Beneath   the   spacious   temple   of   the   sky, 
In   adoration  join;  and  ardent   raise 
One  general  song!     To  him,  ye  vocal  gales, 


itiit  LAblLH  Ut    INDULENLE 


373 


Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness 

breathes.  4' 

Oh,  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms. 
Where    o'er    the    rock   the    scarcely    waving 

pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar,  45 
Who   shake  the  astonished  world,   lift  high 

to  heaven 
The    impetuous    song,    and    say    from    whom 

you  rage. 
His   praise,   ye  brooks,   attune,   ye  trembling 

rills; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along, 
Yc   headlong  torrents,   rapid   and   profound; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid   ma.7.e 
Along  the  vale;  and  thou,  majestic  main,  5^ 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  his  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater 

voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roaring  fall. 
So  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and   fruits,   and 

flowers,  55 

In  mingled  clouds  to  him,  whose  sun  exalts. 
Whose    breath    perfumes    you,    and    whose 

pencil    paints. 
Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave  to  him  ; 
Breathe    your    still    song    into    the    reaper's 

heart,  6o 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Ye    that    keep    watch    in    heaven,    as    earth 

asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams ; 
Ye   constellations,   while  your   angels   strike. 
Amid   the   spangled   sky,   the   silver   lyre.     65 
Great   source  of  day !   blest  image  here   be- 
low 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide. 
From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 
On  nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 
The  thunder  rolls :  be  hushed  the  prostrate 

wofld,  70 

While    cloud    to    cloud    returns    the    solemn 

hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills;  ye  mossy  rocks. 
Retain  the  sound ;  the  broad  responsive  low, 
Ye  valleys,   raise ;    for   the   Great    Shepherd 

reigns. 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands,  all  awake;  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves ;  and  when  the  rest- 
less day,  77 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 
Sweetest  of  birds !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The   listening    shades,    and    teach    the    night 

his  praise.  So 

Ye    chief,    for    whom    the    whole    creation 

smiles; 


At  once  the  head,  the  heart,   the  tongue   of 

all, 
Crown   the  great   hymn!   in   swarming  cities 

vast. 
Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The    long    resounding    voice,    oft    breaking 

clear,  8s 

At  solcnm  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base; 
And,  as  each  mingling  ilamc  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade. 
And  find  a  fame  in  every  sacred  grove,      9° 
There    let    the    shepherd's   lute,   the   virgin's 

lay. 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  seasons  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme. 
Whether    the    blossom    blows,    the    Summer 

ray  95 

Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams. 
Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east  — 
Be    my    tongue    mute,    my    fancy    paint    no 

more. 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat. 
Should   fate  command  me  to  the  furthest 

verge  loo 

Of    the    green    earth,    to    distant    barbarous 

climes. 
Rivers    unknown    to    song;    where    first    the 

sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles,  't  is  nought  to 

me  ; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt,         'os 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  he  vital  breathes,  there  must  be 

joy. 
When    even    at    last    the    solemn    hour    shall 

come. 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I   cheerful   will   obey;   there   with   new  pow- 
ers, 110 
Will   rising  wonders   sing.     I   cannot  go 
Where   universal    love   not    smiles   around. 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  ; 
From   seeming  evil   still   educing  good. 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still,  us 
In  mfinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
IMyself  in  him,   in  light  ineffable! 
Come,    then,    expressive    silence,    muse    his 

praise.  (1730) 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLE^XE,  Book  I 

O   mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil, 
Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard   estate: 
That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil, 


374 


JAMES  THOMSON 


Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date; 
And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great;  s 
For,     though     sometimes     it     makes     thee 

weep  and  wail, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and 

late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  a  heavier  bale, 
Loose    life,    unruly    passions,    and    diseases 

pale. 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side,         'o 
With    woody    hill    o'er    hill    encompassed 

round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide. 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere 

found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground: 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 
Half   pranked   with   spring,   with   summer 

half    imbrowned,  '6 

A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 

No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  ever 

for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest : 

Sleep-soothing    groves,    and    quiet    lawns 
between ;  ^° 

And   flowery  beds  that  slumberous   influ- 
ence kest, 

From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of  pleas- 
ant  green. 

Where    never    yet    was    creeping    creature 
seen. 

Meantime    unnumbered   glittering    stream- 
lets  played. 

And     hurled     everywhere     their     waters 
sheen ;  ^s 

That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny 
glade. 
Though    restless    still    themselves,    a   lulling 
murmur   made. 

Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 
Were   heard   the   lowing  herds   along  the 

vale, 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant 

hills,  30 

And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale : 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would 

wail. 
Or    stock-doves    'plain    amid    the    forest 

deep. 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep  ; 
Yet   all   these   sounds   yblent   inclined   all    to 

sleep.  36 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn   forest  stood, 


Where    nought    but    shadowy    forms    was 

seen  to  move, 
As  Idlesse  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood: 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood  41 
Of   blackening   pines,    aye    waving   to   and 

fro. 
Sent    forth    a    sleepy   horror   through    the 

blood  ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below. 
The     murmuring     main     was     heard,     and 

scarcely  heard,  to  flow.  45 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut 

eye: 
And    of    gay    castles    in    the    clouds    that 

pass. 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky: 
There   eke   the    soft   delights,   that   witch- 

ingly  50 

Instill    a    wanton    sweetness    through    the 

breast. 
And   the   calm   pleasures,   always   hovered 

nigh; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  noyance  or  un- 
rest. 
Was  far,  far  off'  expelled  from  this  delicious 

nest. 


The  doors,  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming 
bell,  55 

Ne  cursed  knocker  plied  by  villain's  hand. 

Self-opened  into  halls,  where,  who  can 
tell 

What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  ex- 
pand. 

The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  land? 

Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  on  carpets  carpets 
spread,  60 

And  couches  stretched  around  in  seemly 
band ; 

And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head ; 
So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full- 
swelling  bed. 

And  everywhere  huge  covered  tables  stood, 
With  wines  high  flavored  and  rich  viands 

crowned ;  65 

Whatever  sprightly  juice  or  tasteful  food 
On    the    green    bosom    of    this    earth    are 

found, 
And  all  old  ocean  genders  in  his  round; 
Some  hand  unseen  these  silently  displayed, 
Even  undemanded  by  a  sign  or  sound  ;    70 
You  need  but  wish,  and,  mstantly  obeyed, 
Fair  ranged  the  dishes  rose,  and   thick  the 

glasses  played. 


The  rooms  with  costly  tapestry  were  hung, 
Where   was   inwoven   many  a   gentle  tale ; 
Such  as  of  old  the  rural  poets  sung,       75 
Or  of  Arcadian  or  Sicilian  vale : 
Reclining  lovers,  in  the  lonely  dale, 
Poured  forth  at  large  the  sweetly  tortured 

heart ; 
Or,    sighing    tender    passion,    swelled    the 

gale, 
And  taught  charmed  echo  to  resound  their 
smart ;  80 

While    flocks,    woods,    streams,    around,    re- 
pose and  peace  impart. 


Those  pleased  the  most,  where,  by  a  cun- 
ning hand, 
Depainted  w^as  the  patriarchal  age; 
What  time  Dan  Abraham  left  the  Chaldee 

land. 
And    pastured   on    from   verdant    stage   to 

stage,  85 

Where    fields    and    fountains    fresh    could 

best  engage. 
Toil  was  not  then.     Of  nothing  took  they 

heed. 
But    with    wild   beasts   the   sylvan    war    to 

wage, 
And  o'er  vast  plains  their  herds  and  flocks 

to  feed  ; 
Blest  sons  of  nature  they!   true  golden   age 

indeed !  90 


Sometimes  the  pencil,  in  cool  airy  halls, 

Bade  the  gay  bloom  of  vernal  landscapes 
rise. 

Or   autumn's    varied    shades    imbrown    the 
walls ; 

Now  the  black  tempest  strikes  the  aston- 
ished eyes, 

Now  down  the  steep  the  flashing  torrent 
flies;  95 

The  trembling  sun   now  plays   o'er  ocean 
blue. 

And  now  rude  mountains  frown  amid  the 
skies  ; 

Whate'er  Lorraine  light-touched  with  sof- 
tening hue, 
Or  savage  Rosa  dashed,  or  learned  Poussin 
drew. 


A  certain  music,  never  known  before,  100 
Here  lulled  the  pensive  melancholy  mind, 
Full  easily  obtained.  Behoves  no  more. 
But  sidelong,  to  the  gently  waving  wind, 
To  lay  the  well-tuned  instrument  reclined  ; 
From  which  with  airy  flying  fingers  light, 


Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  re- 
fined, 106 

The   god   of   winds   drew    sounds   of   deep 
delight ; 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  the  harp  of  ^5iolus 
it  hight. 

Ah  me !  what  hand  can  touch  the  string 
so  fine  ? 

Who  up  the  lofty  diapason  roll  no 

Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs 
divine. 

Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul? 

Now  rising  love  they  fanned;  now  pleas- 
ing dole 

They  breathed,  in  tender  musings,  through 
the  heart ; 

And  now  a  graver  sacred  strain  they 
stole,  115 

As  when  seraphic  hands  a  hymn  impart: 
Wild  warbling  nature  all,  above  the  reach 
of  art! 

Such  the  gay  splendor,  the  luxurious  state 
Of  Caliphs  old,  who  on  the  Tigris'  shore. 
In  mighty  Bagdad,  populous  and  great,  i^o 
Held    their    bright    court,    where    was    of 

ladies  store; 
And   verse,   love,   music,   still  the   garland 

wore; 
When  sleep  was  coy,  the  bard  in  waiting 

there 
Cheered  the  lone  midnight  with  the  muse's 

lore; 
Composing    music    bade    his    dreams    be 
fair,  125 

And  music  lent  new  gladness  to  the  morn- 
ing air. 

Near    the   pavilions    where    we    slept,    still 

ran 
Soft  tinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters 

fell. 
And   sobbing  breezes   sighed,   and   oft  be- 
gan — 
So  worked  the  wizard  —  wintry  storms  to 

swell,  130 

As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together 

mell ; 
At  doors  and  windows  threatening  seemed 

to  call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest,  growling  fell, 
Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at 

all; 
Whence   sweeter  grew   our   sleep,    secure   in 

massy  hall.  13s 

*     *     * 

(1748) 


MINOR  POETS  — YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 

Before  the  'Augustan  age'  of  wil  and  cuninion-scnso  had  (■<)uii)lcl('(l  its  course  a  departure 
from  its  precepts  and  fashions  iiad  begun.  Tiie  complex  of  tendencies  which  gradually 
transformed  literature  in  the  course  of  the  eighteenth  century  is  usually  referred  to  as 
'  the  romantic  movement.'  Some,  however,  prefer  to  conserve  this  term  for  a  more  re- 
stricted application  to  the  revival  of  medievalism  which  was  a  part  of  the  broader  move- 
ment; while  still  others  prefer  to  think  of  these  changes  as  the  result  of  two  related 
tendencies,  'the  return  to  nature'  and  'the  revival  of  the  past.'  The  English  genius 
could  not  long  content  itself  with  the  equably  ironic  view  of  human  fate  which  found 
expression  in  the  essays  of  Addison,  or  with  the  jaunty  commendations  of  God  and 
the  universe  which  capped  Pope's  essentially  shallow  and  worldly  philosophy.  Even  Pope's 
Essay  on  Man,  it  is  worth  while  to  notice,  had  been  preceded  by  Thomson's  llymn  on 
the  treasons.  Three-quarters  of  a  century  were  to  elapse  before  any  first-rate  mind 
should  survey  life  with  that  comprehensive  sympnihy  and  penetrate  it  with  that  fresh, 
imaginative  insight  which  marks  the  truly  great  and  original  poet.  In  the  meantime  the 
useful  work  of  our  'age  of  prose  and  reason,'  'our  excellent  and  indispensable  eighteenth 
century,'  was  being  done.  Meantime,  also,  chiefly  among  men  of  second-rate  and  third- 
rate  quality,  we  may  detect  evidences,  stray  and  imperfect,  of  that  '  longing  to  iniiuire 
into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  which  beats  so  wild,  so  deep  in  us ' —  which  always  under- 
lies literature  of  the  finest  power.  Now,  great  literary  changes  are  usually  '  accompanied 
or  heralded,'  as  Stevenson  has  phrased  it,  '  by  a  cast  back  to  earlier  and  fresher  models.' 
Thus,  most  of  these  minor  writers  were  in  some  degree  imitative.  Discontented,  first 
of  all,  with  the  subject-matter  of  poetry,  its  restriction  to  what  they  deemed  superficial 
and  trivial  in  town  life,  they  sought  the  fields  and  '  the  mountain's  rugged  brow.'  And, 
just  as  they  became  interested  in  the  solitudes  and  the  untamed  aspects  of  Nature,  so 
they  became  interested  in  wild  and  primitive,  or  in  simple  and  rustic  society,  where  the 
elementary  impulses  of  men  have  freer  play.  Discontented,  too,  with  the  artificial  diction 
and  rhetoric  and  the  restricted  couplet  verse  of  the  I'ope  school,  they  '  cast  back  '  to  the 
blank  verse  of  Shakspere  and  Milton,  to  Milton's  octo-syllabics,  to  the  fluid  stanza  of 
Spenser,  and  to  the  free  modulations  of  the  old  ballad  stave.  Emulating  their  models 
in  subject,  diction,  rhythm, —  they  caught  at  times  something  of  their  spirit.  There  is 
hardly  one  of  these  men  of  slighter  power,  thinly  descriptive  or  heavily  didactic  as  they 
frequently  are,  who  does  not  at  some  point  flash  for  a  moment  with  the  loveliness,  or 
mystery,  or  melancholy,  or  boldness,  or  '  fine  frenzy,'  of  the  earlier  masters,  or  the  wilding 
songs   of   the   folk. 

Edward  Young,  five  years  Pope's  senior,  an  Oxford  scholar  of  saturnine  temper,  a 
disappointed  seeker  after  '  the  bubble  reputation,'  first  in  the  theater  and  then  in  the 
church,  produced  at  three-score  the  poem  for  which  he  is  remembered.  The  Complaint, 
or  jSiight  Thoughts  on  Life,  Death,  and  Immortal  it  ij,  a  didactic  poem  in  ten  thousand 
lines  of  blank  verse,  is  still  impressive  for  its  nervous  aphoristic  force  and  somber  mag- 
nificence  of  imagery   and   music. 

John  Gay,  the  intimate  friend  of  Swift  and  Pope,  was  a  compliant  creature  of  bis  age. 
His  prime  gift  was  for  travesty  and  his  greatest  success  in  this  kind.  The  Beggar's  Opera. 
created  a  type.  The  Shepherd's  Week  was  intended  to  burlesque  the  Pastorals  then  in 
vogue.  '  But  the  effect  of  reality  and  truth  became  conspicuous,'  says  Johnson,  '  even  when 
the  intention  was  to  show  them  groveling  and  degraded.' 

Robert  Blair  was  a  Scotch  minister.  The  Grave,  in  some  eight  hundred  lines  of  blank 
verse,  is  an  early  example  of  the  so-called  '  grave-yard '  school  of  poetry.  It  is  somewhat 
singular  among  the  poems  of  its  time  and  class,  in  that  its  diction  and  versification  suggest 
the  influence  of  Elizabethan  dramatic  poets  rather  than  that  of  Milton. 

John  Dyer,  a  Welsh  landscape  painter,  was  also  a  landscape  poet.  His  Grongar  Hill  was 
published  the  year  of  Thomson's  Winter.  Its  likeness  to  Milton's  L'Allegro  is  sufficiently 
obvious.  The  Ruins  of  Rome  (1740)  and  The  Fleece  (1757)  are  didacticn-descriptive 
poems  in  blank  verse,  suggestive  of  Milton  and  Thomson. 

William  Shenstone  was  a  somewhat  spiritless  bachelor  and  recluse  who  amused  himself 
with  landscape-gardening  on  a   small   scale  at   the  Leasowes,   a   modest  estate  adjoining   Lord 

376 


Littleton's  acres  at  Hagley.  His  poetry  is  tamely  elegiac  and  pastoral.  Tlie  i:iclioolmistrtiss, 
his  best  known  poem,  is  a  Spenserian  semi-burlesque. 

Mark  Akenside,  a  physician  whom  a  youthful  addiction  to  poetry  did  not  prevent  from 
rising  high  in  his  profession,  published  his  Fleusures  of  Imagination  in  his  twenty-third  year. 
His  Odes  and  Hymn  to  the  Noi<id(s  appeared  successively  the  two  years  following.  Though 
too  abstract  and  coldly  elegant,  his  poems  are  impregnated  with  the  manner  of  Milton  and 
tinged    with   romantic   aspiration. 

Somewhat  like  that  of  Akenside,  but  incomparably  more  exquisite,  is  the  poetry  of 
William  Collins, —  slight  and  fragile  in  everything  except  its  hold  on  immortality.  Collins' 
delicately  cultivated  mind  was  early  obscured  and  he  died  in  his  thirty-eighth  year,  having 
written  nothing  for  a  decade.  Lowell  has  said  of  his  Ode  on  the  Popular  Superstitions  of  the 
Scottish  Highlands,  that  it  contained  'the  whole  Romantic  School  in  its  germ';  but  his 
grace  of  spirit  and  the  importunate  loveliness  of  his  diction  are  seen  in  purest  perfection  in 
his  shorter  pieces. 

Thomas  Warton,  in  his  youth  a  friend  of  Thomson  and  Collins  and,  in  later  years,  an 
admirer  of  Gray  and  a  valued  member  of  Johnson's  club,  spent  most  of  his  life  at  Oxford. 
He  was  an  accomplished  antiquarian,  author  of  the  first  History  of  English  Poetry,  and  a 
'  pioneer  of  the  medieval  revival.'  His  verse  shows  the  confluence  of  many  romantic  ele- 
ments but  is  too  little  original  to  be  of  much  intrinsic  value. 

Thomas  Chatterton  spent  most  of  his  few  years  at  Bristol,  where  his  ancestors  had  been, 
for  a  century  and  a  half,  sextons  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe.  In  the  '  muniment  room '  of  this 
church  he  pretended  to  have  discovered  the  manuscripts  of  the  poems  which  he  gave  to  the 
world  as  those  of  a  fifteenth  century  priest,  Thomas  Rowley.  His  forgeries  were  clever 
enough  to  impose  upon  Horace  Walpole,  though  Gray  readily  detected  the  deception.  In 
Loudon,  whither  he  had  gone  with  the  hope  of  living  by  his  pen,  the  morbidly  precocious 
boy  took  his  own  life  at  the  age  of  seventeen  years  and  nine  months.  His  strange  hectic 
genius  and  the  romantic  tragedy  of  his  death  exercised  a  spell  upon  the  poets  of  the  next 
two  generations. 


EDWARD  YOUNG  (1681-1765) 
From   NIGHT  THOUGHTS 

Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  Sleep ! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  Fortune  smiles ;  the  wretched  he  for- 
sakes : 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  wo, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear,     s 
From  short    (as  usual)    and  disturbed  re- 
pose 
I  wake :  how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more ! 
Yet   that    were    vain,    if    drearns    infest    the 

grave. 
I  wake,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous ;  where  my  wrecked  desponding 
thought  '^ 

From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 
At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 
Though   now  restored,   'tis  only  change  of 

pain  — 
A  bitter  change !  —  severer   for  severe  : 
The    day    too    short    for    my    distress;    and 
night,  '5 

E'en  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 
Is  sunshine  to  the  color  of  my  fate. 

Night,     sable    goddess;     from    her    ebon 
throne. 
In  rayless   majesty,  now   stretches    forth 


Her  leaden  scepter  o'er  a  slumbering  world. 
Silence  how  dead !  and  darkness  how  pro- 
found! 21 
Nor  eye  nor  listening  ear  an  object  finds; 
Creation  sleeps.  'T  is  as  the  general  pulse 
Of    life    stood    still,    and    Nature    made    a 

pause; 
An  awful  pause!  prophetic  of  her  end.      25 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled: 
Fate !  drop  the  curtain ;  I  can  lose  no  more. 
Silence    and     Darkness !     solemn     sisters ! 

twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender 

thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve —  3o 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man  — 
Assist  me:  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave; 
The  grave  your  kingdom:  there  this  frame 

shall    fall 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye?  35 

Thou,  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval    Silence,   when   the   morning  stars, 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the   rising  ball ; 
O   Thou !   whose  word   from   solid  darkness 

struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my 

soul ;  40 

My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her 

treasure, 


3/8 


MINOR  POETS  —  YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through    this   opaque    of    nature   and    of 

soul, 

This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 

To    lighten    and    to    cheer.     Oh,    lead    my 

mind  —  4S 

A   mind   that   fain  would  wander   from   its 

wo  — 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and 

death, 
And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  in- 
spire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason ;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear: 
Nor  let  the  phial   of  thy  vengeance,  poured 
On    this   devoted   head,   be   poured   in   vain. 


This  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude:  55 

How  populous,  how  vital  is  the  grave! 
This  is  creation's  melancholy  vault. 
The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom; 
The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades ! 
All,  all  on  earth,  is  shadow,  all  beyond    6° 
Is  substance ;  the  reverse  is  folly's  creed ; 
How    solid    all,    v/here    change    shall    be   no 

more ! 
This  is  the  bud  of  being,  the  dim  dawn, 
The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule; 
Life's  theater  as  yet  is  shut,  and  death,      65 
Strong  death  alone  can  heave  the  massy  bar. 
This  gross  impediment  of  clay  remove, 
And  make  us  embryos  of  existence  free 
From  real  life;  but  little  more  remote 
Is  he,  not  yet  a  candidate  for  light,  7o 

The  future  embryo,  slumbering  in  his  sire. 
Embryos  we  must  be  till  we  burst  the  shell, 
Yon  ambient  azure  shell,  and  spring  to  life. 
The  life  of  gods,  O  transport!  and  of  man. 
Yet   man,    fool    man !   here   buries   all   his 

thoughts;  75 

Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh. 
Prisoner    of    earth,    and    pent    beneath    the 

moon. 
Here    pinions    all    his    wishes;    winged    by 

heaven 
To  fly  at  infinite:  and  reach  it  there 
Where    seraphs    gather    immortality,  8o 

On   life's   fair  tree,   fast  by  the  throne   of 

God. 
What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clustering  glow 
In  his  full  beam,  and  ripen  for  the  just, 
Where  momentary  ages  are  no  more ! 
Where    time,    and    pain,    and    chance,    and 

death  expire !  ^5 

And  is  it  in  the  flight  of  threescore  years 


To  push  eternity   from  human  thought. 
And  smother  souls  immortal  in  the  dust? 
A  soul  immortal,  spending  all  her  fires. 
Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness. 
Thrown  into  tumult,  raptured  or  alarmed,  Qi 
At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge, 
Resembles  ocean  into  tempest   wrought, 
To  waft  a  feather,  or  to  drown  a  fly. 

(IZ42) 

*   *   * 


JOHN  GAY  (1685-1732) 

From  THE  SHEPHERD'S  WEEK 

When    fast  asleep  they   Bowzybeus  spy'd. 
His  hat  and  oaken  staff  lay  close  beside. 
That  Bowzybeus  who  could  sweetly  sing, 
Or  with  the  rozin'd  bow  torment  the  string: 
That  Bowzybeus  who  with  finger's  speed     5 
Could  call  soft  warblings  from  the  breath- 
ing reed ; 
That  Bowzybeus  who  with  jocound  tongue, 
Ballads  and  roundelays  and  catches  sung. 
They  loudly  laugh  to  see  the  damsel's  fright, 
And  in  disport  surround  the  drunken  wight. 
Ah,    Bowzybee,    why    didst    thou    stay    so 

long?  II 

The  mugs  were  large,  the  drink  was  won- 

d'rous  strong! 
Thou    shouldst    have    left    the    fair   before 

't  was  night, 
But    thou    sat'st    toping    'till    the   morning 

light. 
Cic'ly,  brisk  maid,  steps  forth  before  the 

rout,  15 

And   kiss'd    with    smacking   lip    the    snoring 

lout. 
For    custom    says ,  '  Whoe'er    this    venture 

proves. 
For  such  a  kiss  demands  a  pair  of  gloves.' 
By  her  example  Dorcas  bolder  grows, 
And  plays  a  tickling  straw  within  his  nose. 
He  rubs  his  nostril,  and  in  wonted  joke     21 
The  sneezing  swains  with  stamm'ring  speech 

bespoke. 
To  you,  my  lads,  I  '11  sing  my  carols  o'er. 
As    for  the  maids  — ■  I've  something  else  in 

store.  24 

No  sooner  'gan  he  raise  his  tuneful  song, 

But  lads  and  lasses  round  about  him  throng. 

Not  ballad-singer  plac'd  above  the  crowd 

Sings    with    a    note    so   thrilling   sweet   and 

loud, 
Nor    parish-clerk    who    calls    the   psalm    so 

clear, 


Like   Bovvzybeus  sooths  th'  attentive   car.   30 

Of  nature's  laws  his  carols   first  begun, 
Why  the  grave  owl  can  never  face  the  sun. 
For    owls,    as    swains    observe,    detest    the 

light, 
And  only  sing  and  seek  their  prey  by  night. 
How   turnips   hide  their   swelling  heads   be- 
low, 35 
And     how    the    closing    colworts     upwards 

grow ; 
How      Will-a-Wisp     misleads     night- faring 

clowns, 
O'er    hills,    and    sinking   bogs,    and    pathless 

downs. 
Of    stars    he    told    that    shoot    with    shining 

trail, 
And  of  the  glow-worm's  light  that  gilds  his 

tail.  40 

He  sung  where  wood-cocks  in   the  summer 

feed, 
And    in    what    climates    they    renew    their 

breed  ; 
Some   think   to   northern   coasts   their   flight 

they  tend. 
Or  to  the  moon  in  midnight  hours  ascend. 
Where  swallows  in  the  winter  season  keep. 
And    how    the    drowsy    bat    and    dormouse 

sleep,  46 

How  nature  does  the  puppy's  eyelid  close. 
Till  the  bright  sun  has  nine  times   set  and 

rose. 
For  huntsmen  by  their  long  experience  find. 
That    puppies    still    nine    rolling    suns    are 

blind.  50 

Now  he  goes  on  and  sings  of  fairs  and 

shows, 
For  still  new  fairs  before  his  eyes  arose. 
How  pedlars'  stalls  with  glitt'ring  toys  are 

laid, 
The   various    fairings   of  the   country  maid. 
Long  silken  laces  hang  upon  the  twine,     55 
And     rows    of    pins    and    amber    bracelets 

shine ; 
How  the  tight  lass,  knives,  combs,  and  scis- 
sors  spies, 
And  locks  on  thimbles  with  desiring  eyes. 
Of  lott'ries  next  with  tuneful  note  he  told, 
Where  silver  spoons  are  won,  and  rings  of 

gold.  60 

The  lads  and  lasses  trudge  the  street  along, 
And  all  the  fair  is  crowded  in  his  song. 
The  mountebank  now  treads  the  stage,  and 

sells 
His  pills,  his  balsams,  and  his  ague-spells; 
Now    o'er    and    o'er    the    nimble     tumbler 

springs,  65 

And    on    the    rope    the    vent'rous    maiden 

swings ; 


Jack-pudding  in  his  parti-colorcd  jacket 
Toffs  the  glove,  and  jokes  at  ev'ry  packet. 
Of  raree-shows  he  sung  and   Punch's  fates. 
Of    pockets    pick'd    in    crowds,    and    various 

cheats.  70 

Then    sad    he    sung    '  the    children    in    the 

wood.' 
Ah,    barb'rous     uncle,     stain'd     with     infant 

blood ! 
How    blackberries    they    pluck'd    in    deserts 

wild. 
And     fearless     at     the     glittering     fauchion 

smil'd ; 
Their    little    corpses    the     robin-red-breasts 

found,  75 

And     strewed    with    pious    bill    the    leaves 

around. 
Ah,    gentle    birds!    if    this    verse    lasts    so 

long, 
Yolir    names    shall    live     for    ever    in    my 

song. 
For    buxom    Joan    he    sung   the    doubtful 

strife. 
How  the  fly  sailor  made  the  maid  a  wife.  80 
To   louder   strains  he  rais'd   his  voice,   to 

tell 
What  woeful  wars  in  Chevy-Chace  befell. 
When  '  Percy  drove  the  deer  with  hound  and 

horn, 
Wars  to  be  wept  by  children  yet  unborn ! ' 
Ah,    Withrington,   more   years   thy   life   had 

crown'd,  85 

n    thou    hadst    never    heard    the    horn    or 

hound  ! 
Yet  shall  the  squire,  who  fought  on  bloody 

stumps, 
By  future  bards  be  wail'd  in  doleful  dumps. 
*     *     * 
Then  he  was  seized  with  a  religious  qualm. 
And    on    a     sudden,    sung    the    hundredth 

psalm.  90 

He    sung    of    Taffy    Welch,    and    Sawney 

Scot, 
Lilly-buliero  and  the  Irish  Trot. 
Why  should  I  tell  of  Bateman  or  of  Shore, 
Or     Wantley's     dragon     slain     by     valiant 

Moore, 
The  bovver  of  Rosamond,  or  Robin  Hood, 
And  how  the  grass  now  grows  where  Troy 

town   stood  ?  96 

His    carols    ceas'd :    the    listening    maids 

and    swains 
Seem     still    to    hear    some    soft    imperfect 

strains. 
Sudden  he  rose;  and  as  he  reels  along, 
Swears  kisses  sweet  should  well  reward  his 

song.  100 

The  damsels  laughing  fly:   the  giddy  clown 


38o 


MINOR  POETS  — YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


Again  upon  a  wheat-sheaf,  drops  adown ; 
The  power  that  guards  the  drunk,  his  sleep 

attends, 
'Till  ruddy,  like  his  face,  the  sun  descends. 

(1714) 

ROBERT  BLAIR   (1699-1746) 

From    THE   GRAVE 

Oft  in  the  lone  church-yard  at  night  I've 
seen, 

By  glimpse  of  moon-shine,  chcq'ring  through 
the  trees, 

The  school-boy,  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand, 

Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up. 

And     lightly    tripping    o'er     the     long     flat 
stones  5 

(With   nettles  skirted,  and  with  moss  o'er- 
grown) 

That   tell   in   homely  phrase  who   lie  below ; 

Sudden  he   starts !   and  hears,  or  thinks  he 
hears, 

The    sound    of    something    purring    at    his 
heels : 

Full    fast   he   flies,   and   dares  not   look  be- 
hind him,  10 

Till    out    of    breath    he    overtakes    his    fel- 
lows; 

Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 

Of    horrid    apparition,   tall    and   ghastly, 

That   walks  at  dead  of  night,   or  takes  his 
stand 

O'er   some  new-opened  grave :   and,   strange 
to  tell!  'S 

Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 
*     *     * 

What  is  this  world? 
What   but   a    spacious    burial-field    unwall'd, 
Strew'd    with    death's    spoils,    the    spoils    of 

animals. 
Savage  and   tame,   and    full   of   dead  men's 

bones?  20 

The  very  turf  on  which  we  tread  once  liv'd ; 
And  we  that  live  must  lend  our  carcasses 
To  cover  our  own  offspring:   in  their  turns 
They  too  must  cover  theirs.     'T  is  here  all 

meet! 
The     shivering     Icelander,     and     sun-burnt 

Moor ;  ^s 

Men  of  all  climes,  that  never  met  before; 
And  of  all  creeds,  the  Jew,  the  Turk,  the 

Christian. 
Here    the    proud    prince,    and    favorite    yet 

prouder, 
His    sovereign's    keeper,    and    the    people's 

scourge. 


Are  huddled  out  of  sight.     Here  lie  abash'd 
The  great  negotiators  of  the  earth,  31 

And  celebrated   masters  of  the  balance, 
Deep     read     in     stratagems,    and     wiles    of 

courts : 
Now   vain   tluir   treaty-skill !     Death   scorns 

to   treat. 
Here   the   o'erloaded    slave   flings   down   his 

burden  35 

From   his   gall'd    shoulders ;    and   when   the 

cruel    tyrant 
With    all    his    guards    and    tools    of    power 

about  him. 
Is   meditating   new    unheard-of    hardships, 
Mocks  his  short  arm,  and  quick  as  thought 

escapes  39 

Where  tyrants  vex  not,  and  the  weary  rest. 
Here    the    warm    lover,    leaving    the    cool 

shade. 
The  tell-tale  echo,  and  the  bubbling  stream, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fav'rite  seats  of  love 
Fast  by  his  gentle  mistress  lays  him  down 
Unblasted    by     foul    tongue.     Here    friends 

and  foes  45 

Lie     close,     unmindful     of     their     former 

feuds. 

*    *    * 

Sure  the   last   end 

Of  the  good  man  is  peace.  How  calm  his 
exit ! 

Night-dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the 
ground, 

Nor  weary  worn-out  winds  expire   so  soft. 

Behold  him!  in  the  evening  tide  of  life,     5' 

A   life  well   spent,  whose  early  care  it  was 

His  riper  years  should  not  upbraid  his 
green 

By  unperceiv'd  degrees  he  wears   away; 

Yet  like  the  sun  seems  larger  at  his  set- 
ting! 55 

High  in  his  faith  and  hopes,  look!  how  he 
reaches 

After  the  prize  in  view!  and,  like  a  bird 

That 's  hamper'd,  struggles  hard  to  get 
away ! 

Whilst  the  glad  gates  of  sight  are  wide 
expanded  59 

To  let  new  glories  in,  the  first  fair  fruits 

Of  the  fast-coming  harvest!  Then!  O 
then! 

Each  earth-born  joy  grows  vile,  or  disap- 
pears. 

Shrunk  to  a  thing  of  nought.  O  how  he 
longs 

To  have  his  passport  sign'd,  and  be  dis- 
miss'd ! 

'T  is  done,  and  now  he  's  happy !  The  glad 
soul  ^S 


Has   not   a   wish   uncrown'd.     Even   the   lag 

flesh 
Rests  too  in  hope  of  meeting  once  again 
Its  better  half,  never  to  sunder  more. 
Nor  shall  it  hope  in  vain :  the  time  draws  on 
When  not  a  single  spot  of  burial-earth,      7o 
Whether  on  land,  or  in  the  spacious  sea, 
But  must  give  back  its  long-committed  dust 
Inviolate:    and    faithfully    shall    these 
Make    up    the    full    account ;    not    the    least 

atom 
Embezzled,  or  mislaid,  of  the  whole  tale. 
Each    soul    shall    have    a    body    ready-fur- 
nished; 76 
And    each    shall   have   his   own.     Hence,   ye 

profane : 
Ask  not   how  this  can   be.     Sure  the   same 

power 
That   reared  the  piece  at  first,  and  took  it 

down, 
Can  reassemble  the  loose  scatter'd  parts, 
And    put    them    as    they    were :      Almighty 

God  8' 

Has  done  much  more:     Nor  is  his  arm  im- 

pair'd 
Through  length  of  days ;  and  what  he  can 

he  will : 
His    faithfulness    stands    bound    to    see    it 

done. 
When  the  dread  trumpet  sounds,  the  slum- 
bering dust, 
Not  unattentive  to  the  call,  shall  wake;      86 
And   every  joint  possess  its  proper  place, 
With  a  new  elegance  of  form,  unknown 
To   its  first   state.     Nor  shall  the  conscious 

soul 
Mistake  its  partner;  but  amidst  the  crowd. 
Singling  its  other  half,  into  its  arms        91 
Shall  rush,  with  all  the  impatience  of  a  man 
That 's   new   come   home,   who   having   long 

been  absent, 
With  haste  runs  over  every  different  room, 
In    pain    to    see    the    whole.     Thrice    happy 

meeting !  95 

Nor  time,  nor   death,   shall  ever  part  them 

more. 
'T  is    but    a    night,    a    long    and    moonless 

night ; 
We  make  the  grave  our  bed,  and  then  are 

gone. 
Thus,    at    the    shut    of    even,    the    weary 

bird 
Leaves    the    wide   air,   and    in    some    lonely 

brake  100 

Cowers   down,   and   dozes  till   the   dawn   of 

day; 
Then  claps  his  well-fledg'd  wings  and  bears 

away.  (1743) 


JOHN  DYER  (170(^1758) 
GRONGAR  HILL 

Silent  nymph,   with  curious  eye, 

Who,   the   purple   evening,    lie 

On    the    mountain's    lonely   van, 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man; 

Painting  fair  the   form  of  things,  S 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings; 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the   forest  with  her  tale; 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  muse ;  10 

Now,    while    Phcebus,    riding   high. 

Gives  luster  to  the  land  and  sky ! 

Grongar   Hill   invites   my  song, 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells,  iS 

Sweetly  musing,  Quiet  dwells; 

Grongar,  in   whose   silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made ; 

So   oft   I   have,   the   evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill,  20 

Sat  upon  a  flowery  bed, 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head ; 

While  strayed  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood. 

Over  mead,   and  over  wood. 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill,     25 

Till   contemplation    had    her    fill. 

About   his   checkered    sides    I    wind. 
And  leave  his  brooks   and  meads  behind, 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay. 
And   vistas   shooting  beams   of   day:  30 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal : 
The  mountains   round,   unhappy    fate. 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies,  35 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and   meads; 
Still    it    widens,    widens    still. 
And   sinks   the  newly   risen   hill.  40 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow. 
What  a  landscape  lies  below ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene, 
But  the-  gay,  the  open  scene. 
Does  the  face  of  nature  shew,  45 

In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow ; 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads    around   beneath    the    sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies !  5o 

Rushing    from   the   woods,   the   spires 
Seem   from  hence  ascending  fires! 
Half   his  beams   Apollo   sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain  heads' 


382 


MINOR  POETS  —  YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks,  ss 

And  glitters  on  the   broken   rocks ! 
Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes: 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the   sable  yew,  60 

The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak,  with  broad-spread  boughs. 
And    beyond    the    purple    grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn,  65 

Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye ! 
Deep  are  his   feet  in   Towy's  flood. 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood,  7° 
And   ancient  towers  crown  his  brow. 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps. 
And  with  her  arms   from   falling  keeps : 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind  75 

On   mutual  dependence  find. 
'T  is  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode ; 
'T  is  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds. 
And  there   the   poisonous   adder   breeds,     80 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  walls. 
Yet  time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow,  85 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state; 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  fate ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day,  90 

Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 
Through   woods   and   meads,   in   shade   and 

sun, 
Sometimes   swift,   sometimes   slow,  95 

Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep. 
Like  human  life,  to  endless  sleep ! 
Thus    is    nature's    vesture    wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought;  1°° 

Thus   she  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever   charming,   ever  new. 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view ! 
The    fountain's    fall,   the    river's    flow,       105 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high. 
Roughly  rushing  on   the   sky! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower;  'lo 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm. 
Each  give  each  a  double  charm. 


As  pearls  upon  an  ^Ethiop's  arm. 

See,  on  the  mountain's  southern  side. 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide,  j 

Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide, 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye! 
A  step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream. 
So    little    distant    dangers    seem ;  1 

So  we  mistake  the   future's   face. 
Eyed   through   hope's   deluding   glass ; 
.Is  yon  summits  soft  and  fair, 
Clad   in   colors   of  the  air, 
J  Illicit  to  those  who  journey  near,  1 

Barren,  brozvn,  and  rough  appear; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 
The   present 's   still   a   cloudy    day. 

O  may  I  with  myself  agree. 
And  never  covet  what  I  see !  i 

Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
i\Iy  passions  tamed,   my   wishes   laid ; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll. 
We  banish   quiet    from   the   soul : 
'T  is  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air,  1 

And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys   run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain  turf  I  lie ; 
While   the    wanton    zephyr    sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings;       i 
While    the    waters    murmur   deep, 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep. 
While   the   birds   unbounded   fly, 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky. 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high.  i 

Be   full,  ye  courts ;  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  peace  with  all  your  skill ; 
Open   wide  the   lofty  door. 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor : 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there;         i 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  care ! 
Grass  and  flowers   Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads  and  mountain  heads. 
Along  with   Pleasure  close  allied. 
Ever  by  each  other's  side :  i 

And   often,  by  the  murmuring   rill. 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still. 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

(1726) 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE  (1714- 
1763) 

From    THE   SCHOOLMISTRESS 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so 
green, 

On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  dis- 
play; 


And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board  is 
seen, 

Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should 
stray ; 

Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day!         s 

The  noises  intermixed,  which  thence  re- 
sound, 

Do    learning's   little  tenement   betray; 

Where    sits   the   dame,    disguised    in    look 
profound, 
And   eyes  her   fairy  throng,   and  turns   her 
wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven 
snow,  10 

Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield : 

Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow. 

As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field ; 

And  in  her  hand,  for  scepter,  she  does 
wield 

Tway  birchen  sprays ;  with  anxious  fear 
entwined,  'S 

With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance 
filled; 

And    steadfast    hate,    and    sharp    affliction 
joined, 
And  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  un- 
kind. 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders 
thrown  ; 

A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air;  20 

'T  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own ; 

'T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so 
fair! 

'T  was  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece  pre- 
pare; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils  ranged 
around, 

Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing 
rare;  25 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound. 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest 
wight   on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear; 

Goody,  good  woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  for- 
sooth, 30 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear; 

Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held 
right   dear; 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  be- 
hove. 

Who  should  not  honored  eld  with  these 
revere ; 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 

But  there  was   eke   a  mind  which  did  that 

title  love.  36 


One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need. 
Into     her     school,     begirt     with     chickens, 

came ;  40 

Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim  ; 
And,     if     neglect     had     lavished     on     the 

ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the 

same; 
For    well    she    knew,    and    quaintly    could 

expound. 
What    sin    it    were    to    waste    the    smallest 

crumb  she   found.  45 

Herbs,    too,   she  knew,   and   well   of   each 

could  speak. 
That    in    her    garden    sipped    the    silvery 

dew ; 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a  gaudy 

streak. 
But  herbs  for  use  and  physic,  not  a  few. 
Of    gray    renown,    within    those    borders 

grew :  50 

The   tufted   basil,   pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh    balm,    and    marigold    of    cheerful 

hue: 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb; 
And    more    I    fain    would    sing,    disdaining 

here  to   rhyme. 

Here  oft   the   dame,   on   Sabbath's   decent 

eve,  55 

Hymned   such  psalms  as   Sternhold    forth 

did  mete ; 
li   winter   'twere,    she  to   her   hearth   did 

cleave. 
But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer-seat : 
Sweet  melody !  to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king. 
While    taunting    foemen    did    a    song    en- 
treat, 61 
All,   for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung    their    useless    lyres  —  small    heart 
had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous 
lore, 

And  passed  much  time  in  truly  virtuous 
deed ;  65 

And  in  those  elfins'  ears  would  oft  de- 
plore 

The  times,  when  truth  by  popish  rage  did 
bleed, 

And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion's 
meed ; 

And  simple  faith  in  iron  chains  did 
mourn. 


384 


MINOR  POETS  — YOUNG  TO  CUATTMRTON 


That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her 
creed ;  7° 

And   lawny   saints   in   smouldering   flames 
did  burn : 
Ah!     dearest     Lord,     forefend     thilk     days 
should  e'er  return  ! 

In  elbow-chair  (like  that  of  Scottish  stem. 

By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  de- 
faced, 

In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem,  7S 

Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is 
placed) 

The  matron  sat ;  and  some  with  rank  she 
graced, 

(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtiers' 
pride!) 

Redressed  affronts  — for  vile  affronts 
there   passed ; 

And  warned  them  not  the  fretful  to  de- 
ride, So 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them 
betide. 

Right    well     she    knew    each    temper    to 

descry, 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to 

raise ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And    some    entice    with    pittance    small    of 

praise ;  85 

And    other    some    with    baleful    sprig    she 

frays : 
Even  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  dolh 

hold. 
While   with   quaint   arts   the   giddy   crowd 

she    sways ; 
Forewarned,    if    little    bird    their    pranks 

behold, 
'T  will  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene 

unfold.  90 

Lo !  now  with  state  she  utters  her  com- 
mand ; 

Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  re- 
pair. 

Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take 
in  hand. 

Which   with   pellucid   horn   secured   are. 

To  save   from  finger  wet  the  letters   fair : 

The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is 
seen,  96 

St.  George's  high  achievements  does  de- 
clare ; 

On   which    thilk    wight    that   has   y-gazing 
been. 
Kens      the      forthcoming      rod  —  unpleasing 
sight,   I   ween  ! 


Ah!  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the 
beam  ""^ 

Of  evil  star!  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write; 
As  erst  the  bard  by  AluUa's  silver  stream, 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sighed  as  he  simg,  and  did  in  tears  in- 
dite ; 
For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
'!"()  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling's  lali 
delight;  '"'' 

And  down  they  drop;   appears  his   dainty 
skin, 
Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

O  ruthful  scene!   when,  from  a  nook  ob- 
scure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see,         "o 
All  playful  as  she  sat,  she  grows  demure; 
She    finds    full    soon    her    wonted    spirits 

flee; 

She   meditates   a   prayer   to   set   him    free ; 

Xor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny  — 

If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree  — 

To    her    sad    grief    that    swells    in    either 

eye,  ' '  ^ 

And    wrings    her    so    that    all    for    pity    she 

could  die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  com- 
mand ; 

And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful 
fear. 

To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous 
hand,  i^o 

To  stay  harsh  justice  in  its  mid  career. 

On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent 
dear; 

(Ah!  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful 
blow !) 

She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 

And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow, 
And    gives    a    loose    at    last    to    unavailing 


But,  ah !  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may 
trace  ? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  ex- 
plain — 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  — 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks 
amain —  130 

The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  check 
disdain? 

When  he,  in  aliject  wise,  implores  the 
dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to 
gain  ; 


Or    when    from    high    she    levels    well    her 
aim, 
And,  through  the  thateh,  his  cries  each  fall- 
ing  stroke  proclaim.  '35 

But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle 
sky, 

And   liberty  unbars   her   prison   door ; 

And   like   a   rushing  torrent   out   they   fly; 

And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han  covered 
o'er 

With  boisterous  revel  rout  and  wild  up- 
roar; 140 

A  thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they 
run. 

Heaven  shield  their  short-lived  pastimes 
I  implore; 

For  well  may  freedom  erst  so  dearly  won 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than 
the  sun. 

Enjoy,    poor    imps!    enjoy    your    sportive 

trade,  '45 

And   chase   gay  flies,   and   cull   the    fairest 

flowers ; 
For  when  my  bones   in  grass-green   sods 

are    laid, 
O  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles  or  in  ladies'  bowers. 
O  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing!  150 
But  most  in  courts,  where  proud  ambition 

towers ; 
Deluded  wight !  who  weens  fair  peace  can 

spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of 

king. 

(1742) 


MARK  AKENSIDE  (1721-1770) 

Fkom   pleasures  of  THE  IMAGINA- 
TION 

Who  that,   from   Alpine   heights,   his   labor- 
ing eye 
Shoots    round    the   wide   horizon,   to    survey 
Nilus   or   Ganges   rolling  his  bright   wave 
Through  mountains,  plains,  through  empires 

black  with  shade, 
And  continents  of  sand,  will  turn  his  gaze  5 
To   mark  the   windings   of  a   scanty   rill 
That  murmurs  at  his   feet?     The  high-born 

soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heaven-aspiring  wing 
Beneath    its   native  quarry.     Tired   of   earth 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft     '" 

25 


Through    fields    of    air;    pursues    the    flying 

storm  ; 
Rides   on   the   vollicd   lightning   through   the 

heavens ; 
Or,  yoked  with  whirlwinds  and  the  northern 

blast. 
Sweeps   the  long  tract  of   day.     Then   high 

she  soars 
The  blue  profound,  and,  hovering  round  the 

sun,  IS 

Beholds   him   pouring  the   redundant   stream 
Of    light ;    beholds    his    unrelenting    sway 
Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The    fated    rounds    of    Time.     Thence    far 

effused, 
She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 
Of    devious    comets;    through    its    burning 

signs  21 

Exulting  measures   the   perennial   wheel 
Of  Nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the  stars, 
Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  milky  zone. 
Invest  the  orient.     Now,  amazed   she  views 
The    empyreal    waste,    where    happy    spirits 

hold,  26 

Beyond    this    concave    heaven,    their    calm 

abode ; 
And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 
Has    traveled    the    profound    six    thousand 

years. 
Nor  yet  arrives  in  sight  of  mortal  things.  30 
Even  on  the  barriers  of  the  w^orld,  untired 
She  meditates  the  eternal   depth  below ; 
Till  half-recoiling,  down  the  headlong  steep 
She   plunges ;    soon    o'erwhelmed    and    swal- 
lowed up 
In  that  immense  of  being.     There  her  hopes 
Rest  at  the  fated  goal.     For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said,  Z7 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight, 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery 

lap,  40 

The  soul   should  find  enjoyment :  but   from 

these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good, 
Through    all    the    ascent    of    things    enlarge 

her   view. 
Till    every    bound    at    length    should    disap- 
pear. 
And   infinite   perfection   close  the   scene.     45 

(1744) 


O  ye  dales 
Of  Tyne,  and  ye  most   ancient  woodlands; 

where 
Oft  as  the  giant  flood  obliquely  strides. 
And  his  banks  open  and  his  lawns  extend, 


386 


MINOR  POETS  —  YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


Stops  short  the  pleased  traveler  to  view,  50 
Presiding  o'er  the  5ccne,  some  rustic  lower 
Founded  by  Norman  or  by  Saxon  hands  : 

0  ye   Northumbrian   shades,   which  ovcrlook 
The   rocky  pavement   and   the  mossy    falls 
Of   solitary   Wensbeck's   limpid   stream!      55 
How  gladly  I   recall  your  well-known   seats 
P.cloved   of   old,   and   that   delightful   time 
When   all   alone,   for  many  a   summer's  day, 

1  wandered  through  your  calm  recesses,  led 
In     silence    by    some    powerful     hand     un- 
seen. ^° 

Nor  will  I  e'er  forget  you ;  nor  shall  e'er 
The   graver  tasks   of  manhood,   or  the   ad- 
vice 
Of  vulgar  vi'isdom,  move  me  to  disclaim 
Those    studies    which    possessed    me    in    the 

dawn 
Of  life,  and  fixed  the  color  of  my  mind    65 
For    every    future   year :    whence    even    now 
From  sleep  I  rescue  the  clear  hours  of  morn. 
And,    while    the    world    around    lies    over- 
whelmed 
In   idle  darkness,  am  alive  to  thoughts 
Of  honorable   fame,  of  truth  divine  70 

Or  moral,  and  of  minds  to  virtue  won 
By  the  sweet  magic  of  harmonious  verse. 

(1772) 


WILLIAM  COLLINS   (1721-1759) 
ODE 

WRITTEN   IN   THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE    YEAR 
1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all   their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When    Spring,    with    dewy   fingers    cold, 
Returns   to    deck   their   hallow'd    mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod  5 

Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 

There   Honor  comes,   a  pilgrim   grey, 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay;     1° 

And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 

To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 


ODE  TO   EVENING 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  sooth  thy  modest 
ear, 


Like   thy  own   solemn   springs, 
Thy    springs   and   dying  gales, 

O    nymph    reserv'd,    while    now    the    bright- 
hair'd  sun  5 

Sits     in    yon     western     tent,     whose    cloudy 
skirts, 
With  brede  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now    air    is    hush'd,    save    where   the    weak- 

ey'd  bat, 
With  short  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern 
wing,  10 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum: 
Now  teach  me,  maid  compos'd,  is 

To   breathe   some   soften'd   strain. 

Whose    numbers,    stealing    thro'    thy    dark- 

'ning  vale 
May  not  unseemly  with   its  stillness  suit, 

As,   musing   slow,   I   hail 

Thy  genial   lov'd   return !  20 

For   when  thy  folding-star  arising  shews 
His   paly  circlet,  at   his  warning  lamp 

The   fragrant   Hours,   the   elves 

Who  slept  in  flow'rs  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreaths  her  brows 
with   sedge,  25 

And  sheds  the  fresh'ning  dew,  and,  lovelier 
still 
The    pensive    Pleasures    sweet. 
Prepare   thy   shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  vot'ress,  where  some  sheety 

lake 
Cheers    the    lone    heath,    or    some    time-hal- 
low'd  pile  30 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 
Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blust'ring  winds,  or  driving 
rain. 

Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side  35 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And     hamlets     brown,     and     dim-discover'd 

spires. 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er 
all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual   dusky  veil.  40 


While  Spring  shall  pour  his  show'rs,  as  oft 

he  wont, 
And    bathe    thy    breathing    tresses,    meekest 
Eve; 
While   Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath   thy  ling'ring  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with 
leaves ;  4S 

Or  Winter,  yelling  thro'  the  troublous  air, 

Aflfrights    thy    shrinking    train, 

And    rudely    rends   thy   robes ; 

So     long,     sure- found     beneath     the     sylvan 

shed, 
Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,   Science,  rose-lipp'd 
Health,  50 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  hymn  thy  fav'rite  name! 

(1746) 

ODE  TO   SIMPLICITY 

O    Thou,    by   nature    taught 
To    breathe   her   genuine   thought, 
In     numbers     warmly     pure,     and     sweetly 
strong; 
Who    first,    on    mountains    wild. 
In    fancy,   loveliest   child,  5 

Thy  babe,  or  pleasure's,  nursed  the  powers 
of  song ! 

Thou,    who,    with    hermit    heart, 

Disdain'st    the    wealth    of    art. 
And  gauds,  and  pageant  weeds,  and  trailing 
pall; 

But  com'st  a  decent   maid,  10 

In   Attic   robe   arrayed, 
O  chaste,  unboastful  nymph,  to  thee  I  call; 

By  all   the  honeyed   store 

On   Hybla's   thymy   shore ; 
By    all    her    blooms,    and    mingled    murmurs 
dear;  13 

By    her    whose    lovelorn    woe, 

In    evening    musings    slow. 
Soothed  sweetly  sad  Electra's  poet's  ear : 

By  old    Cephisus   deep, 

Who    spread   his   wavy   sweep,  -20 

In  warbled  wanderings,  round  thy  green  re- 
treat : 

On  whose  enameled  side, 

When  holy   freedom  died, 
No  equal  haunt  allured  thy  future  feet. 

O  sister  meek  of  truth,  2s 

To  my  admiring  youth, 


Thy  sober  aid  and  native  charms  infuse! 
The   flowers   that    sweetest   breathe, 
Though   beauty  culled   the   wreath, 

Still    ask    thy    hand    to    range    their    ordered 
hues.  30 

While  Rome  could  none  esteem 
P.ut   virtue's   patriot  theme. 
You    loved    her   hills,    and    led    their    laureat 
band  : 
But  stayed  to  sing  alone 
To  one  distinguished  throne;  35 

And    turned    the    face,    and    fled   her   altered 
land. 

No  more,  in  hall  or  bower, 
The  passions  own  thy  power ; 
Love,     only     love,     her     forceless     numbers 
mean  : 
For  thou  hast  left  her  shrine;  40 

Nor  olive  more,  nor  vine. 
Shall    gain    thy    feet    to    bless    the    servile 
scene. 

Though   taste,  though  genius,  bless 
To  some  divine  excess. 
Faints   the   cold    work   till    thou    inspire    the 
whole ;  45 

What   each,   what   all    supply. 
May  court,  may  charm,  our  eye ; 
Thou,    only    thou,    cans't    raise    the   meeting 
soul ! 

Of  these  let  others  ask, 

To  aid  some  mighty  task,  50 

I  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale; 

Where  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and   shepherds   round. 
And  all  thy  sons,  O  nature,  learn  my  talc. 

(1746) 


THE  PASSIONS 

AN    ODE    FOR    MUSIC 

When   Music,   heav'nly  maid,   was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell, 
E.xulting,   trembling,    raging,    fainting,  5 

Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns  they   felt   the  glowing  mind 
Disturb'd,   delighted,    rais'd,    refin'd : 
Till  once,  't  is  said,  when  all  were  fir'd, 
Fill'd  with   fury,   rapt,   inspir'd,  10 

From   the   supporting   myrtles    round 
They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 


MIXOR  POETS  — YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 

Each,  for  madness  rul'd  the  hour,  >s 

Would   prove  his   own   expressive   pow'r. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid   the  cliords  hewildcr'd   laid, 

And  hack  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 

Ev'n  at  the  sound  himself  had  made.       -<^ 

Next  Anger  rush'd  ;  his  eyes,  on  fire, 
In   lightnings   own'd   his    secret   stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With   woeful   measures   wan   Despair  ^i 

Low   sullen   sounds   his   grief   beguil'd ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'T  was  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What    was   thy   delightful    measure?         3° 

Still  it  whisper'd  promis'd  pleasure, 
And    bade    the    lovely   scenes    at    distance 
hail! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong. 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 

She  call'd  on  Echo  still  thro'  all  the  song;  35 

And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  ev'ry 

close. 
And  Hope  enchanted  smil'd,  and  wav'd  her 
golden  hair. 

And    longer    had    she    sung, —  but    with    a 
frown 
Revenge    impatient   rose;  4° 

He  threw  his  blood-stain'd   sword  in  thun- 
der down 
And  with  a  with'ring  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were    ne'er    prophetic    sounds    so    full    of 
woe.  45 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The   doubling   drum  with   furious  heat ; 
And  tho'  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  be- 
tween. 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied,  so 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter'd  mien, 
While    each    strain'd    ball    of    sight    seem'd 
bursting    from   his    head. 

Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fix'd, 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state; 
Of    diff'ring    themes    the    veering    song    was 
mix'd,  55 


And    now    it    courted    Love,    now    raving 
call'd  on   Hate. 
W^ith   eyes  uprais'd,   as  one   inspir'd, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retir'd. 
And   from  her  wild  sequester'd   scat. 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet,        6° 
Pour'd   thro'   the   mellow   horn   her   pensive 
soul : 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around. 
Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound  ; 
Thro'     glades     and     glooms     the     mingled 
measure  stole ; 
Or  o'er  some   haunted   stream   with    fond 
delay  65 

Round   an   holy  calm   diffusing. 
Love  of  peace  and   lonely  musing. 
In  hollow   murmurs   died   away. 

But  oh,  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlier  tone. 
When   Cheerfulness,   a   nymph   of   healthiest 
hue,  70 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung. 
Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung, 
The     hunter's     call     to     faun     and     dryad 

known ! 
The  oak-crown'd  sisters,  and  their  chaste- 
ey'd  queen,  75 

Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen,  j 

Peeping   from   forth   their  alleys   green  ;        I 
Brown   Exercise   rejoic'd  to  hear,  1 

And     Sport     leapt    up,    and     seiz'd    his 
beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial.  8° 

Lie,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awak'ning  viol. 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  lov'd  the 
best. 
They    would    have    thought,    who   heard 
the  strain,  85 

They   saw   in    Tempe's   vale   her    native 

maids 
Amidst  the  vestal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings. 
Love   fram'd   with   Mirth   a   gay    fantastic 
round ;  90 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  un- 
bound, i 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play.                       I 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay,       ^ 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music,  sphere-descended  maid,  95 

Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid. 


Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay'st   thou  thy  ancient   lyre  aside? 

As   in   that   lov'd   Athenian   bow'r 

You  learn'd  an  all-connnanding   pow'r       i 

Thy  mimic   soul,   O   nymph   endear'd. 

Can  well  recall   what  then  it  heard. 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 

Arise  as  in  that  elder  time,  i 

Warm,   energic,   chaste,   sublime ! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age, 

Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page. — 

'T  is  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 

Thy  humblest   reed  could   more  prevail,  ' 

Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 

Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age, 

Ev'n  all  at  once  together  found, 

Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 

O,  bid  our  vain  endeavors,  cease,  i 

Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece, 

Return  in  all  thy  simple  state. 

Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate! 

(1746) 


A  SONG  FROM  SHAKSPERE'S 
CYMBELINE 

Sung     by     Gtiidcrns    and     Arviragus     over 
Fidclc,  supposed  to  be  dead 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  op'ning  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom. 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear,  5 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  wither'd  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew;         10 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft  at  ev'ning  hours 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gather 'd  flow'rs,     is 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

Or  midst  the  chase  on  ev'ry  plain, 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell,  20 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore. 
For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  : 

Bclov'd,  till   life  could  charm   no  more; 
.'\nd  mourn'd,  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 
(1744) 


THOMAS  WARTON  (1728^1790) 
THE  GRAVE  OF  KING  ARTHUR 

Stately  the  feast,  and  high  the  cheer : 

Girt  with  many  an  armed  peer. 

And  canopied  with  golden  pall, 

Amid  Cilgarran's  castle  hall, 

Sublime  in   formidable  state,  5 

And  warlike  splendor,  Henry  sate; 

Prepar'd  to  stain  the  briny  flood 

Of  Shannon's  lakes  with  rebel  blood. 

Illumining  the  vaulted  roof, 
A   thousand   torches   flam'd   aloof:  10 

From  massy  cups,  with  golden  gleam 
Sparkled   the    red   metheglin's    stream : 
To  grace  the  gorgeous  festival, 
Along  the  lofty-window'd  hall. 
The   storied   tapestry  was   hung; —  i5 

With   minstrelsy   the   rafters  rung 
Of  harps,  that  with  reflected  light 
From  the  proud  gallery  glitter'd  bright: 
While  gifted  bards,  a  rival  throng 
( From  distant  Mona,  nurse  of  song,  2° 

From  Teivi,    fring'd  with   umbrage  brown, 
From  Elvy's  vale,  and  Cader's  crown. 
From  many  a  shaggy  precipice 
That  shades  lerne's  hoarse  abyss. 
And  many  a  sunless   solitude  2s 

Of  Radnor's  inmost  mountains  rude), 
To  crown  the  banquet's  solemn  close. 
Themes  of  British  glory  chose  ; 
And  to  the  strings  of  various  chime 
Attcmper'd   thus   the    fabling   rhyme.  3° 

*  O'er  Cornwall's  cliffs  the  tempest  roar'd, 
High  the  screaming  sea-mew  soar'd ; 
On  Tintagell's  topmost  tower 
Darksome  fell  the  sleety  shower; 
Round  the  rough  castle  shrilly  sung  35 

The    whirling   blast,    and    wildly    flung 
On  each  tall  rampart's  thundering  side 
The  surges  of  the  tumbling  tide : 
When   Arthur  rang'd   his   red-cross   ranks 
On  conscious  Camlan's  crimson'd  banks :     40 
By  Mordred's   faithless  guile  decreed 
Beneath  a  Saxon  spear  to  bleed ! 
Yet  in  vain  a  paynim  foe 
Arm'd  with   fate  the  mighty  blow; 
For  when  he  fell  an  elfin  queen,  45 

All  in  secret,  and  unseen. 
O'er  the  fainting  hero  threw 
Her  mantle  of  ambrosial  blue; 
And  bade  her  spirits  bear  him  far, 
In  Merlin's  agate-axled  car,  50 

To  her  green   isle's  enamell'd  steep, 
Far  in  the  navel  of  the  deep. 
O'er   his   wounds   she   sprinkled   dew 
From   flowers  that  in  Arabia  grew : 


390 


MINOR  POETS  — YOUNG  TO  CIIATTERTON 


On  a  rich  encliantcd  hcd  5'' 

She   pillow'd   his   majestic   head; 

O'er  his  brow,  with  whispers  bland, 

Thrice  she  wav'd  an  opiate  wand ; 

And  to  soft  music's  airy  sound, 

Her  magic  curtains  clos'd   around.  60 

There,  renew'd  tlie  vital  spring, 

Again  he  reigns  a  mighty  king ; 

And  many  a  fair  and  fragrant  clime, 

Blooming  in   immortal  prime, 

By  gales  of  Eden  ever  fann'd,  65 

Owns  the  monarch's  high  command : 

Thence   to   Britain    shall    return 

(If  right  prophetic  rolls  I  learn), 

Borne  on  Victory's  spreading  plume, 

His   ancient   scepter   to   resume ;  7° 

Once  more,  in  old  heroic  pride, 

His  barbed  courser  to  bestride; 

His   knightly  table  to  restore. 

And  brave  the  tournaments  of  yore.' 

*■    *     * 

(1777) 


SONNETS 

WRITTEN   IN   A   BLANK    LEAF   OF   DUGDALE's 
MONASTICON 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 
By  Fancy's  genume  feelings  unbeguiled 
Of  painful  pedantry,  the  poring  child. 
Who   turns   of  these  proud  tomes   the   his- 
toric page. 
Now    sunk    by    Time,    and    Henry's    fiercer 
rage.  5 

Think'st    thou    the    warbling    muses    never 

smiled 
On    his   lone    hours?    Ingenious   views    en- 
gage 
His    thoughts    on    themes    unclassic    falsely 

styled, 
Intent.     While  cloistered  piety  displays 
Her    moldering    roll,    the    piercing    eye    ex- 
plores 10 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days. 
Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured 

stores. 
Not  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

(1777) 

WRITTEN    AT    STONEHENGE 

Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle! 
Whether    by    Merlin's    aid     from     Scythia's 

shore, 
To   Amber's   fatal   plain    Pcndragon   bore. 
Huge  frame  of  giant-hands,  the  mighty  pile. 


T'    entomb    his    Britons    slain    by    Hengist's 

guile:  5 

Or    Druid    priests,    sprinkled    with    human 

gore, 
Taught    'mid   thy  massy  maze   their   mystic 

lore: 
Or    Danish    chiefs,    enrich'd    with    savage 

spoil, 
To   Victory's   idol  vast,   an  unhewn    shrine, 
Rear'd   the   rude  heap:   or,   in  thy   hallow'd 

round,  10 

Repose  the  kings  of  Brutus'  genuine  line; 
Or   here   those   kings   in    solenm    state   were 

crown'd : 
Studious   to   trace   thy   wondrous   origine. 
We  muse  on  many  an  ancient  tale  renown'd. 

(1777) 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

(I 752-1 770) 

BRISTOWE  TRAGEDIE 

OR    THE   DETHE   OF    SYR    CHARLES 

BAWDIN 

The  featherd  songster  chaunticleer 

Han   wounde   hys   bugle   home, 
And  tolde  the  earlie  villager 

The  commynge  of  the  morne:  4 

Kynge  Edwarde  sawe  the  ruddie  streakes 

Of  lyghte  eclypse  the  greie;  ■ 

And  herde  the  raven's  crokynge  throte  % 

Proclayme  the   fated  daie.  8 

'  Thou  'rt    ryghte,'    quod    he,   '  for,    by    the 
Godde 

That  syttes  enthron'd  on  hyghe ! 
Charles   Bawdin,   and  hys   fellowes  twaine, 

To-daie  shall   surelie  die.'  12 

Thenne  wythe  a  jugge  of  nappy  ale 
Hys  knyghtes  dydd  onne  hymm  waite; 

'  Goe  tell  the  traytour,  thatt  to-daie 
Hee  leaves  thys  mortall  state.'  '6 

Sir  Canterlone  thenne  bendedd  lowe, 

With  harte  brymm-fulle  of  woe; 
Hee  journey'd   to   the  castle-gate. 

And  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe.  20 

Butt  whenne  hee  came,  hys  children  twaine, 

And  eke  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 
Wythe  brinie  tears  dydd  wett  the  floore. 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  lyfe.  24 


'  O,  goode   Syr  Charles !  '  sayd  Canterlone, 
'  Badde   tydyiigs    I    doe   brynge.' 

'  Speke     boldlie,     manne,'     sayd    brave     Syr 
Charles, 
'  Whatte  says  thie  traytor  kynge?'  28 

'I  greeve  to  telle;  before  yonne  Sonne 
Does    fromnie   the   welkinn   fiye, 

Hee  hathe  iippon  hys  honour  sworne, 
Thatt  thou  shalt  surelie  die.'  32 

'  Wee  all  must  die,'  quod  brave  Syr  Charles ; 

'Of  thatte  I'm  not  affearde; 
Whatte  bootes  to  lyve  a  little  space? 

Thanke  Jesu,  I'm  prcpar'd :  36 

'  Butt  telle  thyc  kynge,  for  niyne  hee's  not, 

I'de  sooner  die  to-daie 
Thanne   lyve  hys   slave,   as  manie  are. 

Though  I  shoulde  lyve  for  aie.'  40 

Thenne  Canterlone  hee  dydd  goe  out, 

To  telle  the  maior  straite 
To  gett  all   thynges  ynne  redyness 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  fate.  44 

Thenne  Maister  Canynge  saughte  the  kynge. 
And  felle  down  onne  hys  knee ; 

'  I'm  come,'  quod  hee,  '  unto  your  grace 
To   move   your   clemencye.'  48 

Thenne  quod  the  kynge,  '  Youre  tale  speke 
out, 

You  have  been  much  oure  friende ; 
Whatever  youre  request  may  bee, 

Wee  wylle  to  ytte  attende.  52 

*  My  noble  liege !  alle  my  request, 

Ys   for  a  nobile  knyghte. 
Who,     though     may     hap     hee     has     donne 
wronge, 

Hee  thoughte  ytte  stylle  was  ryghte:       56 

'  He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twaine, 

Alle  rewyn'd  are  for  aie ; 
Yff  that  you  are  resolved  to  lett 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-dai.'  60 

'  Speke  not  of  such  a  traytour  vile,' 

The  kynge  ynn   f  urie  sayde ; 
'  Before  the  evening  starre  doth  sheene, 

Bawdin  shall  loose  hys  hedde :  64 

'Justice  does  loudlie  for  hym  calle. 
And  hee  shalle  have  hys  meede : 

Speke,    maister    Canynge !     Whatte    thyngc 
else 
Att  present  doe  you  neede  ? '  68 


'  My  nobile  liege !  '  goode  Canynge  sayde, 

'Leave  justice  to  our  Godde, 
And  laye  the  yronne  rule  asyde; 

Be  thyme  the  olyve  rodde.  72 

'Was     Godde    to    serche    our    hertes    and 
reines, 

The  best  were  synners  grete ; 
Christ's  vycarr  only  knowes  ne  synne, 

Ynne  alle  thys  mortall  state.  76 

'  Lett  mercie  rule  thyne  infante  reigne, 
'T  wylle  faste  thye  crowne   fulle  sure; 

From  race  to  race  thye   familie 
Alle  sov'reigns   shall   endure:  80 

'  But  yflf  wythe  bloode  and  slaughter  thou 

Beginne  thy  infante  reigne, 
Thy  crowne  upponne  thy  childrennes  brows 

Wylle   never  long  remayne.'  84 

'  Canynge,  awaie !  thys  traytour  vile 
Has   scorn'd  my  power  and  mee ; 

Howe  canst  thou  then   for  such  a  manne 
Entreate  my  clemencye  ?  '  ^8 

'  A'ly  nobile  liege !  the  trulie  brave 

VVylle  val'rous  actions  prize; 
Respect  a  brave  and  nobile  mynde, 

Although  ynne  enemies.'  92 

'  Canynge,  awaie !     By  Godde  ynne  Heav'n 

That  dydd  mee  beinge  gyve, 
I  wylle  nott  taste  a  bitl  of  breade 

Whilst  thys  Syr  Charles  dothe  lyve.        96 

'  By  Marie,  and  alle  Seinctes  ynne  Heav'n, 

Thys  sunne  shall  be  hys  laste,' 
Thenne  Canynge  dropt  a  brinie  teare, 

And    from   the  presence   paste.  ^°° 

With"  herte  brymm-full  of  gnawynge  grief, 

Hee  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe. 
And  sat  hymm  downe  uponne  a  stoole, 

And  teares  beganne  to  flowe.  104 

'  Wee  all  must  die,'  quod  brave  Syr  Charles ; 

'Whatte  bootes  ytte  howe  or  whenne; 
Dethe  ys  the  sure,  the  certaine  fate 

Of  all  wee  mortall  menne.  108 

'  Saye  why,  my  friende,  thie  honest  soul 

Runns  overr  att  thyne  eye ; 
Is  ytte  for  my  most  welcome  doome 

Thatt  thou  dost  child-lyke  crye?'  '12 

Quod  godlie  Canynge,  '  I  doe  weepe, 
i       Thatt  thou  see  scone  must  dye, 


392 


MINOR  POirrS— YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


And  leave  thy  sonnes  and  helpless   wyfe; 
'Tys  thys  thatt  wettes  myne  eye'  ii6 

'  Thenne  drie  the  tears  thatt  out  thyne  eye 
From  godlic  fouiitaines  sprynge  ; 

Dethe  I  despise,  and  alle  the  power 

Of  Edwarde,  traytour  kyiige.  "^o 

'  Whan   through   the   tyrant's   wclcom   means 

I  shall  rcsignc  my  lyfe, 
The  Godde   I  serve  wylle  soone  provyde 

For  bothe  mye  soones  and  wyfe.  124 

'  Before   I   sawe  the   lyghtsome   sunne, 

Thys  was  appointed  mec ; 
Shall  mortall  manne  repyne  or  grudge 

What  Godde  ordeynes  to  bee?  128 

*  Howe  oft  ynne  battaile  have  I  stood 
Whan  thousands  dy'd  arounde ; 

Whan  smokynge  streemes  of  crimson  bloode 
Imbrew'd   the    fatten'd   grounde:  132 

'  Howe  dydd  I  knowe  thatt  ev'ry  darte, 

That  cutte  the  airie  waie, 
Myghte  nott    fynde   passage  tae   my  harte, 

And  close  myne  eyes  for  aie?  136 

'  And  shall  I  nowe,  forr  feere  of  dethe, 
Looke  wanne  and  bee  dysmayde? 

Ne !    fromm  my   herte   flic   childyshe    feere, 
Bee  alle  the  manne  display'd.  14° 

'Ah!  goddelyke  Henrie!   Godde   forefende, 
And  guarde  thee  and  thye  Sonne, 

Yff  'tis  hys  wylle;  but  yff  'tis  nott, 

Why  thenne  hys  wylle  bee  donne.  '44 

'  My  honest   friende,  my   faulte  has  beene 
To   serve   Godde   and  myre  prynce ; 

And  thatt  I  no  tyme-server  am. 

My  dethe  wylle  soone  convynce.  148 

'  Ynne  Londonne  citye  was  I  borne, 

Of  parents  of  grete  note; 
My   fadre   dydd  a   nobile   armes 

Emblazon  onne  hys  cote:  152 

'  I  make  ne  doubte  butt  hee  ys  gone 

Where  soone  I  hope  to  goe ; 
Where  wee  for  ever  shall  bee  blest. 

From  oute  the  reech  of  woe.  156 

■  Hee  taughte  mce  justice  and  the  laws 

Wyth  pitie  to  unite ; 
And  eke  hee  taughte  mee  howe  to  knowe 

The  wronge  cause  fromm  the  ryghte  :   >6o 


'Hee   taughte   mee   with  a   prudent  hande 

To  fecde  the  hungrie  poore, 
Ne  lett   mye   servants  dryve  awaie 

The   hungrie    fromme   my   doore:  164 

'And  none  can  saye  bult  alle  mye  lyfe 

I  have  hys  wordycs  kept ; 
And  summ'd  the  actyonns  of  the  daie 

Eche  nyght  before  I  slept.  168 

'  I  have  a  spouse,  goe  aske  of  her 

Yff  I  defyl'd  her  bedde? 
I  have  a  kynge,  and  none  can  laie 

Black  treason  onne  my  hedde.  '72 

'  Ynne  Lent,  and  onne  the  holie  eve, 
Fromm  fleshe  I  dydd  rcfrayne ; 

Whie  should  I  thenne  appeare  dismay'd 
To  leave  thys  worlde  of  payne?  ^7(> 

'  Ne,  hapless  Henrie  !     I   rejoyce, 

I  shall  ne  see  thye  dethe ; 
Moste  willynglie  ynne  thye  just  cause 

Doe  I  resign  my  brethe.  180 

'  Oh,  fickle  people  !  rewyn'd  londe ! 

Thou  wylt  kenne  peace  ne  moe ; 
Whyle  Richard's  sonnes  exalt  themselves, 

Thye  brookes  wythe  bloude  wylle  flowe. 

'  Saie,  were  ye  tyr'd  of  godlie  peace,         185 

And  godlie  Henric's  reigne, 
Thatt  you  dydd  choppc  your  easie  daics 

For  those  of  bloude  and  peyne?  '88 

'  Whatte  though  I  onne  a  sledde  be  drawne, 

And  mangled  by  a  hynde, 
I  doe  defye  the  traytor's  pow'r, 

Hee  can  ne  harm  my  mynd ;  '92 

'  Whatte   though,   uphoisted  onne   a   pole, 
Mye  lymbcs  shall  rotte  ynne  ayre. 

And  ne  ryche  monument  of  brasse 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear;  '96 

■  Yett  ynne  the  holie  booke  above, 

Whyche  tyme  can't  eate  awaie, 
There  wythe  the  servants  of  the  Lord 

Mye  name   shall   lyve   for  aie.  200 

'  Thenne  welcome  dethe !    for  lyfe   eterne 

I  leave  thys  mortall   lyfe : 
Farewell  vayne  world,  and  alle  that's  deare, 

Mye   sonnes   and   lovynge   wyfe !  204 

'  Nowe  dethe  as  welcome  to  mee  comes, 
As  e'er  the  moneth  of  Maie ; 


1  ij.vyivi/-vo    «^j.i.r\.  i  ±  Jir\.  i  v-'iN 


jyj 


Nor  woulde  I  even  wyshe  to  lyve, 
Wyth  my  dere  wyfe  to  staie.' 


208 


Quod  Canynge,  "T  ys  a  goodlie  thynge 

To  bee  prepar'd  to  die ; 
And  from  thys  world  of  peync  and  grefe 

To  Godde  ynne   heav'n   to   flic'  212 

And  nowe  the  belle  began   to   tolle, 

And  claryonnes  to  sound  ; 
Syr  Charles  hee  herde  the  horses  feete 

A   prauncyng  onne  the  grounde :  216 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  lovynge  wyfe  came  ynne, 
Weepynge  unfeigned  teeres  of  woe, 

Wythe   loude   and   dysmalle  dyime.         220 

'  Sweet  Florence  I  nowe  I  praie   forbere, 

Ynn  quiet  lett  mee  die ; 
Praie  Godde  thatt  ev'ry  Christian   soulc 

Maye  looke  onne  dethe  as  1.  -2^4 

'  Sweet  Florence !   why  these  brinie  teers  ? 

Theye  washe  my  soule  awaie, 
And  almost  make  mee  wyshe   for  lyfe, 

Wyth    thee,  sweete  dame,  to  staie.  ^-^8 

"Tys  butt  a  journie  I  shalle  goe 

Untoe  the  lande  of  biysse ; 
Nowe,  as  a  proofe  of  husbande's  love, 

Receive    thys    holie    kysse.'  ^32 

Thenne  Florence,   fault'ring  ynne  her  saie, 
Tremblynge    these    wordyes    spoke, 

'Ah,  cruele  Edwarde !   bloudie  kynge  ! 
Mye  herte  ys  welle  nyghe  broke :  236 

Ah,    sweete    Syr    Charles !    why    wylt    thou 
goe, 
Wythoute  thye  lovynge  wyfe? 
The  cruelle  axe  thatt  cuttes  thy  necke, 
Ytte  eke  shall  ende  mye  lyfe.'  240 

And  nowe  the  officers  came  ynne 

To  brynge  Syr  Charles  awaie, 
Whoe  turnedd  toe  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 

And  thus  to  her  dydd  saie :  244 

'  I  goe  to  lyfe,  and  nott  to  dethe ; 

Truste  thou  ynne  Godde  above, 
And  teache  thy  sonnes  to  feare  the  Lorde, 

And  ynne  theyre  hertes  hym   love:       248 

'  Teache  them  to  runne  the  nobile  race 

Thatt   I  theyre  fader  runne ; 
Florence  !    shou'd   dethe   thee   take  —  adieu  ! 

Yee  officers  leade  onne.'  252 


Thenne  Florence  rav'd  as  anic  madde, 

And  dydd  her  tresses  tere ; 
'  Oh,  staie,  mye  husbande,  lorde,  and  lyfe  !  ' 

Syr  Charles  thenne  dropt  a  teare.  256 

'T  yll   tyredd   oute   wythe   ravynge   loude, 

Shee   fellen  onne  the  flore ; 
Syr   Charles   exerted   alle  hys  myghte. 

And  march'd   fromm  oute  the  dore.       260 

Uponne  a   sledde  hee  mounted   thenne, 
Wythe  lookes   full   brave  and   swete ; 

Lookes   thatt   enshone   ne   more   concern 
Thanne   anie   ynne   the   strete.  264 

Before   hym   went   the  council-menne, 
Ynne   scarlett   rol)es  and  golde. 

And  tassils   spanglynge  ynne  the  sunne, 
Muche  glorious  to  beholde :  268 

The  Freers  of  Seincte  Augustyne  next 

Appeared  to  the  syghte, 
Alle  cladd  ynne   homelie   russett   weedes. 

Of  godlie   monkysh  plyghte :  ^7^ 

Ynne  diffraunt  partes  a  godlie  psaume 
Moste   sweetlie  theye   dydd  chaunt; 

Behynde     theyre     backes     syx     mynstrelles 
came. 
Who  tun'd   the  strunge  bataunt.  276 

Thenne     fyve-and-twentye    archers    came ; 

Echone  the  bowe  dydd  bende. 
From   rescue  of   Kynge   Henries   friends 

Syr  Charles  forr  to  defend.  280 

Bolde  as  a  lyon  came  Syr  Charles, 
Drawne   onne   a  cloth-layde   sledde. 

Bye     two     blacke     stedes    ynne     trappyngcs 
white, 
Wyth   plumes   uponne   theyre   hedde :      284 

Behynde  hym  five-and-twenty  nioe 
Of  archers  stronge  and  stoute, 

Wyth  bended  bowe  echone  ynne  hande. 
Marched  ynne  goodlie  route ;  288 

Seincte  Jameses  Freers  marched  next, 
Echone  hys  parte  dydd  chaunt ; 

Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came, 
Who  tun'd  the   strunge  bataunt :  292 

Thenne  came  the  maior  and  eldermenne, 

Ynne  clothe  of  scarlett  deck't ; 
And  theyre  attendynge  menne  echone, 

Lyke    easterne    princes    trickt :  296 

And  after  them,  a  multitude 
Of  citizens  dydd  thronge; 


394 


MINOR  POETS  —  YOUNG  TO  CHATTERTON 


The  wyiidowes  were  alle  fuUe  of  heddes, 
As  hee  dydd  passe  alonge.  3oo 

And  whcnne  hec  came  to  the  hyghe  crosse, 
Syr  Charles  dydd  tunic  and  saic, 

•  O,  thou,  thatt  savcst  nianne  f romme  synne, 
Washe  niye  soule  clean  thys  daie !  '       304 

Att  the  grete  mynster  wyndowe  sat 

The  kynge  ynne  mycle  state, 
To  sec  Charles  Bawdin  goe  alonge 

To  hys  most  welcom  fate.  308 

Soone  as  the  sledde  drewe  nyghe  enowe, 
Thatt  Edwarde  hee  myghte  heare. 

The    brave    Syr    Charles    hee    dydd    stande 
iippe, 
And  thus  hys  vvordes  declare:  312 

'  Thou  seest  me,  Edwarde !  traytour  vile  I 

Expos'd  to  infamie; 
Butt  bee  assur'd  disloyall  manne ! 

I  'm  greaterr  no  we  thanne  thee.  3' 6 

'  Bye   foule  proceedyngs,  murdre,  bloudc, 

Thou  wearest  nowe  a  crowne; 
And   hast  appoynted  mee  to  die, 

By  power  nott  thyne  owne.  320 

'  Thou  thynkest  I  shall  die  to-daie ; 

I  have  beene  dede  'till  nowe. 
And  soone  shall  lyve  to  weare  a  crowne 

For  aie  uponne  my  browe :  324 

'  Whylst     thou,     perhapps,     for     som     few 
yeares, 

Shalt  rule  thys  fickle  lande, 
To  lett  them  knowe  howe  wyde  the  rule 

'Twixt  kynge  and  tyrant  hande:  328 

'  Thye  pow'r  unjust,  thou  traytour  slave ! 

Shall   falle  onne  thye  owne  hedde ' — 
Fromra  out  of  hearyng  of  the  kynge 

Departed  thenne  the   sledde.  3i2 

Kynge  Edwarde's  soule  rush'd  to  hys  face, 

Hee  turn'd  hys  hedde  awaie, 
And  to  hys  broder  Gloucester 

Hee  thus  dydd  speke  and  saie:  336 

'  To  hym  that  soe  much  dreaded  dethe 

Ne  ghastlie  terrors  brynge, 
Beholde  the  manne !  hee  spake  the  truthe, 

Hee  's  greater  thanne  a  kynge ! '  340 

'  Soe  let  hym  die  ! '     Duke  Richarde  sayde ; 

'  And  maye  echone  oure  foes 
Bende  downe  thcyre  neckes  to  bloudie  axe 

And  feede  the  carryon  crowes.'  344 


And  nowe  the  horses  gentlie  drewe 
Syr  Charles  uppe  the  hyghe  hylle; 

The  axe  dydd  glysterr  ynne  the  sunne. 
His  pretious  blonde  to  spyllc.  348 

Syr  Charles  dydd  uppe  the  scaffold  goe. 

As  uppe  a  gilded  carre 
Of  victory,  bye  val'rous  chiefs 

Gayn'd  ynne  the  bloudie  warre:  35-2 

And  to  the  people  hee  dyd  saie, 

'  Beholde  you  see  mee  dye. 
For  servynge  loyally  mye  kynge, 

Mye  kynge  most  ryghtfullie.  356 

'  As  longe  as  Edwarde  rules  thys  land, 

Ne  quiet  you  wylle  knowe : 
Your     sonnes     and     husbandes     shalle     bee 
slayne 

And  brookes  wythe  bloude  shall  flowe.  360 

'  You  leave  youre  goode  and  lawfulle  kynge, 

Whenne  ynne  adversitye ; 
Lyke  mee,  untoe  the  true  cause  stycke, 

And  for  the  true  cause  dye.'  364 

Thenne,    hee,    wyth    preestes,    uponne    hys 
knees, 

A  prayer  to  Godde  dyd  make, 
Beseechynge  hym  unto  hymselfe 

Hys  partynge  soule  to  take.  368 

Thenne,    kneelynge    downe,    hee    layd    hys 
hedde 

Most  seemlie  onne  the  blocke ; 
Whyche  fromme  hys  bodie   fayre  at  once 

The    able   heddes-manne    stroke :  372 

And  oute  the  bloude  beganne  to  flowe, 
And  rounde  the  scaffolde  twyne; 

And  teares,  enow  to  washe  't  awaie, 
Dydd  flowe  fromme  each  mann's  eyne.  376 

The  bloudie  axe  hys  bodie  fayre 

Ynnto    foure   parties   cutte ; 
And  ev'rye  parte,  and   eke  hys   hedile, 

Uponne  a  pole  was  putte.  380 

One  parte  dydd  rotte  onne  Kynwulph-hylle 

One   onne   the    mynster-tovver, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The    crowen   dydd   devoure ;  384 

The  other  onne  Seyncte  Powle's  goode  gate. 

A   dreery  spectacle ; 
Hys  hedde  was  plac'd  onne  the  hyghe  crosse. 

Ynne  hyghe-streete  most  nobile.  388 


LV-»l»±r^O      «^11/-V1    iJJ^IVA^Ji^ 


v5yi 


Thuh  was  the  eiide  of  Bawdin's  fate: 
Godde  prosper   loiige  oure  kynge, 

And  graiite  hee  inaye,  wyth  Bawdin's  soule, 
Ynne  heav'n  Godd's  mercie  synge !  392 

(1772) 


From  ^LLA  :  A  TRAGYCAL  ENTER 
LUDE 

MYNSTRELLES  SONGE 

O !   synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie, 

O !  droppe  the  brynie  teare  wythe  mee, 

Daunce  ne  nioe  atte  hallie  daie, 

Lycke  a  reynynge  ^   ry ver  bee ; 

Mie   love  ys   dedde,  S 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  vvyllowe  tree. 

Blacke  hys  cryne  -  as  the  wyntere  nyghte, 
Whyte  hys  rode  ^  as  the  sommer  snowe, 
Rodde  hys  face  as  the  morynynge  lyghte, 
Cale  he  lyes  ynne  the  grave  belowe ;  J' 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Swote  hys  tyngue  as  the  throstles  note, 
Quycke  ynn  daunce  as  thoughte  canne  bee, 
Defte  hys  taboure,  codgelle  stote,  '7 

O!  hee  lyes  bie  the  wyllowe  tree: 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde,  20 

Alle  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Harke!  the  ravenne  flappes  hys  wynge, 
Jn  the  briered  delle  belowe; 
Harke!  the  dethe-owle  loude  dothe  syngg, 
To  the  nyghte-mares  as  heie  goe;  25 


*  Runniniff. 


»  Hair. 


'  Complexion. 


Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gonne    to   hys    death-bedde, 

Al   under  the   wyllowe  tree. 

See!  the  whyte  moone  sheenes  onne  hie; 
Whyterre  ys  mie  true  loves  shroude;        30 
Whyterre  yanne  the  mornynge  skie, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  evenynge  cloude; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree.  35 

Heere,  uponne  mie  true  loves  grave, 

Schalle  the  baren   fleurs  be   layde. 

Nee  one  hallie   Seyncte  to  save 

Al  the  celness  of  a  mayde. 

Mie  love  ys  dedde,  40 

Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Alle  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Wythe  mie  hondes   Tile  dente  the  brieres 

Rounde  his  hallie  corse  to  gre, 

Ouphante  fairie  lyghte  youre  fyres,  45 

Heere   mie    boddie    stylle    schalle    bee. 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Comme,  wythe  acorne-coppe  &  thorne, 
Drayne  mie  hartys  blodde  awaie;  si 

Lyfe  &  all  yttes  goode  I   scorne, 
Daunce  bie  nete,  or   feaste  by  daie. 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon    to    hys    death-bedde,  55 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Waterre   wytches,   crownede   wythe    reytes,* 
Bere  mee  to  yer  leathalle   tyde. 
I  die;  I  comme;  mie  true  love  waytes. 
Thos   the   damselle    spake,   and   dyed.  60 

fi777) 

*  Water-flags. 


THOMAS  GRAY   (1716-1771) 

The  life  of  Gray  was  siugulaiiy  ilovoid  of  exleinal  incident.  Tlie  records  of  a  few 
persona!  ties,  a  little  travel,  and  a  few  scattering  and  reluctant  i)ubli(alions,  alone  give 
liveliness  to  the  '  noiseless  tenor '  of  his  sequestered  studies.  At  Eton  he  was  noted  for 
•great  delicacy  and  sometimes  a  too  fastidious  behavior,'  but  found  sympathetic  companions 
in  Horace  VValpole  and  liichard  West.  In  IT.'U  he  entered  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge,  and 
soon  became  a  pensioner  at  Peterhouse.  lie  devoted  himself  to  classical  literature,  history, 
and  modern  languages,  taking  no  degree  on  account  of  his  dislike  to  mathematics.  In  1739, 
on  Walpole's  invitation,  Gray  accompanied  him  to  the  continent  and  with  great  pleasure 
and  profit,  spent  two  years  in  Italy  and  France.  Many  of  his  Latin  poems  were  written 
abroad  and  soon  after  his  return  he  made  his  first  trials  in  English  verse.  The  death  of 
his  friend  West,  in  1742,  deeply  affected  him  and  called  forth  the  first  sonnet  of  importance 
since  those  of  Milton.  About  the  same  time,  he  began  '  the  far-famed  Elcyy,'  while  visiting  his 
mother  at  Stoke,  near  Windsor.  None  of  his  poems  were  published  until  several  years 
afterward.  lie  now  settled  again  at  Peterhouse  and  when  fifteen  years  later,  he  removed 
to  Pembroke  Hall,  he  referred  to  the  incident  as  'a  sort  of  era  in  a  life  so  barren  of  events 
as  mine.'  He  graduated  as  LL.B.  in  1744,  but  never  entered  the  law.  He  ma<le  voluminous 
notes  and  collections  for  a  History  of  English  Poetry  which  was  never  written.  Toward 
the  end  of  his  life  he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Modern  History  at  Cambridge,  but  gave 
no  lectures.  A  dozen  poems  in  English,  none  long,  were  all  that  he  published  during  his 
lifetime,  and  the  two  dozen  fragments  and  fugitive  pieces  since  collected  add  little  to  his 
fame. 

By  1757  his  reputation  was  such  that  he  was  offered,  on  the  death  of  Colley  Cibber,  the 
poet  laureateship ;  but  he  declined  to  be  'rat  catcher  to  his  ^lajesty.'  Doctor  Johnson, 
who  is  grudging  in  his  estimate  of  Gray's  genius,  quotes  without  disparagement  a  state- 
ment that  '  Perhaps  he  was  the  most  learned  man  in  Europe.'  Gray  was  a  precursor  of 
the  great  romanticists  in  his  taste  for  picturesque  landscape,  and  he  kept  pace  with  the 
antiquarian  movements  of  his  time  which  were  preparing  the  romantic  revival.  His  Letters. 
which  are  among  the  best  in  the  language,  reveal  the  variety  and  enthusiasm  of  his  intei-ests. 
They  also  reveal  a  shrinking  and  fastidious  taste  dashed  with  piquant,  half-cynical  humor 
and  not  a  little  scholastic  intolerance,  and  they  help  us  to  understand  how  the  man  who  could 
write  so  tender  and  exquisite  a  poem  as  the  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  should  have 
written  so  little  else. 


SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR. 
RICHARD  WEST 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And    reddening    Phoebus    lifts    his    golden 
fire: 
The    birds    in    vain    their    amorous    descant 
join  ; 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  at- 
tire: 
These  ears,  alas !  for  other  notes  repine ;     5 
.A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require : 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine  ; 
And   in  my  breast   the  imperfect   joys   ex- 
pire. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer. 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier 
men :  '  ° 


The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  heart 
To  warm  their  little   loves  the  birds  com- 
plain : 
I    fruitless   mourn   to  him   that   cannot   hear. 
And    weep   the   more,    because    I    weep    in 
vain. 

(1774) 


AN  ODE 

ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON 
COLLEGE 

Ye   distant    spires,   ye   antique   towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade. 
Where  grateful   Science  still  adores 

Her    Henry's    holy    Shade; 


.196 


And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow  s 

Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey. 
Whose    turf,    whose    shade,    whose    flowers 

among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His   silver-winding  way.  lo 

Ah,  happy  hills,  ah,  pleasing  shade, 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain, 
Where  once   my  careless  childhood   strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I   feel  the  gales,  that  from  ye  blow,  'S 

A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As   waving   fresh  their  gladsome   wing. 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  sooth. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring.  20 

Say,  Father  Thames,   for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave  -S 

With   pliant  arm   thy  glassy  wave? 

The   captive   linnet   which   enthrall  ? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's   speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball?  30 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murmuring  labors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some   bold   adventurers   disdain  35 

The  limits  of  their  little   reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind. 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy.  40 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast: 
Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue,  45 

Wild   wit,   invention   ever-new. 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigor  born ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light. 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn.  50 

Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come. 

Nor   care   beyond    to-day: 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait  55 

The  Ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train! 


Ah,  shew  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To   seize  their  prey  the  murth'rous  band  ! 
Ah,   tell   them,  they  are  men  !  60 

These  shall  the  fury   Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful   Anger,   pallid   Fear, 

And   Shame   that   skulks  behind ; 
Or  pining   Love  shall  waste  their  youth,     65 
Or  Jealou.sy  with  rankling  tooth, 

That   inly  gnaws  the   secret  heart. 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged    comfortless     Despair, 

And   Sorrow's  piercing  dart.  70 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch   from  high, 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try,     75 
.And   hard   Unkindness,   altered   eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
.And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

Amid   severest   woe.  80 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful    family  of   Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins,    85 
That  every  laboring   sinew   strains. 

Those   in   the  deeper  vitals   rage: 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And   slow-consuming  Age.  90 

To  each  his  sufferings :  all  are  men, 

Condemned  alike  to  groan. 
The  tender  for  another's  pain ; 

The  unfeeling   for  his  own. 
Yet  ah!  why  should  they  know  their  fate?  95 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies. 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'T  is   folly  to  be   wise.  ^00 

(1747) 

HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  aft'right,  afflict  the  best! 
Bound   in   thy  adamantine   chain,  5 

The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants   vainly  groan 


398 


THOMAS  GRAY 


With    pangs    unfelt    before,    unpitied    and 
alone. 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darhng  child,  designed,         'o 
To   thee   he   gave   the   heavenly  birth. 
And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern   rugged  nurse!   thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore: 
What    sorrow    was,    thou    bad'st    her 
know. 
And   from  her  own   she  learned  to  melt  at 
others'   woe.  i6 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self -pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood. 
Wild    Laughter,    Noise,    and    thoughtless 
Joy, 
And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good.  2° 

Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The   summer   friend,   the   flattering   foe ; 
By  vain   Prosperity  received. 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again 
believed. 

Wisdom  in  sable  garb  arrayed,  ^s 

Immersed    in    rapturous    thought    pro- 
found. 
And    Melancholy,   silent   maid, 

With   leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground. 
Still  on  thy  solemn   steps  attend : 
Warm   Charity,  the  general   friend,  3° 

With   Justice,   to   herself   severe, 
And    Pity,   dropping   soft   the   sadly-pleasing 
tear. 

Oh!  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head. 
Dread    goddess,    lay   thy   chastening 
hand !    .. 
Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad,  3S 

Not  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen) 
With    thundering    voice,    and    threatening 

mien. 
With   screaming   Horror's    funeral   cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Pov- 
erty :  40 

Thy   form  benign,   oh  goddess,   wear. 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound,  my  heart. 
The  generous  spark  extinct   revive  45 

Teach   me  to   love,  and  to   forgive. 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan. 
What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a 
Man. 

(1753) 


ELEGY 

WRITTEN   IN   A  COUNTRY  CHURCH- 
YARD 

'Jhc  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 
sight,  5 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save    where   the   beetle   wheels   his   droning 
flight. 
And     drowsy    tinklings     lull    the     distant 
folds; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain 10 
Of    such,    as    wandering    near    her    secret 
bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath   those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 
shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moulder- 
ing  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,        is 
The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 
The    swallow   twittering   from  the   straw- 
built  shed. 
The    cock's    shrill    clarion,    or    the    echoing 
horn. 
No    more    shall    rouse    them    from    their 
lowly  bed.  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 
burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or    climb    his    knees    the    envied    kiss    to 
share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,     25 

Their   furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 

broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How     bowed     the     woods     beneath     their 

sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ;  3° 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er 
gave. 

Awaits  alike  the  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor   you,    ye    Proud,    impute   to    These   the 
fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  Tomb  no  Trophies 
raise, 
Where    through    the    long-drawn    aisle    and 
fretted  vault 
The    pealing    anthem    swells    the    note    of 
praise.  4° 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back    to    its    mansion    call     the    fleeting 
breath  ? 
Can   Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or    Flattery    sooth    the    dull    cold    ear    of 
Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some   heart   once   pregnant   with   celestial 
fire; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 
swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But    Knowledge    to    their    eyes    her    ample 
page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  un- 
roll; so 
Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene. 

The    dark    unfathomed    caves     of    ocean 
bear: 
Full    many  a   flower   is   born   to   blush   un- 
seen, 55 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless 

breast 

The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's 

blood.  6o 

The   applause  of   listening   senates   to   com- 
mand, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot   forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their    growing    virtues,    but    their    crimes 

confin'd ;  66 


Forbade    to    wade    through    slaughter    to    a 
throne, 
And    shut    the    gates    of    mercy   on    man- 
kind. 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 

hide, 

To     quench     the     blushes     of     ingenuous 

shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride  7' 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far     from    the    madding    crowd's    ignoble 

str-^e, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life     75 

They    kept    the    noiseless    tenor    of    their 

way. 

Yet   even  these  bones   from   insult   to  pro- 
tect, 
Some   frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 
With   uncouth   rhymes   and   shapeless   sculp- 
ture decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.     8o 

Their   name,    their   years,    spelt   by   the   un- 
lettered muse. 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey,     85 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 
Left    the    warm    precincts    of    the    cheerful 
day. 
Nor   cast   one   longing   lingering   look  be- 
hind ? 

On   some   fond  breast  the  partmg  soul  re- 
lies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 
Ev'n    from    the   tomb   the   voice   of    Nature 
cries,  9' 

Ev'n  in  our  Ashes  live  their  wonted  Fires. 

For  thee,   who  mindful  of  the  unhonoured 

Dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate. 
If   chance,   by   lonely   contemplation    led,     95 
Some  kindred  Spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed   Swain   may   say. 
Oft   have   we    seen   him   at   the   peep   of 
dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To 'meet   the   sun   upon  the  upland   lawn. 


400 


THOMAS  GRAY 


'There    at    the     foot     of    yonder     nodding 

beech  '°' 

That    wreathes    its    old    fantastic    roots    so 

high, 

His    listless    length    at    noontide    would    he 

stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

'  Hard    by    yon    wood,    now    smiling    as    in 
scorn,  '°5 

Muttering  his   wayward   fancies  he   would 
rove, 
Now   drooping,    woeful    wan,    like    one    for- 
lorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless 
love. 

'  One  morn   I  missed  him   on  the  customed 
hill, 
Along    the    heath    and    near    his    favorite 
tree;  'i° 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Noi  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

'  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw 
him    borne. 
Approach   and    read    (for   thou   can'st   read) 
the  lay,  iis 

Graved    on    the    stone    beneath    yon    aged 
thorn.' 


THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon   the  lap  of  Earth 

A    Youth    to    fortune    and    to    Fame    un- 

knozmi. 

Fair   Science    frozvncd    not    on    his    humble 

birth. 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large    was    his    bounty,    and    his    soul    sin- 
cere, '21 
Fleav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
Fie  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 
He   gained   from    Heaven    ('twas    all    he 
wished)   a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  Ids  merits  to  disclose,       '-5 
Or    drazv    his    frailties    from    their    dread 
abode 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  liope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 
(I75I) 


THE   PROGRESS  OF  POESY 

A    PINDARIC   ODE 
I 

The  Strophe 
Awake,    .^olian    lyre,   awake, 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings 
I'rom  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 
A   thousand   rills  their   mazy  progress   take: 
The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  them  blow. 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow.        (> 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 
Deep,   majestic,   smooth,    and   strong, 
Through    verdant    vales,    and    Ceres'    golden 

reign: 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain,  >" 

Headlong,   impetuous,  see  it  pour : 
The  rocks,  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to 

the  roar. 

The    Antistrophe 
Oh!  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of   sweet   and   solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell!  the  sullen  Cares,  is 

And   frantic   Passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War, 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car, 
And  dropped  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  com- 
mand. 
Perching  on  the  sceptered  hand  ^o 

Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathered  king 
With  ruffled   plumes,  and   flagging  wing : 
Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The   terror  of   his   beak,   and   lightnings   of 
his  eye. 

The  Epode 
Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey,  2S 

Tempered  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O'er   Idalia's   velvet-green 
The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 
On    Cytherea's   day 

With  antic  Sports,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 
Frisking   light   in    frolic   measures ;  3i 

Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 
Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet : 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 
Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet.  3S 

Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach 

declare : 
Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  paj 
With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air, 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way: 
O'er    her    warm    cheek,    and    rising    bosom, 

move  40 

The  bloom  of  young  Desire,  and  purple  light 

of   Love. 


II 

The  Strophe 
Man's  feeble  race  what   Ills  await, 
Labor,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and   Sorrow's   weeping  train, 
And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of 

Fate !  4S 

The   fond  complaint,  my  Song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,    has    he    given    in    vain    the    heavenly 

Muse? 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews. 
Her  Specters  wan,  and  Birds  of  boding  cry. 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky;  Si 

Til!  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 
Hyperion's    march    they    spy,    and    glittering 

shafts    of   war. 

The  Antistrophe 
In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road, 
Where    shaggy    forms    o'er    ice-built    moun- 
tains roam. 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight-gloom     56 
To  cheer  the  shivering  Native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of   Chili's  boundless   forests  laid, 
She   deigns   to   hear   the    savage    Youth    re- 
peat 60 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
Their    feather-cinctured    Chiefs,    and    dusky 

Loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  Goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
The    unconquerable    Mind,    and    Freedom's 
holy  flame.  65 

The  Epode 
Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep. 
Isles,  that  crown  the  ^gean  deep, 
Fields,  that  cool   Ilissus  laves, 
Or   where    Mseander's   amber   waves 
In  lingering  Labyrinths  creep,  70 

How  do  your  tuneful  Echo's  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  Anguish? 
Where  each  old  poetic  Mountain 
Inspiration    breathed    around : 
Every  shade  and  hallowed   Fountain  75 

Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound : 
Till  the  sad  Nine  in  Greece's  evil  hour 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant- Power, 
And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost,  81 
They  sought,  O  Albion !  next  thy  sea-en- 
circled coast. 


Ill 

The  Strophe 
Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  Darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed,       85 
To  Him  the  mighty  Mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful   face:  The  dauntless  Child 
Stretched    forth   his  little  arms,  and   smiled 
This    pencil    take    (she    said)    whose   colors 

clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year:  9'> 

Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy ! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy; 
Of   Horror   that,   and   thrilling  Fears, 
Or    ope   the    sacred    source   of    sympathetic 

Tears. 

The  Antistrophe 
Nor  second  He,  that  rode  sublime  9S 

Upon  the  seraph-wings  of   Ecstasy, 
The   secrets   of   the   Abyss  to  spy. 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  Place  and 

Time: 
The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze. 
Where  Angels  tremble,  while  they  gaze,  100 
He  saw ;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his   eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold,   where   Dryden's    less   presumptuous 

car, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  Glory  bear 
Two  Coursers  of  ethereal   race,  105 

With   necks    in    thunder   clothed,   and   long- 
resounding   pace. 

The  Epode 
Hark,   his   hands   the   lyre   explore! 
Bright-eyed    Fancy   hovering   o'er 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 

But  ah!   'tis  heard   no  more m 

O  Lyre  divine,  what  daring  Spirit 

Wakes  thee  now?  though  he  inherit 

Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That   the  Theban    Eagle   bear  "S 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  azure  deep  of  air: 

Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would   run 

Such  forms,  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 

With  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  Sun : 

Yet    shall    he   mount,    and    keep   his    distant 

way  1^' 

Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate. 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far  —  but  far  above 

the  Great. 

(1757) 


402 


THOMAS  GRAY 


THE  BARD 

A    PINDARIC    ODE 

I 

The  Strophe 
'Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 
Confusion  on  tliy  banners  wait, 
Though   fanned  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 
They   mock   the   air   with   idle   state. 
Helm,   nor   Hauberk's   twisted   mail,  5 

Nor  even  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul   from  nightly  fears, 
From     Cambria's     curse,     from     Cambria's 

tears ! ' 
Such  were  the  sounds,  that  o'er  the  crested 

pride 
Of  the  first  Edward   scattered  wild  dismay, 
As    down    the    steep   of    Snowdon's    shaggy 

side  " 

He    wound    with    toilsome    march    his    long 

array. 
Stout    Gloster    stood    aghast    in    speechless 

trance; 
To  arms !  cried  Mortimer,  and  couched  his 

quivering   lance. 

The  Antistrophe 
On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow  '5 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's   foaming  flood. 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the   Poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,    like    a    meteor,    to    the    troubled 
air),  20 

And    with   a    Master's   hand,   and    Prophet's 

fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre : 
'  Hark,    how    each    giant  oak,    and    desert 
cave. 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath  I 
O'er  thee,  O  King!  their  hundred  arms  they 
wave,  ^5 

Revenge     on     thee     in     hoarser     murmurs 

breathe ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To    high-born    Hoel's    harp,    or    soft    Llew- 
ellyn's  lay. 

The  Epode 
'  Cold  is   Cadwallo's  tongue. 
That  hushed  the  stormy  main ;  3o 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 
Mountains,  ye  mourn   in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made     huge     Plinlinnnon     bow     his     cloud- 
topped    head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie,  35 


Smeared  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,   far  aloof  the   affrighted   ravens  sail; 
rhe  famished   l-'agle  screams,  and  passes  by. 

Dear   lost   companions  of   my   tuneful   art. 

Dear,  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 

Dear,    as    the    ruddy    drops    that    warm    my 

heart,  4' 

\'e      died      amidst      your      dying     country's 

cries  — 

No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
1   see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet,  45 

-Avengers   of   their    native   land: 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of 
thy  line :  — 


n 


The  Strophe 
'Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof. 

The   winding   sheet   of   Edward's   race.         5( 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 

Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 

When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 

The    shrieks    of    death,    through    Berkley's 
roofs   that   ring,  55 

Shrieks   of  an   agonizing  King! 

She-Wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs. 

That    tear'st    the    bowels    of    thy    mangled 
Mate, 

From   thee   be   born,    who   o'er   thy   country 
hangs 

The     scourge     of     Heav'n.     What     Terrors 
round   him   wait !  6o 

Amazement    in    his    van,    with    Flight    com- 
bined. 

And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  be- 
hind. 

The  Antistrophe 
'  Mighty  Victor,  mighty  Lord, 
Low  on  his   funeral  couch  he  lies! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford  65 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies.  ■ 

Is  the  sable  Warrior  lied?  ■ 

Thy    son     is    gone.     He     rests     among    the 

Dead. 
The  Swarm,  that  in  thy  noon-tide  beam  were 

born  ? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  Morn.  7° 

Fair  laughs  the   Morn,  and  soft  the  Zephyr 

blows. 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  Vessel  goes ; 
Youth    on    the    prow,    and    Pleasure    at    the 

hehu; 


.n.  1  i-\.x^    0101ILI\.0 


4"^ 


Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's 
sway,  75 

That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his 
evening-prey. 

The  Epode 

Fill   high  the   sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare; 
Reft    of    a    crown,    he    yet    may    share    the 

feast. 
Close  by  the  regal  chair  8° 

Fell   Thirst  and   Famine   scowl 
A  baleful   smile   upon   their  baffled   Guest. 

Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 
Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 
Long    Years    of    havoc   urge   their    destined 

course,  ^5 

And    through    the    kindred    squadrons    mow 

their  way. 
Ye     Towers     of     Julius,     London's     lasting 

shame. 
With    many   a    foul    and    midnight    murthcr 

fed, 
Revere    his    Consort's     faith,    his     Father's 

fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  Usurper's  holy  head.  9° 
Above,   below,   the   rose  of   snow. 
Twined  with  her  l)lushing  foe,  we  spread : 
The  bristled  Boar  in  infant-gore 
Wallows  beneath   the  thorny  shade. 
Now,    brothers,    bending    o'er    the    accursed 

loom  95 

Stamp   we   our  vengeance   deep,   and   ratify 

his  doom. 


Ill 


The  Strophe 
'  Edward,  lo !  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The   web  is   wove.     The  work  is  done.)' — 
Stay,  oh  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn  loi 

Leave  me  unblessed,  unpiticd,  here  to  mourn  1 
In   yon   bright   track,   that   tires   the   western 

skies, 
They  melt,   they  vanish   from  my  eyes. 
But    oh !    what    solemn    scenes    on    Snow- 
don's  height.  105 
Descending   slow   their  glittering   skirts  un- 
roll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unborn  Ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  wc  bewail. 
All-hail,  ye  genuine  Kings,  Britannia's  Issue, 
hail!  >'o 


The  Antistrophe 
'Girt   with  many   a   baron  bold 

Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 

And  gorgeous   Dames,  and  Statesmen  old 

In   bearded    majesty,   appear. 

In  the  midst  a  Form  divine!  115 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-Line; 

Her  lion  port,  her  awe-commanding   face. 

Attempered  sweet  to  virgin  grace. 

What    strings    symphonious    tremble    in    the 
air. 

What  strains  of  vocal  traiwport   round  her 
play!  120 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear  ; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 

Bright    Rapture    calls,    and    soaring,    as    she 
sings. 

Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many-col- 
ored wings. 

The  Epode 
'  The  verse  adorn  again  1-25 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe,  by   fairy  Fiction  drcst. 
In   buskincd   measures   move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing   Pain, 
With     Horror,     Tyrant     of     the     throbbing 
breast.  130 

A  Voice,  as  of  the  Cherub-Choir, 
Gales   from  blooming   Eden  bear; 
And  distant  warblnigs  lessen  on  my  ear, 
That  lost   in  long  futurity  expire. 

Fond  impious  Man,  think'st  thou,  yon  san 

guine  cloud,  135 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  Oil) 

of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood. 
And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 

Enough  for  me :  With  joy  I  see 
The  different  doom  our  Fates  assign.  i4>^^ 

Be  thine  Despair,  and  sceptered  Care, 
To  triumph,  and  lo  die,  are  mine.' — 

He  spoke,   and   headlong   from  the   moun- 
tain's height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  lo  end 
less  night. 

(1757) 


THE   FATAL   SISTERS 

AN    ODE 
FROM   THE   NORSE  TONGUE 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower, 
(Haste,   the   loom   of   hell   prepare,) 
Iron-slcet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  in  ihe  darkened  air. 


404 


THOMAS  GRAY 


Glittering  lances  are  the  loom,  5 

Where  the  dusky  warp  we  strain, 
Weaving  many  a  soldier's  doom, 
Orkney's   woe,   and   Randver's   bane. 

See  the  grisly  texture  grow, 
('T  is  of  human   entrails  made,)  'o 

And  the  weights,  that  play  below, 
Each  a  gasping  warrior's  head. 

Shafts   for  shuttles,  dipt  in  gore, 
Shoot  the  trembling  cords  along. 
Sword,    that   once   a   monarch   bore,         is 
Keep  the  tissue  close  and  strong. 

Mista  black,  terrific  maid, 

Sangrida,  and  Hilda  see. 

Join  the  wayward   work  to  aid : 

'Tis   the   woof  of   victory.  20 

Ere   the   ruddy   sun   be   set, 
Pikes  must  shiver,  javelins  sing. 
Blade   with  clattering  buckler   meet. 
Hauberk  crash,  and  helmet   ring. 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war)  -S 

Let  us  go,  and  let  us  fly. 
Where  our  friends  the  conflict  share. 
Where  they  triumph,  where  they  die. 

As  the  paths  of  fate  we  tread. 

Wading  through  the  ensanguined  field :  3° 

Gondula,  and  Geira,  spread 

O'er  the  youthful  king  your  shield. 

We  the  reins  to  slaughter  give, 
Ours  to  kill,  and  ours  to  spare: 


Spite  of  danger  he  shall  live.  35 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 

They,  whom  once  the  desert-beach 
Pent  within  its  Ijieak  domain. 
Soon  their  ample  sway  shall  stretch 
O'er  the  plenty  of  the  plain.  40 

Low  the  dauntless  earl  is  laid, 
Gored  with  many  a  gaping  wound : 
Fate  demands  a  nobler  head ; 
Soon  a  king  shall  bite  the  ground. 

Long  his  loss  shall  Eirin  weep,  45 

Ne'er  again  his  likeness  see ; 
Long  her  strains  in  sorrow  steep. 
Strains  of  immortality! 

Horror  covers  all  the  heath, 
Clouds  of  carnage  blot  the  sun.  so 

Sisters,  weave  the  web  of  death; 
Sisters,  cease,  the  work  is  done. 

Hail  the  task,  and  hail  the  hands ! 
Songs  of  joy  and  triumph  sing! 
Joy  to  the  victorious  bands ;  55 

Triumph  to  the  younger  king. 

Mortal,  thou  that  hear'st  the  tale, 
Learn  the  tenor  of  our  song. 
Scotland,  through  each  winding  vale 
Far  and  wide  the  notes  prolong.  60 

Sisters,  hence  with  spurs  of  speed: 
Each  her  thundering  falchion  wield; 
Each  bestride  her  sable  steed. 
Hurry,  hurry  to  the  field. 

(1768) 


''Jj>'> 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON   (1709-84) 

Few  personalities  of  famous  iiieu  are  so  well-known  to  us  as  the  personality  of  '  that  great 
Cham  of  literature,  Samuel  Johnson.'  The  son  of  a  poor  Lichfield  book-seller,  Johnson  had 
the  advantages  of  the  local  grammar-school  and  a  few  poverty-stricken  months  at  Pem- 
broke College,  Oxford ;  served  for  a  time  as  usher  in  a  boy's  school ;  married  for  true 
love's  sake,  a  woman  much  his  senior;  and  set  up  a  private  academy  near  his  native  city. 
This  enterprise  proving  neither  agreeable  nor  profitable,  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  with 
little  in  his  uncouth  person,  his  ponderous  genius,  or  in  the  sturdy  independence  of  his 
character,  to  recommend  him  to  the  rich  and  fortunate,  Johnson  had  the  hardihood  to  seek 
a  living  among  the  penurious  publishers  and  starving  hack  writers  of  London.  For  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  he  earned  a  precarious  subsistence  by  huge  '  odd  jobs  '  of  literature 
which  now  have  little  interest  except  as  a  part  of  his  biography.  The  greatest  of  these,  his 
Dictionary  of  the  English  Language,  was  published  in  1755,  after  seven  years  of  continuous 
labor.  During  a  part  of  this  time  he  had  supported  himself  by  writing  The  Rambler 
(175U-52),  and,  in  ensuing  years.  The  Idler  (1759-60)  and  Rasselas  (1759)  helped  to 
defray  expenses  while  he  was  preparing  his  edition  of  Shakspere  (17(>5).  He  was  now 
famous.  A  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds,  granted  by  government  in  17G2,  had  relieved 
him  from  the  pressure  of  necessity.  Thereafter  he  wrote  but  little,  and  his  social  talents 
expanded.  In  17G4,  he  joined  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  in  founding  the  renowned  Literary 
Club  which  had  the  good  fortune  to  gather  to  its  convivial  meetings  such  men  as  Burke, 
Goldsmith,  Gibbon,  Garrick,  Adam  Smith,  the  two  Wartons,  Bishop  Percy  of  ballad 
fame,  and  many  others  whose  names  are  still  remembered.  The  previous  year,  Boswell 
had  made  his  acquaintance  and  had  begun  to  gather  materials  for  the  record  of  those 
'  nights  and  suppers  of  the  gods '  with  which  we  are  regaled  in  his  Life.  If  we  may  trust 
Boswell's  vivid  and,  apparently,  accurate  account,  Johnson  inspired  in  his  comrades  not 
only  unusual  affection,  but  a  degree  of  respect  which  approximated  reverence.  His  con- 
versation was  witty,  powerful,  and  varied  and  gives  us  a  higher  idea  of  his  genius  than 
anything  which  he  wrote.  His  eccentricities  both  of  behavior  and  of  opinion  were  extraor- 
dinary ;  but  the  prevailing  impression  left  by  Boswell's  picture  of  his  mind  is  one  of 
massive   common-sense,    united    with   great   depth   and   benignity   of   soul. 

Johnson's  most  important  contribution  to  literatui-e  is  his  Lives  of  the  Poets,  which  he 
undertook  toward  the  end  of  his  life  (1779-81),  when  his  powers  were  in  their  fullness 
and  after  years  of  polite  conversation  had  favorably  affected  his  style.  They  are  the  out- 
pouring of  a  capacious  mind  stored  by  a  lifetime  of  reading,  experience,  and  reflection.  His 
judgments  are  often  marred  by  bis  peculiar  crochets  of  opinion  or  temper ;  but  his  sayings 
are  almost  always  invigorating,  for  they  are  the  abrupt  utterances  of  an  honest  and  strong 
man  who  knew  much  of  the  world  and  of  letters. 


THE  LIFE  OF  ADDISON  Not  to  name  the  school  or  the  masters 

of  men  illustrious  for  literature,  is  a 
Joseph  Addison  was  born  on  the  ist  kind  of  historical  fraud,  by  which  honest 
of  May,  1672,  at  Milston,  of  which  his  fame  is  injuriously  diminished:  I  would 
father,  Lancelot  Addison,  was  then  rec-  s  therefore  trace  him  through  the  whole 
tor,  near  Ambrosebury,  in  Wiltshire,  and,  process  of  his  education.  In  1683,  in  the 
appearing  weak  and  unlikely  to  live,  he  beginning  of  his  twelfth  year,  his  father, 
was  christened  the  same  day.  After  the  being  made  Dean  of  Lichfield,  naturally 
usual  domestic  education,  which  from  the  carried  his  family  to  his  new  residence, 
character  of  the  father  may  be  reason-  10  and,  I  believe,  placed  him  for  some  time, 
ably  supposed  to  have  given  him  strong  probably  not  long,  under  Mr.  Shaw,  then 
impressions  of  piety,  he  was  committed  to  master  of  the  school  at  Lichfield,  father 
the  care  of  Mr.  Naish  at  Ambrosebury,  of  the  late  Dr.  Peter  Shaw.  Of  this  in- 
and  afterwards  of  Mr.  Taylor  at  Salis-  terval  his  biographers  have  given  no  ac- 
bury.  'S  count,  and  I  know  it  only  from  a  story 

405 


4o6  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


of  a  '  barring-out,'  told  me,  when  I  was  a  much  purpose  of  repayment ;  but  Addison, 
boy,  by  Andrew  Corbet,  of  Shropshire,  who  seems  to  have  had  other  notions  of 
who  had  heard  it  from  Mr.  Pigot,  his  a  hundred  pounds,  grew  impatient  of 
uncle.  delay,   and   reclaimed  his  loan  by  an  ex- 

The  practice  of  '  barring-out  '  was  a  5  ecution.  Steele  felt  with  great  sensibility 
savage  license,  practiced  in  many  schools  the  obduracy  of  his  creditor,  but  with 
to  the  end  of  the  last  century,  by  which  emotions  of  sorrow  rather  than  of  anger, 
the    boys,    when    the    periodical    vacation  In    1687   he  was   entered   into   Queen's 

drew  near,  growing  petulant  at  the  ap-  College  in  Oxford,  where,  in  1689,  the 
proach  of  liberty,  some  days  before  the  10  accidental  perusal  of  some  Latin  verses 
time  of  regular  recess,  took  possession  of  gained  him  the  patronage  of  Dr.  Lan- 
the  school,  of  which  they  barred  the  caster,  afterwards  Provost  of  Queen's 
doors,  and  bade  their  master  defiance  College;  by  whose  recommendation  he 
from  the  windows.  It  is  not  easy  to  was  elected  into  Magdalen  College  as  a 
suppose  that  on  such  occasions  the  mas-  15  demy,  a  term  by  which  that  society  de- 
ter would  do  more  than  laugh;  yet,  if  nominates  those  who  are  elsewhere  called 
tradition  may  be  credited,  he  often  Strug-  scholars:  young  men  who  partake  of  the 
gled  hard  to  force  or  surprise  the  gar-  founder's  benefaction,  and  succeed  in 
rison.  The  master,  when  Pigot  was  a  their  order  to  vacant  fellowships.  Here 
schoolboy,  was  '  barred  out '  at  Lichfield  ;  20  he  continued  to  cultivate  poetry  and 
and  the  whole  operation,  as  he  said,  was  criticism,  and  grew  first  eminent  by  his 
planned   and   conducted   by   Addison.  Latin  compositions,  which  are  indeed  en- 

To  judge  better  of  the  probability  of  titled  to  particular  praise.  He  has  not 
this  story,  I  have  inquired  when  he  was  confined  himself  to  the  imitation  of  any 
sent  to  the  Chartreux ;  but,  as  he  was  ^5  ancient  author,  but  has  formed  his  style 
not  one  of  those  who  enjoyed  the  found-  from  the  general  language,  such  as  a 
er's  benefaction,  there  is  no  account  diligent  perusal  of  the  productions  of  dif- 
preserved  of  his  admission.  At  the  ferent  ages  happened  to  supply.  His 
scliool  of  the  Chartreux,  to  which  he  Latin  compositions  seem  to  have  had 
was  removed  either  from  that  of  Salis-  30  much  of  his  fondness,  for  he  collected  a 
bury  or  Lichfield,  he  pursued  his  juvenile  second  volume  of  the  Miisae  Anglicanae, 
studies  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Ellis,  and  perhaps  for  a  convenient  receptacle,  in 
contracted  that  intimacy  with  Sir  Richard  which  all  his  Latin  pieces  are  inserted, 
Steele  which  their  joint  labors  have  so  and  where  his  poem  on  the  Peace  has 
effectually  recorded.  35  the  first  place.     He  afterwards  presented 

Of  this  memorable  friendship  the  the  collection  to  Boileau,  who  from  that 
greater  praise  must  be  given  to  Steele,  time  '  conceived,*  says  Tickell,  '  an  opin- 
It  is  not  hard  to  love  those  from  whom  ion  of  the  English  genius  for  poetry.' 
nothing  can  be  feared;  and  Addison  Nothing  is  better  known  of  Boileau  than 
never  considered  Steele  as  a  rival;  but  40  that  he  had  an  injudicious  and  peevish 
Steele  lived,  as  he  confesses,  under  an  contempt  of  modern  Latin,  and  therefore 
habitual  subjection  to  the  predominating  his  profession  of  regard  was  probably  the 
genius  of  Addison,  whom  he  always  men-  efTect  of  his  civility  rather  than  appro- 
tioned  with  reverence,  and  treated  with  bation. 
obsequiousness.  4S      Three  of  his  Latin  poems  are  upon  sub- 

Addison,  who  knew  his  own  dignity,  jects  on  which  perhaps  he  would  not  have 
could  not  always  forbear  to  show  it,  by  ventured  to  have  written  in  his  own  Ian- 
playing  a  little  upon  his  admirer;  but  guage:  —  The  Battle  of  the  Pigmies  and 
he  was  in  no  danger  of  retort;  his  jests  Cranes,  The  Barometer,  and  A  Bozding- 
were  endured  without  resistance  or  re-  5°  green.  When  the  matter  is  low  or  scanty, 
sentment.  But  the  sneer  of  jocularity  a  dead  language,  in  which  nothing  is 
was  not  the  worst.  Steele,  whose  impru-  mean  because  nothing  is  familiar,  affords 
dence  of  generosity,  or  vanity  of  pro-  great  conveniences ;  and  by  the  sonorous 
fusion,  kept  him  always  incurably  neces-  magnificence  of  Roman  syllables,  the 
sitous,  upon  some  pressing  exigence,  in  55  writer  conceals  penury  of  thought,  and 
an  evil  hour,  borrowed"  an  hundred  want  of  novelty,  often  from  the  reader 
pounds    of    his    friend    probably    without     and  often  from  himself. 


In     his     twenty-second     year     he     first  In    1697   appeared   his   Latin   verses   on 

showed  his  power  of  English  poetry  by  the  Peace  of  Ryswick,  which  he  dedicated 
some  verses  addressed  to  Dryden ;  and  to  Montague,  and  which  was  afterwards 
soon  afterwards  published  a  translation  called,  by  Smith,  '  the  best  Latin  poem 
of  the  greater  part  of  the  Fourth  Georgia  5  since  the  Aeneid.'  Praise  must  not  be 
upon  Bees;  after  which,  says  Dryden,  too  rigorously  examined;  but  the  per- 
'  my  latter  swarm  is  hardly  worth  the  formance  cannot  be  denied  to  be  vigorous 
hiving.'  About  the  same  time  he  com-  and  elegant.  Having  yet  no  public  em- 
posed  the  arguments  prefixed  to  the  ployment,  he  obtained  (in  1699)  a  pen- 
several  books  of  Dryden's  Virgil;  and  10  sion  of  three  hundred  pounds  a  year,  that 
produced  an  Essay  on  the  Gcorgics,  ju-  he  might  be  enabled  to  travel.  He  stayed 
venile,  superficial,  and  uninstructive,  a  year  at  Blois,  probably  to  learn  the 
without  much  either  of  the  scholar's  French  language ;  and  then  proceeded  in 
learning  or  the  critic's  penetration.  His  his  journey  to  Italy,  which  he  surveyed 
next  paper  of  verses  contained  a  char-  15  with  the  eyes  of  a  poet.  While  he  was 
acter  of  the  principal  English  poets,  in-  traveling  at  leisure,  he  was  far  from  be- 
scribed  to  Henry  Sacheverell,  who  was  ing  idle:  for  he  not  only  collected  his  ob- 
then,  if  not  a  poet,  a  writer  of  verses ;  servations  on  the  country,  but  found 
as  is  shown  by  his  version  of  a  small  time  to  write  his  Dialogues  on  Medals, 
part  of  Virgil's  G£'oro;zc.y,  published  in  the  20  and  four  acts  of  Cato.'  Such,  at  least, 
Miscellanies;  and  a  Latin  encomium  on  is  the  relation  of  Tickell.  Perhaps  he 
Queen  Mary,  in  the  Musae  Anglicanae.  only  collected  his  materials  and  formed 
These  verses  exhiljit  all  the  fondness  of  his  plan.  Whatever  were  his  other  em- 
friendship;  but,  on  one  side  or  the  other,  ployments  in  Italy,  he  there  wrote  the 
friendship  was  afterwards  too  weak  for  25  letter  to  Lord  Halifax  which  is  justly 
the  malignity  of  faction.  In  this  poem  considered  as  the  most  elegant,  if  not  the 
is  a  very  confident  and  discriminative  most  sublime,  of  his  poetical  productions, 
character  of  Spenser,  whose  work  he  But  in  about  two  years  he  found  it  nec- 
had  then  never  read;  so  little  sometimes  cssary  to  hasten  home;  being,  as  Swift 
is  criticism  the  effect  of  judgment.  It  is  30  informs  us,  distressed  by  indigence,  and 
necessary  to  inform  the  reader  that  about  compelled  to  become  the  tutor  of  a  trav- 
this  time  he  was  introduced  by  Congreve  eling  squire,  because  his  pension  was  not 
to  Montague,  then  chancellor  of  the  ex-      remitted. 

chequer:   Addison  was  then  learning  the  At  his  return  he  published  his  Travels, 

trade  of  a  courtier,  and  subjoined  Mon-  3s  with  a  dedication  to  Lord  Somers.  yVs 
tague  as  a  poetical  name  to  those  of  Cow-  his  stay  in  foreign  countries  was  short, 
ley  and  of  Dryden.  By  the  influence  of  his  observations  are  such  as  might  be 
Mv.  Montague,  concurring,  according  to  supplied  by  a  hasty  view,  and  consist 
Tickell,  with  his  natural  modesty,  he  was  chiefly  in  comparisons  of  the  present 
diverted  from  his  original  design  of  en-  40  face  of  the  country  with  the  descriptions 
termg  into  holy  orders.  Montague  al-  left  us  by  the  Roman  poets,  from  whom 
leged  the  corruption  of  men  who  engaged  he  made  preparatory  collections,  though 
in  civil  employments  without  liberal  ed-  he  might  have  spared  the  trouble  had  he 
ucation ;  and  declared  that,  though  he  was  known  that  such  collections  had  been 
represented  as  an  enemy  to  the  church,  4s  made  twice  before  by  Italian  authors, 
he  would  never  do  it  any  injury  but  by  The  most  amusing  passage  of  his  book 

withholding  Addison  from  it.  is  his  account  of  the  minute  republic  of 

Soon  after  (1695)  he  wrote  a  poem  San  Marino;  of  many  parts  it  is  not  a 
to  King  William,  with  a  riming  intro-  very  severe  censure  to  say  that  they 
duction  addressed  to  Lord  Somers.  King  so  might  have  been  written  at  home.  His 
William  had  no  regard  to  elegance  or  elegance  of  language,  and  variegation  of 
literature;  his  study  was  only  war;  yet  prose  and  verse,  however,  gain  upon  the 
by  a  choice  of  ministers,  whose  disposi-  reader;  and  the  book,  though  awhile  ncg- 
tion  was  very  different  from  his  own,  he  lectcd,  became  in  time  so  much  the  fa- 
procured,  without  intention,  a  very  lib-  55  vorite  of  the  public  that  before  it  was 
eral  patronage  to  poetry.  Addison  was  reprinted  it  rose  to  five  times  its  price, 
caressed  both   by   Somers  and   Montague.  When     he     returned     to     England     (in 


408  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

1702),  with  a  meanness  of  appearance  somewhat  advanced  by  The  Tender  Hus- 
which  gave  testimony  of  the  difficulties  to  band,  a  comedy  which  Steele  dedicated 
which  he  had  been  reduced,  he  found  to  him,  with  a  confession  that  he  owed 
his  old  patrons  out  of  power,  and  was  to  him  several  of  the  most  successful 
therefore,  for  a  time,  at  full  leisure  for  5  scenes.  To  this  play  Addison  supplied 
the  cultivation  of  his  mind ;  and  a  mind      a  prologue. 

so  cultivated  gives  reason  to  believe  that  When    the    Marquis    of   Wharton    was 

little  time  was  lost.  But  he  remained  appointed  lord  lieutenant  of  Ireland,  Ad- 
not  long  neglected  or  useless.  The  vie-  dison  attended  him  as  his  secretary ;  and 
tory  at  Blenheim  (1704)  spread  triumph  10  was  made  keeper  of  the  records,  in  Bir- 
and  confidence  over  the  nation ;  and  Lord  mingham's  tower,  with  a  salary  of  three 
Godolphin,  lamenting  to  Lord  Halifax  hundred  pounds  a  year.  The  office  was 
that  it  had  not  been  celebrated  in  a  man-  little  more  than  nominal,  and  the  salary 
ner  equal  to  the  subject,  desired  him  to  was  augmented  for  his  accommodation, 
propose  it  to  some  better  poet.  Halifax  15  Interest  and  faction  allow  little  to  the 
told  him  that  there  was  no  encourage-  operation  of  particular  dispositions  or 
ment  for  genius ;  that  worthless  men  private  opinions.  Two  men  of  personal 
were  unprofitably  enriched  with  public  characters  more  opposite  than  those  of 
money,  without  any  care  to  find  or  employ  Wharton  and  Addison  could  not  easily  be 
those  whose  appearance  might  do  honor  20  brought  together.  Wharton  was  impious, 
to  their  country.  To  this  Godolphin  re-  profligate,  and  shameless;  without  regard, 
plied  that  such  abuses  should  in  time  be  or  appearance  of  regard,  to  right  and 
rectified;  and  that,  if  a  man  could  be  wrong.  Whatever  is  contrary  to  this 
found  capable  of  the  task  then  proposed,  may  be  said  of  Addison;  but  as  agents 
he  should  not  want  an  ample  recom-  25  of  a  party  they  were  connected,  and  how 
pense.  Halifax  then  named  Addison,  they  adjusted  their  other  sentiments  we 
but    required    that    the    treasurer    should      cannot  know. 

apply    to    him    in    his    own   person.     Go-  Addison,    must,    however,    not    be    too 

dolphin  sent  the  message  by  Mr.  Boyle,  hastily  condemned.  It  is  not  necessary 
afterwards  Lord  Carlton ;  and  Addison,  30  to  refuse  benefits  from  a  bad  man  when 
having  undertaken  the  work,  com-  the  acceptance  implies  no  approbation  of 
municated  it  to  the  treasury  while  it  was  his  crimes;  nor  has  the  subordinate  officer 
yet  advanced  no  farther  than  the  simile  any  obligation  to  examine  the  opinions 
of  the  angel,  and  was  immediately  re-  or  conduct  of  those  under  whom  he  acts, 
warded  by  succeeding  Mr.  Locke  in  the  35  except  that  he  may  not  be  made  the  in- 
place  of  commissioner  of  appeals.  strument  of  wickedness.     It  is  reasonable 

In  the  following  year  he  was  at  Han-  to  suppose  that  Addison  counteracted,  as 
over  with  Lord  Halifax:  and  the  year  far  as  he  was  able,  the  malignant  and 
after  he  was  made  under  secretary  of  blasting  influence  of  the  lieutenant;  and 
state,  first  to  Sir  Charles  Hedges,  and  40  that  at  least  by  his  intervention  some 
in  a  few  months  more  to  the  Earl  of  good  was  done,  and  some  mischief  pre- 
Sunderland.  About  this  time  the  prev-  vented.  When  he  was  in  office  he  made 
alent  taste  for  Italian  operas  inclined  him  a  law  to  himself,  as  Swift  has  recorded, 
to  try  what  would  be  the  effect  of  a  never  to  remit  his  regular  fees  in  civility 
musical  drama  in  our  own  language.  He  45  to  his  friends :  '  for,'  said  he,  '  I  may 
therefore  wrote  the  opera  of  Rosamond,  have  a  hundred  friends;  and  if  my  fee 
which,  when  exhibited  on  the  stage,  was  be  two  guineas,  I  shall,  by  relinquishing 
either  hissed  or  neglected ;  but,  trusting  my  right,  lose  two  hundred  guineas,  and 
that  the  readers  would  do  him  more  jus-  no  friend  gain  more  than  two;  there  is 
tice,  he  published  it  with  an  inscription  50  therefore  no  proportion  between  the  good 
to  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough  —  a  imparted  and  the  evil  suft'ered.'  He  was 
woman  without  skill,  or  pretensions  to  in  Ireland  when  Steele,  without  any  com- 
skill,  in  poetry  or  literature.  His  dedica-  munication  of  his  design,  began  the  pub- 
tion  was  therefore  an  instance  of  servile  lication  of  The  Tatlcr;  but  he  was  not 
absurdity,  to  be  exceeded  only  by  Joshua  55  long  concealed ;  by  inserting  a  remark  on 
Barnes's  dedication  of  a  Greek  Anacrcon  Virgil  which  Addison  had  given  him  he 
to    the    Duke.     His    reputation    had    been      discovered    himself.     It     is,     indeed,     not 


easy  for  any  man  to  write  upon  literature  than  criminal,  and  remove  those  griev- 
or  common  life  so  as  not  to  make  himself  ances  which,  if  they  produce  no  lasting 
known  to  those  with  whom  he  familiarly  calamities,  impress  hourly  vexation,  was 
converses,  and  who  are  acquainted  with  first  attempted  by  Casa  in  his  book  of 
his  track  of  study,  his  favorite  topic,  his  s  Manners,  and  Castiglione  in  his  Courtier; 
peculiar  notions,  and  his  habitual  phrases,      two    books    yet    celebrated    in    Italy    for 

If  Steele  desired  to  write  in  secret,  he  purity  and  elegance,  and  which,  if  they 
was  not  lucky;  a  single  month  detected  are  now  less  read,  are  neglected  only  be- 
him.  His  first  Tatler  was  published  cause  they  have  effected  that  reforma- 
April  22  (1709);  and  Addison's  contri- 10  tion  which  their  authors  intended,  and 
bution  appeared  May  26.  Tickell  ob-  their  precepts  now  are  no  longer  wanted, 
serves  that  The  Tatler  began  and  was  Their  usefulness  to  the  age  in  which  they 
concluded  without  his  concurrence.  This  were  written  is  sufficiently  attested  by  the 
is  doubtless  literally  true;  but  the  work  translations  which  almost  all  the  nations 
did  not  suffer  much  by  his  unconscious-  is  of  Europe  were  in  haste  to  obtain, 
ness  of  its  commencement,  or  his  absence  This    species    of    instruction    was    con- 

at  its  cessation;  for  he  continued  his  as-  tinned,  and  perhaps  advanced,  by  the 
sistance  to  December  2^,  and  the  paper  French ;  among  whom  La  Bruyere's  Maw- 
stopped  on  January  2,  1710-11.  He  did  ners  of  the  Age  (though,  as  Boileau  re- 
not  distinguish  his  pieces  by  any  signa- 20  marked,  it  is  written  without  connection) 
ture;  and  I  know  not  whether  his  name  certainly  deserves  great  praise  for  liveli- 
was  not  kept  secret  till  the  papers  were  ness  of  description  and  justness  of  ob- 
collected  into  volumes.  servation. 

To   The   Tatler,  in  about  two  months.  Before    The    Tatler    and    Spectator,    if 

succeeded  The  Spectator:  a  series  of  es- ^5  the  writers  for  the  theater  are  excepted, 
says  of  the  same  kind,  but  written  with  England  had  no  masters  of  common  life, 
less  levity,  upon  a  more  regular  plan,  and  No  writers  had  yet  undertaken  to  reform 
published  daily.  Such  an  undertaking  either  the  savageness  of  neglect,  or  the 
showed  the  writers  not  to  distrust  their  impertinence  of  civility;  to  show  when  to 
own  copiousness  of  materials  or  facility  30  speak,  or  to  be  silent;  how  to  refuse,  or 
of  composition,  and  their  performance  how  to  comply.  We  had  many  books  to 
justified  their  confidence.  They  found,  teach  us  our  more  important  duties,  and 
however,  in  their  progress  many  auxil-  to  settle  opinions  in  philosophy  or  poli- 
iaries.  To  attempt  a  single  paper  was  tics;  but  an  arbiter  elegantiarum,  a  judge 
no  terrifying  labor;  many  pieces  were  35  of  propriety,  was  yet  wanting,  who  should 
offered,  and  many  were  received.  survey   the    track   of   daily    conversation, 

Addison  had  enough  of  the  zeal  of  and  free  it  from  thorns  and  prickles, 
party ;  but  Steele  had  at  that  time  almost  which  tease  the  passer,  though  they  do 
nothing  else.  Tlie  Spectator,  in  one  of  not  wound  him.  For  this  purpose  noth- 
the  first  papers,  showed  the  political  40  ing  is  so  proper  as  the  frequent  publica- 
tenets  of  its  authors ;  but  a  resolution  was  tion  of  short  papers,  which  we  read,  not 
soon  taken  of  courting  general  approba-  as  study,  but  amusement.  If  the  subject 
tion  by  general  topics,  and  subjects  on  be  slight,  the  treatise  likewise  is  short, 
which  faction  had  produced  no  diversity  The  busy  may  find  time,  and  the  idle  may 
of  sentiments ;  such  as  literature,  moral-  +5  find  patience.  This  mode  of  conveying 
ity,  and  familiar  life.  To  this  practice  cheap  and  easy  knowledge  began  among 
they  adhered  with  few  deviations.  The  us  in  the  civil  war,  when  it  was  much 
ardor  of  Steele  once  broke  out  in  praise  the  interest  of  either  party  to  raise  and 
of  Marlborough ;  and  when  Dr.  Fleet-  fix  the  prejudices  of  the  people.  At  that 
wood  prefixed  to  some  sermons  a  preface ''°  time  appeared  Mercnriiis  Aulicus,  Mcr- 
overflowing  with  whiggish  opinions,  that  curiiis  Rnsticus,  and  Mercurius  Civicus. 
it  might  be  read  by  the  Queen,  it  was  It  is  said  that  when  any  title  grew  pop- 
reprinted  in  The  Spectator.  ular,  it  was  stolen  by  the  antagonist,  who 

To  teach  the  minuter  decencies  and  by  this  stratagem  conveyed  his  notions  to 
inferior  duties,  to  regulate  the  practice  ^''  those  who  would  not  have  received  him 
of  daily  conversation,  to  correct  those  had  he  not  worn  the  appearance  of  a 
depravities,   which    are   rather   ridiculous      friend.     The    tumult    of    those    unhappy 


410  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


days  left  scarcely  any  man  leisure  to  and  sometimes  towered  far  above  their 
treasure  up  occasional  compositions ;  and  predecessors ;  and  taught,  with  great  just- 
so  much  were  they  neglected  that  a  com-  ness  of  argument  and  dignity  of  language, 
olete  collection  is  nowhere  to  be  found.  the    most    important    duties    and    sublime 

These  Mercuries  were  succeeded  by  5  truths.  All  these  topics  were  happily 
L'Estrange's  Obscrvator ;  and  that  by  Les-  varied  with  elegant  fictions  and  refined 
ley's  Rehearsal,  and  perhaps  by  others;  allegories,  and  illuminated  with  different 
but  hitherto  nothing  had  been  conveyed  changes  of  style  and  felicities  of  inven- 
lo  the   people,   in  this   commodious  man-      tion. 

ner,  but  controversy  relating  to  the  'o  It  is  recorded  by  Budgell,  that  of  the 
church  or  state;  of  which  they  taught  characters  feigned  or  exhibited  in  The 
many  to  talk,  whom  they  could  not  teach  Spectator,  the  favorite  of  Addison  was 
to  judge.  ^ir  Roger  de  Coverley,  of  whom  he  had 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  Royal  formed  a  very  delicate  and  discriminated 
Society  was  instituted  soon  after  the  '5  idea,  which  he  would  not  suffer  to  be 
Restoration  to  divert  the  attention  of  the  violated;  and  therefore  when  Steele  had 
people  from  public  discontent.  The  Tat-  shown  him  innocently  picking  up  a  girl 
ler  and  Spectator  had  the  same  tendency;  in  the  Temple,  and  taking  her  to  a  tavern, 
they  were  published  at  a  time  when  two  he  drew  upon  himself  so  much  of  his 
parties  —  loud,  restless,  and  violent,  each  2°  friend's  indignation  that  he  was  forced  to 
with  plausible  declarations,  and  each  per-  appease  him  by  a  promise  of  forbearing 
haps  without  any  distinct  termination  of  Sir  Roger  for  the  time  to  come. 
its  views  —  were  agitating  the  nation;  to  The  reason  which  induced  Cervantes  to 

minds  heated  with'  political  contest  they  bring  his  hero  to  the  grave,  para  mi  sola 
supplied  cooler  and  more  inoffensive  re-  ^'>  uacio  Don  Quixote,  y  yo  para  el  [for  me 
flections;  and  it  is  said  by  Addison,  in  a  alone  was  Don  Quixote  born,  and  I  for 
subsequent  work,  that  they  had  a  per-  him],  made  Addison  declare,  with  undue 
ceptible  influence  upon  the  conversation  vehemence  of  expression,  that  he  would 
of  that  time,  and  taught  the  frolic  and  kill  Sir  Roger;  being  of  opinion  that 
the  gay  to  unite  merriment  with  decency  30  they  were  born  for  one  another,  and  that 
—  an  effect  which  they  can  never  wholly  any  other  hand  would  do  him  wrong. 
lose    while    they    continue    to    be    among  It    may    be    doubted    whether    Addison 

the  first  books  by  which  both  sexes  ever  filled  up  his  original  delineation, 
are  initiated  in  the  elegances  of  knowl-  He  describes  his  knight  as  having  his 
edge.  35  imagination    somewhat    warped ;    but    of 

The  Tatler  and  Spectator  adjusted,  like  this  perversion  he  has  made  very  little 
Casa,  the  unsettled  practice  of  daily  in-  use.  The  irregularities  in  Sir  Roger's 
tercourse  by  propriety  and  politeness;  conduct  seem  not  so  much  the  effects  of 
and,  like  La  Bruyere,  exhibited  the  char-  a  mind  deviating  from  the  beaten  track  of 
acters  and  manners  of  the  age.  The  40  life,  by  the  perpetual  pressure  of  some 
personages  introduced  in  these  papers  overwhelming  idea,  as  of  habitual  rus- 
were  not  merely  ideal ;  they  were  then  ticity,  and  that  negligence  which  solitary 
known,  and  conspicuous  in  various  sta-  grandeur  naturally  generates.  The  vari- 
tions.  Of  The  Tatler  that  is  told  by  able  weather  of  the  mind,  the  flying 
Steele  in  his  last  paper ;  and  of  The  45  vapors  of  incipient  madness,  which  from 
Spectator  by  Budgell  in  the  preface  to  time  to  time  cloud  reason  without  eclips- 
Theophrastus,  a  book  which  Addison  has  ing  it,  it  requires  so  much  nicety  to  ex- 
recommended,  and  which  he  was  sus-  hibit  that  Addison  seems  to  have  been 
pected  to  have  revised,  if  he  did  not  write  deterred  from  prosecuting  his  own  de- 
it.     Of  those  portraits  which  may  be  sup-  '>°  sign. 

posed   to   be   sometimes   embellished,    and  To     Sir     Roger,     who.     as     a     country 

sometimes  aggravated,  the  originals  are  gentleman,  appears  to  be  a  tory,  or,  as  it 
now  partly  known,  and  partly  forgotten.  is  gently  expressed,  an  adherent  to  the 
But  to  say  that  they  united  the  plans  of  landed  interest,  is  opposed  Sir  Andrew 
two  or  three  eminent  writers,  is  to  ^ive  55  Freeport,  a  new  man,  a  wealthy  mer- 
them  but  a  small  part  of  their  due  praise ;  chant,  zealous  for  the  moneyed  interest, 
they   superadded   literature   and   criticism.      and     a     whig.     Of     this     contrariety     of 


LIFE  OF  ADDISON  411 


opinions,  it  is  probable  more  coiise-  courage  and  his  zeal  by  finishing  his  de- 
quences  were  at  first  intended  than  could      sign. 

be    produced    when    the    resolution    was  To    resume    his    work    he    seemed    per- 

taken  to  exclude  party  from  the  paper.  versely  and  unaccountably  unwilling;  and 
Sir  Andrew  does  but  little,  and  that  little  5  by  a  request,  which  perhaps  he  wished  to 
seems  not  to  have  pleased  Addison,  who,  be  denied,  desired  Mr.  Hughes  to  add  a 
when  he  dismissed  him  from  the  club,  fifth  act.  Hughes  supposed  him  serious; 
changed  his  opinions.  Steele  had  made  and,  undertaking  the  supplement,  brought 
him,  in  the  true  spirit  of  unfeeling  com-  in  a  few  days  some  scenes  for  his  ex- 
merce,  declare  that  he  'would  not  build  loamination;  but  he  had  in  the  meantime 
an  hospital  for  idle  people';  but  at  last  gone  to  work  himself,  and  produced  half 
he  buys  land,  settles  in  the  country,  and  an  act,  which  he  afterwards  completed, 
builds,  not  a  manufactory,  but  an  hospital  but  with  brevity  irregularly  dispropor- 
for  twelve  old  husbandmen  —  for  men  tionate  to  the  foregoing  parts,  like  a  task 
with  whom  a  merchant  has  little  ac-  15  performed  with  reluctance  and  hurried  to 
quaintance,  and  whom  he  commonly  con-  its  conclusion, 
siders  with  little  kindness.  It   may   yet   be   doubted   whether   Cato 

Of  essays  thus  elegant,  thus  instructive,  was  made  public  by  any  change  of  the 
and  thus  commodiously  distributed,  it  is  author's  purpose ;  for  Dennis  charged  him 
natural  to  suppose  the  approbation  gen-  20  with  raising  prejudices  in  his  own  favor 
eral,  and  the  sale  numerous.  I  once  by  false  positions  of  preparatory  criti- 
heard  it  observed  that  the  sale  may  be  cism,  and  with  '  poisoning  the  town '  by 
calculated  by  the  product  of  the  tax,  re-  contradicting  in  The  Spectator  the  estab- 
lated  in  the  last  number  to  produce  more  lished  rule  of  poetical  justice,  because  his 
than  twenty  pounds  a  week,  and  there-  ^5  own  hero,  with  all  his  virtues,  was  to  fall 
fore  stated  at  one-and-twenty  pounds,  or  before  a  tyrant.  The  fact  is  certain ;  the 
three  pounds  ten  shillings  a  day :  this,  at  motives  we  mvist  guess. 
a    halfpenny    a    paper,    will    give    sixteen  Addison  was,  I  believe,  sufificiently  dis- 

hundred  and  eighty  for  the  daily  number,  posed  to  bar  all  avenues  against  all  dan- 
This  sale  is  not  great;  yet  this,  if  Swift  30  ger.  When  Pope  brought  him  the  pro- 
be credited,  was  likely  to  grow  less;  for  logue,  which  is  properly  accommodated 
he  declares  that  The  Spectator,  whom  he  to  the  play,  there  were  these  words, 
ridicules  for  his  endless  mention  of  the  '  Britains,  arise !  be  worth  like  this  ap- 
fair  sex,  had  before  his  recess  wearied  proved ' ;  meaning  nothing  more  than 
his  readers.  35  —  Britons,  erect  and  exalt  yourselves  to 

The  next  year  (1713),  in  which  Cato  the  approbation  of  public  virtue.  Ad- 
came  upon  the  stage,  was  the  grand  dison  was  frighted,  lest  he  should  be 
climacteric  of  Addison's  reputation,  thought  a  promoter  of  insurrection,  and 
Upon  the  death  of  Cato  he  had,  as  is  said,  the  line  was  liquidated  to  '  Britons,  at- 
planned    a    tragedy    in    the    time    of    his  40  tend.' 

travels,    and   had    for    several    years    the  Now   '  heavily   in   clouds   came   on   the 

four  first  acts  finished,  which  were  shown  day,  the  great,  the  important  day,'  when 
to  such  as  were  likely  to  spread  their  Addison  was  to  stand  the  hazard  of  the 
admiration.  They  were  seen  by  Pope  theater.  That  there  might,  however,  be 
and  by  Gibber,  who  relates  that  Steele,  45  left  as  little  hazard  as  was  possible,  on 
when  he  took  back  the  copy,  told  him,  the  first  night  Steele,  as  himself  relates, 
in  the  despicable  cant  of  literary  modesty,  undertook  to  pack  an  audience.  '  This,' 
that,  whatever  spirit  his  friend  had  shown  says  Pope,  '  had  been  tried  for  the  first 
in  the  composition,  he  doubted  whether  time  in  favor  of  The  Distressed  Mother; 
he  would  have  courage  sufficient  to  ex-  So  and  was  now,  with  more  efficacy,  prac- 
pose  it  to  the  censure  of  a  British  audi-  tised  for  Cato.'  The  danger  was  soon 
ence.  The  time,  however,  was  now  come  over.  The  whole  nation  was  at  that  time 
when  those  who  affected  to  think  liberty  on  fire  with  faction.  The  whigs  ap- 
in  danger  affected  likewise  to  think  that  plauded  every  line  in  which  liberty  was 
a  stage'-play  might  preserve  it;  and  Addi-  55  mentioned,  as  a  satire  on  the  tories ; 
son  was  importuned,  in  the  name  of  the  and  the  tories  echoed  every  clap,  to 
tutelarv   deities    of    Britain,    to    show    his      show    that    the    satire    was    unfelt.     The 


412  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


story  of  Bolingbroke  is  well  known;  he  officiousness  to  himself,  informed  Dennis 
called  Booth  to  his  box,  and  gave  him  by  Steele  that  he  was  sorry  for  the  insult ; 
fifty  guineas  for  defending  the  cause  of  and  that,  whenever  he  should  think  fit 
liberty  so  well  against  a  perpetual  die-  to  answer  his  remarks,  he  would  do  it 
tator.  '  The  whigs,'  says  Pope,  '  design  ■;  in  a  manner  to  which  nothing  could  be 
a  second  present,  when  they  can  accom-      objected. 

pany  it  with  as  good  a  sentence.'  The  greatest  weakness  of  the  play  is 

The  play,  supported  thus  by  the  emula-  in  the  scenes  of  love,  which  are  said  by 
tion  of  factious  praise,  was  acted  night  Pope  to  have  been  added  to  the  original 
after  night  for  a  longer  time  than,  I  be-  lo  plan  upon  a  subsequent  review,  in  com- 
lieve,  the  public  had  allowed  to  any  pliance  with  the  popular  practice  of  the 
drama  before;  and  the  author,  as  Mrs.  stage.  Such  an  authority  it  is  hard  to 
Porter  long  afterwards  related,  wandered  reject;  yet  the  love  is  so  intimately 
through  the  whole  exhibition  behind  the  mingled  with  the  whole  action  that  it 
scenes  with  restless  and  unappeasable  is  cannot  easily  be  thought  extrinsic  and 
solicitude.  When  it  was  printed,  notice  adventitious;  for  if  it  were  taken  away, 
was  given  that  the  Queen  would  be  what  would  be  left?  Or  how  were  the 
pleased  if  it  was  dedicated  to  her;  'but  four  acts  filled  in  the  first  draft?  At 
as  he  had  designed  that  compliment  else-  the  publication  the  wits  seemed  proud 
where,  he  found  himself  obliged,'  says  20  to  pay  their  attendance  with  encomiastic 
Tickell,  '  by  his  duty  on  the  one  hand,  verses.  The  best  are  from  an  unknown 
and  his  honor  on  the  other,  to  send  it  hand,  which  will  perhaps  lose  somewhat 
into  the  world  without  any  dedication.'  of  their  praise  when  the  author  is  known 

Human  happiness  has  always  its  abate-  to  be  Jeffreys, 
ments;  the  brightest  sunshine  of  success  ^^  Cato  had  yet  other  honors.  It  was 
is  not  without  a  cloud.  No  sooner  was  censured  as  a  party-play  by  a  scholar  of 
Cato  offered  to  the  reader  than  it  was  Oxford;  and  defended  in  a  favorable  ex- 
attacked  by  the  acute  malignity  of  Den-  amination  by  Dr.  Sewel.  It  was  trans- 
nis  with  all  the  violence  of  angry  criti-  lated  by  Salvini  into  Italian,  and  acted 
cism.  Dennis,  though  equally  zealous,  30  at  Florence ;  and  by  the  Jesuits  of  St. 
and  probably  by  his  temper  more  furious  Omer's  into  Latin,  and  played  by  their 
than  Addison,  for  what  they  called  pupils.  Of  this  version  a  copy  was  sent 
liberty,  and  though  a  flatterer  of  the  to  Mr.  Addison :  it  is  to  be  wished  that 
Whig  Ministry,  could  not  sit  quiet  at  a  it  could  be  found,  for  the  sake  of  com- 
successful  play;  but  was  eager  to  tell  35  paring  their  version  of  the  soliloquy  with 
friends   and   enemies   that   they  had   mis-      that  of   Bland. 

placed  their  admirations.     The  world  was  A    tragedy   was    written   on    the    same 

too    stubborn    for    instruction;    with    the      subject   by   Des   Champs,   a   French  poet, 
fate   of  the   censurer  of  Corneille's   Cid,      which  was  translated  with  a  criticism  on 
his     animadversions     showed    his    anger  40  the  English  play.     But  the  translator  and 
without  effect,  and  Cato  continued  to  be      the  critic  are  now  forgotten, 
praised.  Dennis  lived  on  unanswered,  and  there- 

Pope  had  now  an  opportunity  of  court-  fore  little  read.  Addison  knew  the  policy 
ing  the  friendship  of  Addison  by  vilify-  of  literature  too  well  to  make  his  enemy 
ing  his  old  enemy,  and  could  give  resent-  ^^  important  by  drawing  the  attention  of  the 
ment  its  full  play  without  appearing  to  public  upon  a  criticism  which,  though 
revenge  himself.  He  therefore  published  sometimes  intemperate,  was  often  irref- 
A  Narrative  of  the  Madness  of  John  Den-      ragable. 

nis:    a   performance    which    left   the   ob-  While    Cato   was   upon   the   stage,   an- 

jections  to  the  play  in  their  full  force,  5°  other  daily  paper,  called  The  Guardian, 
and  therefore  discovered  more  desire  of  was  published  by  Steele.  To  this  Addi- 
vexing  the  critic  than  of  defending  the  son  gave  great  assistance,  whether  occa- 
poet.  sionally  or  by  previous  engagement  is  not 

Addison,  who  was  no  stranger  to  the  known.  The  character  of  Guardian  was 
world,  probably  saw  the  selfishness  of  55  too  narrow  and  too  serious:  it  might 
Pope's  friendship;  and,  resolving  that  properly  enough  admit  both  the  duties 
he   should   have  the  consequences  of  his      and  the  decencies  of  life,  but  seemed  not 


LIFE  OF  ADDISON  413 


to  include  literary  speculations,  and  was  moted.  That  it  should  have  been  ill 
in  some  degree  violated  by  merriment  received  would  raise  wonder,  did  we  not 
and  burlesque.  What  had  the  Guardian  daily  see  the  capricious  distribution  of 
of  the  Lizards  to  do  with  clubs  of  tall  or      theatrical  praise. 

of  little  men,  with  nests  of  ants,  or  with  5  He  was  not  all  this  time  an  indifferent 
Strada's  prolusions?  Of  this  paper  noth-  spectator  of  public  affairs.  He  wrote,  as 
ing  is  necessary  to  be  said  but  that  it  different  exigences  required  (in  1707). 
found  many  contributors,  and  that  it  was  The  present  State  of  the  War,  and  the 
a  continuation  of  The  Spectator,  with  the  Necessity  of  an  Augmentation;  which, 
same  elegance  and  the  same  variety,  till  10  however  judicious,  being  written  on 
some  unlucky  sparkle  from  a  tory  paper  temporary  topics,  and  exhibiting  no  pe- 
set  Steele's  politics  on  fire,  and  wit  at  culiar  powers,  laid  hold  on  no  attention, 
once  blazed  into  faction.  He  was  soon  and  has  naturally  sunk  by  its  own  weight 
too  hot  for  neutral  topics,  and  quitted  into  neglect.  This  cannot  be  said  of  the 
The  Guardian  to  write  The  Englishman,  is  few  papers  entitled  The  Whig  Examiner, 

The  papers  of  Addison  are  marked  in  in  which  is  employed  all  the  force  of  gay 
The  Spectator  by  one  of  the  letters  in  malevolence  and  humorous  satire.  Of 
the  name  of  Clio,  and  in  The  Guardian  this  paper,  which  just  appeared  and  ex- 
by  a  hand;  whether  it  was,  as  Tickell  pired.  Swift  remarks,  with  exultation,  that 
pretends  to  think,  that  he  was  unwilling  20  '  it  is  now  down  among  the  dead  men.' 
to  usurp  the  praise  of  others,  or  as  He  might  well  rejoice  at  the  death  of  that 
Steele,  with  far  greater  likelihood,  in-  which  he  could  not  have  killed.  Every 
sinuates,  that  he  could  not  without  dis-  reader  of  every  party,  since  personal 
content  impart  to  Others  any  of  his  own.  malice  is  past,  and  the  papers  which  once 
I  have  heard  that  his  avidity  did  not  ^5  inflamed  the  nation  are  read  only  as 
satisfy  itself  with  the  air  of  renown,  but  effusions  of  wit,  must  wish  for  more  of 
that  with  great  eagerness  he  laid  hold  on  the  Whig  Examiners ;  for  on  no  occa- 
his  proportion  of  the  profits.  sion    was    the    genius    of    Addison    more 

Many  of  these  papers  were  written  vigorously  exerted,  and  on  none  did  the 
with  powers  truly  comic,  with  nice  dis-  3°  superiority  of  his  powers  more  evidently 
crimination  of  characters,  and  accurate  appear.  His  Trial  of  Count  Tariff,  writ- 
observation  of  natural  or  accidental  devi-  ten  to  expose  the  treaty  of  commerce  with 
ations  from  propriety;  but  it  was  not  France,  lived  no  longer  than  the  question 
supposed  that  he  had  tried  a  comedy  on      that  produced  it. 

the  stage,  till  Steele  after  his  death  de-  35  Not  long  afterwards  an  attempt  was 
clared  him  the  author  of  The  Drummer,  made  to  revive  The  Spectator,  at  a  time 
This,  however,  Steele  did  not  know  to  be  indeed  by  no  means  favorable  to  litera- 
true  by  any  direct  testimony,  for  when  ture,  when  the  succession  of  a  new  family 
Addison  put  the  play  into  his  hands,  he  to  the  throne  filled  the  nation  with  an- 
only  told  him  it  was  the  work  of  a  40  xiety,  discord,  and  confusion ;  and  either 
'  gentleman  in  the  company,'  and  when  the  turbulence  of  the  times,  or  the  satiety 
it  was  received,  as  is  confessed,  with  cold  of  the  readers,  put  a  stop  to  the  publica- 
disapprobation,  he  was  probably  less  tion  after  an  experiment  of  eighty  num- 
willing  to  claim  it.  Tickell  omitted  it  bers,  which  were  afterwards  collected 
in  his  collection ;  but  the  testimony  of  'fi  into  an  eighth  volume,  perhaps  more 
Steele,  and  the  total  silence  of  any  other  valuable  than  any  of  those  that  went  be- 
claimant,  has  determined  the  public  to  fore  it.  Addison  produced  more  than  a 
assign  it  to  Addison,  and  it  is  now  printed  fourth  part;  and  the  other  contributors 
with  his  other  poetry.  Steele  carried  The  are  by  no  means  unworthy  of  appearing 
Drummer  to  the  play-house,  and  after-  5o  as  his  associates.  The  time  that  had 
wards  to  the  press,  and  sold  the  copy  for  passed  during  the  suspension  of  The 
fifty  guineas.  Spectator,  though  it  had  not  lessened  his 

To  the  opinion  of  Steele  may  be  added  power  of  humor,  seems  to  have  increased 
the  proof  supplied  by  the  play  itself,  of  his  disposition  to  seriousness:  the  pro- 
which  the  characters  are  such  as  Addi-  55  portion  of  his  religious  to  his  comic 
son  would  have  delineated,  and  the  tend-  papers  is  greater  than  in  the  former 
ency  such   as   Addison   would   have   pro-      series. 


414  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


The  Spectator,  from  its  re-commence-  And  Oldmixon  delights  to  tell  of  some 
meat,  was  published  only  three  times  a  alderman  of  London  that  he  had  more 
week;  and  no  discriminative  marks  were  money  than  the  exiled  princes;  but  that 
added  to  the  papers.  To  Addison,  Tickell  which  might  be  expected  from  Milton's 
has  ascribed  twenty-three.  The  Specta-  s  savageness,  or  Oldmixon's  meanness,  was 
tor  had  many  contributors;  and  Steele,  not  suitable  to  the  delicacy  of  Addison, 
whose   negligence   kept   him   always   in   a  Steele  thought  the  humor  of  The  Frcc- 

hurry,   when   it   was   his   turn   to   furnish      holder  too  nice  and  gentle  for  such  noisy 
a  ])aper,  called   loudly   for  the  letters,  of      times,   and   is   reported  to  have  said  that 
which     Addison,     whose     materials     were  lo  the   ministry   made    use   of    a   lute,    when 
more,    made    little   use  —  having   recourse      they  should  have  called  for  a  trumpet, 
to  sketches  and  hints,  the  product  of  his  This     year      (1716)     he     married     the 

former  studies,  which  he  now  reviewed  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick,  whom  he 
and  completed:  among  these  are  named  had  solicited  by  a  very  long  and  anxious 
by  Tickell  the  Essays  on  Wit,  those  on  is  courtship,  perhaps  with  behavior  not  very 
the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  and  the  unlike  that  of  Sir  Roger  to  his  disdain- 
Criticism  on  Milton.  ful    widow;    and    who,    I    am    afraid,    di- 

When  the  House  of  Hanover  took  verted  herself  often  by  playing  with  his 
possession  of  the  throne,  it  was  reason-  passion.  He  is  said  to  have  first  known 
able  to  expect  that  the  zeal  of  Addison  20  her  by  becoming  tutor  to  her  son.  '  He 
would  be  suitably  rewarded.  Before  the  formed,'  said  Tonson,  '  the  design  of 
arrival  of  King  George,  he  was  made  getting  that  lady  from  the  time  when 
secretary  to  the  Regency,  and  was  re-  he  was  first  recommended  into  the  fam- 
quired  by  his  office  to  send  notice  to  Han-  ily.'  In  what  part  of  his  life  he  obtained 
over  that  the  Queen  was  dead,  and  that  23  the  recommendation,  or  how  long,  and  in 
the  throne  was  vacant.  To  do  this  would  what  manner  he  lived  in  the  family,  I 
not  have  been  difficult  to  any  man  but  know  not.  His  advances  at  first  were 
Addison,  who  was  so  overwhelmed  with  certainly  timorous,  but  grew  bolder  as 
the  greatness  of  the  event,  and  so  dis-  his  reputation  and  influence  increased ; 
tracted  by  choice  of  expression,  that  the  v  till  at  last  the  lady  was  persuaded  to 
lords,  who  could  not  wait  for  the  niceties  marry  him,  on  terms  much  like  those 
of  criticism,  called  Mr.  Southwell,  a  clerk  on  which  a  Turkish  princess  is  espoused, 
in  the  House,  and  ordered  him  to  de-  to  whom  the  Sultan  is  reported  to  pro- 
spatch  the  message.  Southwell  readily  nounce,  '  Daughter,  I  give  thee  this  man 
told  what  was  necessary  in  the  common  35  for  thy  slave.'  The  marriage,  if  uncon- 
style  of  business,  and  valued  himself  upon  tradicted  report  can  be  credited,  made  no 
having  done  what  was  too  hard  for  Addi-  addition  to  his  happiness ;  it  neither  found 
son.  He  was  better  qualified  for  The  them  nor  made  them  equal.  She  always 
Freeholder,  a  paper  which  he  published  remembered  her  own  rank,  and  thought 
twice  a  week,  from  December  23,  1715,  to  40  herself  entitled  to  treat  with  very  little 
the  middle  of  the  next  year.  This  was  ceremony  the  tutor  of  her  son.  Rowe's 
undertaken  in  defense  of  the  established  ballad  of  The  Despairing  Shepherd  is 
Government,  sometimes  with  argument,  said  to  have  been  written,  either  before 
and  sometimes  with  mirth.  In  argument  or  after  marriage,  upon  this  memorable 
he  had  many  equals;  but  his  humor  was  45  pair;  and  it  is  certain  that  Addison  has 
singular  and  matchless.  Bigotry  itself  left  behind  him  no  encouragement  for 
must    be    delighted    with    the    Tory    Fox-      ambitious  love. 

hunter.     There       are,       however,       some  The  year  after    (1717)    he  rose  to   his 

strokes  less  elegant  and  less  decent ;  such  highest  elevation,  being  made  secretary 
as  the  Pretender's  Journal,  in  which  one  ^o  of  state.  For  this  employment  he  might 
topic  of  ridicule  is  his  poverty.  This  be  justly  supposed  qualified  by  long 
mode  of  abuse  had  been  employed  by  practice  of  business,  and  by  his  regular 
Milton  against  King  Charles  II.  ascent  through  other  offices;  but  expecta- 

Tacoboei  tion    is   often   disappointed;   it   is   univer- 

Centum  exulantis  viscera   marsuppi   regis.  ^^  sally   confessed   that   he   was    unequal    to 
[A   hundred   Jacobuses,   dregs   of   the  the    duties    of    his    place.     In    the    House 

purse  of  an  exiled  king.]  of    Commons    he    could    not    speak,    and 


LIFE  OF  ADDISON  415 


therefore  was  useless  to  the  defense  of  son.  It  came  too  late  to  be  of  use,  so  I 
the  government.  '  In  the  office,'  says  inspected  it  but  slightly,  and  remember 
Pope,  '  he  could  not  issue  an  order  with-  it  indistinctly.  I  thought  the  passages  too 
out  losing  his  time  in  quest  of  fine  ex-  short.  Addison,  however,  did  not  con- 
pressions.'  What  he  gained  in  rank  he  5  elude  his  life  in  peaceful  studies,  but  re- 
lost  in  credit;  and  finding  by  experience  lapsed,  when  he  was  near  his  end,  to  a 
his    own    inability,    was    forced   to    solicit      political  dispute. 

his  dismission,   with  a  pension  of  fifteen  It  so  happened  that    (1718-19)    a  con- 

hundred  pounds  a  year.  His  friends  pal-  troversy  was  agitated  with  great  vehe- 
liated  this  relinquishment,  of  which  both  10  mence  between  those  friends  of  long  con- 
friends  and  enemies  knew  the  true  rea-  tinuance,  Addison  and  Steele.  It  may  be 
son,  with  an  account  of  declining  health,  asked,  in  the  language  of  Homer,  what 
and  the  necessity  of  recess  and  quiet,  power  or  what  cause  could  set  them  at 
He  now  returned  to  his  vocation,  and  variance.  The  subject  of  their  dispute 
began  to  plan  literary  occupations  for  his  15  was  of  great  importance.  The  Earl  of 
future  life.  He  purposed  a  tragedy  on  Sunderland  proposed  an  act  called  The 
the  death  of  Socrates,  a  story  of  which,  Peerage  Bill ;  by  which  the  number  of 
as  Tickell  remarks,  the  basis  is  narrow,  peers  should  be  fixed,  and  the  king  re- 
and  to  which  I  know  not  how  love  could  strained  from  any  new  creation  of 
have  been  appended.  There  would,  how-  20  nobility,  unless  when  an  old  family 
ever,  have  been  no  want  either  of  virtue  should  be  extinct.  To  this  the  lords 
in  the  sentiments,  or  elegance  in  the  would  naturally  agree;  and  the  king,  who 
language.  He  engaged  in  a  nobler  work,  was  yet  little  acquainted  with  his  own 
a  Defense  of  the  Christian  Religion,  of  prerogative,  and,  as  is  now  well  known, 
which  part  was  published  after  his  death ;  ^''  almost  indifferent  to  the  possessions  of  the 
and  he  designed  to  have  made  a  new  crown,  had  been  persuaded  to  consent, 
poetical  version  of  the  Psalms.  The  only  difficulty  was  found  among  the 

These  pious  compositions  Pope  imputed  commons,  who  were  not  likely  to  ap- 
to  a  selfish  motive,  upon  the  credit,  as  'prove  the  perpetual  exclusion  of  them- 
he  owns,  of  Tonson ;  who,  having  quar-  3o  selves  and  their  posterity.  The  bill, 
reled  with  Addison,  and  not  loving  him,  therefore,  was  eagerly  opposed,  and, 
said  that  when  he  laid  down  the  secre-  among  others,  by  Sir  Robert  Walpole, 
tary's  office  he  intended  to  take  orders  whose  speech  was  published. 
and    obtain    a    bishopric;    'for,'    said    he.  The    lords    might    think    their    dignity 

'  I  always  thought  him  a  priest  in  his  35  diminished  by  improper  advancements, 
heart.'  and    particularly    by    the    introduction    of 

That  Pope  should  have  thought  this  twelve  new  peers  at  once,  to  produce  a 
conjecture  of  Tonson  worth  remcni-  majority  of  tories  in  the  last  reign :  an 
brance,  is  a  proof  —  but  indeed,  so  far  act  of  authority  violent  enough,  yet  cer- 
as  I  have  found,  the  only  proof  —  that  -i^tainly  legal,  and  by  no  means  to  be  com- 
he  retained  some  malignity  from  their  pared  with  that  contempt  of  national 
ancient  rivalry.  Tonson  pretended  but  to  right  with  which  some  time  afterwards, 
guess  it ;  no  other  mortal  ever  suspected  by  the  instigation  of  whiggism,  the  corn- 
it ;  and  Pope  might  have  reflected  that  a  mons.  chosen  by  the  people  for  three 
man  who  had  been  secretary  of  state  in  45  years,  chose  themselves  for  seven.  But, 
the  ministry  of  Sunderland  knew  a  nearer  whatever  might  be  the  disposition  of  the 
way  to  a  bishopric  than  by  defending  re-  lords,  the  people  had  no  wish  to  increase 
ligion  or  translating  the  Psalms.  their  power.     The  tendency  of  the  bill,  as 

It  is  related  that  he  had  once  a  design  Steele  observed  in  a  letter  to  the  Earl  of 
to  make  an  English  Dictionary,  and  that  ^°  Oxford,  was  to  introduce  an  aristocracy: 
he  considered  Dr.  Tillotson  as"  the  writer  for  a  majority  in  the  House  of  Lords,  so 
of  highest  authority.  There  was  for-  limited,  would  have  been  despotic  and 
merly   sent   to   me   by   Mr.    Locker,    clerk      irresistible. 

of  the  Leathersellers'  Company,  who  was  To  prevent  this   subversion   of  the   an- 

eminent  for  curiosity  and  literature,  a  ^'^  cicnt  establishment,  Steele,  whose  pen 
collection  of  examples  selected  from  Til-  readily  seconded  his  political  passions, 
lotson's  works,  as  Locker  said,   by  Addi-      endeavored     to    alarm     the  nation     by    a 


4i6  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


pamphlet  called  The  Plebeian.  To  this  The  delicate  features  of  the  mind,  the 
an  answer  was  published  by  Addison,  nice  discriminations  of  character,  and  the 
under  the  title  of  7'lie  Old  PVhig,  in  minute  peculiarities  of  conduct,  are  soon 
which  it  is  not  discovered  that  Steele  ol)litcratcd;  and  it  is  surely  better  that 
was  then  known  to  be  the  advocate  for  5  caprice,  obstinacy,  frolic,  and  folly,  how- 
the  commons.  Steele  replied  by  a  second  ever  they  mis'lit  delight  in  the  description. 
Plebeian;  and,  whether  by  ignorance  or  should  be  silently  forgotten,  than  that,  by 
l)y  courtesy,  confined  himself  to  his  ques-  wanton  merriment  and  unseasonable  de- 
tion,  without  any  personal  notice  of  his  tcction,  a  pang  should  be  given  to  a 
opponent.  Nothing  hitherto  was  com-  10  widow,  a  daughter,  a  brother,  or  a  friend, 
niitted  against  the  laws  of  friendship  or  As  the  process  of  these  narratives  is  now 
proprieties  of  decency;  but  controvertists  bringing  me  among  my  contemporaries,  I 
caimot  long  retain  their  kindness  for  each  begin  to  feel  myself  '  walking  upon  ashes 
other.  The  Old  Whig  answered  The  under  which  the  fire  is  not  extinguished,' 
Plebeian,  and  could  not  forbear  some  is  and  coming  to  the  time  of  which  it  will 
contempt  of  '  little  Dicky,  whose  trade  be  proper  rather  to  say  '  nothing  that  is 
it  was  to  write  pamphlets.'  Dicky,  how-  false,  than  all  that  is  true.' 
ever,   did   not   lose   his   settled  veneration  The  end  of  this  useful  life  was  now  ap- 

for  his  friend,  but  contented  himself  with  proaching.  Addison  had  for  some  time 
quoting  some  lines  of  Cato,  which  were  20  been  oppressed  by  shortness  of  breath, 
at  once  detection  and  reproof.  The  bill  which  was  now  aggravated  by  a  dropsy; 
was  laid  aside  during  that  session,  and  and,  finding  his  danger  pressing,  he  pre- 
Addison  died  before  the  next,  in  which  pared  to  die  comformably  to  his  own 
its  commitment  was  rejected  by  two  hun-  precepts  and  professions.  During  this 
dred  and  sixty-five  to  one  hundred  and  ^^  lingering  decay,  he  sent,  as  Pope  relates, 
seventy-seven.  a    message   by   the    Earl   of    Warwick   to 

Every  reader  surely  must  regret  that  Mr.  Gay,  desiring  to  see  him.  Gay,  who 
these  two  illustrious  friends,  after  so  had  not  visited  him  for  some  time  before, 
many  years  passed  in  confidence  and  en-  obeyed  the  summons,  and  found  himself 
dearment,  in  unity  of  interest,  conform-  30  received  with  great  kindness.  The  pur- 
ity of  opinion,  and  fellowship  of  study,  pose  for  which  the  interview  had  been 
should  finally  part  in  acrimonious  opposi-  solicited  was  then  discovered.  Addison 
tion.  Such  a  controversy  was  belluni  told  him  that  he  had  injured  him;  but 
plusquam  civile  [worse  than  civil  war],  that,  if  he  recovered,  he  would  recom- 
as  Lucan  expresses  it.  Why  could  not  35  pense  him.  What  the  injury  was  he  did 
faction  find  other  advocates?  But  among  not  explain,  nor  did  Gay  ever  know;  but 
the  uncertainties  of  the  human  state,  we  supposed  that  some  preferment  designed 
are  doomed  to  number  the  instability  of  for  him  had,  by  Addison's  intervention, 
friendship.     Of  this  dispute  I  have   little      been  withheld. 

knowledge  but  from  the  Biographia  Bri-  40  Lord  Warwick  was  a  young  man,  of 
tannica.  The  Old  Whig  is  not  inserted  very  irregular  life,  and  perhaps  of  loose 
in  Addison's  works;  nor  is  it  mentioned  opinions.  Addison,  for  whom  he  did  not 
by  Tickell  in  his  Life;  why  it  was  want  respect,  had  very  diligently  en- 
omitted,  the  biographers  doubtless  give  deavored  to  reclaim  him,  but  his  argu- 
the  true  reason:  the  fact  was  too  recent,  45  mcnts  and  expostulations  had  no  effect, 
and  those  who  had  been  heated  in  the  One  experiment,  however,  remained  to  I^e 
contention   were  not   yet   cool.  tried;  when  he  found  his  life  near  its  end. 

The  necessity  of  complying  with  times,  he  directed  the  young  lord  to  be  called, 
and  of  sparing  persons,  is  the  great  im-  and  when  he  desired  with  great  tender- 
pediment  of  biography.  History  may  be  50  ncss  to  hear  his  last  injunctions,  told  him, 
formed  from  permanent  monuments  and  '  I  have  sent  for  you  that  you  may  see 
records;  but  lives  can  only  be  written  how  a  Christian  can  die.'  What  effect 
from  personal  knowledge,  which  is  grow-  this  awful  scene  had  on  the  earl,  I  know- 
ing every  day  less,  and  in  a  short  time  not;  he  likewise  died  himself  in  a  short 
is    lost    for    ever.     What    is    known    can  ss  time. 

seldom  be  immediately  told;  and  when  it  In     Tickell's    excellent    Elegy    on    his 

might    be    told,    it    is    no    longer    known.      friend  are  these  lines:  — 


LIFE  OF  ADDISON  417 


He   taught   us    how   to   live;    and,   oh!    too      died  at  forty-seven,  after  having  not  only 
high  stood  long  in  the  highest  rank  of  wit  and 

"The  price  of  knowledge,  taught  us  how  to       literature,  but  filled  one  of  the  most  im- 
die —  portant  ofifices  of  state. 

5  The  time  in  w^hich  he  lived  had  reason 
in  which  he  alludes,  as  he  told  Dr.  to  lament  his  obstinacy  of  silence;  'for 
Young,    to   this   moving   interview.  he   was,'   says   Steele,   '  above   all   men   in 

Having  given  directions  to  Mr.  Tickell  that  talent  called  humor,  and  enjoyed  it 
for  the  publication  of  his  works,  and  in  such  perfection  that  I  have  often  re- 
dedicated  them  on  his  death-bed  to  his  10  fleeted,  after  a  night  spent  with  him  apart 
friend  Mr.  Craggs,  he  died  June  17,  1719,  from  all  the  world,  that  I  had  had  the 
at  Holland  House,  leaving  no  child  but  pleasure  of  conversing  with  an  intimate 
a  daughter.  acquaintance    of    Terence    and    Catullus, 

Of  his  virtue  it  is  a  sufificient  testimony  who  had  all  their  wit  and  nature,  height- 
that  the  resentment  of  party  has  trans-  15  cned  with  humor  more  exquisite  and 
mitted  no  charge  of  any  crime.  He  was  delightful  than  any  other  man  ever  pos- 
not  one  of  those  who  are  praised  only  sessed.'  This  is  the  fondness  of  a  friend ; 
after  death;  for  his  merit  was  so  gen-  let  us  hear  what  is  told  us  by  a  rival, 
erally  acknowledged  that  Swift,  ha\ing  'Addison's  conversation,'  says  Pope,  'had 
observed  that  his  election  passed  without  20  something  in  it  more  charming  than  I 
a  contest,  adds  that  if  he  had  proposed  have  found  in  any  other  man.  But  this 
himself  for  king  he  would  hardly  have  was  only  when  familiar:  before  strangers, 
been  refused.  His  zeal  for  his  party  did  or  perhaps  a  single  stranger,  he  preserved 
not  extinguish  his  kindness  for  the  merit  his  dignity  by  a  stiff  silence.'  This 
of  his  opponents;  when  he  was  secretary  25  niodesty  was  by  no  means  inconsistent 
in  Ireland,  he  refused  to  intermit  his  ac-  with  a  very  high  opinion  of  his  own 
quaintance  with  Swift.  Of  his  habits  or  merit.  He  demanded  to  be  the  first  name 
external  manners,  nothing  is  so  often  in  modern  wit;  and,  with  Steele  to  echo 
mentioned  as  that  timorous  or  sullen  him,  used  to  depreciate  Dryden,  whom 
taciturnity,  which  his  friends  called  3°  Pope  and  Congreve  defended  against 
modesty  by  too  mild  a  name.  Steele  them.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that 
mentions  with  great  tenderness  '  that  re-  he  suffered  too  much  pain  from  the  prev- 
markable  bashfulness  which  is  a  cloak  alence  of  Pope's  poetical  reputation ;  nor 
that  hides  and  muffles  merit ' ;  and  tells  is  it  without  strong  reason  suspected  that 
us  that  his  abilities  were  covered  only  3S  Ijy  some  disingenuous  acts  he  endeavored 
by  modesty,  which  doubles  the  beauties  to  obstruct  it ;  Pope  was  not  the  only  man 
which  are  seen,  and  gives  credit  and  whom  he  insidiously  injured,  though  the 
esteem  to  all  that  are  concealed.'  Ches-  only  man  of  whom  he  could  be  afraid, 
terfield  affirms  that  '  Addison  was  the  His  own  powers  were  such  as  might  have 
most  timorous  and  awkward  man  that  he  4°  satisfied  him  with  conscious  excellence, 
ever  saw.'  And  Addison,  speaking  of  his  Of  very  extensive  learning  he  has  indeed 
own  deficience  in  conversation  used  to  say  given  no  proofs.  He  seems  to  have  had 
of  himself  that,  with  respect  to  intellec-  small  acquaintance  with  the  sciences,  and 
tual  wealth,  '  he  could  draw  bills  for  a  to  have  read  little  except  Latin  and 
thousand  pounds,  though  he  had  not  a  45  French ;  but  of  the  Latin  poets  his  Dia- 
guinea  in  his  pocket.'  That  he  wanted  logiies  on  Medals  show  that  he  had 
current  coin  for  ready  payment,  and  by  perused  the  works  with  great  diligence 
that  want  was  often  obstructed  and  dis-  and  skill.  The  abundance  of  his  own 
tressed;  that  he  was  oppressed  by  an  im-  mind  left  him  little  need  of  adventitious 
proper  and  ungraceful  timidity,  every  5°  sentiments ;  his  wit  always  could  suggest 
testimony  concurs  to  prove;  but  Chester-  what  the  occasion  demanded.  He  had 
field's  representation  is  doubtless  hyper-  read  with  critical  eyes  the  important 
bolical.  That  man  cannot  be  supposed  volume  of  human  life,  and  knew  the  heart 
very  unexpert  in  the  arts  of  conversation  of  man,  from  the  depths  of  stratagem  to 
and  practice  of  life  who,  without  fortune  ^5  the  surface  of  affectation.  What  he 
or  alliance,  by  his  usefulness  and  dex-  knew  he  could  easily  communicate, 
terity  became  secretary  of  state,  and  who  '  This,'  says  Steele,  '  was  particular  in 
27 


4i8  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

this  writer  —  that  when  he  had  taken  his  and  l)ashfuhiess  for  confidence.  It  is  not 
resolution,  or  made  his  plan  for  what  he  unlikely  that  Addison  was  first  seduced 
designed  to  write,  he  would  walk  aI)out  a  to  excess  l)y  the  manumission  which  he 
room  and  dictate  it  into  language  with  as  obtained  from  the  servile  timidity  of  his 
much  freedom  and  ease  as  any  one  could  s  sober  hours.  He  that  feels  oppression 
write  it  down,  and  attend  to  the  coher-  from  the  presence  of  those  to  whom  he 
ence  and  grammar  of  what  he  dictated.'      knows  himself  superior  will  desire  to  set 

Pope,    who    can    be    less    suspected    of      loose    his    powers    of    conversation ;    and 
favoring    his    memory,    declares    that    he      who  that  ever  asked  succors   from   Bac- 
wrote    very    fluently,    but    was    slow    and  lo  cluis   was   able   to   preserve  himself   from 
scrupulous    in    correcting;    that    many    of      being  enslaved  by  his  auxiliary? 
his  Spectators  were  written  very  fast,  and  Among   those   friends   it   was   that   Ad- 

sent  immediately  to  the  press;  and  that  it  dison  displayed  the  elegance  of  his  col- 
seemed  to  be  for  his  advantage  not  to  loquial  accomplishments,  which  may 
have  time  for  much  revisal.  '  He  would  is  easily  be  supposed  such  as  Pope  repre- 
altcr,'  says  Pope,  '  anything  to  please  his  sents  them.  The  remark  of  Mandeville, 
friends  before  publication,  but  would  not  who,  when  he  had  passed  an  evening  in 
re-touch  his  pieces  afterwards;  and  I  be-  his  company,  declared  that  he  was  a  par- 
lieve  not  one  word  in  Goto  to  which  I  son  in  a  tye-wig,  can  detract  little  from 
made  an  objection  was  suffered  to  stand.'  20  his  character;  he  was  always  reserved  to 

The  last  line  of  Cato  is  Pope's,  having  strangers,  and  was  not  incited  to  uncom- 
been  originally  written —  mon   freedom  by  a  character  like  that  of 

Alandeville. 
And  oh!   'twas  this  that   ended  Cato's  life.  From    any    minute    knowledge    of    his 

2S  familiar  manners  the  intervention  of  sixty 

Pope  might  have  made  more  oljjections  years  has  now  debarred  us.  Steele  once 
to  the  six  concluding  lines.  In  the  first  promised  Congreve  and  the  public  a 
couplet  the  words  'from  hence'  are  im-  comj^lete  description  of  his  character;  but 
proper;  and  the  second  line  is  taken  from  the  ])romises  of  authors  are  like  the  vows 
Dryden's  Virgil.  Of  the  next  couplet,  30  of  lovers.  Steele  thought  no  more  on 
the  first  verse,  being  included  in  the  sec-  his  design,  or  thought  on  it  with  anxiety 
ond,  is  therefore  useless;  and  in  the  third  that  at  last  disgusted  him,  and  left  his 
Discord  is  made  to  produce  Strife.  friend  in  the  hands  of  Tickell. 

Of    the    course    of    Addison's    familiar  One   slight   lineament   of   his   character 

day,  before  his  marriage.  Pope  has  given  3s  Swift  has  preserved.  It  was  his  practice, 
a  detail.  He  had  in  the  house  with  him  when  he  found  any  man  invincibly  wrong, 
Budgell,  and  perhaps  Philips.  Plis  chief  to  flatter  his  opinions  by  acquiescence, 
companions  were  Steele,  Budgell,  Phil-  and  sink  him  yet  deeper  in  absurdity, 
ips,  Carey,  Davenant,  and  Colonel  Brett.  This  artifice  of  mischief  was  admired  by 
With  one  or  other  of  these  he  always  40  Stella ;  and  Swift  seems  to  approve  her 
breakfasted.  He  studied  all  morning;  admiration.  His  works  will  supply  some 
then  dined  at  a  tavern;  and  went  after-  information.  It  appears  from  his  va- 
wards   to   Button's.  rious    pictures    of    tiie    world,    that,    with 

Button  had  been  a  servant  in  the  all  his  bashfulness,  he  had  conversed  with 
Countess  of  Warwick's  family,  who,  un-  4S  many  distinct  classes  of  men,  had  sur- 
der  the  patronage  of  Addison,  kept  a  veyed  their  ways  with  very  diligent  ob- 
coffee-house  on  the  south  side  of  Rus-  servation,  and  marked  with  great  acute- 
sell  Street,  about  two  doors  from  Covent  ness  the  effects  of  different  modes  of 
Garden.  Here  it  was  that  the  wits  of  life.  He  was  a  man  in  whose  presence 
that  time  used  to  assemble.  It  is  said  ^o  nothing  reprehensible  was  out  of  danger; 
when  Addison  had  suffered  any  vexation  quick  in  discerning  whatever  was  wrong 
from  the  countess,  he  withdrew  the  com-  or  ridiculous,  and  not  unwilling  to  expose 
pany  from  Button's  house.  P'rom  the  it.  '  There  are,'  says  Steele,  '  in  his  writ- 
coffee-house  he  went  again  to  a  tavern,  ings  many  oblique  strokes  upon  some  of 
where  he  often  sat  late,  and  drank  too  -'-,  the  wittiest  men  of  the  age.'  His  de- 
much  wine.  In  the  bottle  discontent  light  was  more  to  excite  merriment  than 
seeks  for  comfort,  cowardice  for  courage,      detestation;  and   he  detects   follies  rather 


LIFE  OF  ADDISON  419 


than  crimes.  If  any  judgment  be  made  copies  life  with  so  much  fidelity  that  he 
from  his  books  of  his  moral  character,  can  be  hardly  said  to  invent ;  yet  his 
nothing  will  be  found  but  purity  and  ex-  exhibitions  have  an  air  so  much  original, 
cellence.  Knowledge  of  mankind,  in-  that  it  is  difficult  to  suppose  them  not 
deed,  less  extensive  than  that  of  Addison,  5  merely  the  product  of  imagination, 
will  show  that  to  write,  and  to  live,  are  As   a   teacher   of   wisdom,    he   may   be 

very  different.  Many  who  praise  virtue,  confidently  followed.  His  religion  has 
do  no  more  than  praise  it.  Yet  it  is  rea-  nothing  in  it  enthusiastic  or  superstitious : 
sonable  to  believe  that  Addison's  profes-  he  appears  neither  weakly  credulous  nor 
sions  and  practice  were  at  no  great  va-  10  wantonly  sceptical;  his  morality  is 
riance,  since  amidst  that  storm  of  faction  neither  dangerously  lax  nor  impracticably 
in  which  most  of  his  life  was  passed,  rigid.  All  the  enchantment  of  fancy, 
though  his  station  made  him  conspicu-  and  all  the  cogency  of  argument,  are 
ous,  and  his  activity  made  him  formid-  employed  to  recommend  to  the  reader  his 
able,  the  character  given  him  by  his  15  real  interest,  the  care  of  pleasing  the 
friends  was  never  contradicted  by  his  author  of  his  being.  Truth  is  shown 
enemies.  Of  those  with  whom  interest  sometimes  as  the  phantom  of  a  vision ; 
or  opinion  united  him  he  had  not  only  sometimes  appears  half-veiled  in  an  alle- 
the  esteem,  but  the  kindness;  and  of  gory;  sometimes  attracts  regard  in  the 
others  whom  the  violence  of  opposition  20  robes  of  fancy ;  and  sometimes  steps  forth 
drove  against  him,  though  he  might  lose  in  the  confidence  of  reason.  She  wears 
the  love,  he  retained  the  reverence.  a  thousand  dresses,  and  in  all  is  pleasing. 

It  is  justly  observed  by  Tickell  that  he 
employed   wit  on  the   side   of  virtue   and      Mille    habet    ornatus,    mille    decenter    habet. 
religion.     He   not   only   made  the   proper  ^5 

use    of    wit    himself,    but    taught    it    to  His  prose  is  the   model  of  the  middle 

others;  and  from  his  time  it  has  been  style;  on  grave  subjects  not  formal,  on 
generally  subservient  to  the  cause  of  rea-  light  occasions  not  groveling;  pure  with- 
son  and  of  truth.  He  has  dissipated  the  out  scrupulosity,  and  exact  without  ap- 
prejudice  that  had  long  connected  gaiety  30  parent  elaboration ;  always  equable,  and 
with  vice,  and  easiness  of  manners  with  always  easy,  without  glowing  words  or 
laxity  of  principles.  He  has  restored  pointed  sentences.  Addison  never  devi- 
virtue  to  its  dignity,  and  taught  innocence  ates  from  his  track  to  snatch  a  grace ; 
not  to  be  ashamed.  This  is  an  elevation  he  seeks  no  ambitious  ornaments,  and 
of  literary  character  '  above  all  Greek,  35  tries  no  hazardous  innovations.  His 
above  all  Roman  fame.'  No  greater  fe-  page  is  always  luminous,  but  never 
licity  can  genius  attain  than  that  of  hav-  blazes  in  unexpected  splendor, 
ing     purified     intellectual     pleasure,     sep-  It    was    apparently    his    principal    en- 

arated  mirth  from  ind  cency,  and  wit  deavor  to  avoid  all  harshness  and  severity 
from  licentiousness ;  of  having  taught  a  40  of  diction ;  he  is  therefore  sometimes 
succession  of  writers  to  bring  elegance  verbose  in  his  transitions  and  connec- 
and  gaiety  to  the  aid  of  goodness;  and,  tions,  and  sometimes  descends  too  much 
if  I  may  use  expressions  yet  more  to  the  language  of  conversation;  yet  if 
awful,  of  having  '  turned  many  to  right-  his  language  had  been  less  idiomatical 
eousness.'  45  it  might  have  lost  somewhat  of  its  gen- 

*     *     *  nine  Anglicism.     What  he   attempted,   he 

As  a  describer  of  life  and  manners,  performed;  he  is  never  feeble,  and  he  did 
he  must  be  allowed  to  stand  perhaps  the  not  wish  to  be  energetic ;  he  is  never 
first  of  the  first  rank.  His  humor,  which,  rapid,  and  he  never  stagnates.  His  sen- 
as  Steele  observes,  is  peculiar  to  him-  5o  tences  have  neither  studied  amplitude  nor 
self,  is  so  happily  diffused  as  to  give  the  afifected  brevity;  his  periods,  though  not 
grace  of  novelty  to  domestic  scenes  and  diligently  rounded,  are  voluble  and  easy, 
daily  occurrences.  He  never  '  outsteps  Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English 
the  modesty  of  nature,'  nor  raises  mer-  style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant 
riment  or  wonder  by  the  violation  of  ^"^  but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  days 
truth.  His  figures  never  divert  by  dis-  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison. 
tortion   nor   amaze   by    aggravation.     He  (178O 


420  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


LETTERS  impart   it;   till   I   am   known,   and  do  not 

want  it.     I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  as- 

To    the    Right    Honorable    the    Earl    of      perity  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no 

Chesterfield  benefit   has    been    received,   or   to   be    un- 

February  7,  1755.        5  willing    that    the    public    should    consider 

My  Lord:  me    as    owing    that    to    a    patron,    which 

I  have  lately  been  informed  by  the  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for 
proprietor  of  Tlic  World,  that  two  papers,      myself. 

in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  Having  carried   on   my   w^ork   thus   far 

to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  lord-  10  with  so  little  obligation  to  any  favorer  of 
ship.  To  be  so  distinguished  is  an  honor  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed 
which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to  though  I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be 
favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  possible,  with  less;  for  I  have  been  long 
how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  ac-  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in 
knowledge.  15  which    I    once    boasted    myself    with    so 

When,    upon    some    slight    encourage-      much  exultation, 
ment,  I  first  visited  your  lordship,  I  was  My  Lord, 

overpowered,    like    the    rest    of    mankind.  Your  Lordship's  most  humble, 

by  the  enchantment  of  your  address;  and  Most  obedient  servant, 

I  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that  1  might  20  Sam.  Johnson. 

boast  myself  '  Le  vainqucur  dii  vainqiicur 

dc  la  tcrre'  [conqueror  of  the  conqueror      Mr.  James  Macpherson  : 
of  the   earth]  ;   that   I   might   obtain   that  I    received   your    foolish   and   impudent 

regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  con-  letter.  Any  violence  offered  me  1  shall 
tending;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  ^5  do  my  best  to  repel;  and  what  I  cannot 
little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  do  for  myself  the  law  shall  do  for  me. 
modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  1  hope  I  shall  never  be  deterred  from 
When  I  had  once  addressed  your  lordship  detecting  what  I  think  a  cheat,  by  the 
in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  menaces  of  a  ruffian, 
of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  un-  30  What  would  you  have  me  retract  ?_  I 
courtly  scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done  thought  your  book  an  imposture;  I  think 
all  that  I  could;  and  no  man  is  well  it  an  imposture  still.  For  this  opinion 
pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  I  have  given  my  reasons  to  the  public, 
ever  so  little.  which  I   here  dare  you  to  refute.     Your 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed,  35  rage  I  defy.  Your  abilities,  since  your 
since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  Homer,  are  not  so  formidable ;  and  what  I 
or  was  repulsed  from  your  door;  during  hear  of  your  morals,  inclines  me  to  pay  re- 
which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  gard  not  to  what  you  shall  say,  but  to 
work  through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is  what  you  shall  prove.  You  may  prmt 
useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  ^o  this   if  you   will. 

at  last  to  the  verge  of  publication,  with-  Sam.  Johnson. 

out   one   act  of  assistance,   one   word   of  (i775) 

encouragement,    or    one    smile    of    favor. 

Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  To  the  Reverend  Dr.  Taylor,  Ashbourne, 
never  had   a  patron   before.  4S      Derbyshire 

The    shepherd    in    Virgil    grew    at    last      Dear  Sir: 
acquainted  with   Love,   and   found  him   a  What   can    be    the    reason    that    I    hear 

native  of  the  rocks.  nothing  from  you?     I   hope  nothing  dis- 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  ables  you  from  writing.  What  I  have 
looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  strug-  50  seen,  and  what  I  have  felt,  gives  me  rea- 
gling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  son  to  fear  everything.  Do  not  omit 
he  has  reached  ground,  encumbers  him  giving  me  the  comfort  of  knowing,  that 
with  help?  The  notice  which  you  have  after  all  my  losses  I  have  yet  a  friend 
been  pleased  to  take  of  mv  labors,  had  it      left. 

been  early,  had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been  S5  I  want  every  comfort.  My  life  is  very 
delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  solitary  and  very  cheerless.  Though  it 
enjoy   it;   till    I    am    solitary,   and   cannot      has    pleased    God    wonderfully    to   deliver 


I 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES 


421 


me  from  the  dropsy,  I  am  yet  very  weak, 
and  have  not  passed  the  door  since  the 
13th  of  December.  I  hope  for  some  help 
from  warm  weather,  which  will  surely 
come   in   time. 

I  could  not  have  the  consent  of 
physicians  to  go  to  church  yesterday ;  I 
therefore  received  the  holy  sacrament 
at  home,  in  the  room  where  I  conmumi- 
cated  with  dear  Mrs.  Williams,  a  little 
before  her  death.  O  !  my  friend,  the  ap- 
proach of  death  is  very  dreadful.  I  am 
afraid  to  think  on  that  which  I  know  I 
cannot  avoid.  It  is  vain  to  look  round 
and  round  for  that  help  which  cannot  be 
had.  Yet  we  hope  and  hope,  and  fancy 
that  he  who  has  lived  to-day  may  live 
to-morrow.  But  let  us  learn  to  derive 
our  hope  only  from  God. 

In  the  meantime  let  us  be  kind  to  one 

another.     I  have  no  friend  now  living  but 

you  and  Mr.  Hector,  that  was  the  friend 

of  my  youth.     Do  not  neglect,  dear   Sir, 

Yours  affectionately, 

Sam.  Johnson. 

London,  Easter  Monday, 
April  12,  1784. 


From  THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN 

WISHES 

Let  observation,  with  extensive  view, 

Survey  mankind,  from  China  to  Peru ; 

Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife, 

And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  life; 

Then  say  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and 
hate,  5 

O'erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of 
fate, 

Where  wavering  man,  betrayed  by  venturous 
pride, 

'J'o  tread  the  dreary  paths  without  a  guide; 

As  treacherous  phantoms  in  the  mist  delude, 

Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good.       10 

How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn 
choice, 

Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  sup- 
pliant voice. 

How  nations  sink,  by  darling  schemes  op- 
pressed, 

When  vengeance  listens  to  the  fool's  re- 
quest. 

Fate  wings  with  every  wish  the  afflictive 
dart,  IS 

Each  gift  of  nature,  and  each  grace  of  art. 

With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows, 


With    fatal    sweetness   elucution    flows. 

Impeachment    stops    the    speaker's    powerful 
breath. 

And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death.       2° 
But  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and  the 
bold. 

Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  gold  ; 

Wide-wasting  pest !  that  rages  nnconfined. 

And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  man- 
kind ; 

For    gold    his    sword    the    hireling    ruffian 
draws,  25 

For    gold    the    hireling    judge    distorts    the 
laws ; 

Wealth    heaped    on    wealth,    nor    truth    nor 
safety  buys. 

The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 
Let    history    tell    where    rival    kings    com- 
mand. 

And     dubious     title     shakes     the    maddened 
land ;  30 

When     statutes    glean     the     refuse    of    the 
sword. 

How   much   more    safe  the   vassal    than   the 
lord; 

Low    skulks   the   hind   beneath   the    rage   of 
power. 

And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the  Tower, 

Untouched    his    cottage,    and    his    slumbers 
sound,  35 

Though  confiscation's  vultures  hover  round. 
*     *     * 

In  full-blown  dignity,  see  Wolsey  stand, 
Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand  : 
To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers 

consign  ; 
Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine  : 
Turned    by    his    nod    the    stream    of    honor 

flows,  41 

His  smile  alone  security  bestows : 
Still    to    new    heights    his    restless    wishes 

tower ; 
Claim   leads   to   claim,   and   power   advances 

power ; 
Till  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please.  4.=; 
And    rights     submitted,     left    him    none    10 

seize. 
At  length  his  sovereign   frowns  —  the  train 

of  state 
Mark  the  keen  glance,  and   watch  the   sign 

to  hate: 
Where'er  he  turns  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye. 
His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers 

fly;  50 

Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state, 
The   golden   canopy,   the   glittering   plate, 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 
The  liveried  army,  and  the  menial  lord. 


422 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


With    age,    with    cares,    with    maladies    op- 
pressed, 5  5 

He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 

Grief  aids  disease,  remembered  folly  stings, 

And    his    last    sighs    reproach    the    failh    of 
kings. 
Speak    thou,    whose    thoughts    at    huml)le 
peace  repine, 

Shall    Wolsey's    wealth,    with    Wolsey's    end 
be  thine  ?  60 

Or    liv'st   thou    now,    with    safer   pride    con- 
tent, 

The  wisest  Justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 

For    why    did    Wolsey,    near    the    steeps    of 
fate, 

On    weak    foundations    raise    the    enormous 
weight  ?  64 

Why,  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune's  blow. 

With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below. 

On  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior's 
pride. 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  de- 
cide; 
A   frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 
No  dangers   fright  him,  and  no  Tabors  tire; 
O'er   love,   o'er    fear,    extends    his   wide   do- 
main, 71 
Unconquercd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  scepters  yield. 
War    sounds    the    trump,    he    rushes    to    the 

field; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  power  com- 
bine, 75 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign ; 
Peace    courts     his    hand,    but     spreads     her 

charms  in  vain  ; 
'  Think  nothing  gained,'  he  cries,  '  till  nought 

remain. 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly. 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky.'     80 
The  march  begins  in  military  state. 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait ; 
Stern   famine  guards   the  solitary  coast. 
And  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost : 
He   comes,   nor   want,   nor   cold,   his   course 
delay ;  85 

Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day : 
The    vanquished     hero     leaves     his    broken 
bands. 


And  shews  his  miseries  in  distant  lands; 
Condemned  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait. 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate.  9^ 
But    did    not    Chance    at    length    the    error 

mend  ? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A   petty   fortress,  and   a  dubious   hand ;       96 
He  left  the  name  at  which  the  world  grew 

pale. 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 


Where   then    shall    Hope    and    Fear    their 
objects  find  ? 
Must    dull     suspense    corrupt    the    stagnant 
mind?  "'o 

Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate. 
Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate? 
Must   no   dislike  alarm,   no   wishes   rise. 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies? 
Enquirer,  cease;   petitions  yet   remain         105 
Which  Fleaven  may  hear,  nor  deem  Religion 

vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice. 
But   leave   to   Heaven  the  measure  and   the 

choice. 
Safe  m  his  power  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer; 
Implore  his  aid,   in  his  decisions   rest,       "i 
Secure,  whate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 
Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires. 
And   strong  devotion  to  the   skies  aspires, 
Pour  forth  thy  fervors  for  a  healthful  mind, 
Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resign'd  ;     i  "5 
For   love,   which   scarce   collective   man    can 

fill; 
For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  transmuted  ill ; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat. 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  re- 
treat, i-o 
These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Ifeav'n  or- 
dain. 
These    goods    he    grants,    who    grants    the 

power  to  gain  ; 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 

(1749) 


JAMES  BOSWELL  (1740-1795) 


James  Boswell  was  the  son  of  a  Scotch  hiird  at  Auchinleck,  in  Ayrshire,  and  was  pre- 
pared for  the  bar  at  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow,  lie  also  studied  at  Utrecht,  later,  entered 
the  Middle  Temple  in  Loudon,  and,  in  1786,  was  admitted  to  the  English  bar.  He  traveled 
widely,  cultivated  assiduously  the  society  of  famous  men,  and  made  literary  stock  of  their 
conversation  and  correspondence.  During  one  of  his  tours  he  '  gratified  his  curiosity  much 
in  dining  with  Jean  Jacques  Kousseau,'  then  an  exile  '  in  the  wilds  of  Neufchatel.'  At 
another  time,  he  got  as  far  as  Corsica,  published  an  Account  on  his  return,  and,  when  Paoli, 
the  Corsican  patriot,  took  refuge  in  London  in  177G,  became  his  constant  guest.  But  the 
acquaintance  which  was  particularly  fruitful  for  English  literature  was  that  with  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson,  begun  in  17(33  and  lasting  until  Johnson's  death.  Boswell  was  gifted  with  a 
high  degree  of  curiosity,  acute  perception  and  a  retentive  memory,  and  he  early  formed  the 
habit  of  keeping  an  exact  journal.  It  is  reported  of  him  that  he  would  '  lay  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  and  take  out  his  tablets  to  record  a  good  anecdote.'  In  spite  of  toadyism 
and  vanity  and  his  habit  of  taking  notes,  he  had  the  faculty  of  making  himself  agreeable 
as  a  companion  and,  in  1773,  Johnson  got  him  elected  to  the  Literary  Club,  thus  vastly 
extending  his  opportunities  for  observation.  The  same  year,  the  two  toured  the  Hebrides 
together.  During  this  journey  Boswell  allowed  Johnson  to  read  portions  of  his  journal,  and 
the  great  man  acknowledged  that  it  was  'a  very  exact  picture  of  a  portion  of  his  life.'  The 
year  after  Johnson's  death  Boswell  published  his  Journal  of  a  'Tour  to  the  Hebrides  uith 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  during  the  next  few  years,  he  brought  to  completion  the  Life  of  Samuel 
Johnson,  LL.D.  (1791).  lliis  remarkable  hook  is  as  vital  and  intimate  as  a  masterpiece 
of  fiction  and  has  the  additional  interest  that  it  is  an  authentic  transcript  from  the  life  of 
a  great  and  influential  man  of  peculiar  social  qualities.  '  the  whole  exhibiting,'  as  the  title 
page  has  it,  'a  view  of  literature  and  literary  men  in  Great  Britain  for  near  half  a  cen- 
tury, during  which  he  flourished.' 


From  THE  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  avowed   principles,   and   become   the   tool 

of  a  government  which  he  held  to  be 
The  accession  of  George  the  Third  to  founded  in  usurpation.  I  have  taken 
the  throne  of  these  kingdoms,  opened  care  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  refute 
a  new  and  brighter  prospect  to  men  of  5  them  from  the  most  authentic  informa- 
literary  merit,  who  had  been  honored  tion.  Lord  Bute  told  me  that  Mr.  Wed- 
with  no  mark  of  royal  favor  in  the  pre-  derburne,  now  Lord  Loughborough,  was 
ceding  reign.  His  present  Majesty's  ed-  the  person  who  first  mentioned  this  sub- 
ucation  in  this  country,  as  well  as  his  ject  to  him.  Lord  Loughborough  told  me 
taste  and  beneficence,  proinpted  him  to  lo  that  the  pension  was  granted  to  Johnson 
be  the  patron  of  science  and  the  arts;  solely  as  the  reward  of  his  literary  merit, 
and  early  this  year,  Johnson  having  been  without  any  stipulation  whatever,  or 
represented  to  him  as  a  very  learned  and  even  tacit  understanding  that  he  should 
good  man,  without  any  certain  provision,  write  for  the  administration.  His  lord- 
his  Majesty  was  pleased  to  grant  him  a  i5  ship  added,  that  he  was  confident  the 
pension  of  three  hundred  pounds  a  year.  political  tracts  which  Johnson  afterwards 
The  Earl  of  Bute,  who  was  then  prime  did  write,  as  they  were  entirely  con- 
minister,  had  the  honor  to  announce  this  sonant  with  his  own  opinions,  would 
instance  of  his  sovereign's  bounty,  con-  have  been  written  by  him  though  no  pen- 
cerning  which,  many  and  various  stories,  2°  sion  had  been  granted  to  him. 
all    equally   erroneous,   have   been    propa-  Mr.       Thomas       Sheridan      and       Mr. 

gated;    maliciously    representing    it    as    a      Murphy,  who  then  lived  a  good  deal  both 
political   bribe   to  Johnson,   to  desert  his      with  him  and  Mr.  W'edderburne,  told  me 

423 


424  JAMES  BOSWELL 


that  they  previously  talked  with  John-  enforce  obligation.  You  have  conferred 
son  upon  this  matter,  and  that  it  was  favors  on  a  man  who  has  neither  alliance 
perfectly  understood  by  all  parties  that  nor  interest,  who  has  not  merited  them  by 
the  pension  was  merely  honorary.  Sir  services,  nor  courted  them  by  officiousness ; 
Joshua  Reynolds  told  me,  that  Johnson  5  you  have  spared  him  the  shame  of  solicita- 
called  on  him  after  his  Majesty's  inten-  lion,  and  the  anxiety  of  suspense, 
tion  had  been  notified  to  him,  and  said  he  '  What  has  been  thus  elegantly  given,  will, 

wished  to  consult  his  friends  as  to  the  I  hope,  be  not  reproachfully  enjoyed;  I  shall 
propriety  of  his  accepting  this  mark  of  endeavor  to  give  your  Lordship  the  only  rcc- 
the  royal  favor,  after  the  definitions  lo  ompcnse  which  generosity  desires,— the 
which  he  had  given  in  his  Dictionary  of  gratification  of  finding  that  your  benefits  are 
'pension'  and  'pensioners.'  He  said  "Ot  improperly- bestowed.  I  am,  my  Lord, 
he   should  not  have   Sir  Joshua's   answer  'Your  Lordship's  most  obliged, 

(ill  next  day,  when  he  would  call  again,        'Most  obedient,  and  most  humble  servant, 
and    desired    he    might    think   of    it.     Sir  15  '  Sam  Johnson.' 

foshua    answered    that   he    was    clear   to 

give   his   opinion   then,   that   there   could  This  year  his  friend.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 

be  no  objection  to  his  receiving  from  "olds,  paid  a  visit  of  some  weeks  to  his 
the  king  a  reward  for  literary  merit;  native  county,  Devonshire,  m  which  he 
and  that  certainly  the  definitions  in  his  20  was  accompanied  by  Johnson,  who  was 
Dictionary  were  not  applicable  to  him.  much  pleased  with  this  jaunt,  and  declared 
Johnson,  it  should  seem,  was  satisfied,  for  he  had  derived  from  it  a  great  accession 
he  did  not  call  again  till  he  had  accepted  of  new  ideas.  He  was  entertained  at  the 
the  pension,  and  had  waited  on  Lord  seats  of  several  noblemen  and  gentle- 
Bute  to  thank  him.  He  then  told  Sir  ^5  men  in  the  west  of  England,^  but  the 
Joshua  that  Lord  Bute  said  to  him  ex-  greatest  part  of  this  time  was  passed  at 
pressly,  '  It  is  not  given  you  for  any-  Plymouth,  where  the  magnificence  of  the 
thing  you  are  to  do,  but  what  you  have  navy,  the  ship-building  and  all  its  cir- 
done.'  His  lordship,  he  said,  behaved  in  cumstances,  afforded  him  a  grand 
the  handsomest  manner.  He  repeated  the  30  subject  for  contemplation.  The  commis- 
words  twice,  that  he  might  be  sure  John-  sioner  of  the  dockyard  paid  him  the  corn- 
son  heard  them,  and  thus  set  his  mind  phment  of  ordering  the  yacht  to  convey 
perfectly  at  ease.     *     *     *  him  and  his  friend  to  the  Eddystone,  to 

But    I    shall    not    detain    my    readers      which   they   accordingly   sailed.     But  the 
longer   by   any   words   of  my   own,   on   a  35  weather    was    so    tempestuous    that    they 
subject  on  which   I   am  happily  enabled,      could  not  land.     *     *     * 
by    the    favor    of    the    Earl    of    Bute,    to  Sir  Joshua   Reynolds,  to  whom  I   was 

present  them  with  what  Johnson  himself  obliged  for  my  information  concerning 
wrote;  his  lordship  having  been  pleased  this  excursion,  mentions  a  very  char- 
to  communicate  to  me  a  copy  of  the  fol-  40  acteristical  anecdote  of  Johnson  while  at 
lowing  letter  to  his  father,  which  does  Plymouth.  Having  observed  that,  in 
great  honor  both  to  the  writer  and  to  the  consequence  of  the  dock-yard,  a  new 
noble  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed:  town  had  arisen  about  two  miles  off  as 

a  rival  to  the  old ;  and  knowing,  from  his 
'  To    the    Right   Honorable    the    Earl    of  45  sagacity  and  just  observation  of  human 

gyj-g  nature,  that  it  is  certain,  if  a  man  hates 

'July  20    1762  at   all,   he   will   hate    his    next   neighbor, 

'My  Lord -When  the  bills  were  yes-  ^'^  concluded  that  this  new  and  rising 
terday  delivered  to  me  by  Mr.  Wedderburne.  ,^^  ^^^  ^^  ^,^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^    ^^^^^^  p^^^.^.^^  .^ 

I  was  informed  by  him  of  the  future  favors  ^°  London,  told  me  he  happened  to  meet  him.  In  or- 
which    his    Majesty    has,    by    your    Lordship's        der  to  amuse  him  till  dinner  should  be  ready,  he  was 

recommendation,  been  induced  to  intend  for      taken  out  to  walk  in  the  garden.    The  master  of 

the    house,    thinking    it    proper    to    introduce    some- 
•n"'  _  thing  scientific   into   the  conversation,   addressed   him 

'Bounty  always  receives  part  of  its  value  thus:  'Are  you  a  botanist.  Dr.  Johnson?'  'No, 
from  the  manner  in  which  it  is  bestowed ;  55  sir,'  answered  Johnson,  'I  am  not  a  botanist; 
your  Lordship's  kindness  includes  every  cir-  ^"d  (alluding  no  doubt  to  his  near-sightedness) 
•'  ,  .  ^         ,   ,.        ■'  should    I    wish    to    become   a    botanist,    I    must   first 

cumstance    that     can    gratify     delicacy,     or       .y^.^^  ^lyself  into  a  reptile.' 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  425 


I 


town  could  not  but  excite  the  envy  and  him  to  Hve  in  the  immense  metropolis  of 
jealousy  of  the  old,  in  which  conjecture  London.  Mr.  Gentleman,  a  native  of 
he  was  very  soon  confirmed ;  he,  there-  Ireland,  who  passed  some  years  in  Scot- 
fore,  set  himself  resolutely  on  the  side  of  land  as  a  player,  and  as  an  instructor 
the  old  town,  the  established  town,  in  5  in  the  English  language,  a  man  whose 
which  his  lot  was  cast,  considering  it  talents  and  worth  were  depressed  by 
as  a  kind  of  duty  to  stand  by  it.  He  ac-  misfortunes,  had  given  me  a  representa- 
cordingly  entered  warmly  into  its  in-  tion  of  the  figure  and  manner  of  Dic- 
terests,  and  upon  every  occasion  talked  tignary  Johnson  !  as  he  was  then  gen- 
of  the  dockers,  as  the  inhabitants  of  the  "o  erally  called ;  and  during  my  first  visit 
new  town  were  called,  as  upstarts  and  to  London,  which  was  for  three  months 
aliens.  Plymouth  is  very  plentifully  in  1760,  Mr.  Derrick,  the  poet,  who  was 
supplied  with  water  by  a  river  brought  Gentleman's  friend  and  countryman,  fiat- 
into  it  from  a  great  distance,  which  is  tered  me  with  hopes  that  he  would  in- 
so  abundant  that  it  runs  to  waste  in  the  15  troduce  me  to  Johnson,  an  honor  of  which 
town.  The  Dock,  or  New-town,  being  I  was  very  ambitious.  But  he  never 
totally  destitute  of  water,  petitioned  found  an  opportunity,  which  made  me 
Plymouth  that  a  small  portion  of  the  doubt  that  he  had  promised  to  do  what 
conduit  might  be  permitted  to  go  to  them,  was  not  in  his  power;  till  Johnson,  some 
and  this  was  now  under  consideration.  20  years  afterwards,  told  me,  '  Derrick,  sir, 
Johnson,  affecting  to  entertain  the  pas-  might  very  well  have  introduced  you. 
sions  of  the  place,  was  violent  in  oppo-  I  had  a  kindness  for  Derrick,  and  am 
sition;    and   half-laughing   at   himself   for      sorry  he  is  dead.' 

his  pretended  zeal,  where  he  had  no  con-  In    the    summer   of    1761    Mr.    Thomas 

cern,  exclaimed,  '  No,  no ;  I  am  against  ^5  Sheridan  was  at  Edinburgh,  and  delivered 
the  dockers;  I  am  a  Plymouth  man.  lectures  upon  the  English  language  and 
Rogues !  let  them  die  of  thirst.  They  public  speaking  to  large  and  respectable 
shall  not  have  a  drop ! '  audiences.     I  was  often   in  his  company, 

*     *     *  and  heard  him  frequently  expatiate  upon 

1763:  Aetat.  54.  In  1763,  he  furnished  30  Johnson's  extraordinary  knowledge,  tal- 
to  The  Poetical  Calendar,  published  by  ents,  and  virtues,  repeat  his  pointed  say- 
Fawkes  and  Woty,  a  character  of  Collins,  ings,  describe  his  particularities,  and 
which  he  afterwards  ingrafted  into  his  en-  boast  of  his  being  his  guest  sometimes 
tire  life  of  that  admirable  poet,  in  the  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning.  At  his 
collection  of  lives  which  he  wrote  for  35  house  I  hoped  to  have  many  opportunities 
the  body  of  English  poetry,  formed  and  of  seeing  the  sage,  as  Mr.  Sheridan 
published  by  the  booksellers  of  London,  obligingly  assured  me  I  should  not  be 
His  account  of  the  melancholy  depression     disappointed. 

with  which  Collins  was  severely  afflicted,  When  I  returned  to  London  in  the  end 

and  which  brought  him  to  his  grave,  is,  40  of  1762,  to  my  surprise  and  regret  I 
I  think,  one  of  the  most  tender  and  in-  found  an  irreconcilable  difference  had 
teresting  passages  in  the  whole  series  of  taken  place  between  Johnson  and  Sheri- 
his    writings.     *     *     *  dan.     A  pension  of  two  hundred  pounds 

This  is  to  me  a  memorable  year;  for  a  year  had  been  given  to  Sheridan, 
in  it  I  had  the  happiness  to  obtain  the  45  Johnson,  who  thought  slightingly  of 
acquaintance  of  that  extraordinary  man  Sheridan's  art,  upon  hearing  that  he  was 
wliose  memoirs  I  am  now  writing:  an  also  pensioned,  exclaimed,  'What!  have 
acquaintance  which  I  shall  ever  esteem  they  given  him  a  pension?  Then  it  is 
as  one  of  the  most  fortunate  circum-  time  for  me  to  give  up  mine.'  Whether 
stances  in  my  life.  Though  then  but  two- 50  this  proceeded  from  a  momentary  indig- 
and-twenty,  I  had  for  several  years  read  nation,  as  if  it  were  an  affront  to  his 
his  works  with  delight  and  instruction,  exalted  merit  that  a  player  should  be  re- 
and  had  the  highest  reverence  for  their  warded  in  the  same  manner  with  him,  or 
author,  which  had  grown  up  in  my  fancy  was  the  sudden  effect  of  a  fit  of  peevish- 
into  a  kind  of  mysterious  veneration,  bySSness,  it  was  unluckily  said,  and  indeed 
figuring  to  myself  a  state  of  solemn,  ele-  cannot  be  justified.  Mr.  Sheridan's  pen- 
vated    abstraction    in    which    I    supposed     sion  was  granted  to  him  not  as  a  player, 


426  JAMES  BOSWELL 

but  as  a  sufferer  in  the  cause  of  govern-  Her  novel,  entitled  Memoirs  of  Miss 
nient,  when  he  was  manager  of  the  Sydney  Biddulph,  contains  an  excellent 
Theater  Royal  in  Ireland,  when  parties  moral  while  it  inculcates  a  future  state 
ran  high  in  1753.  And  it  must  also  be  of  retribution;  and  what  it  teaches  is 
allowed  that  he'  was  a  man  of  literature,  5  impressed  upon  the  mind  by  a  scries  of  as 
and  had  considerably  improved  the  arts  deep  distress  as  can  affect  humanity,  in 
of  reading  and  speaking  with  distinctness  the  amiable  and  pious  heroine  who  goes 
and  propriety.     *     *     *  to  her  grave  unrelieved,  but  resigned,  and 

lohnson  complained  that  a  man  who  full  of  hope  of  '  heaven's  mercy.'  John- 
disliked  him  repeated  his  sarcasm  to  Mr.  10  son  paid  her  this  high  compliment  upon 
Sheridan,  without  telling  him  what  fol-  it:  'I  know  not,  Madam,  that  you  have 
lowed,  which  was,  that  after  a  pause  he  a  right,  upon  moral  principles,  to  make 
added,  '  However,  I  am  glad  that  Mr.  your  readers  suffer  so  much.' 
Sheridan  has  a  pension,  for  he  is  a  very  Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  the  actor,  who  then 

good  man.'  Sheridan  could  never  for-  15  kept  a  bookseller's  shop  in  Russell  Street, 
give  this  hasty  contemptuous  expression.  Covent  Garden,  told  me  that  Johnson  was 
It  rankled  in  his  mind;  and  though  I  in-  very  much  his  friend,  and  came  fre- 
formed  him  of  all  that  Johnson  said,  and  quently  to  his  house,  where  he  more  than 
that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  meet  him  once  invited  me  to  meet  him;  but  by 
amicably,  he  positively  declined  repeated  2°  some  unlucky  accident  or  other  he  was 
offers  which  I  made,  and  once  went  off  prevented  from  coming  to  us.  Mr. 
abruptly  from  a  house  where  he  and  I  Thomas  Davies  was  a  man  of  good  un- 
were  engaged  to  dine,  because  he  was  derstanding  and  talents,  with  the  advan- 
told   that   Dr.   Johnson   was   to   be   there.      tage     of     a     liberal     education.     Though 

I  have  no  sympathetic  feeling  with  ^5  somewhat  pompous,  he  was  an  entertain- 
such  persevering  resentment.  It  is  pain-  ing  companion ;  and  his  literary  perform- 
ful  when  there  is  a  breach  between  those  ances  have  no  inconsiderable  share  of 
who  have  lived  together  socially  and  cor-  merit.  He  was  a  friendly  and  very  hos- 
dially;  and  I  wonder  that  there  is  not,  pitable  man.  Both  he  and  his  wife,  (who 
in  all  such  cases,  a  mutual  wish  that  it  30 has  been  celebrated  for  her  beauty), 
should  be  healed.  I  could  perceive  that  though  upon  the  stage  for  many  years, 
Mr.  Sheridan  was  by  no  means  satisfied  maintained  an  uniform  decency  of  char- 
with  Johnson's  acknowledging  him  to  be  acter;  and  Johnson  esteemed  them,  and 
a  good  man.  That  could  not  soothe  his  lived  in  as  easy  an  intimacy  with  them, 
injured  vanity.  I  could  not  but  smile,  at  35  as  with  any  family  which  he  used  to 
the  same  time  that  I  was  offended,  to  visit.  Mr.  Davies  recollected  several  of 
observe  Sheridan  in  The  Life  of  Szvift,  Johnson's  remarkable  sayings,  and  was 
which  he  afterwards  published,  attempt-  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  imitators  of 
ing,  in  the  writhings  of  his  resentment,  his  voice  and  manner,  while  relating 
to  depreciate  Johnson,  by  characterizing  40  them.  He  increased  my  impatience  more 
him  as  '  A  writer  of  gigantic  fame  in  and  more  to  see  the  extraordinary  man 
these  days  of  little  men ' ;  that  very  whose  works  I  highly  valued,  and  whose 
Johnson  whom  he  once  so  highly  ad-  conversation  was  reported  to  be  so  pecul- 
mired  and  venerated.     This  rupture  with      iarly  excellent. 

Sheridan  deprived  Johnson  of  one  of  4S  At  last,  on  Monday,  the  i6th  of  May, 
his  most  agreeable  resources  for  amuse-  when  I  was  sitting  in  Mr.  Davies's  back- 
ment  in  his  lonely  evenings;  for  Sheri-  parlor,  after  having  drunk  tea  with  him 
dian's  well-informed,  animated,  and  and  Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson  unexpectedly 
bustling  mind  never  suffered  conversation  came  into  the  shop;  and  Mr.  Davies  hav- 
to  stagnate ;  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  a  5o  ing  perceived  him,  through  the  glass- 
most  agreeable  companion  to  an  intel-  door  in  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting, 
lectual  man.  She  was  sensible,  ingen-  advancing  towards  us, —  he  announced 
ious,  unassuming,  yet  communicative.  his  awful  approach  to  me,  some- 
I  recollect,  with  satisfaction,  many  what  in  the  manner  of  an  actor  in  the 
pleasing  hours  which  I  passed  with  her  55 part  of  Horatio,  when,  he  addresses 
under  the  hospitable  roof  of  her  bus-  Hamlet  on  the  appearance  of  his  father's 
band,  who  was  to  me  a  very  kind  friend.      ghost,    '  Look,    my    lord,     it    comes !  '     I 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  427 


found  that  1  had  a  very  perfect  idea  of  myself  much  mortified,  and  began  to 
Johnson's  figure,  from  the  portrait  of  think  that  the  hope  which  I  had  long 
him  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  soon  indulged  of  obtaining  his  acquaintance 
after  he  had  published  his  Dictionary,  in  was  blasted.  And,  in  truth,  had  not  my 
the  attitude  of  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  5  ardor  been  uncommonly  strong,  and  my 
in  deep  meditation.  Mr.  Davies  men-  resolution  uncommonly  persevering,  bO 
tioned  my  name,  and  respectfully  intro-  rough  a  reception  might  have  deterred 
duced  me  to  him.  I  was  much  agitated;  me  from  ever  making  any  further  at- 
and  recollecting  his  prejudice  against  the  tempts.  Fortunately,  however,  I  re- 
Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard  much,  I  10  mained  upon  the  field  not  wholly 
said  to  Davies,  'Don't  tell  where  I  come  discomfited;  and  was  soon  rewarded  by 
from.' — 'From  Scotland,'  cried  Davies,  hearing  some  of  his  conversation,  of 
roguishly.  '  Mr.  Johnson,'  said  I,  'I  do  which  I  preserved  the  following  short 
indeed  come  from  Scotland,  but  I  cannot  minute,  without  remarking  the  questions 
help  it.'  I  am  willing  to  flatter  myself  15  and  observations  by  which  it  was  pro- 
that  I  meant  this  as  light  pleasantry  to      duced. 

soothe    and    conciliate    him,    and    not    as  '  People,'  he  remarked,  '  may  be  taken 

an  humiliating  abasement  at  the  expense      in   once,  who  imagine   that  an  author   is 
of  my  country.     But  however  that  might      greater    in   private    life    than    other    men. 
be,    this    speech    was    somewhat   unlucky ;  20  Uncommon   parts   require   uncommon   op- 
for  with  that  quickness  of  wit  for  which      portunities,    for    their    exertion, 
he  was  so  remarkable,  he  seized  the  ex-  '  In    barbarous    society,    superiority    of 

pression,  '  come  from  Scotland,'  which  I  parts  is  of  real  consequence.  Great 
used  in  the  sense  of  being  of  that  coun-  strength  or  great  wisdom  is  of  much 
try;  and,  as  if  I  had  said  that  I  had  come  25  value  to  an  individual.  But  in  more 
away  from  it,  or  left  it,  retorted,  '  That,  polished  times  there  are  people  to  do 
sir,  I  find,  is  what  a  very  great  many  of  everything  for  money;  and  then  there 
your  countrymen  cannot  help.'  This  are  a  number  of  other  superiorities,  such 
stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal ;  and  when  as  those  of  birth,  and  fortune,  and  rank, 
we  had  sat  down,  I  felt  myself  not  a  little  30  that  dissipate  men's  attention,  and  leave 
embarrassed,  and  apprehensive  of  what  no  extraordinary  share  of  respect  for 
might  come  next.  He  then  addressed  personal  and  intellectual  superiority, 
himself  to  Davies:  'What  do  you  think  This  is  wisely  ordered  by  Providence,  to 
of  Garrick?  He  has  refused  me  an  or-  preserve  some  equality  among  mankind.' 
der  for  the  play   for  Miss  Williams,   be-  35  *     *     * 

cause   he   knows   the   house   will   be   full,  I    was    highly    pleased    with    the    ex- 

and  that  an  order  would  be  worth  three  traordinary  vigor  of  his  conversation, 
shillings.'  Eager  to  take  any  opening  to  and  regretted  that  I  was  drawn  away 
get  into  conversation  with  him,  I  ven-  from  it  by  an  engagement  at  another 
tured  to  say,  '  O  sir,  I  cannot  think  Mr.  40  place.  I  had,  for  a  part  of  the  evening, 
Garrick  would  grudge  such  a  trifle  to  been  left  alone  with  him,  and  had  ven- 
you.'  '  Sir,'  said  he,  with  a  stern  look,  tured  to  make  an  observation  now  and 
'I  have  known  David  Garrick  longer  than  then,  which  he  received  very  civilly;  so 
you  have  done ;  and  I  know  no  right  you  that  I  was  satisfied  that,  though  there 
have  to  talk  to  me  on  the  subject.'  Per- 45  was  a  roughness  in  his  manner,  there 
haps  I  deserved  this  check ;  for  it  was  was  no  ill-nature  in  his  disposition, 
rather  presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire  Davies  followed  me  to  the  door,  and  when 
stranger,  to  express  any  doubt  of  the  I  complained  to  him  a  little  of  the  hard 
justice  of  his  animadversion  upon  his  old  blows  which  the  great  man  had  given 
acquaintance     and     pupil. ^     I     now     felt  50  me,  he  kindly  took   upon  him  to   console 

me  by  saying,  '  Don't  be  uneasy,     I   can 

1  That    this   was   a   momentary   sally   against    Gar-  ggg    ^[e    likeS    yOU    very    well.' 
rick     there     can     be     no     doubt;     for     at     Johnson's  \       r  j  r.  i't  iij 

desire    he   had.    some   years    before,    given    a    benefit-  A      few     dayS     afterwards     I     Called     On 

night  at  his  theater  to  this  very  person,  by  which  DavieS,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  I 
she    had    got    two    hundred    pounds.      Johnson,    in-  55 

deed,   upon   all    other   occasions,    when   I    was   in    his  Sir,   tnar   you   attack  Garrick  yourself,   but   will    suf- 

company,    praised    the    very    liberal    charity    of    Car-  (er     nobody     else     to     do     i'^  '       Johnson     (smiling), 

rick.      I    once    mentioned    to    him,    'It    is    observed,  '  ^V  hy,    Sir,    that   is   true.' 


428  JAMES  BOS  WELL 

might  take  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  Mr.  chawii  up;  and  he  had  a  pair  of  un- 
Johnson  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  buckled  shoes  by  way  of  slippers.  But 
He  said  I  certainly  might,  and  that  Mr.  all  these  slovenly  particularities  were  for- 
Johnson  would  take  it  as  a  compliment.  gotten  the  moment  that  he  began  to  talk. 
So,  on  Tuesday,  the  24th  day  of  May,  ^  Some  gentlemen,  whom  I  do  not  recollect, 
after  having  been  enlivened  by  the  witty  were  sitting  with  him;  and  when  they 
sallies  of  Messieurs  Thornton,  Wilkes,  went  away,  I  also  rose ;  but  he  said  to  me, 
Churchill,  and  Lloyd,  with  whom  I  had  '  Nay,  don't  go.'  '  Sir,'  said  I,  'I  am 
passed  the  morning,  I  boldly  repaired  to  afraid  that  I  intrude  upon  you.  It  is  be- 
fohnson.  His  chambers  were  on  the  first  ^°  nevolent  to  allow  me  to  sit  and  hear  you.' 
"floor  of  No.  I,  Inner  Temple-lane,  and  I  He  seemed  pleased  with  this  compliment, 
entered  them  with  an  impression  given  which  I  sincerely  paid  him,  and  answered, 
me  by  the  Reverend  Dr.  Blair,  of  Edin-  '  Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  any  man  who  visits 
burgh,  who  had  been  introduced  to  him  me.'  I  have  preserved  the  following 
not  long  before,  and  described  his  having i5  short  minute  of  what  passed  this  day:  — 
'found  the  Giant  in  his  den';  an  expres-  'Madness     frequently     discovers     itself 

sion  which,  when  I  came  to  be  pretty  merely  by  unnecessary  deviation  from  the 
well  acquainted  with  Johnson,  I  repeated  usual  modes  of  the  world.  My  poor 
to  him,  and  he  was  diverted  at  this  pic-  friend  Smart  showed  the  disturbance  of 
turesque  account  of  himself.  Dr.  Blair  20  his  mind,  by  falling  upon  his  knees,  and' 
had  been  presented  to  him  by  Dr.  James  saying  his  prayers  in  the  street,  or  in  any 
Fordyce.  At  this  time  the  controversy  other  unusual  place.  Now  although,  ra- 
concerning  the  pieces  published  by  Mr.  tionally  speaking,  it  is  greater  madness 
James  Macpherson,  as  translations  of  not  to  pray  at  all,  than  to  pray  as  Smart 
Ossian,  was  at  its  height.  Johnson  had  ^^5  did,  I  am  afraid  there  are  so  many  who 
all  along  denied  their  authenticity;  and,  do  not  pray,  that  their  understanding  is 
what  was  still  more  provoking  to  their  not  called  in  question.' 
admirers,    maintained    that    they    had    no  Concerning      this      unfortunate      poet, 

merit.  The  subject  having  been  intro-  Christopher  Smart,  who  was  confined  in 
duced  by  Dr.  Fordyce,  Dr.  Blair,  relying  30  a  madhouse,  he  had,  at  another  time,  the 
on  the  internal  evidence  of  their  antiq-  following  conversation  with  Dr.  Burney. 
uity,  asked  Dr.  Johnson  whether  he  Burney:  '  How  does  poor  Smart  do,  sir ; 
thought  any  man  of  a  modern  age  could  is  he  likely  to  recover?' — Johnson:  'It 
have  written  such  poems?  Johnson  re-  seems  as  if  his  mind  had  ceased  to  strug- 
plied,  '  Yes,  sir,  many  men,  many  women,  35  gle  with  the  disease :  for  he  grows  fat 
and  many  children.'  Johnson,  at  this  upon  it.' — Burney:  'Perhaps,  sir,  that 
time,  did  not  know  that  Dr.  Blair  had  may  be  from  want  of  exercise.' — John- 
just  published  a  Dissertation,  not  only  son:  'No,  sir;  he  has  partly  as  much 
defending  their  authenticity,  but  seriously  exercise  as  he  used  to  have,  for  he  digs 
ranking  them  with  the  poems  of  Homer  40  in  the  garden.  Indeed,  before  his  con- 
and  Virgil ;  and  when  he  was  afterwards  finement,  he  used  for  exercise  to  walk  to 
informed  of  this  circumstance,  he  ex-  the  ale-house;  but  he  was.  carried  back 
pressed  some  displeasure  at  Dr.  Fordyce's  again,  I  did  not  think  he  ought  to  be 
having  suggested  the  topic,  and  said,  '  I  shut  up.  His  infirmities  were  not  nox- 
am  not  sorry  that  they  got  thus  much  for  45  ious  to  society.  He  insisted  on  people 
their  pains.  Sir,  it  was  like  leading  one  praying  with  him,  and  I  'd  as  lief  pray 
to  talk  of  a  book,  when  the  author  is  con-  with  Kit  Smart  as  any  one  else.  An- 
cealed  behind  the  door.'  other   charge   was,   that   he  did   not   love 

He  received  me  very  courteously;  but  clean  linen;  and  I  have  no  passion  for 
it  must  be  confessed  that  his  apartment,  5o  it.'  Johnson  continued :  '  Mankind  have 
and  furniture,  and  morning  dress,  were  a  great  aversion  to  intellectual  labor; 
sufficiently  uncouth.  His  brown  suit  of  but  even  supposing  knowledge  to  be 
clothes  looked  very  rusty;  he  had  on  a  easily  attainable,  more  people  would  be 
little  old  shriveled  unpowdered  wig,  content  to  be  ignorant  than  would  take 
which  was  too  small  for  his  head,  his  55  even  a  little  trouble  to  acquire  it.' 
shirt-neck  and  knees  of  his  breeches  were  '  The  morality  of  an  action  depends  on 

loose;    his    black    worsted    stockings    ill      the  motive  from  which  we  act.     If  I  fling 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  42Q 


half-a-crown  to  a  beggar,  with  intention  when  I  told  him  I  had  been  to  see  John- 
to  break  his  head,  and  he  picks  it  up  and  son  ride  upon  three  horses,  he  said, 
buys  victuals  with  it,  the  physical  effect  *  Such  a  man,  sir,  should  be  encouraged ; 
is  good;  but,  with  respect  to  me,  the  ac-  for  his  performances  show  the  extent  of 
tion  is  very  wrong.  So  religious  exer-  5  the  human  powers  in  one  instance,  and 
cises,  if  not  performed  with  an  intention  thus  tend  to  raise  our  opinion  of  the 
to  please  God,  avail  us  nothing.  As  our  faculties  of  man.  He  shows  what  may 
Saviour  says  of  those  who  perform  them  be  attained  by  persevering  application;  so 
from  other  motives,  "  Verily  they  have  that  every  man  may  hope,  that  by  giving 
their  reward."  10  as    much    application,    although,    perhaps, 

'  The  Christian  religion  has  very  strong  he  may  never  ride  three  horses  at  a  time, 
evidences.  It,  indeed,  appears  in  some  or  dance  upon  a  wire,  yet  he  may  be 
degree  strange  to  reason ;  but  in  History  equally  expert  in  whatever  profession  he 
we  have  undoubted  facts,  against  which,  has  chosen  to  pursue.' 
reasoning  a  priori,  we  have  more  argu- 15  He  again  shook  me  by  the  hand  at 
ments  than  we  have  for  them ;  but  then,  parting,  and  asked  me  why  I  did  not 
testimony  has  great  weight,  and  casts  the  come  oftener  to  him.  Trusting  that  I 
balance.  I  would  recommend  to  every  was  now  in  his  good  graces,  I  answered, 
man  whose  faith  is  yet  unsettled,  Grotius,  that  he  had  not  given  me  much  encour- 
—  Dr.  Pearson. —  and  Dr.  Clarke.'  20  agement,  and  reminded  him  of  the  check 

Talking  of  Garrick,  he  said,  '  He  is  the  I  had  received  from  him  at  our  first  in- 
first  man  in  the  world  for  sprightly  con-  terview.  '  Poh,  poh !  '  said  he,  with  a 
versation.'  complacent     smile,     '  never     mind     these 

When  I  rose  a  second  time,  he  again  things.  Come  to  me  as  often  as  you 
pressed  me  to  stay,  which  I  did.  25  can.     I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you.' 

He    told    me,    that    he    generally    went  I  had  learnt  that  his  place  of  frequent 

abroad  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  sel-  resort  was  the  Mitre  tavern  in  Fleet- 
dom  came  home  till  two  in  the  morning,  street,  where  he  loved  to  sit  up  late,  and 
I  took  the  liberty  to  ask  if  he  did  not  I  begged  I  might  be  allowed  to  pass  an 
think  it  wrong  to  live  thus,  and  not  make  30  evening  with  him  there  soon,  which  he 
more  use  of  his  great  talents.  He  owned  promised  I  should.  A  few  days  after- 
it  was  a  bad  habit.  On  reviewing,  at  wards,  I  met  him  near  Temple-bar  about 
the  distance  of  many  years,  my  journal  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  asked 
of  this  period,  I  wonder  how,  at  my  first  if  he  would  then  go  to  the  Mitre.  '  Sir.' 
visit,  I  ventured  to  talk  to  him  so  freely,  35  said  he,  "it  is  too  late,  they  won't  let 
and  that  he  bore  it  with  so  much  in-  us  in.  But  I  '11  go  with  you  another 
dulgence.  night,  with  all  my  heart.' 

Before  we  parted,  he  was  so  good  as  A    revolution    of    some    importance    in 

to  promise  to  favor  me  with  his  company  my  plan  of  life  had  just  taken  place:  for 
one  evening  at  my  lodgings;  and,  as  1 40  instead  of  procuring  a  commission  in  the 
took  my  leave,  shook  me  cordially  by  the  foot  guards,  which  was  my  own  inclina- 
hand.  It  is  almost  needless  to  add,  that  tion,  I  had,  in  compliance  with  my 
I  felt  no  little  elation  at  having  now  so  father's  wishes,  agreed  to  study  the  law. 
happily  established  an  acquaintance  of  and  was  soon  to  set  out  for  Utrecht,  to 
which  I  had  been  so  long  ambitious.  45  hear  the  lectures  of  an  excellent  civilian 

My  readers  will,  I  trust,  excuse  me  for  in  that  University,  and  then  to  proceed  on 
being  thus  minutely  circumstantial,  when  my  travels.  Though  very_  desirous  of  ob- 
it is  considered  that  the  acquaintance  of  taining  Dr.  Johnson's  advice  and  instruc- 
Dr.  Johnson  was  to  me  a  most  valuable  tions  on  the  mode  of  pursuing  my  studies, 
acquisition,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  50  I  was  at  this  time  so  occupied,  shall  I 
whatever  instruction  and  entertainment  call  it?  or  so  dissipated  by  the  amuse- 
they  may  receive  from  my  collections  con-  ments  of  London,  that  our  next  meeting 
cerning  the  great  subject  of  the  work  was  not  till  Saturday,  June  25,  when 
which  they  are  now  perusing.  happening    to    dine    at    Clifton's    eating- 

I  did  not  visit  him  again  till  ;Monday,  55  house,  in  Butcher-row,  I  was  surprised 
June  13,  at  which  tinie  I  recollect  no  to  perceive  Johnson  come  in  and  take  his 
part    of    his    conversation,     except,    that      scat     at     another     table.     The     mode     of 


i 


430  JAMES  BOSWELL 


dining,  or  rather  being  fed,  at  such  too  much,  he  was  in  danger  of  losing  that 
houses  in  London,  is  well  known  to  many  degree  of  estimation  to  which  he  was  en- 
to  be  particularly  unsocial,  as  there  is  titled.  His  friends  gave  out  that  he  in- 
no  ordinary,  or  united  company,  but  each  tended  his  Birthday  Odes  should  be 
person  has  his  own  mess,  and  is  under  5  bad ;  but  that  was  not  the  case,  sir;  for 
no  obligation  to  hold  any  intercourse  he  kept  them  many  montlis  by  him,  and  a 
with  any  one.  A  liberal  and  full-minded  few  years  before  he  died  he  showed  me 
man,  however,  who  loves  to  talk,  will  one  of  them,  with  great  solicitude  to 
break  through  this  churlish  and  unsocial  render  it  as  perfect  as  might  be,  and  I 
restraint.  Johnson  and  an  Irish  gentle-  1°  made  some  corrections,  to  which  he  was 
man  got  into  a  dispute  concerning  the  not  very  willing  to  submit.  I  remember 
cause  of  some  part  of  mankind  being  the  following  couplet  in  allusion  to  the 
black.  'Why,  sir,'  said  Johnson,  'it  has  King  and  himself:  — 
been  accounted  for  in  three  ways :  either 

by  supposing  that  they  are  the  posterity  '5         Perched  on  the  eagle's  soaring  wing, 
of   Ham,    who   was   cursed,    or   that    God  The  lowly  linnet  loves  to  sing, 

at   first    created    two   kinds   of   men,    one 

black,  and  another  white,  or  that,  by  the  Sir,  he  had  heard  something  of  the  fab- 
heat  of  the  sun,  the  skin  is  scorched,  and  ulous  tale  of  the  wren  sitting  upon  the 
so  acquires  a  sooty  hue.  This  matter  has  ^°  eagle's  wing,  and  he  had  applied  it  to  a 
been  much  canvassed  among  naturalists,  linnet.  Gibber's  familiar  style,  however, 
but  has  never  been  brought  to  any  cer-  was  better  than  that  which  Whitehead 
tain  issue.'  What  the  Irishman  said  is  has  assumed.  Grand  nonsense  is  insup- 
totally  obliterated  from  my  mind;  but  portable.  Whitehead  is  but  a  little  man 
I  remember  that  he  became  very  warm  25  to  inscribe  verses  to  players.' 
and  intemperate  in  his  expressions ;  upon  I    did    not   presume   to    controvert   this 

which  Johnson  rose,  and  quietly  walked  censure,  which  was  tinctured  with  his 
away.  When  he  had  retired,  his  antago-  prejudice  against  players;  but  I  could 
nist  took  his  revenge,  as  he  thought  by  not  help  thinking  that  a  dramatic  poet 
saying,  '  He  has  a  most  ungainly  figure,  30  might  with  propriety  pay  a  compliment 
and  an  affectation  of  pomposity,  unworthy  to  an  eminent  performer,  as  Whitehead 
of  a  man  of  genius.'  has   very   happily   done   in   his    verses   to 

Johnson   had   not  observed   that   I   was      Mr.  Garrick. 
in   the    room      I    followed   him,   however,  '  Sir,   I  do   not  think   Gray  a   first-rate 

and  he  agreed  to  meet  me  in  the  evening  35  poet.  He  has  not  a  bold  imagination, 
at  the  Mitre.  I  called  on  him,  and  we  nor  much  command  of  words.  The  ob- 
went  thither  at  nine.  We  had  a  good  scurity  in  which  he  has  involved  himself 
supper,  and  port  wine,  of  which  he  then  will  not  persuade  us  that  he  is  sublime, 
sometimes  drank  a  bottle.  The  orthodox  His  Elegy  in  a  Churchyard  has  a  happy 
high-church  sound  of  the  Mitre, —  the  40  selection  of  images,  but  I  don't  like  what 
figure  and  manner  of  the  celebrated  are  called  his  great  things.  His  Ode 
Samuel  Johnson, —  the  extraordinary  which  begins 
power  and  precision  of  his  conversation, 

and  the  pride,  arising  from  finding  myself  J"'"  ^eize  thee    ruthless  Kmg, 

admitted    as    his    companion,    produced    a  45  Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ! 

variety  of  sensations,  and  a  pleasing  ele- 


vation of  mind  beyond  what  I   had  ever 
before  experienced.     I  find  in  my  Journal 


has    been    celebrated    for    its    abruptness, 
and  plunging  into  the  subject  all  at  once. 


the  following  minute  of  our  conversa-  But  such  arts  as  these  have  no  merit,  un- 
tion,  which,  though  it  will  give  but  a  50  ^f  ^  ^^e"  they  are  origmal  We  admire 
very  faint  notion  of  what  passed,  is,  in  them  only  once;  and  this  abruptness  has 
some  degree,  a  valuable  record;  and  it  "°  ^ing  new  in  it.  We  have  had  it  often 
will  be  curious  in  this  view,  as  showing  before.  Nay,  we  have  it  in  the  old  song 
how  habitual  to  his  mind  were  some  of  Johnny  Armstrong: 
opinions  which  appear  in  his  works.  55      Is  there  ever  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 

'  Colley   Gibber,   sir,   was   by  no   means         From  the  highest  estate  to  the  lowest  de- 
a  blockhead,  but  by  arrogating  to  himself  gree, 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  431 


And  then,  sir,  my     part,     sir,     I     think     all     christians, 

whether   papists   or   protestants,   agree   in 

Yes,  there  is  a  man  in  Westmoreland,  the  essential  articles,  and  that  their  differ- 

And  Johnny  Armstrong  they  do  him  call,      ences  are  trivial,  and  rather  political  than 

5  religious.' 

There,  now,  you  plunge  at  once  into  the  We    talked    of    belief    in    ghosts.     He 

subject.     You    have    no    previous    narra-      said,   'Sir,   I   make  a  distinction   between 

tion    to    lead    you    to    it.     The    two    next      what  a  man  may  experience  by  the  mere 

lines  in  that  Ode  are,  I  think,  very  good :      strength    of    his    imagination,  '  and    what 

,  '0  imagination      cannot      possibly      produce. 

Though     fanned     by     Conquests     crimson      Thus,   suppose  I  should  think  that   I   saw 

~,    ^'"S''       ,..,.,,  „,  a   form,   and   heard   a   voice   cry,   "  John- 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state."  ^^^^  you   are   a  very   wicked   fellow,   and 

*    *    *  unless   you   repent   you  ■  will   certainly   be 

15  punished";    my   own   unworthiness   is    so 

Finding  him  in  a  placid  humor,  and  deeply  impressed  upon  my  mind,  that  1 
wishing  to  avail  myself  of  the  opportunity  might  imagine  I  thus  saw  and  heard,  and 
which  I  fortunately  had  of  consulting  a  therefore  I  should  not  believe  that  an  ex- 
sage,  to  hear  whose  wisdom,  I  conceived,  ternal  communication  had  been  made  to 
in  the  ardor  of  youthful  imagination,  that  20  me.  But  if  a  form  should  appear,  and 
men  filled  with  a  noble  enthusiasm  for  a  voice  should  tell  me  that  a  particular 
intellectual  improvement  would  gladly  man  had  died  at  a  particular  place,  and 
have  resorted  from  distant  lands, —  I  a  particular  hour,  a  fact  which  I  had 
opened  my  mind  to  him  ingenuously,  and  no  apprehension  of,  nor  any  means  of 
gave  him  a  little  sketch  of  my  life,  to  25  knowing,  and  this  fact,  with  all  its 
which  he  was  pleased  to  listen  with  great  circumstances,  should  afterwards  be  un- 
attention.  questionably  proved,  I  should  in  that  case 

I  acknowledged  that  though  educated  be  persuaded  that  I  had  supernatural  in- 
very  strictly  in  the  principles  of  religion,  telligence  imparted  to  me.' 
I  had  for  some  time  been  misled  into  a  30  Here  it  is  proper,  once  for  all,  to  give 
certain  degree  of  infidelity;  but  that  I  a  true  and  fair  statement  of  Johnson's 
was  come  now  to  a  better  way  of  think-  way  of  thinking  upon  the  question, 
ing,  and  was  fully  satisfied  of  the  truth  whether  departed  spirits  are  ever  per- 
of  the  christian  revelation,  though  I  was  mitted  to  appear  in  this  world,  or  in  any 
not  clear  as  to  every  point  considered  to  3S  way  to  operate  upon  human  life.  He  has 
be  orthodox.  Being  at  all  times  a  cu-  been  ignorantly  misrepresented  as  weakly 
rious  examiner  of  the  human  mind,  and  credulous  upon  that  subject;  and,  there- 
pleased  with  an  undisguised  display  of  fore,  though  I  feel  an  inclination  to  dis- 
what  had  passed  in  it,  he  called  to  me  dain  and  treat  with  silent  contempt  so 
with  warmth,  '  Give  me  your  hand,  I  40  foolish  a  notion  concerning  my  illustrious 
have  taken  a  liking  to  you.'  He  then  friend,  yet,  as  I  find  it  has  gained  ground, 
began  to  descant  upon  the  force  of  testi-  it  is  necessary  to  refute  it.  The  real  fact 
mony,  and  the  little  we  could  know  of  then  is,  that  Johnson  had  a  very  philo- 
final  causes ;  so  that  the  objections  of,  sophical  mind,  and  such  a  rational  respect 
'Why  was  it  so?'  or  'Why  was  it  not  45  for  testimony,  as  to  make  him  submit  his 
so?'  ought  not  to  disturb  us:  adding,  understanding  to  what  was  authentically 
that  he  himself  had  at  one  period  been  proved,  though  he  could  not  comprehend 
guilty  of  a  temporary  neglect  of  religion,  why  it  was  so.  Being  thus  disposed,  he 
but  that  it  was  not  the  result  of  argu-  was  willing  to  inquire  into  the  truth  of 
ment,  but  mere  absence  of  thought.  50  any    relation    of    supernatural    agency,    a 

After  having  given  credit  to  reports  of  general  belief  of  which  has  prevailed  in 
his  bigotry,  I  was  agreeably  surprised  all  nations  and  ages.  But  so  far  was  he 
when  he  expressed  the  following  very  lib-  from  being  the  dupe  of  implicit  faith, 
eral  sentiment,  which  has  the  additional  that  he  examined  the  matter  with  a  jeal- 
value  of  obviating  an  objection  to  our  55  ous  attention,  and  no  man  was  more 
holy  religion,  founded  upon  the  discord-  ready  to  refute  its  falsehood  when  he 
ant  tenets  of  christians  themselves:  'For      liad     discovered     it.     tluircliill.     in     his 


432  JAMES  BOS  WELL 

poem  entitled  The  Ghost,  availed  him-  let  me  tell  you,  that  to  be  a  Scotch  land- 
self  of  the  absurd  credulity  imputed  to  lord,  where  you  have  a  number  of  fanii- 
Johnson,  and  drev\^  a  caricature  of  him  lies  dependent  upon  you,  and  attached  to 
under  the  name  of  '  Poniposo,'  represent-  you,  is,  perhaps,  as  high  a  situation  as 
ing  him  as  one  of  the  believers  of  the  5  humanity  can  arrive  at.  A  merchant  upon 
story  of  a  ghost  in  Cock-lane,  which,  in  the  'Change  of  London,  with  a  hundred 
the  year  1762,  had  gained  very  general  thousand  pounds,  is  nothing;  an  English 
credit  in  London.  Many  of  my  readers,  Duke,  with  an  immense  fortune,  is  noth- 
I  am  convinced,  are  to  this  hour  under  ing;  he  has  no  tenants  who  consider  them- 
an  impression  that  Johnson  was  thus  w  selves  as  under  his  patriarchal  care,  and 
foolishly  deceived.  It  will  therefore  sur-  who  will  follow  him  to  the  field  upon  an 
prise  them  a  good  deal  when  they  are  in-  emergency.' 
formed    upon    undoubted    authority,    that  *     *     * 

Johnson  was  one   of  those  by  whom  the  I  complained  to  him  tliat  I  had  not  yet 

imposture  was  detected.  The  story  had  '5  acquired  much  knowledge,  and  asked  his 
become  so  popular,  that  he  thought  it  advice  as  to  my  studies.  He  said,  '  Don't 
should  be  investigated;  and  in  this  re-  talk  of  study,  now.  I  will  give  you  a 
search  he  was  assisted  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  plan;  but  it  will  require  some  time  to 
Douglas,  now  bishop  of  Salisbury,  the  consider  of  it.'  '  It  is  very  good  in  you,' 
great  detector  of  impostures ;  who  in-  20  I  replied,  '  to  allow  me  to  be  with  you 
forms  me  that  after  the  gentlemen  who  thus.  Had  it  been  foretold  to  me  some 
went  and  examined  into  the  evidence  years  ago  that  I  should  pass  an  evening 
were  satisfied  of  its  falsity,  Johnson  wrote  with  the  author  of  the  Rambler,  how 
in  their  presence  an  account  of  it,  which  should  I  have  exulted ! '  What  I  then 
was  published  in  the  newspapers  and  25  expressed  was  sincerely  from  my  heart. 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  and  undeceived  He  was  satisfied  that  it  was,  and  cordially 
the  world.  answered,  '  Sir,  I  am  glad  we  have  met. 

Our      conversation      proceeded.     '  Sir,'      I  hope  we  shall  pass  many  evenings,  and 
said  he,  '  I  am  a  friend  to  subordination      mornings    too,    together.'     We   finished    a 
as    most    conducive    to    the    happiness    of  3o  couple  of  bottles  of  port,  and  sat  till  be- 
society.     There  is  a  reciprocal  pleasure  in      tw^een  one  and  two  in  the  morning, 
governing  and  being  governed.'  He  wrote  this  year,  in  the  Critical  Re- 

'  Dr.  Goldsmith  is  one  of  the  first  men  view,  the  account  of  Telemachus,  a 
we  now  have  as  an  author,  and  he  is  a  Mask,  by  the  Rev.  George  Graham,  of 
very  worthy  man  too.  He  has  been  loose  35  Eton  College.  The  subject  of  this  beau- 
in  his  principles,  but  he  is  coming  right.'      tiful    poem    was    particularly    interesting 

I  mentioned  Mallet's  tragedy  of  to  Johnson,  who  had  much  experience 
Elvira,  which  had  been  acted  the  pre-  of  '  the  conflict  of  opposite  principles,' 
ceding  winter  at  Drury-lane,  and  that  which  he  describes  as  '  the  contention  be- 
the  Honorable  Andrew  Erskine,  Mr.  4°  tween  pleasure  and  virtue,  a  struggle 
Dempster,  and  myself,  had  joined  in  which  will  always  be  continued  while  the 
writing  a  pamphlet,  entitled  Critical  present  system  of  nature  shall  subsist; 
Strictures,  against  it.  That  the  mildness  nor  can  history  or  poetry  exhibit  more 
of  Dempster's  disposition  had,  however,  than  pleasure  triumphing  over  virtue,  and 
relented;  and  he  had  candidly  said,  'We  45  virtue  subjugating  pleasure.' 
have  hardly  a  right  to  abuse  this  tragedy,  As     Dr.     Oliver    Goldsmith    will     fre- 

for,  bad  as  it  is,  how  vain  should  either  quently  appear  in  this  narrative,  I  shall 
of  us  be  to  write  one  not  near  so  good !  '  endeavor  to  make  my  readers  in  some 
Johnson:  'Why,  no  sir;  this  is  not  just  degree  acquainted  with  his  singular  char- 
reasoning.  You  may  abuse  a  tragedy,  5o  acter.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and 
though  you  cannot  write  one.  You  may  a  contemporary  with  Mr.  Burke,  at 
scold  a  carpenter  who  has  made  you  a  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  but  did  not  then 
bad  table,  though  you  cannot  make  a  give  much  promise  of  future  celebrity, 
table.  It  is  not  your  trade  to  make  He,  however,  observed  to  Mr.  Malone, 
tables.'  55  that  '  though  he  made  no  great  figure  in 

When  I  talked  to  him  of  the  paternal  mathematics,  which  was  a  study  in  much 
estate  to  which  I  was  heir,  he  said,  '  Sir,      repute   there,   he   could   turn    an    Ode   of 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  433 


Horace  into  English  better  than  any  of  wherever  he  was,  he  frequently  talked 
them.'  He  afterwards  studied  physic  in  carelessly  without  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
Edinburgh,  and  upon  the  Continent:  and,  ject,  or  even  without  thought.  His  per- 
I  have  been  informed,  was  enabled  to  son  was  short,  his  countenance  coarse  and 
pursue  his  travels  on  foot,  partly  by  de-  5  vulgar,  his  deportment  that  of  a  scholar 
manding,  at  Universities,  to  enter  the  lists  awkwardly  affecting  the  easy  gentleman, 
as  a  disputant,  by  which,  according  to  the  Those  who  were  in  any  way  distin- 
custom  of  many  of  them,  he  was  entitled  guished,  excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridicu- 
to  the  premium  of  a  crown,  when,  luckily  lous  an  excess,  that  the  instances  of  it 
for  him,  his  challenge  was  not  accepted ;  10  are  hardly  credible.  When  accompany- 
so  that,  as  I  once  observed  to  Johnson,  ing  two  beautiful  young  ladies,-  with 
he  disputed  his  passage  through  Europe.  their  mother,  on  a  tour  in  France,  he  was 
He  then  came  to  England,  and  was  em-  seriously  angry  that  more  attention  was 
ployed  successively  in  the  capacities  of  paid  to  them  than  to  him ;  and  once  at 
an  usher  to  an  academy,  a  corrector  of  15  the  exhibition  of  the  Fantoccini  in  Lon- 
the  press,  a  reviewer,  and  a  writer  for  a  don,  when  those  who  sat  next  to  him  ob- 
newspaper.  He  had  sagacity  enough  to  served  with  what  dexterity  a  puppet  was 
cultivate  assiduously  the  acquaintance  of  made  to  toss  a  pike,  he  could  not  bear 
Johnson,  and  his  faculties  were  gradually  that  it  should  have  such  praise,  and  ex- 
enlarged  by  the  contemplation  of  such  a  20  claimed,  with  some  warmth,  'Pshaw!  I 
model.  To  me  and  many  others  it  ap-  can  do  it  better  myself.'  ^ 
peared  that  he  studiously  copied  the  man-  He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system 

ner   of  Johnson,   though,   indeed,   upon   a      of  any  sort,  so  that  his  conduct  must  not 
smaller  scale.  be  strictly  scrutinized ;   but  his  affections 

At  this  time  I  think  he  had  published  25  were  social  and  generous,  and  when  he 
nothing  with  his  name,  though  it  was  had  money  he  gave  it  away  very  liberally, 
pretty  generally  known  that  one  Dr.  His  desire  of  imaginary  consequence 
Goldsmith  was  the  author  of  An  Inquiry  predominated  over  his  attention  to  truth. 
into  the  present  State  of  Polite  Learning  When  he  began  to  rise  into  notice,  he 
in  Europe,  and  of  The  Citizen  of  f/z^30said  he  had  a  brother  who  was  dean  of 
World,  a  series  of  letters  supposed  to  be  Durham,  a  fiction  so  easily  detected,  that 
written  from  London  by  a  Chinese.  No  it  is  wonderful  how  he  should  have  been 
man  had  the  art  of  displaying  with  more  so  inconsiderate  as  to  hazard  it.  He 
advantage,  as  a  writer,  whatever  literary  boasted  to  me  at  this  time  of  the  power 
acquisitions  he  made.  Nihil  quod  tetigit  35  of  his  pen  in  commanding  money,  which 
non  ornavit  ^  [There  was  nothing  he  I  believe  was  true  in  a  certain  degree, 
touched  he  did  not  adorn].  His  mind  re-  though  in  the  instance  he  gave  he  was 
sembled  a  fertile  but  thin  soil.  There  by  no  means  correct.  He  told  me  that 
was  a  quick,  but  not  a  strong,  vegeta-  he  had  sold  a  novel  for  four  hundred 
tion,  of  whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown  40  pounds.  This  was  his  Vicar  of  Wake- 
upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck,  field.  But  Johnson  informed  me  that  he 
The  oak  of  the  forest  did  not  grow  there;  had  made  the  bargain  for  Goldsmith,  and 
but  the  elegant  shrubbery  and  the  fra-  the  price  was  sixty  pounds.  '  And,  sir," 
grant  parterre  appeared  in  gay  succession,  said  he,  '  a  sufficient  price  too,  when  it 
It  has  been  generally  circulated  and  be-  45  was  sold ;  for  then  the  fame  of  Goldsmith 
lieved  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in  con-  had  not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards 
versation ;  but,  in  truth,  this  has  been  was,  by  his  Traveller;  and  the  bookseller 
greatly  exaggerated.  He  had,  no  doubt,  had  such  faint  hopes  of  profit  by  his  bar- 
a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry  gain,  that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him 
of  ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  5o  a  long  time,  and  did  not  publish  it  till 
countrymen,  and  which  sometimes  pro-  after  The  Traveller  had  appeared.  Then, 
duces  a  laughable  confusion  in  express- 
ing them.  He  was  very  much  what  the  ^  Miss  Hornecks,  one  of  w  hom  is  now  married  to 
French  call  Un  CtOUrdi.  and  from  vanity  ^^^^y  Bunbury,  Esq.,  and  the  other  to  Colonel 
and   an    eager   desire    of    being   conspicuous  55      ""He   went    home    with    Mr.    Burke   to   supper;    and 

broke   his   shin   liy   attemptina;   to   exhibit  to  the  com- 

'  See    his    epitaph    in    Westminster    .Abbey,    written        pany    how    imicli    l)etter    he   could   jump   over   a    stick 
by    Dr.     Inhnson.  than   the    puppets. 

28 


434  JAMES  BOSWELL 


to  be  sure,  it  was  accidentally  worth  more  be  sure,  he  is  a  tree  that  cannot  produce 
money.'  ,  fjood  fruit :  he  only  bears  crabs.     E5ut,  sir, 

Mrs.    Piozzi    and    Sir    John    Hawkins      a  tree  that  produces  a  great  many  crabs, 
have    strangely    misstated    the   history    of      is  better  than  a  tree  which  produces  only 
Goldsmith's      situation       and      Johnson's    s  a  few.' 
friendly  interference,  when  this  novel  was  *     *     * 

sold.     1    shall   give    it   authentically    from  Let   me   here   apologize   for   the   imper- 

Johnson's  own  exact  narration: — 'I  re-  feet  manner  in  which  I  am  obliged  to  ex- 
ceived  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  hibit  Johnson's  conversation  at  this 
Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  lo  period.  In  the  early  part  of  my  acquaint- 
and,  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  ance  with  him,  1  was  so  wrapt  in  adnu- 
me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  ration  of  his  extraordinary  colloquial 
soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  talents,  and  so  little  accustomed  to  his 
promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I  ac-  peculiar  mode  of  expression,  that  I  found 
cordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  is  it  extremely  difficult  to  recollect  and  re- 
and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  cord  his  conversation  with  its  genuine 
him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  vigor  and  vivacity.  In  progress  of  time, 
violent  passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had  when  my  mind  was,  as  it  were,  strongly 
already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  impregnated  with  the  Johnsonian  aether, 
bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  20  I  could  with  much  more  facilitv  and  ex- 
I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  actness,  carry  in  my  memory  and  commit 
would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  to  paper  the  exuberant  variety  of  his 
of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  ex-      wisdom  and  wit. 

tricated.     He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  At  this  time  Miss  Williams,  as  she  was 

novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  pro-  ^s  then  called,  though  she  did  not  reside 
duced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  wifh  him  in  the  Temple  under  his  roof, 
its  merits ;  told  the  landlady  I  should  re-  but  had  lodgings  in  Bolt-court,  Fleet- 
turn  ;  and,  having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  street,  had  so  much  of  his  attention,  that 
sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Gold-  he  every  night  drank  tea  with  her  before 
smith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  3°  he  went  home,  however  late  it  might  be, 
rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  and  she  always  sat  up  for  him.  This  it 
a  high  tone   for  having  used  him  so  ill.'      may    be    conjectured,    was    not    alone    a 

My  next  meeting  with  Johnson  was  on      proof  of  his  regard  for  her,  but  of  his  own 

Friday,   the    ist   of  July,   when   he  and   I      unwillingness   to  go  into   solitude,   before 

and      Dr.      Goldsmith      supped      at      the  35  that  unseasonable  hour  at  which   he  had 

Mitre.  habituated  himself  to  expect  the  oblivion 

*     *     *  of  repose.     Dr.  Goldsmith,  being  a  privi- 

He  talked  very  contemptuously  of  leged  man,  went  with  him  this  night, 
Churchill's  poetry,  observing,  that  '  it  had  strutting  away,  and  calling  to  me  with  an 
a  temporary  currency,  only  from  its  40  air  of  superiority,  like  that  of  an  esoteric 
audacity  of  abuse,  and  being  filled  with  over  an  exoteric  disciple  of  a  sage  of 
living  names,  and  that  it  would  sink  into  antiquity,  'I  go  to  Miss  Williams.'  I 
oblivion.'  I  ventured  to  hint  that  he  was  confess,  I  then  envied  him  this  mighty 
not  quite  a  fair  judge,  as  Churchill  had  privilege,  of  which  he  seemed 'so  proud; 
attacked  him  violently.  Johnson  :  '  Nay  45  but  it  was  not  long  before  I  obtained  the 
sir,  I  am  a  very  fair  judge.  He  did  not  same  mark  of  distinction, 
attack   me    violently   till   he    found    I    did  *     *     * 

not  like  his  poetry;  and  his  attack  on  me  On    Wednesday,    July    6,    he    was    en- 

shall  not  prevent  me  from  continuing  to  gaged  to  sup  with  me  at  my  lodgings  in 
say  what  I  think  of  him,  from  an  appre-  5o  Downing-street,  Westminster.  But  on 
hension  that  it  may  be  ascribed  to  re-  the  preceding  night  my  landlord  having 
sentment.  No,  sir,  I  called  the  fellow  a  behaved  very  rudely  to  me  and  some  com- 
blockhead  at  first,  and  I  will  call  him  a  pany  who  were  with  me,  I  had  resolved 
blockhead  still.  However,  I  will  ac-  not  to  remain  another  night  in  his  house, 
knowledge  that  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  ^'-^  I  was  exceedingly  uneasy  at  the  awkward 
him  now  than  I  once  had ;  for  he  has  appearance  I  supposed  I  should  make  to 
shown  more  fertility  than  I  expected.     To      Johnson   and   the   other   gentlemen   whom 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 435 

I  had  invited,  not  being  able  to  receive  could  not  be  politically  true;  and  as  the 
them  at  home,  and  being  obliged  to  order  king  might,  in  the  exercise  of  his  regal 
supper  at  the  Mitre.  I  went  to  Johnson  power,  command  and  cause  the  doing  of 
in  the  morning,  and  talked  of  it  as  a  seri-  what  was  wrong,  it  certainly  might  be 
ous  distress.  He  laughed  and  said,  '  Con-  S  said,  in  sense  and  in  reason,  that  he 
sider,  sir,  how  insignificant  this  will  ap-  could  do  wrong.'  Johnson:  'Sir,  you 
pear  a  twelvemonth  hence.'  Were  this  are  to  consider  that  in  our  constitution, 
consideration  to  be  applied  to  most  of  the  according  to  its  true  principles,  the  king 
little  vexatious  incidents  of  life,  by  is  the  head,  he  is  supreme;  he  is  above 
which  our  quiet  is  too  often  disturbed,  lo  everything,  and  there  is  no  power  by 
it  would  prevent  many  painful  sensa-  which  he  can  be  tried.  Therefore,  it  is, 
tions.  I  have  tried  it  frequently  with  sir,  that  we  hold  the  king  can  do  no 
good  effect.  'There  is  nothing,'  con-  wrong;  that  whatever  may  happen  to  be 
tinued  he,  '  in  this  mighty  misfortune ;  wrong  in  government,  may  not  be  above 
nay,  we  shall  be  better  at  the  Mitre.'  I  JS  our  reach  by  being  ascribed  to  majesty, 
told  him  that  I  had  been  at  Sir  John  Redress  is  always  to  be  had  against  op- 
Fielding's  office,  complaining  of  my  land-  pression  by  punishing  the  immediate 
lord,  and  had  been  informed  that  though  agents.  The  king,  though  he  should 
I  had  taken  my  lodgings  for  a  year,  I  command,  cannot  force  a  judge  to  con- 
might,  upon  proof  of  his  bad  behavior,  20  demn  a  man  unjustly;  therefore  it  is 
quit  them  when  I  pleased,  without  being  the  judge  whom  we  prosecute  and  pun- 
under  an  obligation  to  pay  rent  for  any  ish.  Political  institutions  are  formed 
longer  time  than  while  I  possessed  them,  upon  the  consideration  of  what  will  most 
The  fertility  of  Johnson's  mind  could  frequently  tend  to  the  good  of  the  whole, 
show  itself  even  upon  so  small  a  matter  ^^  although  now  and  then  exceptions  may 
as  this.  '  Why,  sir,'  said  he,  '  I  suppose  occur.  Thus  it  is  better  in  general  that 
this  must  be  the  law,  since  you  have  been  a  nation  should  have  a  supreme  legisla- 
told  so  in  Bow-street.  But  if  your  land-  tive  power,  although  it  may  at  times  be 
lord  could  hold  you  to  your  bargain,  and  abused.  And  then,  sir,  there  is  this 
the  lodgings  should  be  yours  for  a  year,  30  consideration,  that  if  the  abuse  be  enor- 
you  may  certainly  use  them  as  you  think  mous,  nature  ivill  rise  up,  and  claiming^ 
fit.  So,  sir,  you  may  quarter  two  life-  her  original  rights,  overturn  a  corrupt 
guardsmen  upon  him;  or  you  may  send  political  system.'  I  mark  this  animated 
the  greatest  scoundrel  you  can  find  into  sentence  with  peculiar  pleasure,  as  a 
your  apartments;  or  you  may  say  that  3^  noble  instance  of  that  truly  dignified 
you  want  to  make  some  experiments  in  spirit  of  freedom  which  ever  glowed  in 
natural  philosophy,  and  may  burn  a  his  heart,  though  he  was  charged  with 
large  quantity  of  assafoetida  in  his  slavish  tenets  by  superficial  observers: 
house.'  because    he    was    at    all    times    indignant 

I  had  as  my  guests  this  evening  at  the  40  against  that  false  patriotism,  that  pre- 
Mitre  Tavern,  Dr.  Johnson,  Dr.  Gold-  tended  love  of  freedom,  that  unruly  rest- 
smith,  Mr.  Thomas  Davies.  Mr.  Eccles,  lessness,  which  is  inconsistent  with  the 
an  Irish  gentleman  for  whose  agreeable  stable  authority  of  any  good  government, 
company  I  was  obliged  to  Mr.  Davies,  This  generous  sentiment,  which  he  ut- 
and  the  Rev.  Mr.  John  Ogilvie,  who  was  45  tered  with  great  fervor,  struck  me  ex- 
desirous  of  being  in  company  with  my  ceedingly,  and  stirred  my  blood  to  that 
illustrious  friend,  while  I,  in  my  turn,  pitch  of  fancied  resistance,  the  possibility 
was  proud  to  have  the  honor  of  showing  of  which  I  am  glad  to  keep  in  mind,  but 
one  of  my  countrymen  upon  what  easy  to  which  I  trust  I  never  shall  be  forced, 
terms  Johnson  permitted  me  to  live  with  5o  '  Great  abilities,'  said  he,  '  are  not 
him.  requisite  for  an  historian,  for  in  histori- 

Goldsmith,  as  usual,  endeavored  with  cal  composition  all  the  greatest  powers  of 
too  much  eagerness  to  shine,  and  dis-  the  human  mind  are  quiescent.  He  has 
puted  very  warmly  with  Johnson  against  facts  ready  to  his  hand,  so  there  is  no 
the  well-known  maxim  of  the  British  55  exercise  of  invention.  Imagination  is 
constitution,  '  the  king  can  do  no  wrong ';  not  required  in  any  high  degree;  only 
affirming    that   '  what    was    morally    false      about   as   much   as   is   used    in   the   lower 


436  JAMES  BOSWELL 


kinds  of  poetry.  Some  penetration,  ac-  vegetables,  and  for  the  animals  who  eat 
curacy,  and  coloring,  will  fit  a  man  for  those  vegetables,  and  for  the  animals  who 
the  task,  if  he  can  give  the  application  eat  those  animals.'  This  observation  of 
which  is  necessary.'  his,  aptly  enough  introduced  a  good  sup- 

'  Bayle's  Dictionary  is  a  very  useful  5  per;  and  I  soon  forgot,  in  Johnson's  com- 
work  for  those  to  consult  who  love  the  pany,  the  influence  of  a  moist  atmosphere, 
biographical   part  of   literature,  which   is  Feeling  myself  now  quite  at  ease  as  his 

what  I  love  most.'  companion,     though     I  had    all    possible 

Talking  of  the  eminent  writers  in  reverence  for  him,  I  expressed  a  regret 
Queen  Anne's  reign,  he  observed,  '  I  lo  that  I  could  not  be  so  easy  with  my 
think  Dr.  Arbuthnot  the  first  man  among  father,  though  he  was  not  much  older 
them.  He  was  the  most  universal  genius,  than  Johnson,  and  certainly,  however  re- 
being  an  excellent  physician,  a  man  of  spectable,  had  not  more  learning  and 
deep  learning,  and  a  man  of  much  humor,  greater  abilities  to  depress  me.  I  asked 
Mr.  Addison,  was  to  be  sure,  a  great  is  him  the  reason  of  this.  Johnson:  'Why 
man ;  his  learning  was  not  profound,  but  sir,  I  am  a  man  of  the  world.  I  live  in 
his  morality,  his  humor,  and  his  elegance  the  world,  and  I  take,  in  some  degree, 
of  writing  set  him  very  high.'  the  color  of  the  world  as  it  moves  along. 

Mr.  Ogilvie  was  unlucky  enough  to  Your  father  is  a  judge  in  a  remote  part 
choose  for  the  topic  of  his  conversation,  20  of  the  island,  and  all  his  notions  are  taken 
the  praises  of  his  native  country.  He  from  the  old  world.  Besides,  sir,  there 
began  with  saying,  that  there  was  very  must  always  be  a  struggle  between  a 
rich  land  around  Edinburgh.  Goldsmith,  father  and  a  son,  while  one  aims  at  power 
who  had  studied  physic  there,  contra-  and  the  other  at  independence.'  I  said, 
dieted  this,  very  untruly,  with  a  sneering  25  I  was  afraid  my  father  would  force  me 
laugh.  Disconcerted  a  little  by  this,  Mr.  to  be  a  lawyer.  Johnson:  'Sir,  you 
Ogilvie  then  took  a  new  ground,  where,  need  not  be  afraid  of  his  forcing  you  to 
I  suppose,  he  thought  himself  perfectly  be  a  laborious  practising  lawyer;  that  is 
safe ;  for  he  observed,  that  Scotland  had  not  in  his  power.  For,  as  the  proverb 
a  great  many  noble  wild  prospects.  30  says,  "  One  man  may  lead  a  horse  to  the 
Johnson:  'I  believe,  sir,  you  have  a  water,  but  twenty  cannot  make  him 
great  many.  Norway,  too,  has  noble  drink."  He  may  be  displeased  that  you 
wild  prospects;  and  Lapland  is  remark-  are  not  what  he  wishes  you  to  be;  but 
able  for  prodigious  noble  wild  prospects.  that  displeasure  will  not  go  far.  H  he 
But,  sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  noblest  pros-  35  insists  only  on  your  having  as  much  law 
pect  which  a  Scotchman  ever  sees  is  the  as  is  necessary  for  a  man  of  property, 
high-road  that  leads  him  to  England  1 '  and  then  endeavors  to  get  you  into  par- 
This  unexpected  and  pointed  sally  pro-  liament,  he  is  quite  in  the  right.' 
duced    a     roar    of    applause.     After    all.  He    enlarged    very    convincingly    upon 

however,  those,  who  admire  the  rude  40  the  excellence  of  rime  over  blank  verse 
grandeur  of  nature,  cannot  deny  it  to  in  English  poetry.  I  mentioned  to  hnn 
Caledonia.  that    Dr.    Adam    Smith,    in    his    lectures 

On  Saturday,  July  9,  I  found  Johnson  upon  composition,  when  I  studied  under 
surrounded  with  a  numerous  levee,  but  him  in  the  College  of  Glasgow,  had  main- 
have  not  preserved  any  part  of  his  45  tained  the  same  opinion  strenuously,  and 
conversation.  On  the  14th  we  had  an-  I  repeated  some  of  his  arguments.  Joun- 
other  evening  by  ourselves  at  the  Mitre.  son  :  '  Sir,  I  was  once  in  company  with 
It  happening  to  be  a  very  rainy  night,  I  Smith,  and  we  did  not  take  to  each  other; 
made  some  commonplace  observations  on  but  had  I  l:nown  that  he  loved  rime  as 
the  relaxation  of  nerves  and  depression  5°  much  as  you  tell  me  he  does,  I  should 
of  spirits  which  such  weather  occasioned;      have  hugged  him.' 

adding,  however,  that  it  was  good  for  the  Talking  of  those  who  denied  the  truth 

vegetable  creation.  Johnson,  who,  as  we  of  Christianity,  he  said:  'It  is  always 
have  already  seen,  denied  that  the  tern-  easy  to  be  on  the  negative  side.  If  a 
perature  of  the  air  had  any  influence  on  55  man  were  now  to  deny  that  there  is  salt 
the  human  frame,  answered,  with  a  smile  upon  the  table,  you  could  not  reduce  him 
of  ridicule,  '  Why,  yes,  sir,  it  is  good  for      to    an  absurdity.     Come,  let  us  try  this  a 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  437 


little  further.  I  deny  that  Canada  is  It  is  true,  that  I  cannot  now  curse  (smil- 
taken,  and  I  can  support  my  denial  by  ing)  the  house  of  Hanover;  nor  would  it 
pretty  good  arguments.  The  French  are  be  decent  for  me  to  drink  King  James's 
a  much  more  numerous  people  than  we;  health  in  the  wine  that  King  George  gives 
and  it  is  not  likely  that  they  would  allow  5  me  money  to  pay  for.  But,  sir,  I  think 
us  to  take  it.  "  But  the  ministry  have  that  the  pleasure  of  cursing  the  house  of 
assured  us,  in  all  the  formality  of  The  Hanover,  and  drinking  King  James's 
Gazette,  that  it  is  taken. "-^  Very  health,  are  amply  overbalanced  by  three 
true.  But  the  ministry  have  put  us  to  hundred  pounds  a  year.' 
an    enormous    expense    by    the    war    in  10  *     *     * 

America,  and  it  is  their  interest  to  pur-  He    recommended    to    me    to    keep    a 

suade  us  that  we  have  got  something  for  journal  of  my  life,  full  and  unreserved, 
our  money.  "  But  the  fact  is  confirmed  He  said  it  would  be  a  very  good  exercise, 
by  thousands  of  men  who  were  at  the  and  would  yield  me  great  satisfaction 
taking  of  it."  Ay,  but  these  men  have  15  when  the  particulars  were  faded  from  my 
still  more  interest  in  deceiving  us.  They  remembrance.  I  was  uncommonly  fortu- 
don't  want  that  you  should  think  the  nate  in  having  had  a  previous  coincidence 
French  have  beat  them,  but  that  they  of  opinion  with  him  upon  this  subject,  for 
have  beat  the  French.  Now  suppose  you  I  had  kept  such  a  journal  for  some  time; 
should  go  over  and  find  that  it  really  is  20  and  it  was  no  small  pleasure  to  me  to 
taken,  that  would  only  satisfy  yourself;  have  this  to  tell  him,  and  to  receive  his 
for  when  you  come  home  we  will  not  be-  approbation.  He  counseled  me  to  keep  it 
lieve  you.  We  will  say,  you  have  been  private,  and  said  I  might  surely  have  a 
bribed.  Yet,  sir,  notwithstanding  all  friend  who  would  burn  it  in  case  of  my 
these  plausible  objections,  we  have  no  25  death.  From  this  habit  I  have  been  en- 
doubt  that  Canada  is  really  ours.  Such  abled  to  give  the  world  so  many  anecdotes, 
is  the  weight  of  common  testimony,  which  would  otherwise  have  been  lost  to 
How  much  stronger  are  the  evidences  of  posterity.  I  mentioned  that  I  was  afraid 
the  Christian  religion !  '  I  put  into  my  journal  too  many  little  in- 

'  Idleness  is  a  disease  which  must  be  30  cidents.  Johnson:  'There  is  nothing 
combated;  but  I  would  not  advise  a  sir,  too  little  for  so  little  a  creature  as 
rigid  adherence  to  a  particular  plan  of  man.  It  is  by  studying  little  things  that 
study.  I  myself  have  never  persisted  in  we  attain  the  great  art  of  having  as  little 
any  plan  for  two  days  together.  A  man  misery,  and  as  much  happiness  as  pos- 
ought   to   read   just   as   inclination   leads  35  sible.' 

him;  for  what  he  reads  as  a  task  will  do  Next  morning  Mr.  Dempster  happened 

him  little  good.  A  young  man  should  to  call  on  me,  and  was  so  much  struck 
read  five  hours  in  a  day,  and  so  may  ac-  even  with  the  imperfect  account  which  I 
quire  a  great  deal  of  knowledge.'  gave  him  of  Dr.  Johnson's  conversation. 

To  such  a  degree  of  unrestrained  frank-  40  that  to  his  honor  be  it  recorded,  when  I 
ness  had  he  now  accustomed  me  that  in  complained  of  drinking  port  and  sitting 
the  course  of  this  evening  I  talked  of  the  up  late  with  him,  affected  my  nerves  for 
numerous  reflections  which  had  been  some  time  after,  he  said,  '  One  had  better 
thrown  out  against  him,  on  account  of  his  be  palsied  at  eighteen,  than  not  keep  com- 
having  accepted  a  pension  from  his  pres-  45  pany  with  such  a  man.' 
ent  Majesty.     '  Why,  sir,'  said  he,  with  a  On  Tuesday,  July  i8th,  I  found  tall  Sir 

hearty  laugh,  '  it  is  a  mighty  foolish  noise  Thomas  Robinson  sitting  with  Johnson, 
that  they  make.^  I  have  accepted  of  a  Sir  Thomas  said,  that  the  king  of  Prus- 
pension  as  a  reward  which  has  been  sia  valued  himself  upon  three  things; 
thought  due  to  my  literary  merit;  and  50  upon  being  a  hero,  a  musician,  and  an 
now  that  I  have  this  pension,  I  am  the  author.  Johnson  :  '  Pretty  well,  sir.  for 
same  man  in  every  respect  that  I  have  one  man.  As  to  his  being  an  author,  I 
ever  been;   I   retain   the   same   principles.      have   not   looked   at    his    poetry;    but   his 

prose  is  poor  stuff.     He  writes  just  as  vou 

nVhen  I   mentioned  the  same  idle  clamor  to  him  „  suppOSe  Voltaire's  footbov  tO  do,  who 

several   years  afterwards,   he   said,   with  a  smile,      I        ,-,'',  .  •  tt       i 

wish    my    pension    were    twice    as    large,    that    they       has    been    hlS    amaUUCnSlS.      He    has    SUCh 

might  make  twice  as  much  noise.'  parts  as  the  valet  might  have,  and  about 


438  JyVMKS  IJOSWKLL 


as  much  of  the  coloring  of  the  style  as  of  knowledge  is  the  natural  feeling  of 
might  be  got  by  transcribing  his  works.'  mankind;  and  every  human  being  whose 
When  I  was  at  Ferney,  I  repeated  this  to  mind  is  not  debauched,  will  be  willing  to 
Voltaire,  in  order  to  reconcile  him  some-  give  all  that  he  has  to  get  knowledge.' 
what  to  Johnson,  whom  he,  in  affecting  5  We  landed  at  the  Old  Swan,  and 
the  English  mode  of  expression,  had  pre-  walked  to  Billingsgate,  where  we  took 
viously  characterized  as  '  a  superstitious  oars  and  moved  smoothly  along  the  silver 
dog;'  but  after  hearing  such  a  criticism  Thames.  It  was  a  very  fine  day.  We 
on  Frederick  the  Great,  with  whom  he  were  entertained  with  the  immense 
was  then  on  bad  terms,  he  exclaimed,  '  An  10  number  and  variety  of  ships  that  were 
honest  fellow  !  '  lying  at   anchor,   and   with   the  beautiful 

*     *     *  country  on  each  side  of  the  river. 

I    again    begged    his    advice    as    to    my  I  talked  of  preaching,  and  of  the  great 

method  of  study  at  Utrecht.  '  Come,'  success  which  those  called  Methodists 
said  he,  'let  us  make  a  day  of  it.  Let  us  15  have.  Johnson:  'Sir,  it  is  owing  to 
go  down  to  Greenwich  and  dine,  and  talk  their  expressing  themselves  in  a  plain  and 
of  it  there.'  The  following  Saturday  was  familiar  manner,  which  is  the  only  way 
fixed   for  this  excursion.  to   do   good   to   the   common    people,    and 

As  we  walked  along  the  Strand  to-  which  clergymen  of  genius  and  learning 
night,  arm  in  arm,  a  woman  of  the  town  20  ought  to  do  from  a  principle  of  duty,  when 
accosted  us,  in  the  usual  enticing  manner.  it  is  suited  to  their  congregations;  a  prac- 
'  No,  no,  my  girl,'  said  Johnson,  '  it  won't  tice,  for  which  they  will  be  praised  by 
do.'  He,  however,  did  not  treat  her  with  men  of  sense.  To  insist  against  drunk- 
harshness;  and  we  talked  of  the  wretched  enness  as  a  crime,  because  it  debases  rea- 
life  of  such  women,  and  agreed  that  much  25  son :  the  noblest  faculty  of  man,  would 
more  misery  than  happiness,  upon  the  be  of  no  service  to  the  common  people, 
whole,  is  produced  by  illicit  commerce  but  to  tell  them  that  they  may  die  in  a 
between  the  sexes.  fit   of   drunkenness   and    show   them   how 

On  Saturday,  July  30,  Dr.  Johnson  and  dreadful  that  would  be,  cannot  fail  to 
I  took  a  sculler  at  the  Temple-stairs,  and  30  make  a  deep  impression.  Sir,  when  your 
set  out  for  Greenwich.  I  asked  him  if  Scotch  clergy  give  up  their  homely  man- 
he  really  thought  a  knowledge  of  the  ner,  religion  will  soon  decay  in  that 
Greek   and    Latin   languages   an   essential      country.' 

requisite  to  a  good  education.     Johnson:  I  vvas  much  pleased  to  find  myself  with 

'  Most  certainly,  sir ;  for  those  who  know  35  Johnson  at  Greenwich,  which  he  cele- 
them  have  a  very  great  advantage  over  brates  in  his  London  as  a  favorite  scene, 
those  who  do   not.     Nay,   sir,   it  is   won-  I  had  the  poem  in  my  pocket,  and  read 

derful   what  a  difference  learning  makes      the  lines  aloud  with  enthusiasm : 
upon   people   even   in   the   common    inter- 
course of  life,  which  does  not  appear  to  40  '  On   Thames's   banks    in    silent   thought    we 
be   much   connected  with   it.'     '  And  yet,'  stood : 

said  I,  '  people  go  through  the  world  very  Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver 
well    and   carry   on    the   business   of   life,  flood: 

to  good  advantage  without  learning.'  Pleased  with  the  seat  which  gave  Eliza 
Johnson:     'Why,   sir,   that  may  be  true  45         birth, 

in   cases   where   learning  cannot  possibly      We  kneel,  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth.' 
be  of  any  use ;  for  instance,  this  boy  rows 

us    as    well    without    learning,    as    if    he  He    remarked    that    the     structure    of 

could  sing  the  song  of  Orpheus  to  the  Greenwich  hospital  was  too  magnificent 
Argonauts,  who  were  the  first  sailors.'  50  for  a  place  of  charity,  and  that  its  parts 
He  then  called  to  the  boy,  '  What  would  were  too  much  detached,  to  make  one 
you  give,  my  lad,  to  know  about  the  Ar-      great  whole. 

gonauts?'     'Sir,'  said  the  boy,  'I  would  Buchanan,    he    said,    was    a    very    fine 

give  what  I  have.'  Johnson  was  much  poet ;  and  observed,  that  he  was  the  first 
pleased  with  his  answer,  and  we  gave  55  who  complimented  a  lady,  by  ascribing 
him  a  double  fare.  Dr.  Johnson  then  to  her  the  different  perfections  of  the 
turning  to   me,   'Sir,'   said   he,   'a   desire      heathen    goddesses;    but    that    Johnstone 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  439 


improved  upon  this,  by  making  his  lady,  our  sail  up  the  river,  in  our  return  to 
at  the  same  time,  free  from  their  de-  London,  was  by  no  means  so  pleasant  as 
fects.  in  the  morning;  for  the  night  air  was  so 

He  dwelt  upon  Buchanan's  elegant  cold  that  it  made  me  shiver.  I  was  the 
verses  to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Nympha  5  more  sensible  of  it  from  having  sat  up 
Caledoniae,  [Nymph  of  Scotland]  etc.,  all  the  night  before  recollecting  and  writ- 
and  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  ing  in  my  journal  what  I  thought  worthy 
of  Latin  verse.  '  All  the  modern  Ian-  of  preservation ;  an  exertion  which  dur- 
guages,'  said  he,  '  cannot  furnish  so  me-  ing  the  first  part  of  my  acquaintance  with 
lodious  a  line  as  10  Johnson,  I  frequently  made.     I  remember 

having  sat  up   four  nights   in   one   week, 
Formosam  resonare  doccs  Amarillida  silvas.      without   being   much    incommoded    in   the 

[You  teach  the  woods  to  re-echo  beauteous      daytime. 
Amarillis.]  Johnson,   whose   robust   frame  was  not 

15  in  the  least  affected  by  the  cold,  scolded 

Afterwards  he  entered  upon  the  busi-  me,  as  if  my  shivering  had  been  a  paltry 
ness  of  the  day,  which  was  to  give  me  his  effeminacy,  saying,  '  Why  .do  you  shiver?  ' 
advice  as  to  a  course  of  study.  And  Sir  William  Scott,  of  the  Commons,  told 
here  I  am  to  mention  with  much  regret  me  that  when  he  complained  of  a  head- 
that  my  record  of  what  he  said  is  mis-  20  ache  in  the  post-chaise,  as  they  were 
erably  scanty.  I  recollect  with  admira-  traveling  together  to  Scotland,  Johnson 
tion  an  animating  blaze  of  eloquence,  treated  him  in  the  same  manner :  '  At 
which  roused  every  intellectual  power  in  your  age,  sir,  I  had  no  headache.'  It  is 
me  to  the  highest  pitch,  but  must  have  not  easy  to  make  allowance  for  sensations 
dazzled  me  so  much  that  my  memory  ^5  in  others,  which  we  ourselves  have  not 
could   not   preserve   the   substance   of   his      at  the  time. 

discourse ;    for   the   note   which   I   find   of  We    concluded    the    day    at    the   Turk's 

it  is  no  more  than  this :  — '  He  ran  over  Head  coffee-house  very  socially.  He  was 
the  grand  scale  of  human  knowledge;  ad-  pleased  to  listen  to  a  particular  account 
vised  me  to  select  some  particular  branch  30  which  I  gave  him  of  my  family,  and  of 
to  excel  in,  but  to  acquire  a  little  of  every  its  hereditary  estate,  as  to  the  extent  and 
kind.'  The  defect  of  my  minutes  will  be  population  of  which  he  asked  questions, 
fully  supplied  by  a  long  letter  upon  the  and  made  calculations ;  recommending,  at 
subject,  which  he  favored  me  with  after  the  same  time,  a  liberal  kindness  to  the 
I  had  been  some  time  at  Utrecht,  and  35  tenantry,  as  people  over  whom  the  pro- 
which  my  readers  will  have  the  pleasure  prietor  was  placed  by  Providence.  He 
to  peruse  in  its  proper  place.  took  delight  in  hearing  my  description  of 

We  walked  in  the  evening,  in  Green-  the  romantic  seat  of  my  ancestors.  '  I 
wich  Park.  He  asked  me,  I  suppose,  by  must  be  there,  sir,'  said  he,  '  and  we  will 
way  of  trying  my  disposition,  '  Is  not  this  40  live  in  the  old  castle;  and  if  there  is  not 
very  fine?  '  Having  no  exquisite  relish  of  a  room  in  it  remaining,  we  will  build  one.' 
the  beauties  of  nature,  and  being  more  I  was  highly  flattered,  but  could  scarcely 
delighted  with  '  the  busy  hum  of  men,'  indulge  a  hope  that  Auchinleck  would  in- 
I  answered,  '  Yes,  sir,  but  not  equal  to  deed  be  honored  by  his  presence,  and  cele- 
Fleet-street.'  Johnson  :  *  You  are  right,  45  brated  by  a  description,  as  it  afterward 
sir.'  was,    in    his    Journey    to    the    Western 

I  am  aware  that  many  of  my  readers      Islands. 
may  censure  my  want  of  taste.     Let  me.  After  we  had  again  talked  of  my  set- 

however,  shelter  myself  under  the  author-  ting  out  for  Holland,  he  said,  '  I  must 
ity  of  a  very  fashionable  baronet  in  the  5°  see  thee  out  of  England ;  I  will  accom- 
brilliant  world,  who,  on  his  attention  pany  you  to  Harwich.'  I  could  not  find 
being  called  to  the  fragrance  of  a  May  words  to  express  what  I  felt  upon  this 
evening  in  the  country,  observed.  '  This  unexpected  and  very  great  mark  of  his 
may   be   very   well ;    but,    for   my   part,    I      affectionate  regard. 

prefer  the  smell  of  a  flambeau  at  the  55  Next  day,  Sunday.  July  31,  I  told  him 
play-house.'  I  had  been  that  morning  at  a  meeting  of 

We  stayed  so  long  at  Greenwich,  that      the   people   called   Quakers,    where   I    had 


440  JAMES  BOSWELL 


heard  a  woman  preach.  Johnson:  'Sir,  stories  of  him,  and  to  ascribe  to  him 
a  woman's  preaching  is  hke  a  dog's  walk-  very  strange  sayings.  Johnson  :  *  What 
ing  on  his  hind  legs.  It  is  not  done  well;  do  they  make  me  say,  sir?'  Boswell: 
but  you  are  surprised  to  find  it  done  at  '  Why,  sir,  as  an  instance  very  strange 
all.'  5  indeed,'    laughing    heartily    as    I    spoke. 

On  Tuesday,  August  2  (the  day  of  my  '  David  Hume  told  me,  you  said  that  you 
departure  from  London  having  been  fixed  would  stand  before  a  battery  of  cannon 
for  the  5th),  Dr.  Johnson  did  me  the  to  restore  the  Convocation  to  its  full 
honor  to  pass  a  part  of  the  morning  with  powers.'  Little  did  I  apprehend  that  he 
me  at  my  chambers.  He  said,  '  that  he  10  had  actually  said  this :  but  I  was  soon 
always  felt  an  inclination  to  do  nothing.'  convinced  of  my  error;  for,  with  a  deter- 
I  observed,  that  it  was  strange  to  think  mined  look  he  thundered  out,  '  And 
that  the  most  indolent  man  in  Britain  had  would  I  not,  sir?  Shall  the  Presbyterian 
written  the  most  laborious  work,  The  Kirk  of  Scotland  have  its  General  As- 
EngUsh  Dictionary.  15  sembly,   and   the    Church    of   England   be 

I  mentioned  an  imprudent  publication,  denied  its  Convocation  ?  '  He  was  walk- 
by  a  certain  friend  of  his,  at  an  early  ing  up  and  down  the  room  while  I  told 
period  of  life,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  him  the  anecdote;  but,  when  he  uttered 
it  would  hurt  him.  Johnson:  'No,  sir;  this  explosion  of  high-church  zeal  he  had 
not  much.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  mentioned  20  come  close  to  my  chair,  and  his  eyes 
at  an  election.'  flashed  with  indignation.     I  bowed  to  the 

I  had  now  made  good  my  title  to  be  a  storm,  and  diverted  the  force  of  it,  by 
privileged  man,  and  was  carried  by  him  leading  him  to  expatiate  on  the  influence 
in  the  evening  to  drink  tea  with  Miss  Wil-  which  religion  derived  from  maintaining 
Hams,  whom,  though  under  the  misfor-  25  the  church  with  great  external  respec- 
tune  of  having  lost  her  sight,  I  found  to      tability. 

be  agreeable  in  conversation,  for  she  had  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  he  this 

a  variety  of  literature,  and  expressed  her-  year  wrote  The  Life  of  Ascham,  and  the 
self  well;  but  her  peculiar  value  was  the  Dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury, 
nitimacy  in  which  she  had  long  lived  with  30  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  that  writer's 
Johnson,  by  which  she  was  well  ac-  English  works,  published  by  Mr.  Bennet. 
quainted  with  his  habits,  and  knew  how  On  Friday,  August  5,  we  set  out  early 

to  lead  him  on  to  talk.  in    the    morning    in    the    Harwich    stage- 

After  tea  he  carried  me  to  what  he  coach.  A  fat  elderly  gentlewoman,  and 
called  his  walk,  which  was  a  long  nar-  35  a  young  Dutchman,  seemed  the  most  in- 
row  paved  court  in  the  neighborhood,  clined  among  us  to  conversation.  At  the 
overshadowed  by  some  trees.  There  we  inn  where  we  dined,  the  gentlewoman 
sauntered  a  considerable  time,  and  I  com-  said  that  she  had  done  her  best  to  edu- 
plained  to  him  that  my  love  of  London  cate  her  children ;  and  particularly,  that 
and  of  his  company  was  such,  that  I  4°  she  had  never  suffered  them  to  be  a 
shrunk  almost  from  the  thought  of  going  moment  idle.  Johnson:  'I  wish,  ma- 
away  even  to  travel,  which  is  generally  dam,  you  would  educate  me  too;  for  I 
so  much  desired  by  young  men.  He  have  been  an  idle  fellow  all  my  life.'  '  I 
roused  me  by  manly  and  spirited  con-  am  sure,  sir,'  said  she,  '  you  have  not 
versation.  He  advised  me,  when  settled  45  been  idle.'  Johnson:  'Nay,  madam,  it 
in  any  place  abroad,  to  study  with  an  is  very  true :  and  that  gentleman  there, 
eagerness  after  knowledge,  and  to  apply  pointing  to  me,  has  been  idle.  He  was 
to  Greek  an  hour  every  day;  and  when  idle  at  Edinburgh.  His  father  sent  him  to 
I  was  moving  about,  to  read  diligently  Glasgow,  where  he  continued  to  be  idle, 
the  great  book  of  mankind.  50  He  then  came  to  London,  where  he  has 

On  Wednesday,  August  3,  we  had  our  been  very  idle ;  and  now  he  is  going  to 
last  social  evening  at  the  Turk's  Head  Utrecht,  where  he  will  be  as  idle  as  ever.' 
coffee-house,  before  my  setting  out  for  I  asked  him  privately  how  he  could  ex- 
foreign  parts.  I  had  the  misfortune,  be-  pose  me  so.  Johnson  :  '  Poh,  poh  !  '  said 
fore  we  parted,  to  irritate  him  uninten-  55  he,  '  they  knew  nothing  about  you,  and 
tionally.  I  mentioned  to  him  how  com-  will  think  of  it  no  more.'  In  the  after- 
mon   it   was   in   the   world   to   tell   absurd      noon    the    gentlewoman    talked    violently 


LIFE  OF  JOHNSON  441 


against  the  Roman  Catholics,  and  of  the  does  not  mind  his  belly  will  hardly  mind 
horrors  of  the  inquisition.  To  the  utter  anything  else.'  He  now  appeared  to  me 
astonishment  of  all  the  passengers  but  Jean  Bull  philosophc,  and  he  was  for  the 
myself,  who  knew  that  he  could  talk  upon  moment  not  only  serious,  but  vehement, 
any  side  of  a  question,  he  defended  the  5  yet  I  have  heard  him,  upon  other  occa- 
inquisition,  and  maintained  that  '  false  sions,  talk  with  great  contempt  of  peo- 
doctrine  should  be  checked  on  its  first  ap-  pie  who  were  anxious  to  gratify  their 
pearance ;  that  the  civil  power  should  palates:  and  the  206th  number  of  his 
unite  with  the  church  in  punishing  those  Rambler  is  a  masterly  essay  against  gu- 
who  dare  to  attack  the  established  re- 10  losity.  His  practice,  indeed,  I  must  ac- 
ligion,  and  that  such  only  were  punished  knowledge,  may  be  considered  as  casting 
by  the  inquisition.'  He  had  in  his  the  balance  of  his  different  opinions  upon 
pocket,  Pomponius  Mela  de  Situ  Orhis,  this  subject;  for  I  never  knew  any  man 
in  which  he  read  occasionally,  and  who  relished  good  eating  more  than  he 
seemed  very  intent  upon  ancient  geogra-  15  did.  When  at  table  he  was  totally  ab- 
phy.  Though  by  no  means  niggardly,  his  sorbed  in  the  business  of  the  moment : 
attention  to  what  was  generally  right  was  his  looks  seemed  riveted  to  his  plate;  nor 
so  minute,  that  having  observed  at  one  of  would  he,  unless  when  in  very  high  com- 
the  stages  that  I  ostentatiously  gave  a  pany,  say  one  word,  or  even  pay  the  least 
shilling  to  the  coachman,  when  the  custom  20  attention  to  what  was  said  by  others,  till 
was  for  each  passenger  to  give  only  six-  he  had  satisfied  his  appetite,  which  was 
pence,  he  took  me  aside  and  scolded  me,  so  fierce,  and  indulged  with  such  intense- 
saying  that  what  I  had  done  would  make  ness,  that  while  in  the  act  of  eating,  the 
the  coachman  dissatisfied  with  all  the  rest  veins  of  his  forehead  swelled,  and  gener- 
of  the  passengers,  who  gave  him  no  more  25  ally  a  strong  perspiration  was  visible, 
than  his  due.  To  those  whose  sensations  were  delicate, 

*     *     *  this  could   not  but  be   disgusting;   and   it 

Having  stopped  a  night  at  Colchester,  was  doubtless  not  very  suitable  to  the 
Johnson  talked  of  that  town  with  venera-  30  character  of  a  philosopher,  who  should 
tion,  for  having  stood  a  siege  for  Charles  be  distinguished  by  self-command.  But 
the  First.  The  Dutchman  alone  now  re-  it  must  be  owned  that  Johnson,  though  he 
mained  with  us.  He  spoke  English  toler-  could  be  rigidly  abstemious,  was  not  a 
ably  well;  and  thinking  to  recommend  temperate  man  either  in  eating  or  drink- 
himself  to  us  by  expatiating  on  the  superi-  35  ing.  He  could  refrain,  but  he  could  not 
ority  of  the  criminal  jurisprudence  of  use  moderately.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
this  country  over  that  of  Holland,  he  in-  fasted  two  days  without  inconvenience, 
veighed  against  the  barbarity  of  putting  and  that  he  had  never  been  hungry  but 
an  accused  person  to  the  torture,  in  order  once.  They  who  beheld  with  wonder 
to  force  a  confession.  But  Johnson  was  40  how  much  he  ate  upon  all  occasions,  when 
as  ready  for  this  as  for  the  inquisition,  his  dinner  was  to  his  taste,  could  not 
'  Why,  sir,  you  do  not,  I  find,  understand  easily  conceive  what  he  must  have  meant 
the  law  of  your  own  country.  To  tor-  by  hunger ;  and  not  only  was  he  remark- 
ture  in  Holland  is  considered  as  a  favor  able  for  the  extraordinary  quantity  which 
to  an  accused  person ;  for  no  man  is  put  4s  he  ate,  but  he  was,  or  affected  to  be,  a 
to  the  torture  there,  unless  there  is  as  man  of  very  nice  discernment  in  the 
much  evidence  against  him  as  would  science  of  cookery.  He  used  to  descant 
amount  to  conviction  in  England.  An  ac-  critically  on  the  dishes  which  had  been 
cused  person,  among  you,  therefore,  has  at  table  where  he  had  dined  or  supped, 
one  chance  more  to  escape  punishment  so  and  to  recollect  very  minutely  what  he 
than  those  who  are  tried  among  us.'  had  liked.     I   remember  when  he  was  in 

At  supper  this  night  he  talked  of  good  Scotland,  his  praising  '  Gordon's  palates ' 
eating  with  uncommon  satisfaction.  (a  dish  of  palates  at  the  Honorable  Alex- 
'  Some  people,'  said  he,  'have  a  foolish  ander  Gordon's)  with  a  warmth  of  ex- 
way  of  not  minding,  or  pretending  not  to"  pression  which  might  have  done  honor  to 
mind,  what  they  eat.  For  my  part,  I  more  important  subjects.  '  As  for  Mac- 
mind  my  belly  very  studiously  and  very  laurin's  imitation  of  a  made  dish,  it  was 
carefully;  for  I  look  upon  it,  that  he  who     a  wretched  attempt.'     He  about  the  same 


442  JAMES  BOSWELL 


lime  was  so  much  displeased  with  the  per-  some  time  here.'  The  practice  of  using 
formances  of  a  nobleman's  French  cook,  words  of  disproportionate  magnitude,  is, 
that  he  exclaimed  with  vehemence,  'I'd  no  doubt,  too  frequent  everywhere;  but, 
throw  such  a  rascal  into  the  river;'  and  I  think,  most  remarkable  among  the 
he  then  proceeded  to  alarm  a  lady  at  5  French,  of  which,  all  who  have  traveled 
whose  house  he  has  to  sup,  by  the  follow-  in  France  must  have  been  struck  with 
ing  manifesto  of  his  skill: — 'I,  madam,  innumerable  instances, 
who  live  at  a  variety  of  good  tables,  am  We  went  and  looked  at  the  church,  and 

a  much  better  judge  of  cookery,  than  any  having  gone  into  it,  and  walked  up  to  the 
person  who  has  a  very  tolerable  cook,  but  lo  altar,  Johnson,  whose  piety  was  constant 
lives  much  at  home ;  for  his  palate  is  and  fervent,  sent  me  to  my  knees,  saying, 
gradually  adapted  to  the  taste  of  his  cook;  '  Now  that  you  are  going  to  leave  your 
whereas,  madam,  in  trying  by  a  wider  native  country,  recommend  yourself  to 
range,  I  can  more  exquisitively  judge.'  the  protection  of  your  Creator  and  Re- 
When  invited  to  dine,  even  with  an  inti-  i5  deemer.' 

male  friend,  he  was  not  pleased  if  some-  After  we  came  out  of  the  church,  we 

thing  better  than  a  plain  dinner  was  not  stood  talking  for  some  time  together,  of 
prepared  for  him.  I  have  heard  him  say  Bishop  Berkeley's  ingenious  sophistry  to 
on  such  an  occasion.  '  This  was  a  good  prove  the  non-existence  of  matter,  and 
dinner  enough  to  be  sure;  but  it  was  not  20  that  everything  in  the  universe  is  merely 
a  dinner  to  ask  a  man  to.'  On  the  other  ideal.  I  observed  that,  though  we  are 
hand,  he  was  wont  to  express,  with  great  satisfied  his  doctrine  is  not  true,  it  is  im- 
glee,  his  satisfaction  when  he  had  been  possible  to  refute  it.  I  never  shall  for- 
entertained  quite  to  his  mind.  get  the  alacrity  with  which  Johnson  an- 

While  we  were  left  by  ourselves,  after  25  swered,    striking    his    foot    with    mighty 
the  Dutchman  had  gone  to  bed,  Dr.  John-      force    against   a   large    stone,    till   he    re- 
son  talked  of  that  studied  behavior  which      bounded   from  it, —  I  refute  it  thus.' 
many   have    recommended    and    practised.  *     *     * 

He  disapproved  of  it ;  and  said,  *  I  never  My  revered   friend  walked  down  with 

considered  whether  I  should  be  a  grave  30  me  to  the  beach,  where  we  embraced  and 
man,  or  a  merry  man,  but  just  let  inclina-  parted  with  tenderness,  and  engaged  to 
tion,   for  the  time,  have  its  course.'  correspond    by    letters.     I    said,    '  I    hope, 

Next  day  we  got  to  Harwich,  to  dinner ;  sir,  you  will  not  forget  me  in  my  ab- 
and  my  passage  in  the  packet  boat  to  Hel-  sence.'  Johnson:  '  Nay,  sir,  it  is  more 
voetsluys  being  secured,  and  my  baggage  35  likely  you  should  forget  me,  than  that  I 
put  on  board,  we  dined  at  our  inn  by  should  forget  you.'  As  the  vessel  put  out 
ourselves.  I  happened  to  say  it  would  be  to  sea,  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  him  for  a  con- 
terrible  if  he  should  not  find  a  speedy  op-  siderable  time,  while  he  remained  rolling 
portunity  of  returning  to  London,  and  be  his  majestic  frame  in  his  usual  manner; 
confined  in  so  dull  a  place.  Johnson  :  40  and  at  last  I  perceived  him  walk  back  into 
'  Don't,  sir,  accustom  yourself  to  use  big  the  town,  and  he  disappeared, 
words  for  little  matters.     It  would  not  be  (1/90 

terrible,    though    I    were    to    be   detained  *     *     * 


EDMUND  BURKE  (1729-1797) 


The  career  of  Burke  belongs  to  the  history  of  English  politics,  its  memorials  to  English 
literature.  His  father  was  a  Dublin  solicitor  and  a  Protestant ;  his  mother  was  a  firm 
Catholic,  and  he  spent  a  part  of  his  school  days  under  the  tuition  of  a  Quaker.  He  was 
himself  brought  up  a  Protestant,  but  on  this  as  other  subjects  preserved  a  large  and  open 
mind.  He  took  his  bachelor's  degree  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  1748,  and  later  read 
law  at  the  Middle  Temple  in  Loudon.  For  upwards  of  a  decade  after  his  removal  to  Eng- 
land, in  1750,  his  ambition  poiuted  to  literature.  In  175G  he  published  A  Vindicnilon  of 
Natural  Society,  an  ironical  imitation  of  Kolingbroke  intended  to  throw  ridicule  upon  the 
political  theories  of  that  writer.  '  Burke  foresaw  from  the  first,'  an  English  statesman  of 
our  own  day  has  said,  '  what,  if  rationalism  were  allowed  to  run  its  course,  would  be  the 
really  great  business  of  the  second  half  of  his  century.'  The  same  year  he  printed  his 
youthful  essay  On  the  Suhlime  and  Beautiful  and  three  years  later  became  editor  of  Dods- 
ley's  Annual  Register.  But  his  literary  abilities  soon  marked  him  out  for  the  public  service. 
In  some  way,  not  very  well  understood,  his  financial  disability  was  overcome,  and  he  entered 
upon  a  career  in  Parliament,  making  his  first  speech  in  January,  17G0.  His  Ohseriations 
on  the  Present  State  of  the  Nation  (17G9)  showed  his  grasp  of  economic  detail,  and  his 
pamphlet,  entitled.  Thoughts  on  the  Present  Discontents,  the  following  year,  for  the  first 
time  exhibited  the  full  breadth  of  his  political  philosophy.  Four  years  later  the  struggle 
with  the  American  colonies  which  had  been  going  on  ever  since  Burke  entered  Parliament 
had  reached  the  stage  of  threatened  war.  It  was  in  the  debate  upon  this  great  occasion 
that  Burke's  mastery  of  economic  detail,  and  his  broad  and  lucid  command  of  principle 
were  welded  together  by  his  gift  of  passionate  exposition  into  the  three  documents  of  political 
philosophy  which  will  be  cherished  wherever  the  race  flourishes  in  whose  language  they  were  de- 
livered. The  Speech  on  American  Taxation  was  given  in  April,  1774,  The  Speech  for  Concilia- 
tion, March  22,  1775,  and  the  Letter  to  the  Slteriffs  of  Bristol  was  issued  in  1777.  The  other 
subjects  upon  which  Burke  distinguished  himself  as  an  orator  were  the  Impeachment  of 
Warren  Hastings  and  the  imideuts  of  the  French  Revolution.  His  views  in  regard  to  the 
latter  were  such  as  sometimes  to  perplex  his  party  and  his  friends  and  he  was  often  almost 
solitary  in  his  position.  In  spite  of  Goldsmith's  accusation  that  he  '  to  party  gave  up  what 
was  meant  for  mankind,'  Burke's  gifts  were  not  those  of  the  successful  politician.  He  re- 
tired from  Parliament  in  1794,  having  wielded  great  power  at  times,  but  having  won  no 
ofEcial  position  of  high  dignity.  His  achievements  were  such  as  grow  more  lustrous  with 
the  passage  of  time. 


From  THE  SPEECH  FOR  CONCILIA-      love    of    freedom    is    the    predominating 
TION  WITH  THE  COLONIES  feature  which  marks  and  distinguishes  the 

whole ;  and  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jeal- 

These,  sir,  are  my  reasons  for  not  en-  ous  affection,  your  colonies  become  sus- 
tertaining  that  high  opinion  of  untried  5  picious,  restive,  and  untractable,  when- 
force,  by  which  many  gentlemen,  for  ever  they  see  the  least  attempt  to  wrest 
whose  sentiments  in  other  particulars  I  from  them  by  force  or  shuffle  from  them 
have  great  respect,  seem  to  be  so  greatly  by  chicane,  what  they  think  the  only  ad- 
captivated.  But  there  is  still  behind  a  vantage  worth  living  for.  This  fierce 
third  consideration  concerning  this  ob-  10  spirit  of  liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English 
ject.  which  serves  to  determine  my  opin-  colonies  probably  than  in  any  other  peo- 
ion  on  the  sort  of  policy  which  ought  to  pie  of  the  earth;  and  this  from  a  great 
be  pursued  in  the  management  of  variety  of  powerful  causes ;  which,  to 
America,  even  more  than  its  population  understand  the  true  temper  of  their  minds, 
and  its  commerce,  I  mean  its  temper  and  i5  and  the  direction  which  this  spirit  takes, 
character.  "  it  will  not  be  amiss  to  lay  open  somewhat 

In  this  character  of   the   Americans,   a      more  largely. 

443 


444  EDMUND  BURKE 


First,  the  people  of  the  colonies  are  de-  Liberty  might  be  safe,  or  might  be  en- 
scendants  of  Englishmen.  England,  sir,  dangercd,  in  twenty  other  particulars, 
is  a  nation  which  still  1  hope  respects,  without  their  l)eing  much  pleased  or 
and  formerly  adored,  her  freedom.  The  alarmed.  Here  they  felt  its  pulse;  and  as 
colonists  emigrated  from  you,  when  this  5  they  found  that  heat,  they  thought  them- 
part  of  your  character  was  most  predomi-  selves  sick  or  sound.  I  do  not  say 
nant;  and  they  took  this  bias  and  direc-  whether  they  were  right  or  wrong  in  ap- 
tion  the  moment  they  parted  from  your  plying  your  general  arguments  to  their 
hands.  They  are  therefore  not  only  de-  own  cause.  It  is  not  easy  indeed  to  make 
voted  to  liberty,  but  to  liberty  according  lo  a  monopoly  of  theorems  and  corollaries, 
to  English  ideas,  and  on  English  princi-  The  fact  is,  that  they  did  thus  apply  those 
pies.  Abstract  liberty,  like  other  mere  general  arguments;  and  your  mode  of 
abstractions,  is  not  to  be  found.  Liberty  governing  them,  whether  through  lenity 
inheres  in  some  sensible  object;  and  every  or  indolence,  through  wisdom  or  mistake, 
nation  has  formed  to  itself  some  favor-  i5  confirmed  them  in  the  imagination,  that 
ite  point,  which  by  way  of  eminence  be-  they,  as  well  as  you,  had  an  interest  in 
comes  the  criterion  of  their  happiness,  these  common  principles. 
It    happened,    you    know,    sir,    that    the  They    were    further    confirmed    in    this 

great  contests  for  freedom  in  this  country  pleasing  error  by  the  form  of  their  provin- 
were  from  the  earliest  times  chiefly  upon  20  cial  legislative  assemblies.  The  govern- 
the  question  of  taxing.  Most  of  the  con-  ments  are  popular  in  a  high  degree ;  some 
tests  in  the  ancient  commonwealths  are  merely  popular;  in  all,  the  popular 
turned  primarily  on  the  right  of  election  representative  is  the  most  weighty ;  and 
of  magistrates;  or  on  the  balance  among  this  share  of  the  people  in  their  ordinary 
the  several  orders  of  the  state.  The  25  government  never  fails  to  inspire  them 
question  of  money  was  not  with  them  so  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  with  a  strong 
immediate.  But  in  England  it  was  other-  aversion  from  whatever  tends  to  deprive 
wise.  On  this  point  of  taxes  the  ablest  them  of  their  chief  importance, 
pens  and  most  eloquent  tongues  have  been  If     anything     were     wanting     to     this 

exercised ;  the  greatest  spirits  have  acted  30  necessary  operation  of  the  form  of  gov- 
and  suffered.  In  order  to  give  the  fullest  ernment,  religion  would  have  given  it  a 
satisfaction  concerning  the  importance  of  complete  effect.  Religion,  always  a  prin- 
this  point,  it  was  not  only  necessary  for  ciple  of  energy,  in  this  new  people  is  no 
those  who  in  argument  defended  the  ex-  way  worn  out  or  impaired ;  and  their  mode 
cellence  of  the  English  constitution  to  in-  35  of  professing  it  is  also  one  main  cause  of 
sist  on  this  privilege  of  granting  money  this  free  spirit.  The  people  are  Protes- 
as  a  dry  point  of  fact,  and  to  prove  that  tants ;  and  of  that  kind  which  is  the  most 
the  right  had  been  acknowledged  in  an-  adverse  to  all  implicit  submission  of  mind 
cient  parchments  and  blind  usage  to  re-  and  opinion.  This  is  a  persuasion  not 
side  in  a  certain  body  called  a  House  of  40  only  favorable  to  liberty,  but  built  upon  it. 
Commons.  They  went  much  farther;  I  do  not  think,  sir,  that  the  reason  of  this 
they  attempted  to  prove,  and  they  sue-  averseness  in  the  dissenting  churches, 
ceeded,  that  in  theory  it  ought  to  be  so,  from  all  that  looks  like  absolute  govern- 
from  the  particular  nature  of  a  House  of  ment,  is  so  much  to  be  sought  in  their  re- 
Commons  as  an  immediate  representative  45  ligious  tenets  as  in  their  history.  Every 
of  the  people,  whether  the  old  records  had  one  knows  that  the  Roman  Catholic  re- 
delivered this  oracle  or  not.  They  took  ligion  is  at  least  coeval  with  most  of  the 
infinite  pains  to  inculcate,  as  a  funda-  governments  where  it  prevails ;  that  it 
mental  principle,  that  in  all  monarchies  has  generally  gone  hand  in  hand  with 
the  people  must  in  effect  themselves,  5o  them,  and  received  great  favor  and  every 
mediately  or  immediately,  possess  the  kind  of  support  from  authority.  The 
power  of  granting  their  own  money,  or  Church  of  England  too  was  formed  from 
no  shadow  of  liberty  could  subsist.  The  her  cradle  under  the  nursing  care  of 
colonies  draw  from  you,  as  with  their  life-  regular  government.  But  the  dissenting 
blood,  these  ideas  and  principles.  Their  55  interests  have  sprung  up  in  direct  oppo- 
love  of  liberty,  as  with  you,  fixed  and  at-  sition  to  all  the  ordinary  powers  of  the 
tached   on    this    specific    point    of   taxing.      world;   and   could  justify   that  opposition 


J 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES  445 

only  on  a  strong  claim  to  natural  liberty,  of  man.  The  fact  is  so ;  and  these  peo- 
Their  very  existence  depended  on  the  pie  of  the  southern  colonies  are  much 
powerful  and  unremitted  assertion  of  that  more  strongly,  and  with  a  higher  and 
claim.  All  Protestantism,  even  the  most  more  stubborn  spirit,  attached  to  liberty, 
cold  and  passive,  is  a  sort  of  dissent.  5  than  those  to  the  northward.  Such  were 
But  the  religion  most  prevalent  in  our  all  the  ancient  commonwealths ;  such 
northern  colonies  is  a  refinement  on  the  were  our  Gothic  ancestors ;  such  in  our 
principle  of  resistance ;  it  is  the  dissi-  days  were  the  Poles ;  and  such  will  be 
dence  of  dissent,  and  the  Protestantism  all  masters  of  slaves  who  are  not  slaves 
of  the  Protestant  religion.  This  religion,  10  themselves.  In  such  a  people,  the 
under  a  variety  of  denominations  agree-  haughtiness  of  domination  combines  with 
ing  in  nothing  but  in  the  communion  of  the  spirit  of  freedom,  fortifies  it,  and 
the    spirit    of    liberty,    is    predominant    in      renders   it   invincible. 

most  of  the  northern  provinces,  where  the  Permit  me,  sir,  to  add  another  circum- 

Church  of  England,  notwithstanding  its  15  stance  in  our  colonies,  which  contributes 
legal  rights,  is  in  reality  no  more  than  no  mean  part  towards  the  growth  and 
a  sort  of  private  sect,  not  composing  most  effect  of  this  untractable  spirit.  I  mean 
probably  the  tenth  of  the  people.  The  their  education.  In  no  country  perhaps 
colonists  left  England  when  this  spirit  in  the  world  is  the  law  so  general  a  study. 
was  high,  and  in  the  emigrants  was  the  20  The  profession  itself  is  numerous  and 
highest  of  all,  and  even  that  stream  of  powerful ;  and  in  most  provinces  it  takes 
foreigners,  which  has  been  constantly  the  lead.  The  greater  number  of  the 
flowing  into  these  colonies,  has,  for  the  deputies  sent  to  the  Congress  were  law- 
greatest  part,  been  composed  of  dissenters  yers.  But  all  who  read  (and  most  do 
from  the  establishments  of  their  several  25  read),  endeavor  to  obtain  some  smattering 
countries,  and  have  brought  with  them  a  in  that  science.  I  have  been  told  by  an 
temper  and  character  far  from  alien  to  eminent  bookseller,  that  in  no  branch  of 
that  of  the  people  with  whom  they  mixed,  his  business,  after  tracts  of  popular  de- 
Sir,  I  can  perceive  by  their  manner,  votion,  were  so  many  books  as  those  on 
that  some  gentlemen  object  to  the  latitude  30  the  law  exported  to  the  plantations.  The 
of  this  description,  because  in  the  south-  colonists  have  now  fallen  into  the  way 
ern  colonies  the  Church  of  England  forms  of  printing  them  for  their  own  use.  I 
a  large  body,  and  has  a  regular  establish-  hear  that  they  have  sold  nearly  as  many 
ment.  It  is  certainly  true.  There  is,  of  Blackstone's  Commentaries  in  America 
however,  a  circumstance  attending  these  35  as  in  England.  General  Gage  marks  out 
colonies,  which,  in  my  opinion,  fully  this  disposition  very  particularly  in  a  let- 
counterbalances  this  difference,  and  ter  on  your  table.  He  states  that  all  the 
makes  the  spirit  of  liberty  still  more  high  people  in  his  government  are  lawyers,  or 
and  haughty  than  in  those  to  the  north-  smatterers  in  law ;  and  that  in  Boston 
ward.  It  is,  that  in  Virginia  and  the  40  they  have  been  enabled,  by  successful 
Carolinas  they  have  a  vast  multitude  of  chicane,  wholly  to  evade  many  parts  of 
slaves.  Where  this  is  the  case  in  any  one  of  your  capital  penal  constitutions, 
part  of  the  world,  those  who  are  free  are  The  smartness  of  debate  will  say  that  this 
by  far  the  most  proud  and  jealous  of  their  knowledge  ought  to  teach  them  more 
freedom.  Freedom  is  to  them  not  only  45  clearly  the  rights  of  legislature,  their  ob- 
an  enjoyment,  but  a  kind  of  rank  and  ligations  to  obedience,  and  the  penalties 
privilege.  Not  seeing  there,  that  free-  of  rebellion.  All  this  is  mighty  well, 
dom,  as  in  countries  where  it  is  a  common  But  my  honorable  and  learned  friend  on 
blessing,  and  as  broad  and  general  as  the  the  floor,  who  condescends  to  mark  what 
air,  may  be  united  with  much  abject  toil,  50  I  say  for  animadversion,  will  disdain  that 
with  great  misery,  with  all  the  exterior  ground.  He  has  heard,  as  well  as  I,  that 
of  servitude,  liberty  looks,  amongst  them,  when  great  honors  and  great  emoluments 
like  something  that  is  more  noble  and  do  not  win  over  this  knowledge  to  the 
liberal.  I  do  not  mean,  sir,  to  commend  service  of  the  state,  it  is  a  formidable  ad- 
the  superior  morality  of  this  sentiment,  55  versary  to  government.  If  the  spirit  be 
which  has  at  least  as  much  pride  as  vir-  not  tamed  and  broken  by  these  happy 
tue   in   it :   but   I   cannot  alter  the  nature      methods,     it    is     stubborn     and     litigious. 


446  EDMUND  BURKE 


Abennt    studia     in     mores     [studies     de-  Then,     sir,     from     these     six     capital 

velop  into  habits].  This  stvidy  renders  sources;  of  descent;  of  form  of  govern- 
men  acute,  inquisitive,  dexterous,  prompt  ment ;  of  religion  in  the  northern 
in  attack,  ready  in  defense,  full  of  re-  provinces;  of  manners  in  the  southern; 
sources.  In  other  countries,  the  people,  5  of  education;  of  the  remoteness  of  situa- 
more  simple,  and  of  a  less  mercurial  cast,  tion  from  the  first  mover  of  government; 
judge  of  an  ill  principle  in  government  from  all  these  causes  a  fierce  spirit  of 
only  by  an  actual  grievance;  here  they  liberty  has  grown  up.  It  has  grown  with 
anticipate  the  evil,  and  judge  of  the  pres-  the  growth  of  the  people  in  your  colonies, 
sure  of  the  grievance  by  the  badness  of  10  and  increased  with  the  increase  of  their 
the  principle.  They  augur  misgovern-  wealth ;  a  spirit,  that  unhappily  meeting 
ment  at  a  distance;  and  snuff  the  ap-  with  an  exercise  of  power  in  England, 
proach  of  tyranny  in  every  tainted  breeze.  which,  however  lawful,  is  not  reconcil- 
The  last  cause  of  this  disobedient  spirit  able  to  any  ideas  of  liberty,  much  less 
in  the  colonies  is  hardly  less  powerful  15  with  theirs,  has  kindled  this  flame  that  is 
than  the  rest,  as  it  is  not  merely  moral,      ready  to  consume  us. 

but  laid  deep   in  the  natural   constitution  I  do  not  mean  to  commend  either  the 

of  things.  Three  thousand  miles  of  ocean  spirit  in  this  excess,  or  the  moral  causes 
lie  between  you  and  them.  No  con-  which  produce  it.  Perhaps  a  more 
trivance  can  prevent  the  effect  of  this  dis-  20  smooth  and  accommodating  spirit  of  frce- 
tance  in  weakening  government.  Seas  dom  in  them  would  be  more  accept- 
roll,  and  months  pass,  between  the  order  able  to  us.  Perhaps  ideas  of  liberty 
and  the  execution;  and  the  want  of  a  might  be  desired  more  reconcilable  with 
speedy  explanation "  of  a  single  point  is  an  arbitrary  and  boundless  authority, 
enough  to  defeat  a  whole  system.  You  25  Perhaps  we  might  wish  the  colonists  to  be 
have,  indeed,  '  winged  ministers  of  ven-  persuaded  that  their  liberty  is  more  se- 
geance,'  who  carry  your  bolts  in  their  cure  when  held  in  trust  for  them  by  us 
pounces  to  the  remotest  verge  of  the  sea.  (as  their  guardians  during  a  perpetual 
But  there  a  power  steps  in,  that  limits  the  minority)  than  with  any  part  of  it  in  their 
arrogance  of  raging  passions  and  furious  30  own  hands.  The  question  is,  not  whether 
elements,  and  says,  '  So  far  shalt  thou  go,  their  spirit  deserves  praise  or  blame,  but 
and  no  farther.'  Who  are  you,  that  you  what,  in  the  name  of  God,  shall  we  do 
should  fret  and  rage,  and  bite  the  chains  with  it?  You  have  before  you  the  ob- 
of  Nature  ?  —  nothing  worse  happens  to  ject,  such  as  it  is,  with  all  its  glories 
you  than  does  to  all  nations  who  have  ex-  35  with  all  its  imperfections,  on  its  head, 
tensive  empire;  and  it  happens  in  all  You  see  the  magnitude,  the  importance, 
the  forms  into  which  empire  can  be  the  temper,  the  habits,  the  disorders.  By 
thrown.  In  large  bodies,  the  circulation  all  these  considerations  we  are  strongly 
of  power  must  be  less  vigorous  at  the  urged  to  determine  something  concern- 
extremities.  Nature  has  said  it.  The  4°  ing  it.  We  are  called  upon  to  fix  some 
Turk  cannot  govern  Egypt,  and  Arabia,  rule  and  line  for  our  future  conduct, 
and  Kurdistan,  as  he  governs  Thrace ;  which  may  give  a  little  stability  to  our 
nor  has  he  the  same  dominion  in  Crimea  politics,  and  prevent  the  return  of 
and  Algiers  which  he  has  at  Brusa  and  such  unhappy  deliberations  as  the  present. 
Smyrna.  Despotism  itself  is  obliged  to  45  Every  such  return  will  bring  the  matter 
truck  and  huckster.  The  Sultan  gets  before  us  in  a  still  more  untractable 
such  obedience  as  he  can.  He  governs  form.  For,  what  astonishing  and  in- 
with  a  loose  rein,  that  he  may  govern  at  credible  things  have  we  not  seen  already  ! 
all ;  and  the  whole  of  the  force  and  vigor  What  monsters  have  not  been  generated 
of  his  authority  in  his  center  is  derived  5o  from  this  unnatural  contention  !  Whilst 
from  a  prudent  relaxation  in  all  his  every  principle  of  authority  and  resistance 
borders.  Spain,  in  her  provinces,  is  per-  has  been  pushed,  upon  both  sides,  as  far 
haps  not  so  well  obeyed  as  you  are  in  as  it  would  go,  there  is  nothing  so  solid 
yours.  She  complies  too;  she  submits;  and  certain,  either  in  reasoning  or  in 
she  watches  times.  This  is  the  immutable  55  practice,  that  has  not  been  shaken.  Until 
condition,  the  eternal  law,  of  extensive  very  lately,  all  authority  in  America 
and  detached  empire.  seemed   to   be   nothing  but   an   emanation 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES  447 

from  yours.  Even  the  popular  part  of  of  things  appeared.  Anarchy  is  found 
the  colony  constitution  derived  all  its  ac-  tolerable.  A  vast  province  has  now  sub- 
tivity,  and  its  first  vital  movement,  from  sisted,  and  subsisted  in  a  considerable 
the  pleasure  of  the  crown.  We  thought,  degree  of  health  and  vigor,  for  near  a 
sir,  that  the  utmost  which  the  dis-  5  twelvemonth,  without  Governor,  without 
contented  colonists  could  do  was  to  dis-  public  council,  without  judges,  without 
turb  authority;  we  never  dreamt  they  executive  magistrates.  How  long  it  will 
could  of  themselves  supply  it;  knowing  continue  in  this  state,  or  what  may  rise 
in  general  what  an  operose  business  it  is  out  of  this  unheard-of  situation,  how  can 
to  establish  a  government  absolutely  new.  10  the  wisest  of  us  conjecture?  Our  late  ex- 
But  having,  for  our  purposes  in  this  con-  perience  has  taught  us  that  many  of  those 
tention,  resolved  that  none  but  an  obedient  fundamental  principles  formerly  believed 
assembly  should  sit;  the  humors  of  the  infallible,  are  either  not  of  the  importance 
people  there  finding  all  passage  through  they  were  imagined  to  l)e ;  or  that  we  have 
the  legal  channel  stopped,  with  great  '5  not  at  all  adverted  to  some  other  far  more 
violence  broke  out  another  way.  Some  important  and  far  more  powerful  princi- 
provinces  have  tried  their  experiment,  pies,  which  entirely  overrule  those  we  had 
as  we  have  tried  ours ;  and  theirs  has  considered  as  onmipotent.  I  am  much 
succeeded.  They  have  formed  a  govern-  against  any  further  experiments,  which 
ment  sufficient  for  its  purposes,  without  20  tend  to  put  to  the  proof  any  more  of  these 
the  bustle  of  a  revolution,  or  the  trouble-  allowed  opinions,  which  contribute  o 
some  formality  of  an  election.  Evident  much  to  the  public  tranquillity.  In  effect, 
necessity  and  tacit  consent  have  done  the  we  suffer  as  much  at  home  by  this  loosen- 
business  in  an  instant.  So  well  they  have  ing  of  all  ties,  and  this  concussion  of  all 
done  it,  that  Lord  Dunmore  —  the  ac-  25  established  opinions,  as  we  do  abroad, 
count  is  among  the  fragments  on  your  For,  in  order  to  prove  that  the  Americans 
table  —  tells  you  that  the  new  institution  have  no  right  to  their  liberties,  we  are 
is  infinitely  better  obeyed  than  the  an-  every  day  endeavoring  to  subvert  the 
cient  government  ever  was  in  its  most  maxims  which  preserve  the  whole  spirit 
fortunate  periods.  Obedience  is  what  30  of  our  own.  To  prove  that  the  Ameri- 
makes  government,  and  not  the  names  by  cans  ought  not  to  be  free,  we  are  obliged 
which  it  is  called;  not  the  name  of  Gov-  to  depreciate  the  value  of  freedom  itself; 
ernor,  as  formerly,  or  Committee,  as  at  and  we  never  seem  to  gain  a  paltry  ad- 
present.  This  new  government  has  vantage  over  them  in  debate,  without  at- 
originated  directly  from  the  people ;  and  3s  tacking  some  of  those  principles,  or  de- 
was  not  transmitted  through  any  of  the  riding  some  of  those  feelings,  for  which 
ordinary  artificial  media  of  a  positive  our  ancestors  have  shed  their  blood, 
constitution.     It   was    not   a   manufacture  But,   sir,   in  wishing  to   put   an   end   to 

ready  formed,  and  transmitted  to  them  in  pernicious  experiments.  I  do  not  mean  to 
that  condition  from  England.  The  evil  40  preclude  the  fullest  inquiry.  Far  from  it. 
arising  from  hence  is  this,  that  the  Far  from  deciding  on  a  sudden  or  par- 
colonists  having  once  found  the  possibility  tial  view,  I  would  patiently  go  round  and 
of  enjoying  the  advantages  of  order  in  round  the  subject,  and  survey  it  minutely 
the  midst  of  a  struggle  for  liberty,  such  in  every  possible  aspect.  Sir,  if  I  were 
struggles  will  not  henceforward  seem  45  capable  of  engaging  you  to  an  equal  al- 
so terrible  to  the  settled  and  sober  part  of  tention,  I  would  state  that,  as  far  as  I  am 
mankind  as  they  had  appeared  before  the  capable  of  discerning,  there  are  but  three 
trial.  ways  of  proceeding  relative  to  this  stub- 

Pursuing  the  same  plan  of  punishing  by  born  spirit,  which  prevails  in  your 
the  denial  of  the  exercise  of  government  5o  colonies,  and  disturbs  your  government, 
to  still  greater  lengths,  we  wholly  abro-  These  are:  to  change  that  spirit,  as  in- 
gated  the  ancient  government  of  Massa-  convenient,  by  removing  the  causes ;  to 
chusetts.  We  were  confident  that  the  prosecute  it  as  criminal ;  or,  to  comply 
first  feeling,  if  not  the  very  prospect  of  with  it  as  necessary.  T  would  not  be 
anarchy,  would  instantly  enforce  a  com- 55  guilty  of  an  imperfect  enumeration;  I  can 
plete  submission.  The  experiment  was  think  of  but  these  three.  Another  has 
tried.     A  new,  strange,  tmexpected  phase      indeed  been  started,  that  of  giving  up  the 


448 


EDMUND  BURKE 


colonies;  but  it  met  so  slight  a  reception, 
that  I  do  not  think  myself  obliged  to  dwell 
a  great  while  upon  it.  It  is  nothing  but 
a  little  sally  of  anger,  like  the  forward- 
ness of  peevish  children,  who,  when  they 
cannot  get  all  they  would  have,  are  re- 
solved to  take  nothing. 

The  first  of  these  plans,  to  change  the 
spirit  as  inconvenient,  by  removing  the 
causes,  I  think  is  the  most  like  a  system- 
atic proceeding.  It  is  radical  in  its 
principle;  but  it  is  attended  with  great 
difficulties,  some  of  them  little  short,  as  I 
conceive,  of  impossibilities.  This  will  ap- 
pear by  examining  into  the  plans  which 
have  been  proposed. 

As  the  growing  population  in  the 
colonies  is  evidently  one  cause  of  their 
resistance,  it  was  last  session  mentioned 
in  both  Houses,  by  men  of  weight,  and  re- 
ceived not  without  applause,  that  in  order 
to  check  this  evil,  it  would  be  proper  for 
the  crown  to  make  no  further  grants  of 
land.  But  to  this  scheme  there  are  two 
objections.  The  first,  that  there  is  al- 
ready so  much  unsettled  land  in  private 
hands  as  to  afford  room  for  an  immense 
future  population,  although  the  crown  not 
only  withheld  its  grants,  Ijut  annihilated 
its  soil.  If  this  be  the  case,  then  the  only 
effect  of  this  avarice  of  desolation,  this 
hoarding  of  a  royal  wilderness,  would  be 
to  raise  the  value  of  the  possessions  in  the 
hands  of  the  great  private  monopolists, 
without  any  adequate  check  to  the  grow- 
ing and  alarming  mischief  of  population. 

But  if  you  stopped  your  grants,  what 
would  be  the  consequence?  The  people 
would  occupy  without  grants.  They  have 
already  so  occupied  in  many  places.  You 
cannot  station  garrisons  in  every  part  of 
these  deserts.  If  you  drive  the  people 
from  one  place,  they  will  carry  on  their 
annual  tillage,  and  remove  with  their 
flocks  and  herds  to  another.  Many  of  the 
people  in  the  back  settlements  are  already 
little  attached  to  particular  situations. 
Already  they  have  topped  the  Appalachian 
mountains.  From  thence  they  behold  be- 
fore them  an  immense  plain,  one  vast, 
rich,  level  meadow ;  a  square  of  five  hun- 
dred miles.  Over  this  they  would  wander 
without  a  possibility  of  restraint;  they 
would  change  their  manners  with  the 
habits  of  their  life ;  would  soon  forget  a 
government  by  which  they  were  dis- 
owned; would  become  hordes  of  English 


Tartars ;  and  pouring  down  upon  your 
unfortified  frontiers  a  fierce  and  ir- 
resistible cavalry,  become  masters  of 
your     governors     and     your     counsellors, 

5  your  collectors  and  comjjlrollers,  and  of 
all  the  slaves  that  adhered  to  them.  Such 
would,  and  in  no  long  time  must,  be  the 
effect  of  attempting  to  forbid  as  a  crime, 
and  to  suppress  as  an  evil,  the  command 

10  and  blessing  of  Providence,  '  Increase 
and  multiply.'  Such  would  be  the  happy 
result  of  an  endeavor  to  keep,  as  a  lair  of 
w^ild  beasts,  that  earth  which  God,  by  an 
express  charter,  has  given  to  the  children 

15  of  men.  Far  dift'erent,  and  surely  much 
wiser,  has  been  our  policy  hitherto. 
Hitherto  we  have  invited  our  people,  by 
every  kind  of  bounty,  to  fixed  establish- 
ments.    We  have  invited  the  husbandman 

20  to  look  to  authority  for  his  title.  We 
have  taught  him  piously  to  believe  in  the 
mysterious  virtue  of  wax  and  parchment. 
We  have  thrown  each  tract  of  land,  as  it 
was  peopled,  into  districts,  that  the  ruling 

25  power  should  never  be  wholly  out  of 
sight.  We  have  settled  all  we  could ;  and 
we  have  carefully  attended  every  settle- 
ment with  government. 

Adhering   sir,   as   I   do,   to   this   policy, 

i^  as  well  as  for  the  reasons  I  have  just 
given,  I  think  this  new  project  of 
hedging-in  population  to  be  neither  pru- 
dent nor  practicable. 

To  impoverish  the  colonies  in  general, 

35  and  in  particular  to  arrest  the  noble 
course  of  their  marine  enterprises,  would 
he  a  more  easy  task.  I  freely  confess  it. 
We  have  shown  a  disposition  to  a  sys- 
tem  of   this   kind;   a   disposition   even   to 

JO  continue  the  restraint  after  the  offence ; 
looking  on  ourselves  as  rivals  to  our  col- 
onies, and  persuaded  that  of  course  we 
must  gain  all  that  they  shall  lose.  Much 
mischief     we     may     certainly     do.     The 

A'-,  power  inadequate  to  all  other  things  is 
often  more  than  sufficient  for  this.  I  do 
not  look  on  the  direct  and  immediate 
power  of  the  colonies  to  resist  our  vio- 
lence as  very  formidable.     In  this,  how- 

•0  ever,  I  may  be  mistaken.  But  when  I 
consider  that  we  have  colonies  for  no  pur- 
pose but  to  be  serviceable  to  us,  it  seems 
to  my  poor  understanding  a  little  pre- 
posterous to  make  them  unserviceable,  in 

?5  order  to  keep  them  obedient.  It  is,  in 
truth,  nothing  more  than  the  old,  and,  as 
I  thought,  exploded  problem  of  tyranny. 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES  449 

which  proposes  to  beggar  its  subjects  into  offer  of  liberty  would  not  always  be  ac- 
submission.  But  remember,  when  you  cepted.  History  furnishes  few  instances 
have  completed  your  system  of  impover-  of  it.  It  is  sometimes  as  hard  to  persuade 
ishment,  that  Nature  still  proceeds  in  her  slaves  to  be  free,  as  it  is  to  compel  free- 
ordinary  course ;  that  discontent  will  in-  5  men  to  be  slaves ;  and  in  this  auspicious 
crease  with  misery ;  and  that  there  are  scheme  we  should  have  both  these  pleas- 
critical  moments  in  the  fortune  of  all  ing  tasks  on  our  hands  at  once.  But 
states,  when  they  who  are  too  weak  to  when  we  talk  of  enfranchisement,  do 
contribute  to  your  prosperity  may  be  we  not  perceive  that  the  American  mas- 
strong  enough  to  complete  your  ruin.  10  ter  may  enfranchise  too,  and  arm  servile 
Spoliatis  anna  siipersnnt  [Arms  remain  hands  in  defence  of  freedom?  A  meas- 
to  the  despoiled].  aire   to  which  other   people  have   had   re- 

The  temper  and  character  which  pre-  course  more  than  once,  and  not  without 
vail  in  our  colonies,  are,  I  am  afraid,  un-  success,  in  a  desperate  situation  of  their 
alterable  by  any  human  art.     We  cannot,  15  affairs. 

I  fear,   falsify  the  pedigree  of  this  fierce  Slaves  as  these  unfortunate  black  people 

people,  and  persuade  them  that  they  are  are,  and  dull  as  all  men  are  from  slavery, 
not  sprung  from  a  nation  in  whose  veins  must  they  not  a  little  suspect  the  offer 
the  blood  of  freedom  circulates.  The  Ian-  of  freedom  from  that  very  nation  which 
guage  in  which  they  would  hear  you  tell  20  has  sold  them  to  their  present  masters? 
them  this  tale  would  detect  the  imposition :  from  that  nation,  one  of  whose  causes 
your  speech  would  betray  you.  An  Eng-  of  quarrel  with  those  masters  is  their 
lishman  is  the  unfittest  person  on  earth  to  refusal  to  deal  any  more  in  that  inhuman 
argue  another  Englishman  into  slavery.  traffic?     An  offer  of   freedom  from  Eng- 

I  think  it  is  nearly  as  little  in  our  25  land  would  come  rather  oddly,  shipped  to 
power  to  change  their  republican  religion  them  in  an  African  vessel,  which  is  re- 
as  their  free  descent;  or  to  substitute  the  fused  an  entry  into  the  ports  of  Virginia 
Roman  Catholic,  as  a  penalty;  or  the  or  Carolina,  with  a  cargo  of  three  hun- 
Church  of  England,  as  an  improvement,  dred  Angola  negroes.  It  would  be  curi- 
The  mode  of  inquisition  and  dragooning  30  ous  to  see  the  Guinea  captain  attempting 
is  going  out  of  fashion  in  the  Old  World,  at  the  same  instant  to  publish  his  procla- 
and  I  should  not  confide  much  to  their  mation  of  liberty,  and  to  advertise  his 
efficacy    in    the    New.     The   education    of      sale  of  slaves. 

the  Americans  is  also  on  the  same  unal-  But    let    us    suppose    all    these    moral 

terable  bottom  with  their  religion.  You  35  difficulties  got  over.  The  ocean  remains, 
cannot  persuade  them  to  burn  their  books  You  cannot  pump  this  dry;  and  as  long 
of  curious  science;  to  banish  their  lawyers  as  it  continues  in  its  present  bed,  so  long 
from  their  courts  of  laws ;  or  to  quench  all  the  causes  which  weaken  authority  by 
the  lights  of  their  assemblies,  by  refusing  distance  will  continue.  '  Ye  gods,  an- 
to  choose  those  persons  who  are  best  read  40  nihilate  but  space  and  time,  and  make 
in  their  privileges.  It  would  be  no  less  two  lovers  happy !  '  was  a  pious  and 
impracticable  to  think  of  wholly  annihilat-  passionate  prayer;  but  just  as  reasonable 
ing  the  popular  assemblies,  in  which  as  many  of  the  serious  wishes  of  very 
these  lawyers  sit.  The  army,  by  which  grave  and  solemn  politicians, 
we  must  govern  in  their  place,  would  be  45  If  then,  sir,  it  seems  almost  desperate 
far  more  chargeable  to  us ;  not  quite  so  to  think  of  any  alternative  course  for 
effectual ;  and  perhaps,  in  the  end,  full  as  changing  the  moral  causes,  and  not  quite 
difficult  to  be  kept  in  obedience.  easy   to   remove   the   natural,    which   pro- 

With  regard  to  the  high  aristocratic  duce  prejudices  irreconcilable  to  the  late 
spirit  of  Virginia  and  the  southern  colo-  5o  exercise  of  our  authority,  but  that  the 
nies,  it  has  been  proposed,  I  know,  to  re-  spirit  infallibly  will  continue,  and,  con- 
duce it,  by  declaring  a  general  enfran-  tinning,  will  produce  such  effects  as  now 
chisement  of  their  slaves.  This  project  embarrass  us;  the  second  mode  under 
has  had  its  advocates  and  panegyrists;  consideration  is  to  prosecute  that  spirit 
yet  I  never  could  argue  myself  into  any  55  in  its  overt  acts  as  criminal, 
opinion  of  it.     Slaves  are  often  much  at-  At    this    proposition    I    must    pause    a 

tached  to  their  masters.     A  general  wild      moment.     The   thing   seems   a   great   deal 


450  EDMUND  BURKE 


too  big  for  my  ideas  of  jurisprudence,  munitics,  I  can  scarcely  conceive  anythiuj^ 
It  should  seem  to  my  way  of  conceiving  more  completely  imprudent  than  for  the 
such  matters,  that  there  is  a  very  wide  head  of  the  empire  to  insist  that,  if  any 
difference  in  reason  and  policy  between  privilege  is  pleaded  against  his  will,  or 
the  mode  of  proceeding  on  the  irregular  5  his  acts,  his  whole  authority  is  denied : 
conduct  of  scattered  individuals,  or  even  instantly  to  proclaim  rebellion,  to  beat  to 
of  bands  of  men,  who  disturb  order  arms,  and  to  put  the  offending  provinces 
within  the  state,  and  the  civil  dissensions  under  the  ban.  Will  not  this,  sir,  very 
which  may,  from  time  to  time,  on  great  soon  teach  the  provinces  to  make  no  dis- 
questions,  agitate  the  several  communities  lo  tinctions  on  their  part?  Will  it  not  teach 
which  compose  a  great  empire.  It  looks  them  that  the  government,  against  which 
to  me  to  be  narrow  and  pedantic  to  apply  a  claim  of  liberty  is  tantamount  to  high 
the  ordinary  ideas  of  criminal  justice  to  treason,  is  a  government  to  which  sub- 
this  great  public  contest.  I  do  not  know  mission  is  equivalent  to  slavery?  It  may 
the  method  of  drawing  up  an  indictment  15  not  always  be  quite  convenient  to  impress 
against  a  whole  people.  I  cannot  insult  dependent  communities  with  such  an  idea, 
and   ridicule   the    feelings   of   millions    of  We  are  indeed,  in  all  disputes  with  the 

my  fellow-creatures,  as  Sir  Edward  Coke  colonies,  by  the  necessity  of  things,  the 
insulted  one  excellent  individual  (Sir  judge.  It  is  true,  sir.  But  I  confess 
Walter  Raleigh)  at  the  bar.  I  hope  I  am  20  that  the  character  of  judge  in  my  own 
not  ripe  to  pass  sentence  on  the  gravest  cause  is  a  thing  that  frightens  me.  In- 
public  bodies,  entrusted  with  magistracies  stead  of  filling  me  '  with  pride,  I  am 
of  great  authority  and  dignity,  and  exceedingly  humbled  by  it.  I  cannot  pro- 
charged  with  the  safety  of  their  fellow-  ceed  with  a  stern,  assured,  judicial  con- 
citizens,  upon  the  very  same  title  that  I  25  fidence,  until  I  find  myself  in  something 
am.  I  really  think  that,  for  wise  men,  more  like  a  judicial  character.  I  must 
this  is  not  judicious;  for  sober  men,  not  have  these  hesitations  as  long  as  I  am 
decent;  for  minds  tinctured  with  human-  compelled  to  recollect  that,  in  my  little 
ity,  not  mild  and  merciful.  reading  upon  such  contests  as  these,  the 

Perhaps,  sir,  I  am  mistaken  in  my  idea  30  sense  of  mankind  has,  at  least,  as  often 
of  an  empire,  as  distinguished  from  a  decided  against  the  superior  as  the  sub- 
single  state  or  kingdom.  But  my  idea  of  ordinate  power.  Sir,  let  me  add  too,  that 
it  is  this:  that  an  empire  is  the  aggre-  the  opinion  of  my  having  some  abstract 
gate  of  many  states  under  one  conn-non  right  in  my  favor  would  not  put  me  much 
head ;  whether  this  head  be  a  monarch,  3S  at  my  ease  in  passing  sentence,  unless  I 
or  a  presiding  republic.  It  does,  in  such  could  be  sure  that  there  were  no  rights 
constitutions,  frequently  happen  (and  which,  in  their  exercise  under  certain 
nothing  but  the  dismal,  cold,  dead  uni-  circumstances,  were  not  the  most  odious 
formity  of  servitude  can  prevent  its  of  all  wrongs,  and  the  most  vexatious 
happening)  that  the  subordinate  parts  4°  of  all  injustice.  Sir,  these  considerations 
have  many  local  privileges  and  immu-  have  great  weight  with  me,  when  I  find 
nities.  Between  these  privileges  and  the  things  so  circumstanced,  that  I  see  the 
supreme  common  authority  the  line  may  same  party  at  once  a  civil  litigant  against 
be  extremely  nice.  Of  course,  disputes,  me  in  point  of  right;  and  a  culprit  before 
often,  too,  very  bitter  disputes,  and  much  4';  me,  while  I  sit  as  a  criminal  judge  on 
ill  bl'ood,  will  arise.  But  though  every  acts  of  his,  whose  moral  quality  is  to  be 
privilege  is  an  exemption  (in  the  case)  decided  upon  the  merits  of  that  very 
from  the  ordinary  exercise  of  the  supreme  litigation.  Men  are  every  now  and  then 
authority,  it  is  no  denial  of  it.  The  claim  put,  by  the  complexity  of  human  affairs, 
of  the  privilege  seems  rather,  ex  vi  ter-'>°  into  strange  situations;  but  justice  is  the 
mini  [by  the  meaning  of  the  term],  to  im-  same,  let  the  judge  be  in  what  situation 
ply  a  superior  power.     For  to  talk  of  the     he  will. 

privileges  of  a  state,  or  of  a  person,  who  There  is,  sir,  also  a  circumstance  which 
has  no  superior,  is  hardly  any  better  than  convinces  me  that  this  mode  of  criminal 
speaking  nonsense.  Now,  in  such  un- ^^  proceeding  is  not  (at  least  in  the  present 
fortunate  quarrels  among  the  component  stage  of  our  contest)  altogether  expedi- 
parts  of  a   great  political   union   of   com-     ent ;  which  is  nothing  less  than  the  con- 


CONCILIATION  WITH  THE  COLONIES  451 

duct  of  those  very  persons  who  have  please  any  people,  you  must  give  them  the 
seemed  to  adopt  that  mode,  by  lately  de-  boon  which  they  ask  ;  not  what  you  may 
daring  a  rebellion  in  Massachusetts  Bay,  think  better  for  them,  but  of  a  kind 
as  they  had  formerly  addressed  to  have  totally  different.  Such  an  act  may  be  a 
traitors  brought  hither,  under  an  Act  of  5  wise  regulation,  but  it  is  no  concession ; 
Henry  the  Eighth,  for  trial.  For  though  whereas  our  present  theme  is  the  mode  of 
rebellion   is  declared,   it  is  not  proceeded      giving  satisfaction. 

against  as  such ;  nor  have  any  steps  been  Sir,   I   think  you  must  perceive  that   I 

taken  towards  the  apprehension  or  con-  am  resolved  this  day  to  have  nothing  at 
viction  of  any  individual  offender,  either  10  all  to  do  with  the  question  of  the  right 
on  our  late  or  our  former  Address ;  but  of  taxation.  Some  gentlemen  startle  — 
modes  of  public  coercion  have  been  but  it  is  true;  I  put  it  totally  out  of  the 
adopted,  and  such  as  have  much  more  question.  It  is  less  than  nothing  in  my 
resemblance  to  a  sort  of  qualified  hos-  consideration.  I  do  not  indeed  wonder, 
tility  toward  an  independent  power  than  y  nor  will  you,  sir,  that  gentlemen  of  pro- 
the  punishment  of  rebellious  subjects.  found  learning  are  fond  of  displaying  it 
All  this  seems  rather  inconsistent;  but  it  on  this  profound  subject.  But  my  con- 
shows  how  difficult  it  is  to  apply  these  sideration  is  narrow,  confined,  and  wholly 
juridical  ideas  to  our  present  case.  limited  to   the  policy  of   the  question.     I 

In  this  situation,  let  us  seriously  and  20  do  not  examine  whether  the  giving  away 
coolly  ponder.  What  is  it  we  have  got  a  man's  money  be  a  power  excepted  and 
by  all  our  menaces,  which  have  been  reserved  out  of  the  general  trust  of 
many  and  ferocious?  What  advantage  government;  and  how  far  all  mankind,  in 
have  we  derived  from  the  penal  laws  we  all  forms  of  polity,  are  entitled  to  an  ex- 
have  rightly  passed,  and  which,  for  the  25  ercise  of  that  right  by  the  charter  of 
time,  have  been  severe  and  numerous?  Nature.  Or  whether,  on  the  contrary,  a 
What  advances  have  we  made  towards  right  of  taxation  is  necessarily  involved 
our  object,  by  the  sending  of  a  force  in  the  general  principle  of  legislation,  and 
which,  by  land  and  sea,  is  no  contemp-  inseparable  from  the  ordinary  supreme 
tible  strength?  Has  the  disorder  abated?  30  power.  These  are  deep  questions,  where 
Nothing  less.  When  I  see  things  in  this  great  names  militate  against  each  other; 
situation,  after  such  confident  hopes,  bold  where  reason  is  perplexed ;  and  an  appeal 
promises,  and  active  exertions,  I  cannot  to  authorities  only  thickens  the  confusion, 
for  my  life  avoid  a  suspicion  that  the  plan  For  high  and  reverend  authorities  lift  up 
itself  is  not  correctly  right.  35  their  heads  on  both  sides;  and  there  is  no 

If  then  the  removal  of  the  causes  of  sure  footing  in  the  middle.  This  point 
this  spirit  of  American  liberty  be,  for  the  '  is  the  great  Serbonian  bog.  Betwixt 
greater  part^  or  rather  entirely,  imprac-  Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old.  Where 
ticable ;  if  the  ideas  of  criminal  process  armies  whole  have  sunk.'  I  do  not  intend 
be  inapplicable,  or  if  applicable,  are  in  40  to  be  overwhelmed  in  that  bog,  though  in 
the  highest  degree  inexpedient;  what  way  such  respectable  company.  The  question 
yet  remains  ?  No  way  is  open  but  the  with  me  is,  not  whether  you  have  a  right 
third  and  last  —  to  comply  with  the  to  render  your  people  miserable,  but 
American  spirit  as  necessary;  or,  if  you  whether  it  is  not  your  interest  to  make 
please,  to  submit  to  it  as  a  necessary  evil.  45  them  happy.     It  is  not  what  a  lawyer  tells 

If  we  adopt  this  mode;  if  we  mean  to  me  I  may  do,  but  what  humanity,  reason, 
conciliate  and  concede;  let  us  see  of  what  and  justice  tell  me  I  ought  to  do.  Is  a 
nature  the  concession  ought  to  be:  to  as-  politic  act  the  worse  for  being  a  generous 
certain  the  nature  of  our  concession  we  one  ?  Is  no  concession  proper,  but  that 
must  look  at  their  complaint.  The  col-  50  which  is  made  from  your  want  of  right  to 
onies  complain  that  they  have  not  the  keep  what  you  grant?  Or  does  it  lessen 
characteristic  mark  and  seal  of  British  the  grace  or  dignity  of  relaxing  in  the 
freedom.  They  complain  that  they  are  exercise  of  an  odious  claim,  because  you 
taxed  in  a  parliament  in  which  they  are  have  your  evidence-room  full  of  titles, 
not  represented.  If  you  mean  to  satisfy  55  and  your  magazines  stuffed  with  arms  to 
them  at  all.  you  must  satisfv  them  with  enforce  them?  What  signify  all  those 
regard  to  this  complaint.     If  you  mean  to      titles  and  all  those  arms?     Of  what  avail 


452  EDMUND  BURKE 


are   they,   when   the   reason   of   the   thing  My  idea,  therefore,  without  considering 

tells  me  that  the  assertion  of  my  title  is  whether   we   yield  as  matter  of  right,  or 

the  loss  of  my  suit;  and  that  I  could  do  grant  as  matter  of  favor,  is  to  admit  the 

nothing  but  wound  myself  by  the  use  of  people  of  our  colonies  into  an  interest  in 

my  own  weapons?  5  llie  Constitution;  and,   by   recording  that 

Such   is  steadfastly  my  opinion  of  the  admission   in   the  journals  of  parliament, 

absolute  necessity  of  keeping  up  the  con-  to  give   them   as   strong  an   assurance   as 

cord  of  this  empire  by  a  unity  of  spirit,  the   nature  of  the  thing  will   admit,   that 

though  in  a  diversity  of  operations,  that,  we    mean    for    ever    to    adhere    to    that 

if  I  were  sure  the  colonists  had,  at  their  lo  solemn    declaration    of    systematic    indul- 

leaving    this    country,    sealed    a    regular  gence. 

compact  of  servitude ;  that  they  had  Some  years  ago,  the  repeal  of  a  Rev- 
solemnly  abjured  all  the  rights  of  citi-  enue  Act,  upon  its  understood  principle, 
zens;  that  they  had  made  a  vow  to  re-  might  have  served  to  show  that  we  in- 
nounce  all  ideas  of  liberty  for  them  and  i5- tended  an  unconditional  abatement  of  the 
their  posterity  to  all  generations;  yet  I  exercise  of  a  taxing  power.  Such  a 
should  hold  myself  obliged  to  conform  to  measure  was  then  sufficient  to  remove  all 
the  temper  I  found  universally  prevalent  suspicion,  and  to  give  perfect  content, 
in  my  own  day,  and  to  govern  two  million  But  unfortunate  events,  since  that  time, 
of  men,  impatient  of  servitude,  on  the  20  may  make  something  further  necessary; 
principles  of  freedom.  I  am  not  deter-  and  not  more  necessary  for  the  satisfac- 
mining  a  point  of  law;  I  am  restoring  tion  of  the  colonies,  than  for  the  dignity 
tranquillity ;  and  the  general  character  and  consistency  of  our  own  future  pro- 
and  situation  of  a  people  must  determine  ceedings. 
what  sort  of  government  is  fitted  for  them.  25  *  *  * 
That  point  nothing  else  can  or  ought  to  (i775) 
determine. 


I 


EDWARD  GIBBON   (1737-1794) 


The  greatest  of  English  historians  was  born  not  far  from  London,  at  Putney  in  Surrey, 
where  his  father  lived  the  easy  life  of  a  country  gentleman.  .  Gibbon  ascribed  the  success 
of  his  later  years  to  the  '  golden  mediocrity  '  of  his  fortunes,  which  preserved  him  on  the 
one  hand  from  the  seductions  of  pleasure  and,  on  the  other,  from  the  need  of  earning  a 
living.  His  childhood  was  sickly,  his  education  was  intermittent,  and  he  was  indulged  in 
his  bent  for  reading  which  soon  settled  to  a  passion  for  history.  At  an  early  age  he  had 
devoured  everything  in  that  department  which  was  accessible  in  English  and  had  begun 
to  annex  other  languages  in  order  that  he  might  gratify  his  hunger  for  original  documents. 
He  was  sent  at  fifteen  to  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  has  left  a  withering  indictment  of 
the  neglect  and  incompetence  which  he  encountered  at  that  seat  of  learning.  Left  to  himself, 
he  fell  under  the  influence  of  a  Jesuit  and  was  converted  to  Roman  Catholicism;  whereupon 
his  father  promptly  deported  him  to  Switzerland  and  placed  him  under  the  care  of  a  Calvinist 
minister  at  Lausanne.  Through  constant  practice  in  the  defense  of  his  faith  he  became 
familiar  with  its  assailable  points,  and  soon  passed  to  the  position  of  scepticism  which  he 
permanently  occupied.  He  mastered  the  French  language  and  the  French  method  of  study 
and  became  deeply  imbued  with  the  French  rationalistic  ideas  of  the  period.  By  five  years 
of  great  diligence  under  able  direction  he  laid  the  foundation  of  his  superb  equipment  for  the 
task  of  his  life.  Returning  to  England,  he  published  in  the  French  language  his  first  book, 
Essai  sur  l' Etude  de  la  Litterainre  [Essay  on  the  Study  of  Literature]  (1761).  To  please 
his  father  he  served  for  two  years  and  a  half  as  a  captain  of  militia.  The  singleness  of  his 
ambition  is  well  illustrated  by  his  summary  of  these  lost  years:  'The  discipline  and  evolu- 
tions of  a  modern  battalion  gave  me  a  clearer  notion  of  the  phalanx  and  the  legions,  and 
the  captain  of  the  Hampshire  grenadiers  —  the  reader  may  smile  —  has  not  been  useless  to 
the  historian  of  the  Roman  empire.'  But  of  this  and  of  his  later  career  in  Parliament  he 
was  impatient  as  of  anything  which  did  not  contribute  directly  to  his  one  ambition.  From 
his  early  youth  he  had  '  aspired  to  the  character  of  a  historian.'  but  he  remained  unsettled 
as  to  the  field  he  should  occupy  until  he  found  himself  at  Rome.  '  In  my  journal,  the 
place  and  the  moment  of  the  conception  are  recorded,'  he  tells  us  in  his  Memoirs,  '  the  fif- 
teenth of  October,  1764,  in  the  close  of  the  evening,  as  I  sat  musing  in  the  church  of  the 
Zoccolanti  or  Franciscan  friars,  while  they  were  singing  vespers  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter 
on  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol.'  Two  years  elapsed  before  he  was  able  to  set  to  work,  twelve 
before  the  first  volume  was  published  in  London,  and  another  twelve  before  he  laid  down 
his  pen  at  Lausanne.  His  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  had  been  his  life,  the  one  object 
toward  which  all  his  reading  and  experience  were  made  to  converge,  and  is  the  one  subject 
of  his  Memoirs.  He  quietly  finished  his  days  at  Lausanne,  undoubtedly  justified  in  his  feeling 
that  this  achievement  had  been  enough  for  one  life.  The  substance  of  Gibbon's  '  candid 
and  rational  inquiry  into  the  human  causes '  of  the  religious  growth  which  undermined 
the  civilization  of  the  ancient  world,  has  not  remained  totally  unassailed  by  the  modern 
historian;  nor  is  Gibbon's  style  perfect;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  other  Englishman 
has  united  in  an  equal  degree  abundance  and  accuracy  of  information,  sense  of  historical 
perspective   and   proportion,   vigor   of   narrative,    and   splendor   of   style. 


From  THE  DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF      a  deep  ditch  of  the  depth  of  one  hundred 
THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE  feet.     Against    this    Hne    of    fortification, 

which  Phranza,  an  eye-witness,  prolongs 
Of  the  triangle  which  composes  the  to  the  measure  of  six  miles,  the  Ottomaiis 
figure  of  Constantinople,  the  two  sides  5  directed  their  principal  attack;  and  the 
along  the  sea  were  made  inaccessible  to  emperor,  after  distributing  the  service 
an  enemy:  the  Propontis  by  nature  and  and  command  of  the  most  perilous  sta- 
the  harbor  by  art.  Between  the  two  tions,  undertook  the  defence  of  the  ex- 
waters,  the  basis  of  the  triangle,  the  land  ternal  wall.  In  the  first  days  of  the  siege, 
side  was  protected  by  a  double  wall  and  lo  the    Greek    soldiers    descended    into    the 

453 


454  EDWARD  GIBBON 


ditch,  or  sallied  into  the  field;  but  they  workmen  were  destroyed;  and  the  skill  of 
soon  discovered  that,  in  the  proportion  of  an  artist  was  admired,  who  bethought 
their  numbers,  one  christian  was  of  more  himself  of  preventing  the  danger  and  the 
value  than  twenty  Turks;  and,  after  these  accident,  by  pouring  oil,  after  each  explo- 
bold  preludes,  they  were  prudently  con-  ^  sion,  into  the  mouth  of  the  cannon, 
tent   to   maintain   the   ramj)art   with   their  The  first  random  shots  were  productive 

missile  weapons.  Nor  should  this  pru-  of  more  sound  than  effect;  and  it  was  by 
dence  be  accused  of  pusillanimity.  The  the  advice  of  a  christian  that  the  en- 
nation  was  indeed  pusillanimous  and  gineers  were  taught  to  level  their  aim 
base;  but  the  last  Constantine  deserves  ,o  against  the  two  opposite  sides  of  the 
the  name  of  an  hero:  his  noble  band  of  salient  angles  of  a  bastion.  However 
volunteers  was  inspired  with  •Roman  vir^  imperfect,  the  weight  and  repetition  of 
tue ;  and  the  foreign  auxiliaries  supported  the  fire  made  some  impression  on  the 
the  honor  of  the  Western  chivalry.  The  walls;  and  the  Turks,  pushing  their  ap- 
incessant  volleys  of  lances  and  arrows  15  proaches  to  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  at- 
w'ere  accompanied  with  the  smoke,  the  tempted  to  fill  the  enormous  chasm  and 
sound,  and  the  fire  of  their  musketry  and  to  build  a  road  to  the  assault.  Innumer- 
cannon.  Their  small  arms  discharged  at  able  fascines  and  hogsheads  and  trunks  of 
the  same  time  either  five  or  even  ten  trees  were  heaped  on  each  other ;  and 
balls  of  lead  of  the  size  of  a  walnut;  and,  20  such  was  the  impetuosity  of  the  throng 
according  to  the  closeness  of  the  ranks  that  the  foremost  and  the  weakest  were 
and  the  force  of  the  powder,  several  pushed  headlong  down  the  precipice  and 
breastplates  and  bodies  were  transpierced  instantly  buried  under  the  accumulated 
by  the  same  shot.  But  the  Turkish  ap-  mass.  To  fill  the  ditch  was  the  toil  of 
proaches  were  soon  sunk  in  trenches  or  25  the  besiegers ;  to  clear  away  the  rubbish 
covered  with  ruins.  Each  day  added  to  was  the  safety  of  the  besieged;  and.  after 
the  science  of  the  christians;  but  their  a  long  and  bloody  conflict,  the  web  that 
inadequate  stock  of  gunpowder  was  had  been  woven  in  the  day  was  still  un- 
wasted  in  the  operations  of  each  day  raveled  in  the  night.  The  next  resource 
Their  ordnance  was  not  powerful  either  30  of  Mahomet  was  the  practice  of  mines ; 
in  size  or  number ;  and,  if  they  possessed  but  the  soil  was  rocky;  in  every  attempt 
some  heavy  cannon,  they  feared  to  plant  he  was  stopped  and  undermined  by  the 
them  on  the  walls,  lest  the  aged  structure  christian  engineers ;  nor  had  the  art  been 
should  be  shaken  and  overthrown  by  the  yet  invented  of  replenishing  those  sub- 
explosion.  The  same  destructive  secret  3s  terraneous  passages  with  gunpowder  and 
had  been  revealed  to  the  Moslems;  by  blowing  whole  towers  and  cities  into  the 
whom  it  was  employed  with  the  superior  air.  A  circumstance  that  distinguishes 
energy  of  zeal,  riches,  and  despotism.  the  siege  of  Constantinople  is  the  reunion 
The  great  cannon  of  Mahomet  has  been  of  the  ancient  and  modern  artillery, 
separately  noticed ;  an  important  and  40  The  cannon  were  intermingled  with  the 
visible  object  in  the  history  of  the  times:  mechanical  engines  for  casting  stones  and 
but  that  enormous  engine  was  flanked  by  darts;  the  bullet  and  the  battering-ram 
two  fellows  almost  of  equal  magnitude ;  were  directed  against  the  same  walls ;  nor 
the  long  order  of  the  Turkish  artillery  had  the  discovery  of  gunpowder  super- 
was  pointed  against  the  walls;  fourteen  45  seded  the  use  of  the  liquid  and  unextin- 
batteries  thundered  at  once  on  the  most  guishable  fire.  A  wooden  turret  of  the 
accessible  places;  and  of  one  of  these  it  largest  size  was  advanced  on  rollers:  this 
is  ambiguously  expressed  that  it  was  portable  magazine  of  ammunition  and  fas- 
mounted  with  one  hundred  and  thirty  cines  was  protected  by  a  threefold  cover- 
guns,  or  that  it  discharged  one  hundred  5°  ing  of  bulls'  hides;  incessant  volleys  w^re 
and  thirty  bullets.  Yet,  in  the  power  and  securely  discharged  from  the  loop-holes; 
activity  of  the  sultan,  we  may  discern  the  in  the  front,  three  doors  were  contrived 
infancy  of  the  new  science.  Under  a  for  the  alternate  sally  and  retreat  of  the 
master  who  counted  the  moments,  the  soldiers  and  workmen.  They  ascended 
great  cannon  could  be  loaded  and  fired  no  ^^  by  a  staircase  to  the  upper  platform,  and. 
more  than  seven  times  in  one  day.  The  as  high  as  the  level  of  that  platform,  a 
heated  metal  unfortunately  burst;  several      scaling-ladder  could  be  raised  by  pulleys 


FALL  OF  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE  455 


to  form  a  bridge  and  grapple  with  the  tlie  greatness  of  the  spectacle.  The  five 
adverse  rampart.  By  these  various  arts  christian  ships  continued  to  advance  with 
of  annoyance,  some  as  new  as  they  were  joyful  shouts,  and  a  full  press  both  of 
pernicious  to  the  Greeks,  the  tower  of  St.  sails  and  oars,  against  an  hostile  fleet  of 
Romanus  was  at  length  overturned:  after  5  tiiree  hundred  vessels;  and  the  rampart, 
a  severe  struggle,  the  Turks  were  re-  the  camp,  the  coasts  of  Europe  and  Asia, 
pulsed  from  the  breach  and  interrupted  were  lined  with  innumerable  spectators, 
by  darkness;  but  they  trusted  that  with  who  anxiously  awaited  the  event  of  this 
the  return  of  light  they  should  renew  the  momentous  succor.  At  the  first  view 
attack  with  fresh  vigor  and  decisive  10  that  event  could  not  appear  doubtful:  the 
success.  Of  this  pause  of  action,  this  superiority  of  the  Moslems  was  beyond 
interval  of  hope,  each  moment  was  im-  all  measure  or  account;  and,  in  a  calm, 
proved  by  the  activity  of  the  emperor  and  their  numbers  and  valor  must  inevitably 
Justiniani,  who  passed  the  night  on  the  have  prevailed.  But  their  hasty  and  im- 
spot,  and  urged  the  labors  which  involved  'S  perfect  navy  had  been  created,  not  by  the 
the  safety  of  the  church  and  city.  At  genius  of  the  people,  but  by  the  will  of 
the  dawn  of  day,  the  impatient  sultan  the  sultan:  in  the  height  of  their  pros- 
perceived,  with  astonishment  and  grief,  perity,  the  Turks  have  acknowledged  that, 
that  his  wooden  turret  had  been  reduced  if  God  had  given  them  the  earth,  he  had 
to  ashes:  the  ditch  was  cleared  and  re- 2°  left  the  sea  to  the  infidels;  and  a  series  of 
stored ;  and  the  tower  of  St.  Romanus  defeats,  a  rapid  progress  of  decay,  has 
was  again  strong  and  entire.  He  de-  established  the  truth  of  their  modest  con- 
plored  the  failure  of  his  design;  and  fession.  Except  eighteen  galleys  of  some 
uttered  a  profane  exclamation  that  the  force,  the  rest  of  their  fleet  consisted  of 
word  of  the  thirty-seven  thousand  proph-  25  open  boats,  rudely  constructed  and  awk- 
ets  should  not  have  compelled  him  to  be-  wardly  managed,  crowded  with  troops  and 
lieve  that  such  a  work,  in  so  short  a  time,  destitute  of  cannon ;  and,  since  courage 
should  have  been  accomplished  by  the  in-  arises  in  a  great  measure  from  the  con- 
fidels.  sciousness  of  strength,  the  bravest  of  the 

The  generosity  of  the  christian  princes  30  Janizaries  might  tremble  on  a  new  ele- 
was  cold  and  tardy;  but,  in  the  first  ap-  ment.  In  the  christian  squadron,  five 
prehension  of  a  siege,  Constantine  had  stout  and  lofty  ships  were  guided  by  skil- 
negotiated,  in  the  isles  of  the  Archipelago,  ful  pilots,  and  manned  with  the  veterans 
the  Morea,  and  Sicily,  the  most  indispen-  of  Italy  and  Greece,  long  practised  in  the 
sable  supplies.  As  early  as  the  begin-  35  arts  and  perils  of  the  sea.  Their  weight 
ning  of  April,  five  great  ships,  equipped  was  directed  to  sink  or  scatter  the  weak 
for  merchandise  and  war,  would  have  obstacles  that  impeded  their  passage: 
sailed  from  the  harbor  of  Chios,  had  not  their  artillery  swept  the  waters;  their 
the  wind  blown  obstinately  from  the  liquid  fire  was  poured  on  the  heads  of  the 
north.  One  of  these  ships  bore  the  Im-  40  adversaries  who.  with  the  design  of 
perial  flag;  the  remaining  four  belonged  ])oarding,  presumed  to  approach  them; 
to  the  Genoese ;  and  they  were  laden  with  and  the  winds  and  waves  are  always  on 
wheat  and  barley,  with  wine,  oil,  and  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators.  In  this 
vegetables,  and,  above  all,  with  soldiers  conflict,  the  Imperial  vessel,  which  had 
and  mariners,  for  the  service  of  the  45  been  almost  overpowered,  was  rescued  by 
capital.  After  a  tedious  delay,  a  gentle  the  Genoese;  but  the  Turks,  in  a  distant 
breeze,  and.  on  the  second  day,  a  strong  and  closer  attack,  were  twice  repulsed 
gale  from  the  south,  carried  them  through  with  considerable  loss.  Mahomet  himself 
the  Hellespont  and  the  Propontis ;  but  the  sat  on  horseback  on  the  beach,  to  en- 
city  was  already  invested  by  sea  and  land  ;  50  courage  their  valor  by  his  voice  and 
and  the  Turkish  fleet,  at  the  entrance  of  presence,  by  the  promise  of  reward,  and 
the  Bosphorus,  was  stretched  from  shore  bv  fear  more  potent  than  the  fear  of  the 
to  shore,  in  the  form  of  a  crescent,  to  enemy.  The  passions  of  his  soul,  and 
intercept,  or  at  least  to  repej_.  these  bold  even  the  gestures  of  his  bodv,  seemed 
auxiliaries.  The  reader  whrThas  present  55  to  imitate  the  actions  of  the  combatants; 
to  his  mind  the  geographical  picture  of  and,  as  if  he  had  been  the  lord  of  nature. 
Constantinople,  will   conceive  and  admire      he  spurred  his  horse  with  a  fearless  and 


456  EDWARD  GIBBON 


impotent  effort  into  the  sea.  His  loud  re-  etrate  the  secret  of  the  divan;  yet  the 
proaches,  and  the  clamors  of  the  camp,  G,reeks  are  persuaded  that  a  resistance 
ureed  the  Ottomans  to  a  third  attack,  so  obstinate  and  surprising,  had  fatigued 
more  fatal  and  bloody  than  the  two  the  perseverance  of  Mahomet.  He  began 
former;  and  I  must  repeat,  though  I  can-  5  to  meditate  a  retreat,  and  the  siege  would 
not  credit,  the  evidence  of  Phranza,  who  have  been  speedily  raised,  if  the  ambition 
affirms,  from  their  own  mouth,  that  they  and  jealousy  of  the  second  vizir  had  not 
lost  above  twelve  thousand  men  in  the  opposed  the  perfidious  advice  of  Calil 
slaughter  of  the  day.  They  fled  in  dis-  Bashaw,  who  still  maintained  a  secret 
order  to  the  shores  of  Europe  and  Asia,  lo  correspondence  with  the  Byzantine  court, 
while  the  christian  squadron,  triumphant  The  reduction  of  the  city  ap])earcd  to  be 
and  unhurt,  steered  along  the  Bosphorus  hopeless,  unless  a  double  attack  could  be 
and  securelv  anchored  within  the  chain  niade  from  the  harbor  as  well  as  from 
of  the  harbor.  In  the  confidence  of  the  land ;  but  the  harbor  was  inaccessible : 
victory  they  boasted  that  the  whole  i5  an  impenetrable  chain  was  now  defended 
Turkish  power  must  have  yielded  to  their  by  eight  large  ships,  more  than  twenty  of 
arms;  but  the  admiral,  or  captain  bashaw,  a  smaller  size,  with  several  galleys  and 
found  some  consolation  for  a  painful  sloops ;  and  instead  of  forcing  this  barrier, 
wound  in  his  eye,  by  representing  that  the  Turks  might  apprehend  a  naval  sally 
accident  as  the  cause  of  his  defeat.  20  and  a  second  encounter  in  the  open  sea. 
Baltha  Ogli  was  a  renegade  of  the  race  In  this  perplexity,  the  genius  of  Mahomet 
of  the  Bulgarian  princes;  his  military  conceived  and  executed  a  plan  of  a  bold 
character  was  tainted  with  the  unpopular  and  marvelous  cast,  of  transporting  by 
vice  of  avarice;  and,  under  the  despotism  land  his  lighter  vessels  and  military  stores 
of  the  prince  or  people,  misfortune  is  a  25  from  the  Bosphorus  into  the  higher  pan 
sufficient  evidence  of  guilt.  His  rank  and  of  the  harbor.  The  distance  is  about  ten 
services  were  annihilated  by  the  displeas-  miles;  the  ground  is  uneven,  and  was 
ure  of  Mahomet.  In  the  royal  presence,  overspread  with  thickets ;  and,  as  the  road 
the  captain  bashaw  was  extended  on  the  must  be  opened  behind  the  suburb  of 
ground  by  four  slaves,  and  received  one  30  Galata,  their  free  passage  or  total  destruc- 
hundred  strokes  with  a  golden  rod;  his  tion  must  depend  on  the  option  of  the 
death  had  been  pronounced;  and  he  Genoese.  But  these  selfish  merchants 
adored  the  clemency  of  the  sultan,  who  were  ambitious  of  the  favor  of  being  the 
was  satisfied  with  the  milder  punishment  last  devoured;  and  the  deficiency  of  art 
of  confiscation  and  exile.  The  introduc-  35  was  supplied  by  the  strength  of  obedient 
tion  of  this  supply  revived  the  hopes  of  myriads.  A  level  way  was  covered  with 
the  Greeks,  and  accused  the  supineness  a  broad  platform  of  strong  and  solid 
of  their  Western  allies.  Amidst  the  des-  planks ;  and  to  render  them  more  slippery 
erts  of  Anatolia  and  the  rocks  of  Pales-  and  smooth,  they  were  anointed  with  the 
tine,  the  millions  of  the  crusades  had  40  fat  of  sheep  and  oxen.  Fourscore  light 
buried  themselves  in  a  voluntary  and  in-  galleys  and  brigantines  of  fifty  and  thirty 
evitable  grave;  but  the  situation  of  the  oars  were  disembarked  on  the  Bosphorus 
Imperial  city  was  strong  against  her  shore,  arranged  successively  on  rollers, 
enemies,  and  accessible  to  her  friends ;  and  drawn  forwards  by  the  power  of  men 
and  a  rational  and  moderate  armament  of  45  and  pulleys.  Two  guides  or  pilots  were 
the  maritime  states  might  have  saved  the  stationed  at  the  helm  and  the  prow  of 
relics  of  the  Roman  name,  and  maintained  each  vessel:  the  sails  were  unfurled  to 
a  christian  fortress  in  the  heart  of  the  the  winds;  and  the  labor  was  cheered 
Ottoman  empire.  Yet  this  was  the  sole  by  song  and  acclamation.  In  the  course 
and  feeble  attempt  for  the  deliverance  of  5°  of  a  single  night,  this  Turkish  fleet  pain- 
Constantinople ;  the  more  distant  powers  fully  climbed  the  hill,  steered  over  the 
were  insensible  of  its  danger;  and  the  plain,  and  was  launched  from  the  de- 
ambassador  of  Hungary,  or  at  least  of  clivity  into  the  shallow  waters  of  the 
Huniades,  resided  in  the  Turkish  camp,  harbor,  far  above  the  molestation  of  the 
to  remove  the  fears,  and  to  direct  the  55  deeper  vessels  of  the  Greeks.  The  real 
operations,  of  the  sultan.  importance    of    this    operation    was    mag- 

It  was  difficult  for  the  Greeks  to  pen-      nified  by  the  consternation  and  confidence 


FALL  OF  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE 


457 


which  it  inspired ;  but  the  notorious,  un-  serted  the  pre-eminence  of  their  respective 
questionable  fact  was  displayed  before  the  service;  and  Justiniani  and  the  Great 
eyes,  and  is  recorded  by  the  pens,  of  the  Duke,  whose  ambition  was  not  extiri- 
two  nations.  A  similar  stratagem  had  guished  by  the  common  danger,  accused 
been  repeatedly  practised  by  the  an-  5  each  other  of  treachery  and  cowardice, 
cients;     the     Ottoman     galleys,     I     must  During  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  the 

again  repeat,  should  be  considered  as  words  of  peace  and  capitulation  had  been 
large  boats;  and,  if  we  compare  the  mag-  sometimes  pronounced;  and  several  em- 
nitude  and  the  distance,  the  obstacles  and  bassies  had  passed  between  the  camp  and 
the  means,  the  boasted  miracle  has  per-  lo  the  city.  The  Greek  emperor  was  hum- 
haps  been  equaled  by  the  industry  of  our  bled  by  adversity;  and  would  have  yielded 
own  times.  As  soon  as  Mahomet  had  to  any  terms  compatible  with  religion  and 
occupied  the  upper  harbor  with  a  fleet  royalty.  The  Turkish  sultan  was  desirous 
and  army,  he  constructed,  in  the  narrow-  of  sparing  the  blood  of  his  soldiers;  still 
est  part,  a  bridge,  or  rather  mole,  of  fifty  15  more  desirous  of  securing  for  his  own 
cubits  in  breadth  and  one  hundred  in  use  the  Byzantine  treasures ;  and  he  ac- 
length;  it  was  formed  of  casks  and  hogs-  complished  a  sacred  duty  in  presenting 
heads,  joined  with  rafters  linked  with  to  the  Gabours  the  choice  of  circumcision, 
iron,  and  covered  with  a  solid  floor.  On  of  tribute,  or  of  death.  The  avarice  of 
this  floating  battery  he  planted  one  of  his  20  ]\Iahomet  might  have  been  satisfied  with 
largest  cannon,  while  the  fourscore  an  annual  sum  of  one  hundred  thousand 
galleys,  with  troops  and  scaling-ladders,  ducats;  but  his  ambition  grasped  the 
approached  the  most  accessible  side,  capital  of  the  East;  to  the  prince  he  of- 
which  had  formerly  been  stormed  by  the  fered  a  rich  equivalent,  to  the  people  a 
Latin  conquerors.  The  indolence  of  the  25  free  toleration  or  a  safe  departure:  but, 
christians  has  been  accused  for  not  de-  after  some  fruitless  treaty,  he  declared 
stroying  these  unfinished  works;  but  their  his  resolution  of  finding  either  a  throne 
fire,  by  a  superior  fire,  was  controlled  and  or  a  grave  under  the  walls  of  Constan- 
silenced;  nor  were  they  wanting  in  a  tinople.  A  sense  of  honor  and  the  fear 
nocturnal  attempt  to  burn  the  vessels  as  3°  of  universal  reproach  forbade  Palasologus 
well  as-  the  bridge  of  the  sultan.  His  to  resign  the  city  into  the  hands  of  the 
vigilance  prevented  their  approach ;  their  Ottomans ;  and  he  determined  to  abide  the 
foremost  galliots  were  sunk  or  taken ;  last  extremities  of  war.  Several  days 
forty  youths,  the  bravest  of  Italy  and  were  employed  by  the  sultan  in  the  prep- 
Greece  were  inhumanly  massacred  at  his  35  arations  of  the  assault ;  and  a  respite 
command ;  nor  could  the  emperor's  grief  was  granted  by  his  favorite  science  of 
be  assuaged  by  the  just  though  cruel  re-  astrology,  which  had  fixed  on  the  twenty- 
taliation  of  exposing  from  the  walls  the  ninth  of  May  as  the  fortunate  and  fatal 
heads  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  Mussul-  hour.  On  the  evening  of  the  twenty-sev- 
man  captives.  After  a  siege  of  forty  4°  enth,  he  issued  his  final  orders ;  assembled 
days,  the  fate  of  Constantinople  could  no  in  his  presence  the  military  chiefs;  and 
longer  be  averted.  The  diminutive  gar-  dispersed  his  heralds  through  the  camp 
rison  was  exhausted  by  a  double  attack;  to  proclaim  the  duty  and  the  motives  of 
the  fortifications,  which  had  stood  for  the  perilous  enterprise.  Fear  is  the  first 
ages  against  hostile  violence,  were  dis- 45  principle  of  a  despotic  government;  and 
mantled  on  all  sides  by  the  Ottoman  his  menaces  were  expressed  in  the  Ori- 
cannon ;  many  breaches  were  opened;  and  ental  style,  that  the  fugitives  and  desert - 
near  the  gate  of  St.  Romanus  four  towers  ers,  had  they  the  wings  of  a  bird,  should 
had  been  leveled  with  the  ground.  For  not  escape  from  his  inexorable  justice, 
the  payment  of  his  feeble  and  mutinous  so  The  greatest  part  of  his  bashaws  and 
troops,  Constantine  was  compelled  to  de-  Janizaries  were  the  offspring  of  chris- 
spoil  the  churches,  with  the  promise  of  a  tian  parents;  but  the  glories  of  the  Turk- 
fourfold  restitution;  and  his  sacrilege  ish  name  were  perpetuated  by  successive 
offered  a  new  reproach  to  the  enemies  of  adoption;  and,  in  the  gradual  change  of 
the  union.  A  spirit  of  discord  impaired  55  individuals,  the  spirit  of  a  legion,  a  reg- 
the  remnant  of  the  christian  strength:  iment.  or  an  oda  is  kept  alive  by  imita- 
the  Genoese  and  \^enetian  auxiliaries  as-     tion  and  discipline.     In  this  holy  warfare, 


458  EDWARD  GIBBON 

the  Moslems  were  exhorted  to  purify  pense  to  the  heroes  who  fall  in  the  serv- 
their  minds  with  prayer,  their  bodies  ice  of  their  country.  But  the  example 
with  seven  ablutions;  and  to  abstain  from  of  their  prince  and  the  confinement  of 
food  till  the  close  of  the  ensuing  day.  a  siege  had  armed  these  warriors  with 
A  crowd  of  dervishes  visited  the  tents,  5  the  courage  of  despair ;  and  the  pathetic 
to  instil  the  desire  of  martyrdom,  and  scene  is  described  by  the  feelings  of  the 
the  assurance  of  spending  an  immortal  historian  I'hranza,  who  was  himself 
youth  amidst  the  rivers  and  gardens  of  present  at  this  mournful  assembly.  They 
paradise  and  in  the  embraces  of  the  black-  wept,  they  embraced;  regardless  of  their 
eyed  virgins.  Yet  Mahomet  principally  lo  families  and  fortunes,  they  devoted  their 
trusted  to  the  efiicacy  of  temporal  and  lives;  and  each  commander,  departing  to 
visible  rewards.  A  double  pay  was  his  station,  maintained  all  night  a  vigi- 
promised  to  the  victorious  troops :  '  The  lant  and  anxious  watch  on  the  rampart, 
city  and  the  buildings,'  said  Mahomet,  The  emperor,  and  some  faithful  compan- 
'  are  mine ;  but  I  resign  to  your  valor  15  ions,  entered  the  dome  of  St.  Sophia, 
the  captives  and  the  spoil,  the  treasures  which  in  a  few  hours  was  to  be  converted 
of  gold  and  beauty ;  be  rich  and  be  happy.  into  a  mosque;  and  devoutly  received, 
Many  are  the  provinces  of  my  empire:  with  tears  and  prayers,  the  sacrament  of 
the  intrepid  soldier  who  first  ascends  the  the  holy  communion.  He  reposed  some 
walls  of  Constantinople  shall  be  rewarded  20  moments  in  the  palace,  which  resounded 
with  the  government  of  the  fairest  and  with  cries  and  lamentations;  solicited  the 
most  wealthy;  and  my  gratitude  shall  ac-  pardon  of  all  whom  he  might  have  in- 
cumulate  his  honors  and  fortunes  above  jured;  and  mounted  on  horseback  to 
the  measure  of  his  own  hopes.'  Such  visit  the  guards  and  explore  the  motions 
various  and  potent  motives  diffused  25  of  the  enemy.  The  distress  and  fall  of 
among  the  Turks  a  general  ardor,  re-  the  last  Constantine  are  more  glorious 
gardless  of  life  and  impatient  for  action :  than  the  long  prosperity  of  the  Byzantine 
the    camp    re-echoed    with    the     Moslem      Caesars. 

shouts  of  '  God  is   God,  there  is  but  one  In  the  confusion  of  darkness  an  assail- 

God,  and  Mahomet  is  the  apostle  of  30  ant  may  sometimes  succeed ;  but,  in  this 
God ' ;  and  the  sea  and  land,  from  Ga-  great  and  general  attack,  the  military 
lata  to  the  seven  towers,  were  illuminated  judgment  and  astrological  knowledge  of 
by  the  blaze  of  their  nocturnal  fires.  Mahomet     advised     him     to     expect     the 

Far  different  was  the  state  of  the  morning,  the  memorable  twenty-ninth  of 
christians;  who  with  loud  and  impotent  35  May,  in  the  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty- 
complaints,  deplored  the  guilt,  or  the  third  year  of  the  christian  sera.  The 
punishment,  of  their  sins.  The  celestial  preceding  night  had  been  strenuously  em- 
image  of  the  Virgin  had  been  exposed  in  ployed:  the  troops,  the  cannon,  and  the 
solemn  procession ;  but  their  divine  pa-  fascines  were  advanced  to  the  edge  of 
troness  was  deaf  to  their  entreaties :  they  40  the  ditch,  which,  in  many  parts,  pre- 
accused  the  obstinacy  of  the  emperor  for  sented  a  smooth  and  level  passage  to  the 
refusing  a  timely  surrender;  anticipated  breach;  and  his  fourscore  galleys  al- 
the  horrors  of  their  fate ;  and  sighed  for  most  touched,  with  the  prows  and  their 
the  repose  and  security  of  Turkish  serv-  scaling-ladders,  the  less  defensible  walls 
itude.  The  noblest  of  the  Greeks,  and  45  of  the  harbor.  Under  pain  of  death,  si- 
the  bravest  of  the  allies,  were  summoned  lence  was  enjoined ;  but  the  physical 
to  the  palace,  to  prepare  them,  on  the  laws  of  motion  and  sound  are  not  obedi- 
evening  of  the  twenty-eighth,  for  the  ent  to  discipline  or  fear;  each  individual 
duties  and  dangers  of  the  general  assault.  might  suppress  his  voice  and  measure  his 
The  last  speech  of  Palseologus  was  the  5o  footsteps ;  but  the  march  and  labor  of 
funeral  oration  of  the  Roman  Empire:  thousands  must  inevitably  produce  a 
he  promised,  he  conjured,  and  he  vainly  strange  confusion  of  dissonant  clamors, 
attempted  to  infuse  the  hope  which  was  which  reached  the  ears  of  the  watchmen 
extinguished  in  his  own  mind.  In  this  of  the  towers.  At  daybreak,  without  the 
world  all  was  comfortless  and  gloomy;  55  customary  signal  of  the  morning-gun,  the 
and  neither  the  gospel  nor  the  church  Turks  assaulted  the  city  by  sea  and  land ; 
have    proposed    any    conspicuous    recom-      and  the  similitude  of  a  twined  or  twisted 


FALL  OF  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE  459 

thread  has  been  applied  to  the  closeness  dispelled  by  'the  final  deliverance  or  de- 
and  continuity  of  their  line  of  attack.  struction  of  the  Roman  empire.  The 
The  foremost  ranks  consisted  of  the  single  combats  of  the  heroes  of  history 
refuse  of  the  host,  a  voluntary  crowd,  or  fable  amuse  our  fancy  and  engage  our 
who  fought  without  order  or  command;  5  affections:  the  skilful  evolutions  of  war 
of  the  feebleness  of  age  or  childhood,  of  may  inform  the  mind,  and  improve  a 
peasants  and  vagrants,  and  of  all  who  necessary  though  pernicious  science, 
had  joined  the  camp  in  the  blind  hope  But,  in  the  uniform  and  odious  pictures 
of  plunder  and  martyrdom.  The  com-  of  a  general  assault,  all  is  blood,  and 
mon  impulse  drove  them  onwards  to  the  10  horror,  and  confusion ;  nor  shall  I  strive, 
wall;  the  most  audacious  to  climb  were  at  the  distance  of  three  centuries  and  a 
instantly  precipitated;  and  not  a  dart,  not  thousand  miles,  to  delineate  a  scene  of 
a  bullet  of  the  christians  was  idly  wasted  which  there  could  be  no  spectators,  and 
on  the  accumulated  throng.  But  their  of  which  the  actors  themselves  were  in- 
strength  and  ammunition  were  exhausted  15  capable  of  forming  any  just  or  adequate 
in   this  laborious  defence ;   the  ditch   was      idea. 

filled  with   the   bodies   of  the   slain;   they  The    immediate    loss   of   Constantinople 

supported  the  footsteps  of  their  com-  may  be  ascribed  to  the  bullet,  or  arrow, 
panions;  and  of  this  devoted  van-  which  pierced  the  gauntlet  of  John  Jus- 
guard  the  death  was  more  serviceable  20  tiniani.  The  sight  of  his  blood,  and  the 
than  the  life.  Under  their  respective  exquisite  pain,  appalled  the  courage  of 
bashaws  and  sanjaks,  the  troops  of  An-  the  chief,  whose  arms  and  counsel  were 
atolia  and  Romania  were  successively  the  firmest  rampart  of  the  city.  As  he 
led  to  the  charge:  their  progress  was  va-  withdrew  from  his  station  in  quest  of 
rious  and  doubtful ;  but,  after  a  conflict  25  a  surgeon,  his  flight  was  perceived  and 
of  two  hours,  the  Greeks  still  maintained  stopped  by  the  indefatigable  emperor, 
and  improved  their  advantage;  and  the  'Your  wound,'  exclaimed  Palaaologus,  'is 
voice  of  the  emperor  was  heard,  en-  slight;  the  danger  is  pressing;  your  pres- 
couraging  his  soldiers  to  achieve,  by  a  ence  is  necessary;  and  whither  will  you 
last  effort,  the  deliverance  of  their  coun- 30  retire  ?  '  'I  will  retire,'  said  the  trem- 
try.  In  that  fatal  moment,  the  Janizaries  bling  Genoese,  '  by  the  same  road  which 
arose,  fresh,  vigorous,  and  invincible.  God  has  opened  to  the  Turks ;  '  and  at 
The  sultan  himself  on  horseback,  with  these  words  he  hastily  passed  through 
an  iron  mace  in  his  hand,  was  the  one  of  the  breaches  of  the  inner  wall, 
spectator  and  judge  of  their  valor;  he  35  By  this  pusillanimous  act,  he  stained 
was  surrounded  by  ten  thousand  of  his  the  honors  of  a  military  life;  and  the 
domestic  troops,  whom  he  reserved  for  few  days  which  he  survived  in  Galata, 
the  decisive  occasion;  and  the  tide  of  or  the  isle  of  Chios,  were  embittered  by 
battle  was  directed  and  impelled  by  his  his  own  and  the  public  reproach.  His 
voice  and  eye.  His  numerous  ministers  40  example  was  imitated  by  the  greatest 
of  justice  were  posted  behind  the  line.  part  of  the  Latin  auxiliaries,  and  the 
to  urge,  to  restrain,  and  to  punish ;  and,  defence  began  to  slacken  when  the  at- 
if  danger  was  in  the  front,  shame  and  tack  was  pressed  with  redoubled  vigor, 
inevitable  death  were  in  the  rear  of  the  The  number  of  Ottomans  was  fifty,  per- 
fugitives.  The  cries  of  fear  and  of  pain  45  haps  an  hundred,  times  superior  to  that 
were  drowned  in  the  martial  music  of  of  the  christians;  the  double  walls  were 
drums,  trumpets,  and  attaballs;  and  ex-  reduced  by  the  cannon  to  an  heap  of 
perience  has  proved  that  the  mechanical  ruins;  in  a  circuit  of  several  miles,  some 
operation  of  sounds,  by  quickening  the  places  must  be  found  more  easy  of  access 
circulation  of  the  blood  and  spirits,  will  50  or  more  feebly  guarded;  and,  if  the  be- 
act  on  the  human  machine  more  forcibly  siegers  could  penetrate  in  a  single  point, 
than  the  eloquence  of  reason  and  honor.  the  whole  city  was  irrecoverably  lost. 
From  the  lines,  the  galleys,  and  the  The  first  who  deserved  the  sultan's  re- 
bridge,  the  Ottoman  artillery  thundered  ward  was  Hassan,  the  Janizary,  of 
on  all  sides ;  and  the  camp  and  city,  the  55  gigantic  stature  and  strength.  With  his 
Greeks  and  the  Turks,  were  involved  in  scimitar  in  one  hand  and  his  buckler  in 
a   cloud   of   smoke,    which    could   only   be      the  other,  he  ascended  the  outward  forti- 


46o  EDWARD  GIBBON 


fication:  of  the  thirty  Janizaries,  who  quarters  might  prolong,  some  moments, 
were  emulous  of  his  valor,  eighteen  i)er-  the  happy  ignorance  of  their  ruin.  But 
ished  in  the  bold  adventure.  Hassan  and  in  the  general  consternation,  in  the  feel- 
his  twelve  companions  had  reached  the  ings  of  selfish  or  social  anxiety,  in  the 
summit :  the  giant  was  precipitated  from  5  tumult  and  thunder  of  the  assault,  a 
the  rampart;  he  rose  on  one  knee,  and  sleepless  night  and  morning  must  have 
was  again  oppressed  by  a  shower  of  darts  elapsed ;  nor  can  I  believe  that  many 
and  stones.  But  his  success  had  proved  Grecian  ladies  were  awakened  by  the 
that  the  achievement  was  possible:  the  Janizaries  from  a  sound  and  tranquil 
walls  and  towers  were  instantly  covered  lo  slumber.  On  the  assurance  of  the  pub- 
with  a  swarm  of  Turks;  and  the  Greeks,  He  calamity,  the  houses  and  convents 
now  driven  from  the  vantage-ground,  were  instantly  deserted ;  and  the  _  trem- 
were  overwhelmed  by  increasing  multi-  bling  inhabitants  flocked  together  in  the 
tudes.  Amidst  these  multitudes,  the  em-  streets,  like  an  herd  of  timid  animals,  as 
peror,  who  accomplished  all  the  duties  15  if  accumulated  weakness  could  be  pro- 
of a  general  and  a  soldier,  was  long  seen,  ductive  of  strength,  or  in  the  vain  hope 
and  finally  lost.  The  nobles  who  fought  that  amid  the  crowd  each  individual  might 
round  his  person  sustained,  till  their  last  be  safe  and  invisible.  From  every  part 
breath,  the  honorable  names  of  Palaeo-  of  the  capital,  they  flowed  into  the  church 
logus  and  Cantacuzene :  his  mournful  ex-  20  of  St.  Sophia :  in  the  space  of  an  hour, 
clamation  was  heard,  *  Cannot  there  be  the  sanctuary,  the  choir,  the  nave,  the 
found  a  christian  to  cut  off  my  head?  upper  and  lower  galleries,  were  filled  with 
and  his  last  fear  was  that  of  falling  alive  the  multitudes  of  fathers  and  husbands, 
into  the  hands  of  the  infidels.  The  of  women  and  children,  of  priests,  monks, 
prudent  despair  of  Constantine  cast  away  25  and  religious  virgins :  the  doors  were 
purple;  amidst  the  tumult,  he  fell  by  an  barred  on  the  inside,  and  they  sought 
unknown  hand,  and  his  body  was  buried  protection  from  the  sacred  dome  which 
under  a  mountain  of  the  slain.  After  his  they  had  so  lately  abhorred  as  a  profane 
death,  resistance  and  order  were  no  more ;  and  polluted  edifice.  Their  confidence 
the  Greeks  fled  towards  the  city ;  and  30  was  founded  on  the  prophecy  of  an  en- 
many  were  pressed  and  stifled  in  the  thusiast  or  impostor,  that  one  day  the 
narrow  pass  of  the  gate  of  St.  Romanus.  Turks  would  enter  Constantinople,  and 
The  victorious  Turks  rushed  through  the  pursue  the  Romans  as  far  as  the  column 
breaches  of  the  inner  wall ;  and,  as  they  of  Constantine  in  the  square  before  St. 
advanced  into  the  streets,  they  were  soon  35  Sophia ;  but  that  this  would  be  the  term 
joined  by  their  brethren,  who  had  forced  of  their  calamities;  that  an  angel  would 
the  gate  Phenar  on  the  side  of  the  har-  descend  from  heaven,  with  a  sword  in  his 
bor.  In  the  first  heat  of  the  pursuit,  hand,  and  would  deliver  the  empire,  with 
about  two  thousand  christians  were  put  that  celestial  weapon,  to  a  poor  man 
to  the  sword ;  but  avarice  soon  prevailed  40  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  column.  '  Take 
over  cruelty ;  and  the  victors  acknowl-  this  sword,'  would  he  say,  '  and  avenge 
edged  that  they  should  immediately  have  the  people  of  the  Lord.'  At  these  ani- 
given  quarter,  if  the  valor  of  the  em-  mating  words,  the  Turks  would  instantly 
peror  and  his  chosen  bands  had  not  pre-  fly,  and  the  victorious  Romans  would 
pared  them  for  a  similar  opposition  in  45  drive  them  from  the  West,  and  from  all 
every  part  of  the  capital.  It  was  thus,  Anatolia,  as  far  as  the  frontiers  of  Per- 
after  a  siege  of  fifty-three  days,  that  Con-  sia.  It  is  on  this  occasion  that  Ducas, 
stantinople,  which  had  defied  the  power  with  some  fancy  and  much  truth,  up- 
of  Chosroes,  the  Chagan,  and  the  caliphs,  braids  the  discord  and  obstinacy  of  the 
was  irretrievably  subdued  by  the  arms  50  Greeks.  '  Had  that  angel  appeared,'  ex- 
of  Mahomet  the  Second.  Her  empire  claims  the  historian,  '  had  he  offered  to 
only  had  been  subverted  by  the  Latins:  exterminate  your  foes  if  you  would  con- 
her  religion  was  trampled  in  the  dust  by  sent  to  the  union  of  the  church,  even 
the  Moslem  conquerors.  then,    in    that    fatal    moment,    you    would 

The    tidings   of    misfortune   fly   with    a  55  have    rejected    your    safety    or    have    de- 
rapid  wing;   yet   such   was  the  extent  of      ceived  your  God.' 
Constantinople     that     the     more     distant  While  they  expected  the  descent  of  the 


FALL  OF  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE  461 

tardy  angel,  the  doors  were  broken  with  with  a  suppliant  and  lamentable  crowd; 
axes;  and,  as  the  Turks  encountered  no  but  the  means  of  transportation  were 
resistance,  their  bloodless  hands  were  scanty ;  the  Venetians  and  Genoese  se- 
employed  in  selecting  and  securing  the  lected  their  countrymen;  and,  notwith- 
multitude  of  their  prisoners.  Youth,  5  standing  the  fairest  promises  of  the  sul- 
beauty,  and  the  appearance  of  wealth  tan,  the  inhabitants  of  Galata  evacuated 
attracted  their  choice;  and  the  right  of  their  houses  and  embarked  with  their 
property  was  decided  among  themselves  most  precious  effects, 
by  a  prior  seizure,  by  personal   strength,  In  the  fall  and  the  sack  of  great  cities, 

and  by  the  authority  of  command.  In  10  an  historian  is  condemned  to  repeat  the 
the  space  of  an  hour,  the  male  captives  tale  of  uniform  calamity:  the  same  ef- 
were  bounds  with  cords,  the  females  with  fects  must  be  produced  by  the  same  pas- 
their  veils  and  girdles.  The  senators  sions ;  and,  when  those  passions  may  be 
were  linked  with  their  slaves;  the  prelates  indulged  without  control,  small,  alas!  is 
with  the  porters  of  the  church ;  and  young  15  the  difference  between  civilised  and  sav- 
men  of  a  plebeian  class  with  noble  maids,  age  man.  Amidst  the  vague  exclama- 
whose  faces  had  been  invisible  to  the  sun  tions  of  bigotry  and  hatred,  the  Turks 
and  their  nearest  kindred.  In  this  com-  are  not  accused  of  a  wanton  or  immoder- 
mon  captivity,  the  ranks  of  society  were  ate  effusion  of  christian  blood;  but,  ac- 
confounded;  the  ties  of  nature  were  cut  20  cording  to  their  maxims  (the  maxims  of 
asunder;  and  the  inexorable  soldier  v^^as  antiquity),  the  lives  of  the  vanquished 
careless  of  the  father's  groans,  the  tears  were  forfeited ;  and  the  legitimate  re- 
of  the  mother,  and  the  lamentations  of  ward  of  the  conqueror  was  derived  from 
the  children.  The  loudest  in  their  wail-  the  service,  the  sale,  or  the  ransom,  of 
ings  were  the  nuns,  who  were  torn  from  ^5  his  captives  of  both  sexes.  The  wealth 
the  altar  with  naked  bosoms,  outstretched  of  Constantinople  had  been  granted  by 
hands,  and  disheveled  hair;  and  we  the  sultan  to  his  victorious  troops;  and 
should  piously  believe  that  few  could  the  rapine  of  an  hour  is  more  productive 
be  tempted  to  prefer  the  vigils  of  the  than  the  industry  of  years.  But,  as  no 
haram  to  those  of  the  monastery.  Of  30  regular  division  was  attempted  of  the 
these  unfortunate  Greeks,  of  these  do-  spoil,  the  respective  shares  were  not  de- 
mestic  animals,  whole  strings  were  rudely  termined  by  merit;  and  the  rewards  of 
driven  through  the  streets ;  and,  as  the  valor  were  stolen  away  by  the  followers 
conquerors  were  eager  to  return  for  more  of  the  camp,  who  had  declined  the  toil 
prey,  their  trembling  pace  was  quickened  35  and  the  danger  of  the  battle.  The  nar- 
with  menaces  and  blows.  At  the  same  rative  of  their  depredations  could  not  af- 
hour,  a  similar  rapine  was  exercised  in  ford  either  amusement  or  instruction :  the 
all  the  churches  and  monasteries,  in  all  total  amount,  in  the  last  poverty  of  the 
the  palaces  and  habitations  of  the  cap-  empire,  has  been  valued  at  four  millions 
ital ;  nor  could  any  palace,  however  sacred  40  oi  ducats ;  and  of  this  sum  a  small  part 
or  sequestered,  protect  the  persons  or  the  was  the  property  of  the  Venetians,  the 
property  of  the  Greeks.  Above  sixty  Genoese,  the  Florentines,  and  the  mer- 
thousand  of  this  devoted  people  were  chants  of  Ancona.  Of  these  foreigners, 
transported  from  the  city  to  the  camp  and  the  stock  was  improved  in  quick  and  per- 
fieet ;  exchanged  or  sold  according  to  the  45  petual  circulation ;  but  the  riches  of  the 
caprice  or  interest  of  their  masters,  and  Greeks  were  displayed  in  the  idle  osten- 
dispersed  in  remote  servitude  through  the  tation  of  palaces  and  wardrobes,  or  deeply 
provinces  of  the  Ottoman  empire.  buried  in  treasures  of  ingots  and  old  coin. 
*     *     *  lest  it  should  be  demanded  at  their  hands 

The  chain  and  entrance  of  the  outward  50  for  the  defence  of  their  country.  The 
harbor  was  still  occupied  by  the  Italian  profanation  and  plunder  of  the  monas- 
ships  of  merchandise  and  war.  They  teries  and  churches  excited  the  most 
had  signalized  their  valor  in  the  siege :  tragic  complaints.  The  dome  of  St.  So- 
they  embraced  the  moment  of  retreat,  phia  itself,  the  earthly  heaven,  the  sec- 
while  the  Turkish  mariners  were  dis-  55  ond  firmament,  the  vehicle  of  the  cher- 
sipated  in  the  pillage  of  the  city.  When  ubim,  the  throne  of  the  glory  of  God, 
they   hoisted   sail   the   beach   was   covered      was  despoiled   of   the   oblations   of   ages; 


462  EDWARD  GIBBON 


and  the  gold  and  silver,  the  pearls  and  wonder  on  the  strange  though  splendid 
jewels,  the  vases  and  sacerdotal  orna-  appearance  of  the  domes  and  palaces,  so 
ments,  were  most  wickedly  converted  to  dissimilar  from  the  style  of  Oriental 
the  service  of  mankind.  After  the  divine  architecture.  In  the  hippodrome,  or 
images  had  heen  stripped  of  all  that  could  5  atmeidan,  his  eye  was  attracted  by  the 
be  valuable  to  a  profane  eye,  the  canvas,  twisted  column  of  the  three  serpents; 
or  the  wood,  was  torn,  or  broken,  or  burnt,  and,  as  a  trial  of  his  strength,  he  shat- 
or  trod  under  foot,  or  applied,  in  the  tered  with  his  iron  mace  or  battle-axe 
stables  or  the  kitchen,  to  the  vilest  uses.  the  under-jaw  of  one  of  these  monsters, 
The  example  of  sacrilege  was  imitated,  10  which  in  the  eye  of  the  Turks  were  the 
however,  from  the  Latin  conquerors  of  idols  or  talismans  of  the  city.  At  the 
Constantinople ;  and  the  treatment  which  principal  door  of  St.  Sophia,  he  alighted 
Christ,  the  Virgin,  and  the  saints  had  from  his  horse  and  entered  the  dome ; 
sustained  from  the  guilty  Catholic  and  such  was  his  jealous  regard  for  that 
might  be  inflicted  by  the  zealous  Mussul- 15  monument  of  his  glory  that,  on  observ- 
man  on  the  monuments  of  idolatry.  Per-  ing  a  zealous  Mussulman  in  the  act  of 
haps,  instead  of  joining  the  public  clamor,  breaking  the  marble  pavement,  he  ad- 
a  philosopher  will  ol3serve  that  m  the  monished  him  with  his  scimitar  that,  if 
decline  of  the  arts  the  workmanship  the  spoil  and  captives  were  granted  to  the 
could  not  be  more  valuable  than  the  work,  20  soldiers,  the  puljlic  and  private  buildings 
and  that  a  fresh  supply  of  visions  and  had  been  reserved  for  the  prince.  By 
miracles  would  speedily  be  renewed  by  his  command  the  metropolis  of  the  East- 
the  craft  of  the  priest  and  the  credulity  crn  church  was  transformed  into  a 
of  the  people.  He  will  more  seriously  mosque :  the  rich  and  portable  instru- 
deplore  the  loss  of  the  Byzantine  libra-  2s  ments  of  superstition  had  been  re- 
ries,  which  were  destroyed  or  scattered  moved ;  the  crosses  were  thrown  down ; 
in  the  general  confusion :  one  hundred  and  the  walls,  which  were  covered  with 
and  twenty  thousand  manuscripts  are  images  and  mosaics,  were  washed  and 
said  to  have  disappeared ;  ten  volumes  purified  and  restored  to  a  state  of  naked 
might  be  purchased  for  a  single  ducat;  and  30  simplicity.  On  the  same  day,  or  on  the 
the  same  ignominous  price,  too  high  per-  ensuing  Friday,  the  muezin  or  crier  as- 
haps  for  a  shelf  of  theology,  included  cended  the  most  lofty  turret,  and  pro- 
the  whole  works  of  Aristotle  and  Homer,  claimed  the  czan,  or  public  invitation,  in 
the  noblest  productions  of  the  science  and  the  name  of  God  and  his  prophet;  the 
literature  of  ancient  Greece.  We  may  35  imam  preached ;  and  Mahomet  the  Sec- 
reflect  with  pleasure  that  an  inestimable  ond  performed  the  namaz  of  prayer  and 
portion  of  our  classic  treasures  was  thanksgiving  on  the  great  altar,  where 
safely  deposited  in  Italy;  and  that  the  the  christian  mysteries  had  so  lately  been 
mechanics  of  a  German  town  had  in-  celebrated  before  the  last  of  the  Caesars, 
vented  an  art  which  derides  the  havoc  40  From  St.  Sophia  he  proceeded  to  the 
of  time  and  barbarism.  august  but  desolate  mansion   of  an  hun- 

From  the  first  hour  of  the  memorable  dred  successors  of  the  great  Constantine ; 
twerrty-ninth  of  May,  disorder  and  rapine  but  which,  in  a  few  hours,  had  been  strip- 
prevailed  in  Constantinople  till  the  eighth  ped  of  the  pomp  of  royalty.  A  melan- 
hour  of  the  same  day ;  when  the  sultan  45  choly  reflection  on  the  vicissitudes  of 
himself  passed  in  triumph  through  the  human  greatness  forced  itself  on  his 
gate  of  St.  Romanus.  He  was  attended  mind;  and  he  repeated  an  elegant  distich 
by  his  vizirs,  bashaws,  and  guards,  each  of  Persian  poetry,  '  The  spider  has  wove 
of  whom  (says  a  Byzantine  historian)  his  web  in  the  imperial  palace;  and  the 
was  robust  as  Hercules,  dexterous  as  5°  owl  hath  sung  her  watch-song  on  the 
Apollo,  and  equal  in  battle  to  any  ten  towers  of  Afrasiab.' 
of    the    race    of    ordinary    mortals.     The  *     *     * 

conqueror    gazed    with    satisfaction    and  (i?^^) 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH   (1728-1774) 

The  author  of  The  Vicar  of  \Viil,< field  was  the  sixth  of  nine  chikh-en  of  an  Irish  parson 
fanner  and  passed  most  of  liis  boyiiood  iu  the  little  hamlet  of  Lissoy,  which  he  afterward 
idealized  in  The  Deserted  Village.  He  was  regarded  as  'a  stupid  blockhead'  iu  the  village 
school  and  when,  in  1749,  he  succeeded  in  taking  a  degree  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  he 
was  lowest  on  the  list.  For  a  number  of  years  he  showed  little  ability  and  still  less  in- 
clination to  fit  himself  to  practical  life.  Rejected  for  holy  orders,  he  taught  school  for  a 
time  and,  soon  disgusted,  tried  the  law  with  the  same  result.  He  then  spent  several  years 
in  the  nominal  study  of  medicine,  in  the  course  of  which,  he  made  the  grand  tour  of  Europe, 
setting  oif  it  is  said,  '  with  a  guinea  in  his  pocket,  one  shirt  to  his  back,  and  a  flute  in  his 
hand.'  Finding  his  way  to  London,  in  IT.Kj,  he  existed  for  a  couple  of  years  in  a  most 
haphazard  mamier,  as  '  chemist's '  assistant,  corrector  of  the  press,  struggling  physician, 
usher  in  a  school,  and  hack  writer  for  the  Montldy  Review.  The  culmination  of  this  period 
arrived  when  he  borrowed  a  suit  of  clothes  to  present  himself  for  examination  as  a  hospital 
mate,  failed  in  the  examination,  and  pawned  the  clothes.  Soon  after  this,  his  literary 
successes  began.  It  was  in  17G4,  that  Johnson  following  close  after  a  guinea  with  which 
he  had  responded  to  a  message  of  distress,  '  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle '  for  which  Gold- 
smith had  promptly  changed  the  guinea,  carried  off  tke  manuscript  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakc- 
fidd  to  a  bookseller,  and  relieved  the  author  from  arrest.  The  Traveler  (17G4)  was  now 
published  and  The  Deserted  Village  (1770)  confirmed  the  reputation  which  this  had  estab- 
lished. His  two  plays.  The  Good  Xatured  Man  (17(iS)  and  tihe  Stoops  to  Conquer  (1773) 
brought  him  five  hundred  pounds  apiece;  his  History  of  Animated  Nature,  for  which  he  had 
no  qualification  except  the  ability  to  write,  secured  him  eight  hundred  pounds;  and  similar 
hack  work  was  similarly  paid ;  but  such  was  his  indiscretion  that  he  was  seldom  long 
out  of  difficulty.  He  had  in  a  high  measure  the  prodigality,  not  uncommon  among  clever 
writers,  of  bestowing  his  entire  stock  of  wisdom  on  the  reader  and  reserving  none  for  the 
conduct  of  life.  Yet  his  follies,  like  those  of  Steele,  were  the  indexes  of  a  liberal  and 
lovable  nature.  When  he  died,  at  the  age  of  forty-six,  leaving  debts  of  two  thousand 
pounds,  there  was  as  much  tenderness  as  humor  in  Johnson's  deep  ejaculation:  'Was 
ever    poet    so    trusted? ' 


SONG 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What   charm   can   soothe   her   melancholy? 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt   away? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye. 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover. 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die. 

(1766) 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  ; 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labor- 
ing swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  de- 
layed : 


463 


Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,  s 
Scats  of  my  youth,   when   every  sport  could 

please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where     humble     happiness     endeared     each 

scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm. 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated   farm,       10 
The   never-failing    brook,   the   busy   mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbor- 
ing hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,   with   seats  beneath   the 

shade, 
For     talking     age     and     whispering     lovers 

made ! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day,     '5 
When   toil   remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,   from  labor   free, 
Led   up   their    sports   beneath   the    spreading 

tree. 
While  many  a   pastime  circled   in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed; 


464 


And     many     a     yanihol     frolicked     o'er     the 
ground,  -' 

And   sleights   of    art   and    feats   of    strength 
went  round. 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding    sports    the    mirthful    band    in- 
spired ; 

The    dancing    pair    that    simply    sought    re- 
nown, -'5 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted   face, 

While    secret    laughter    tittered    round    the 
place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks 
reprove :  3" 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports 
like  these, 

With    sweet    succession,   taught    even   toil   to 
please: 

These    round   thy  bowers   their   cheerful   in 
fluence   shed : 

These     were     thy     charms  —  but     all     these 
charms  are  fled. 
Sweet     smiling    village,    loveliest     of    the 
lawn,  35 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 

Amidst    thy    bowers    the    tyrant's    hand     is 
seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 

And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,   choked    with    sedges,    works   its    weedy 
way;  4^ 

Along  thy  glades,  a   solitary  guest. 

The    hollow     sounding    bittern     guards     its 
nest ;  44 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries ; 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And   the  long  grass   o'ertops  the  moldering 
wall ; 

And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 
hand, 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land.  5° 
111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 

Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 

Princes    and    lords    may    flourish,    or    may 
fade; 

A   breath  can  make  them,   as   a  breath   has 
made :  54 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 

When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 
A    time    there    was,    ere    England's    griefs 
began. 

When   every  rood  of  ground   maintained   its 
man; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


For   him   light   labor   spread   her   wholesome 

store. 
Just   gave    what    life    required,   but    gave   no 

more:  60 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and   health; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But   times    are    altered;    trade's    unfeeling 

train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along    the    lawn,    where    scattered    hamlets 

rose,  65 

Unwieldy    wealth    and    cumbrous    pomp    re- 
pose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
.And   every  pang  that   folly   pays   to   pride. 
These     gentle     hours     that     plenty     bade    to 

bloom. 
Those    calm    desires    that    asked    but    little 

room,  70 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peace- 
ful scene. 
Lived   in   each   look,   and   brightened   all   the 

green  ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 
Sweet     Auburn!     parent     of    the     blissful 

hour,  75 

Thy    glades     forlorn     confess     the     tyrant's 

power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst     thy     tangling     walks     and     ruined 

grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,   return  to  -view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn 

grew,  8*^ 

Remembrance     wakes     with     all     her     busy 

train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past   to 

pain. 
In    all    my   wanderings    round   this    world 

of  care. 
In   all    my   griefs  —  and   God   has   given   my 

share —  84 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst    these    humble    bowers    to    lay    me 

down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 
I   still   had  hopes,   for  pride  attends  us   still. 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned 

skill,  90 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all   I   felt,  and  all   I   saw : 
And,   as   an   hare   whom    hounds   and   horns 

pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she 

flew. 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. ''S 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last. 


I 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 


465 


O,    blest    retirement,    friend    to    life's    de- 
cline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in   shades  like 

these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease;       'oo 
Who   quits   a    world    where   strong    tempta- 
tions try. 
And,  since  't  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For    him    no    wretches,    born    to    work    and 

weep, 
Explore  the  mine,   or  tempt  the  dangerous 

deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state,     'os 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's   friend; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While    resignation    gently    slopes   the    way; 
And,    all    his    prospects    brightening    to    the 
last.  III 

His    heaven    commences    ere    the    world    be 
past! 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  even- 
ing's close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and 
slow,  I  IS 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  be- 
low ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The    sober    herd    that    lowed    to    meet   their 

young. 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The    playful    children    just    let    loose    from 
school,  120 

The     watch-dog's     voice     that     bayed     the 

whispering    wind. 
And   the   loud   laugh  that   spoke  the  vacant 

mind ; — • 
These   all    in    sweet    confusion    sought    the 

shade. 
And   filled   each   pause   the   nightingale   had 

made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail,      12s 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No    busy    steps    the    grass-grown    foot-way 

tread. 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring: 
She,    wretched   matron,    forced   in   age,    for 
bread,  131 

To   strip   the   brook   with   mantling  cresses 

spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To    seek    her    nightly    shed,    and    weep    till 
morn  ; 
30 


She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train,  '35 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 
Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 

smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows 

wild; 
There,   where  a   few  torn  shrubs  the   place 

disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear,     141 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change 

his  place; 
Unpracticed  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far    other   aims    his    heart    had    learned    to 

prize,  147 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to 

rise. 
His    house   was   known   to   all   the   vagrant 

train; 
He  chid  their  wanderings  but  relieved  their 

pain :  150 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose    beard    descending    swept    his    aged 

breast ; 
The     ruined     spendthrift,     now     no     longer 

proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims 

allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay,  iss 
Sat  by  the  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept   o'er  his   wounds   or,  tales   of   sorrow 

done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields 

were  won. 
Pleased    with    his    guests,    the    good    man 

learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless    their    merits    or    their    faults    to 

scan 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.  162 

Thus    to    relieve    the    wretched    was    his 

pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for 

all;  166 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To   tempt    its   new-fledged   offspring   to   the 

skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside    the    bed    where    parting    life    was 

laid,  171 

And   sorrow,   guilt,   and   pain  by  turns  dis- 
mayed. 


466 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  con- 
trol 
Despair  and  anyuisli  ilcd  the  strugghng  soul ; 
Comfort   came   down    the   trembling   wretch 

to  raise,  '75 

And    his    last    faltering    accents    whispered 

praise. 
At     church,     with     meek    and-  unaffected 

grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway. 
And   fools,  who  came  to   scoff,   remained  to 

pray.  '^" 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And    plucked    his    gown    to    share   the    good 

man's   smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expresl ; 
Their   welfare  pleased   him,   and  their   cares 

distrest:  '86 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were 

given. 
But    all    his    serious    thoughts    had    rest    in 

heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 

storm,  190 

Though   round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 

way. 
With   blossomed    furze   unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view;  197 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 
Well   had   the   boding  tremblers    learned   to 

trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face;  200 
Full    well   they    laughed    with    counterfeited 

glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full   well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed     the     dismal     tidings     when     he 

frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught,  205 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew : 
'T  was    certain    he    could    write,   and    cipher 

too; 
Lands   he   could    measure,   terms   and   tides 

presage, 

And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue 

still:  2X2 


While  words  of  learned  length  and  thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 

And    still    they   gazed,   and   still   the   wonder 
grew,  215 

That    one    small    head    could    carry    all    he 
knew. 
But  past  is  all  his   fame.     The  very  spot 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

Near   yonder   thorn,   that    lifts    its   head   on 
high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the   pass- 
ing eye,  220 

Low     lies     that     house     where     nut-brown 
draughts  inspired. 

Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  re- 
tired, 

Where   village   statesmen   talked   with   looks 
profound, 

And   news   much   older   than   their   ale   went 
round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace  225 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that   festive  place: 

The    white-washed    wall,    the    nicely    sanded 
floor. 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the 
door;  228 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 

The  pictures  placed   for  ornament  and  use. 

The  twelve   good   rules,  the   royal  game  of 
goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the 
day, 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel 
gay ; 

While     broken     tea-cups,     wisely    kept     for 
show,  23s 

Ranged    o'er    the    chimney,    glistened    in    a 
row. 
Vain  transitory  splendors !  could  not  all 

Reprieve    the    tottering    mansion    from    its 
fall? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 

An    hour's    importance    to    the    poor    man's 
heart.  240 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 

No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 

No   more   the   woodman's    ballad    shall   pre- 
vail ; 

No    more   the    smith    his   dusky   brow    shall 
clear,  245 

Relax  his   ponderous   strength,   and   lean  to 
hear; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 

Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  presl, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 


467 


Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.  250 
Yes!    let   the    rich  deride,   the   proud   dis- 
dain, 

These  simple   blessings  of  the  lowly  train; 

To   me   more   dear,  congenial   to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

Spontaneous    joys,     where     Nature    has    its 
play,  25s 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first  born 
sway ; 

Lightly  they    frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,   unmolested,  unconfined. 

But  the  long   pomp,   the   midnight   masque- 
rade. 

With   all   the   freaks   of   wanton  weahh   ar- 
rayed —  /60 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain. 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 

And,    even    while    fashion's    brightest    arts 
decoy, 

The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 
Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  sur- 


vey 


26s 


The  rich  man's  joy  increase,  the  poor's  de- 
cay, 
'T  is   yours   to   judge,   how   wide   the   limits 

stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  an  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 

ore, 
And    shouting    Folly    hails    them    from    her 

shore ;  270 

Hoards     even     beyond     the     miser's     wish 

abound. 
And    rich    men    flock    from    all    the    world 

around. 
Yet    count   our    gains !     This    wealth   is   but 

a  name 
That    leaves    our    useful    products    still    the 

same. 
Not  so   the   loss.     The   man   of   wealth   and 

pride  275 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied; 
Space    for    his    lake,    his    park's    extended 

bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has    robbed   the   neighboring   fields   of   half 

their  growth;  280 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant     spurns     the     cottage     from     the 

green: 
Around    the    world    each    needful    product 

flies. 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ; 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure  all 
In  barren   splendor   feebly  waits  tb.c   fall.  2S6 
As  some  fair  female  unadorned  and  plain. 


Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her 
reign. 

Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress 
supplies. 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her 
eyes ;  290 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms 
are  frail. 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then   shines   forth,   solicitous  to  bless. 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed :  295 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed. 

But  verging  to  decline,  its   splendors  rise. 

Its   vistas   strike,   its   palaces   surprise; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling 
land 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble 
band,  300 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to 
save, 

The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 
Where  then,  ah !  where,  shall  poverty  re- 
side. 

To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 

If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits 
strayed,  305 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth 
divide. 

And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 
If  to  the  city  sped  —  what  waits  him  there? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share;  310 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 

To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin   mankind; 

To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 

Extorted    from    his    fellow-creature's   woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  bro- 
cade, 315 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 

Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn 
pomps    display. 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the 
way. 

The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  mid- 
night reign. 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous 
train :  320 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing 
square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  an- 
noy! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?  —  Ah,  turn 
thine  eyes  3-^5 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female 
lies. 


468 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has   wept   at   talcs  of   innocence  distrest; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might   adorn, 
Sweet    as    the    primrose    peeps    beneath    the 

thorn ;  33o 

Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled. 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from 

the   shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour. 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town,      335 
She    left    her    wheel    and    robes    of    country 

brown. 
Do  thine,   sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  love- 
liest train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At    proud    men's    doors    they    ask    a    little 

bread !  34° 

Ah,     no!     To     distant    climes,    a     dreary 

scene. 
Where   half   the   convex   world   intrudes   be- 
tween. 
Through    torrid    tracts    with    fainting    steps 

they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far   different   there    from   all   that   charmed 

before  ^"^^ 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing   suns   that    dart   a   downward 

ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget  to 

sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling;  35o 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance 

crowned, 
Where    the    dark     scorpion    gathers     death 

around; 
Where   at   each   step   the   stranger   fears   to 

wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where    crouching   tigers   wait   their   hapless 

prey,  ^^^ 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than 

they ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies. 
Mingling    the    ravaged    landscape    with    the 

skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green. 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove,  361 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that 

parting  day. 
That   called    them    from    their   native   walks 

away : 
When   the  poor   exiles,   every   pleasure   past. 


Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked 

their  last,  366 

And    took   a    long    farewell,   and    wished    in 

vain 
For    seats    like    these    beyond    the    western 

main, 
And    shuddering    still    to    face    the    distant 

deep. 
Returned    and    wept,    and    still    returned    to 

weep.  370 

The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new  found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others' 

woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He    only    wished     for    worlds    beyond    the 

grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears,  375 
The   fond  companion  of   his  helpless  years, 
Silent   went  next,   neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With    louder   plaints   the   mother    spoke   her 

woes. 
And    blest    the    cot    where    every    pleasure 

rose,  380 

And  kist  her  thoughtless   babes  with  many 

a  tear 
And    claspt    them    close,    in    sorrow    doubly 

dear, 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  re- 
lief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O    luxury!    thou    curst    by    Heaven's    de- 
cree, 385 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for 

thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy. 
Diffuse  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms     by     thee,     to     sickly     greatness 

grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own.       390 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe; 
Till    sapped   their    strength,    and    every   part 

unsound, 
Down,  down,  they  sink,  and   spread  a  ruin 

round. 
Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun,       39S 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even    now,    methinks,    as   pondering   here    I 

stand, 
I   see  the  rural   virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down    where   yon   anchoring  vessel    spreads 

the    sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,     400 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass    from    the    shore,    and    darken    all    the 

strand. 


THE  RETALIATION 


469 


Contented   toil,   and    hospitable   care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there ; 
And   piety   with    wishes   placed   above,       405 
And   steady   loyalty,  and    faithful   love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 
Still  first   to  fly  where  sensual   joys  invade ; 
Unfit  in   these  degenerate  times  of   shame 
To    catch    the    heart,    or    strike    for    honest 

fame;  4io 

Dear    charming    nymph,    neglected    and    de- 
cried, 
My   shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe. 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st 

me  so;  414 

Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell,    and    oh !    where'er    thy    voice    be 

tried, 
On   Torno's  cliffs,  or   Pambamarca's   side. 
Whether   where   equinoctial    fervors   glow. 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time,   421 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the   inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach    erring    man    to    spurn    the    rage    of 

gain : 
Teach    him,    that    states    of    native    strength 

possest,  42s 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That   trade's   proud   empire   hastes   to    swift 

decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away; 
While   self-dependent   power  can   time   defy. 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.     430 

(1770) 


From   THE   RETALIATION 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius 

was  such, 
We   scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too 

much ; 
Who,   born   for  the  universe,   narrowed   his 

mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for 

mankind  : 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  strain- 
ing  his   throat  5 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him 

a   vote; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on 

refining, 
And     thought     of     convincing,     while    they 

thought  of  dining; 


Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things 
unfit ; 

Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a 
wit;  10 

For  a  patriot  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge  dis- 
obedient ; 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the 
expedient. 

In  short,  't  was  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in 
place,  sir, 

To  cat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a 
razor. 

*     *     * 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who 
can,  IS 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in 
man ; 

As  an  actor,  confcst  without  rival  to  shine; 

As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line; 

Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent 
heart. 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art ; 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty  his  colors  he 
spread,  21 

And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural 
red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affect- 
ing, 

'T  was  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was 
acting ; 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his 
way,  25 

He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a 
day: 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confound- 
edly sick 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and 
trick ; 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his 
pack. 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could 
whistle  them  back.  3° 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed 
what  came. 

And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for 
fame ; 

Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  dis- 
ease. 

Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to 
please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our 
mind:  35 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 


(1774) 


WILLIAM  COVVPER  (1731-1800) 


The  son  of  fi  chaplain  of  Cooige  II,  Cowper  was  derived  on  both  sides  from  illustrious 
families  and  it  is  not  unnatural  to  ascribe  to  race  a  certain  touch  of  gentility  in  all  he 
did  or  wrote.  After  seven  years  at  Westminster  School  he  was  'articled,'  at  eighteen, 
to  a  Loudon  attorney,  with  whom  he  spent  three  years,  afterward  going  into  residence 
in  the  Temple,  and  in  1754,  he  was  called  to  the  bar.  Ilis  experinieuls  in  versification  at 
this  time,  some  of  them  addressed  to  his  cousin  Theodora,  with  whom  he  was  in  love, 
show  few  symptoms  of  the  poetic  originality  which  he  long  afterward  evinced.  Some  of 
his  early  associates,  too,  Warren  Hastings  at  Westminster,  Thurlow,  the  fellow-clerk  of 
his  apprentice  days,  and  the  raucous  and  none  too  moral  wits  of  the  Nonsense  Club, 
seem  in  their  several  ways  incongruous  associates  for  the  shrinking  and  self-searching 
pietist  whom  we  know  in  his  later  years.  Cowper  was  too  timid  for  the  business  of  a 
lawyer  and,  in  17t;3,  when  he  was  thirty-two  years  of  age,  the  dread  of  qualifying  for 
a  clerkship  so  preyed  upon  his  mind  that  he  became  violently  insane  and  attempted 
suicide.  When  he  recovered,  he  determined  to  retire  from  the  excitements  of  the  world 
and  found  a  retreat  at  Huntington,  near  Cambridge,  where  he  entered  the  home  of  the 
Reverend  Uuwin  and  his  wife  and  was  converted  to  Methodism.  On  the  death  of  Unwin, 
in  1TU7,  Cowper  removed  with  Mrs.  Unwin  to  Olney,  and  here  came  under  the  intiueuce 
of  John  Newton,  with  whom  he  joined  in  the  writing  of  the  Olney  Hymns.  Newton's 
strenuous  fanaticism  aggravated  his  religious  mania  and,  in  ITTo,  he  again  became  mad 
and  so  remained  for  two  years.  On  his  recovery,  along  with  other  worldly  diversions, 
such  as  gardening,  cheerful  conversation  and  the  keeping  of  pet  hares,  which  were  dis- 
countenanced by  his  spiritual  comforter,  Cowper  began  to  amuse  himself  by  writing 
verses  and  found  increasing  satisfaction  in  the  exercise.  His  first  volume,  containing  Table 
Talk  and  other  poems,  was  published  in  1782.  The  liveliness  of  this  period  was  increased 
by  his  acquaintance  with  Lady  Austen,  a  bright  young  widow,  who  suggested  the  subjects 
of  The  Task  and  llie  Diverting  Ride  of  John  Gilpin.  These  poems,  published  in  1785, 
made  his  reputation  national.  The  most  exacting  of  his  tasks,  the  translation  of  Homer, 
was  brought  to  completion  in  1791.  He  now  began  to  sink,  for  the  last  time,  under  the 
cloud  of  despondency,  suffering  almost  constantly  from  the  conviction  that  he  was  a  lost 
soul.  Some  of  the  darker  and  more  intense  of  his  short  poems,  such  as  The  Castaway,  belong 
to  these  unhappy  years  and  were  printed  after  his  death.  Cowper  had  a  rare  and  intense, 
though  not  a  rich  nature.  His  gift  of  humor  appears  most  conspicuously  in  his  Letters, 
which  some  critics  have  not  hesitated  to  pronounce  the  best  in  the  language.  Fidelity  to 
nature  and  religious  earnestness  are  the  prevailing  characteristics  of  his  poetry.  Byron's 
phrase,  '  the  quiet  of  a  loving  eye,'  precisely  fits  Cowper's  manner  of  looking  about  him, 
except    in   his   most   heightened   moments. 


From  OLNEY  HYMNS 

WALKING    WITH    GOD.     Gen.    v.  24 

Oh !   for  a  closer  walk  with  God, 
A  calm  and  heavenly   frame ; 
A  light  to  shine  upon  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb ! 

Where  is  the  blessedness  I  knew 
When  first  I   saw  the   Lord? 
Where  is  the  soul-refreshing  view 
Of  Jesus  and  his  word? 

What  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoyed! 
How  sweet  their  memory  still! 


But  they  have  left  an  aching  void 
The  world  can  never  fill. 

Return,  O  holy  Dove,  return 
Sweet  messenger  of  rest ! 
I  hate  the  sins  that  made  thee  mourn 
And  drove  thee  from  my  breast. 

The  dearest  idol  I  have  known, 
Whate'er   that   idol   be, 
Help  me  to  tear  it  from  thy  throne, 
And   worship   only   thee.  ■ 

So  shall  my  walk  be  close  with  God, 
Calm  and  serene  my  frame  ; 
So  purer  light   shall  mark  the   road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb. 

(1779) 


470 


THE  TASK 


471 


From  TABLE  TALK 

Pity  religion  has  so  seldom  found 

A  skilful  guide  into  poetic  ground! 

The     flowers     would     spring    where'er     she 

deigned  to   stray, 
And  every  Muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 
Virtue     indeed     meets     many     a     rhyming 

friend,  5 

And  many  a  compliment  politely  penned ; 
But,   unattired   in   that   becoming  vest 
Religion     weaves     for     her,    and    half    un- 
dressed, 
Stands  in  the  desert,  shivering  and  forlorn, 
A  wintry  figure,  like  a  withered  thorn.       10 
The   shelves   are    full,   all   other  themes   are 

sped. 
Hackneyed    and    worn    to    the    last    flimsy 

thread : 
Satire    has    long    since    done    his    best,    and 

cursed 
And  loathsome  ribaldry  has  done  his  worst ; 
Fancy  has  sported  all  her  powers  away     i5 
In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children's  play; 
And  't  is  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
Whate'er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing 

new. 
'T  were  new  indeed,  to  see  a  bard  all  fire. 
Touched  with  a  coal   from  Heaven,  assume 

the   lyre  20 

And    tell    the    world,    still    kindling    as    he 

sung, 
With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue. 
That  he,  who  dies  below,  and  reigns  above. 
Inspires    the    song,    and    that    his    name    is 

Love. 

(1782) 


THE   TASK,    Book    IV 

Hark!    'tis   the   twanging  horn  o'er  yonder 

bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides    the    wintry    flood,    in    which    the 

moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright ;  — 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world,       5 
With    spattered    boots,    strapped    waist,    and 

frozen  locks  ; 
News    from    all    nations    lumbering    at    his 

back. 
True    to    his    charge,    the   close-packed    load 

behind, 
Yet   careless    what    he   brings,   his    one   con- 
cern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn :         10 
And,    having   dropt    the    expected   bag,    pass 

on. 


He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some; 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy.    "5 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,   deaths,    and    marriages,   epistles   wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's 

cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or    charged    with   amorous   sighs   of   absent 

swains,  20 

Or  nymphs   responsive,   equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh,  the  important  budget !  ushered  in 
With    such    heart-shaking    music,    who    can 

say 
What    are     its    tidings?    have    our    troops 

awaked  ?  25 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged. 
Snore  to  the  murnuirs  of  the  Atlantic  wave? 
Is     India    free?    and    does    she    wear    her 

plumed 
And  jeweled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace. 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still?     The  grand  de- 
bate, 30 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh  —  I  long  to  know  them 

all; 
I  burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 
And    give    them    voice    and    utterance    once 

again.  35 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters 

fast. 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And    while    the    bubbling    and    loud-hissing 

urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups. 
That     cheer     but     not     inebriate,     wait     on 

each,  40 

So    let    us    welcome    peaceful    evening    in. 
*     *     * 

Oh,  Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy    scattered    hair    with    sleet-like    ashes 

filled. 
Thy    breath    congealed    upon    thy    lips,    lliy 

cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other 

snows  4^ 

Than   those   of   age,   thy    forehead   wrapped 

in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  scepter  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st,     50 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art.    Thou  hold'st  the 

sun 


472 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undavvning  East, 
Shortening   his   journey   between   morn   and 

noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still       5S 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of   social   converse   and   instructive   ease. 
And  gathering  at  short  notice  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  the  king  of  intimate  delights,       6i 
Fire-side   enjoyments,   home-born   happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted   evening  know.        65 
No   rattling  wheels   stop   short  before  these 

gates ; 
No  powdered,  pert  proficients  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assault  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough    their    own    knell,    while   heedless    of 

the  sound  7° 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake : 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 
Unfolds    its    bosom;    buds    and    leaves    and 

sprigs  7S 

And  curly  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 
Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 
A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that 

blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 
The  poet's  or  historian's  page,  by  one        80 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest; 
The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet 

sounds 
The    touch    from    many   a   trembling    chord 

shakes  out ; 
And   the  clear   voice  symphonious,   yet   dis- 
tinct, 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still ; 
Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge  86 
On  female  industry;  the  threaded   steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 
The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of    the    last    meal    commence:     a    Roman 

meal,  90 

Such    as    the    mistress    of    the    world    once 

found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 
Perhaps     by    moonlight,     at     their     humble 

doors. 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade. 
Enjoyed  —  spare    feast !  —  a   radish    and    an 

egg.  _  _  95 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull. 
Nor  such  as  w  ith  a  frown  forbids  the  play 


Of  fancy,  or  prescribes  the  sound  of  mirth; 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God    "o" 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys. 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 
A  jarring  note;  themes  of  a  graver  tone 
Exciting   oft    our   gratitude   and   love. 
While    we    retrace    with    memory's    pointing 
wand  los 

That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 
The    dangers    we   have    scaped,    the    broken 

snare. 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlookcd   for,  life  preserved  and  peace  re- 
stored. 
Fruits   of   omnipotent   eternal   love: —      "o 
Oh,  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods !  exclaimed 
The  Sabine  bard.     Oh,  evenings,  I  reply. 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours. 
As  more  illumined  and  with  nobler  truths. 
That   I,   and   mine,   and  those   we   love,   en- 
joy. 115 

Is  Winter  hideous  in  a  garb  like  this? 
Needs  he  the  tragic  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsavory  throng 
To  thaw  him  into  feeling,  or  the  smart 
And  snappish  dialogue  that  flippant  wits  '^o 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile? 
The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views 
(Stealing  a  sidelong  glance  at  a  full  house) 
The   slope   of   faces   from  the  floor  to  the 

roof, 
As    if    one    master-spring    controlled    them 

all,  125 

Relaxed  into  an  universal  grin, 
Sees  not  a  countenance  there  that  speaks  a 

joy 
Half  so  refined  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 
Cards    were   superfluous   here,    with    all    the 

tricks 
That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contrived         uo 
To  fill  the  void  of  an  unfurnished  brain. 
To  palliate  dulness  and  give  time  a  shove. 
Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 
Unsoiled   and   swift   and   of  a   silken   sound. 
But  the  world's  time  is  time  in  masquerade. 
Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions 

fledged  136 

With  motley  plumes,  and,  where  the  peacock 

shows 
His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctured  black  and  red 
With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond   form. 
Ensanguined   hearts,  clubs   typical  of   strife. 
And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 
What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hour-glass 

once,  142 

Becomes  a  dice-box,  and  a  billiard  mast 


THE    i  ASK 


473 


Well    does    the    work     of    his     destructive 

scythe. 
Thus    decked    he    charms    a    world    whom 

fashion  blinds  '4S 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleased  when  idle 

most, 
Whose  only  happy  are  their  wasted  hours. 
Even    misses,   at   whose   age   their   mothers 

wore 
The    back-string    and    the    bib,    assume    the 

dress 
Of  womanhood,  sit  pupils  in  the  school     iso 
Of  card-devoted  time,  and  night  by  night, 
Placed  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board, 
Learn    every    trick,    and    soon    play   all    the 

game. 
But  truce  with  censure.     Roving  as  I  rove. 
Where   shall    I   find   an   end,    or   how   pro- 
ceed? I5S 
As  he  that  travels  far,  oft  turns  aside 
To    view   some    rugged    rock,    or   moldering 

tower. 
Which  seen  delights  him  not;  then  coming 

home. 
Describes  and  prints  it,  that  the  world  may 

know 
How    far    he    went    for    what   was   nothing 

worth ;  i6o 

So  I,  with  brush  in  hand  and  pallet  spread 
With  colors  mixed  for  a  far  different  use, 
Paint  cards  and  dolls,  and  every  idle  thing 
That  fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights. 

Come,    Evening,    once    again,    season    of 

peace,  165 

Return,   sweet  Evening,   and  continue  long! 

JMethinks   I    see  thee  in   the   streaky  west, 

With    matron-step    slow    moving,    while    the 

night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train ;  one  hand  em- 
ployed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose  170 

On   bird   and   beast,   the   other   charged    for 

man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day; 
Not  sumptuously  adorned,  nor  needing  aid, 
Like    homely-featured    night,    of    clustering 

gems, 
A  star  or  two  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow  '75 
Suffices  thee ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With    ostentatious    pageantry,    but    set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent   less,   but   of   an   ampler   round. 
Con>e,  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary 
calm,  181 

Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift ; 
And  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 


To  books,  to  music,  or  to  poet's  toil. 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit,  185 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born 

to  please, 
I   slight  thee   not,   but  make  thee  welcome 

still. 

*    *    * 

Mow  calm  is  my  recess!  and  how  the  frost 
Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  en- 
dear 190 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoyed  within ! 
I  saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day 
A  variegated  show;  the  meadows  green 
Though   faded,  and  the  lands,  where  lately 

waved 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown,  i95 
Upturned  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share; 
I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By  flocks  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His    favorite    herb;    while    all    the    leafless 
groves  200 

That  skirt  the  horizon  wore  a  sable  hue. 
Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change, 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face  205 
Of   universal    nature   undergoes. 
Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower ;  the  downy  flakes, 
Descending  and   with   never-ceasing  lapse 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below. 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives       210 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle,  and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that   feared  the  chilling 

blast. 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

In   such   a   world,   so   thorny,   and   where 

none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or  if  found,  215 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side, 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves,  that 

thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate 

ills,  220 

And  sympathize  with  others,  suffering  more. 
Ill  fares  the  traveler  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team ; 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregating  loads  adhering  close  225 
To  the  clogged  wheels,  and,  in  its  sluggish 

pace, 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling   steeds   expand  the  nostril   wide, 
While  every  breath,   by  respiration   strong 


474 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


Forced  downward,  is  consolidated   soon  230 
Upon   their   jutting  chests.     He,    formed   to 

bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With   half-shut   eyes,   and   puckered   checks, 

and  teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on  ; 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,   save  when   with 

both  ^^5 

He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
Oh,  happy,  and,  in  my  account,  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou! 
Thy    frame,    robust    and    hardy,    feels    in- 
deed ^^' 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired; 
The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy    vigorous    pulse,    and    the    unhealthful 

East, 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every 

bone  _  ^4S 

Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 
Thy   days   roll    on   exempt    from   household 

care. 
Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife ;  and  the  poor  beasts. 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro. 
Thine    helpless    charge,    dependent    on    thy 

care.  ^5° 

Ah,   treat    them    kindly!    rude    as    thou    ap- 

pearest. 
Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy,  which  the 

great, 
With  needless  hurry  whirled  from  place  to 

place. 
Humane   as   they   would   seem,   not   always 

show.  ^54 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat. 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this. 
And   have   a    friend   in   every    feeling  heart. 
Warmed    while    it   lasts,    by    labor,    all    day 

long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
111  clad  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool.  260 
The    frugal    housewife    trembles    when    she 

lights 
Her    scanty     stock    of    brushwood,    blazing 

clear. 
But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys; 
The   few  small   embers  left  she  nurses  well. 
And   while   her   infant    race   with   outspread 

hands  ^^5 

And    crowded    knees    sit    cowering    o'er    the 

sparks, 
Retires,     content     to     quake,     so     they     be 

warmed. 


The   man    feels   least,   as  more   inured  than 

she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil ;    270 
Yet  he,  too,  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguished,  which  I  saw 
Dangled   along  at   the   cold   finger's   end 
Just  when  the  day  declined,  and  the  brown 

loaf 
Lodged    on    the    shelf,    half-eaten,    without 

sauce  27s 

Of  sav'ry  cheese,  or  butter  costlier  still. 
Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge.     For  alas. 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chained, 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few. 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.     All  the 

care  280 

Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed  and  stool, 
Skillet   and    old    carved   chest,    from    public 

sale. 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands,  but  other  boast  have 

none  285 

To  soothe  their  honest  pride  that  scorns  to 

beg, 
Nor  comfort  elsi,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair. 
For  ye  are  worthy ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard-earned  ^9" 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure 
The    rugged    frowns    and    insolent    rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  ofiicc,  partial  in  their  work 
Of  distribution  ;  liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  importunity  in  rags,  295 

But  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants  who  would 

blush 
To  wear  a  tattered  garb  however  coarse. 
Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth ; 
These    ask    with    painful    shyness,    and,    re- 
fused 
Because   deserving,   silently   retire.  300 

But  be  ye  of  good  courage!     Time  itself 
Shall   much  befriend  you.     Time   shall   give 

increase. 
And     all     your     numerous     progeny,     well 

trained, 
But   helpless,   in    few   years    shall   find   their 

hands. 
And    labor    too.     Meanwhile    ye    shall    not 

want  305 

What,    conscious    of    your    virtues,    we    can 

spare, 
Nor   what    a    wealthier    than    ourselves   may 

send. 
I    mean    the    man,    who    when    the    distant 

poor 


THE  TASK 


475 


Need    help,    denies    them    nothing    but    his 
name. 

But    poverty    with    most,    who    whimper 

forth  3>o 

Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  woe, 
The  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder;  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a  day  of  sloth,  315 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong, 
Woe   to   the  gardener's   pale,   the   farmer's 

hedge 
Plashed    neatly    and    secured    with    driven 

stakes 
Deep     in     the     loamy     bank.    Uptorn     by 

strength 
Resistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame      3^0 
To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil  — 
An  ass's  burden  —  and  when  laden  most 
And  heaviest,  light  of  foot  steals  fast  away. 
Nor  does  the  boarded  hovel  better  guard 
The    well-stacked    pile    of    riven    logs    and 

roots  32s 

From    his    pernicious    force.    Nor    will    he 

leave 
Unwrenched    the    door,    however    well    se- 
cured, 
Where   chanticleer   amidst  his  harem  sleeps 
In    unsuspecting   pomp;    twitched    from    the 

perch 
He    gives    the    princely    bird    with    all    his 

wives  330 

To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain, 
And  loudly  wondering  at  the  sudden  change. 
Nor   this   to    feed   his   own.    'T  were    some 

excuse 
Did  pity  of  their  sufferings  warp  aside 
His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin        33S 
For  their  support,  so  destitute;  but  they 
Neglected  pine  at  home,  themselves,  as  more 
Exposed  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 
His  victims,  robbed  of  their  defenceless  all. 
Cruel  is  all  he  does.     'T  is  quenchless  thirst 
Of  ruinous  ebriety  that  prompts  34« 

His   every  action,   and   imbrutes  the  man. 
Oh,  for  a  law  to  noose  the  villain's  neck 
Who   starves   his   own ;   who   persecutes   the 

blood 
He  gave  them  in  his  children's  veins,  and 

hates  345 

And   wrongs   the   woman   he  has   sworn   to 

love. 

Pass    where    we    may,    through    city,    or 
through  town. 
Village  or  hamlet  of  this  merry  land. 


Though   lean  and  beggared,  every  twentieth 

pace 
Conducts    the   unguarded    nose    to    such    a 

whiff  350 

Of    stale    debauch,    forth-issuing    from    the 

styes 
That  law  has  licensed,  as  makes  temperance 

reel. 
There  sit  involved  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Of    Indian    fume,    and    guzzling    deep,    the 

boor, 
The  lackey,  and  the  groom.    The  craftsman 

there  355 

Takes  a  Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil. 
Smith,    cobbler,    joiner,    he    that    plies    the 

shears, 
And   he   that   kneads   the   dough:   all    loud 

alike, 
All     learned,    and    all    drunk.    The    fiddle 

screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wailed 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard;  361 
Fierce  the  dispute,  whate'er  the  theme ;  while 

she. 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate, 
Perched  on  the  sign-post,  holds  with  even 

hand 
Her  undecisive  scales.  In  this  she  lays  36s 
A  weight  of  ignorance,  in  that,  of  pride, 
And  smiles  delighted  with  the  eternal  poise. 
Dire  is  the  frequent  curse  and  its  twin  sound 
The  cheek-distending  oath,  not  to  be  praised 
As    ornamental,    musical,    polite,  37° 

Like  those  which   modern   senators   employ, 
Whose  oath  is  rhetoric,  and  who  swear  for 

fame. 
Behold  the  schools  in  which  plebeian  minds, 
Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts 
Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace. 
But  none  with  readier  skill !     'T  is  here  they 

learn  376 

The  road  that  leads   from  competence  and 

peace 
To  indigence  and  rapine;  till  at  last 
Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load. 
Shakes  her  encumbered  lap,  and  casts  them 

out.  3S0 

But  censure  profits  little.    Vain  the  attempt 
To   advertise   in    verse   a   public   pest, 
That,  like  the  filth   with  which  the  peasant 

feeds 
His  hungry  acres,  stinks  and  is  of  use. 
The  excise  is  fattened  with  the  rich  result 
Of  all  this  riot;  and  ten  thousand  casks,  386 
For  ever  dribbling  out  their  base  contents, 
Touched  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state, 
Bleed  gold  for  Ministers  to  sport  away. 


L 


476 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


Drink  and  be  mad  then;   'tis  your  country 
bids !  390 

Gloriously  drunk,  obey  the  important  call 

Her  cause  demands  the  assistance  of  yc 
throats; — 

Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  more. 

Would  I  had   fallen  upon  those  happier 

days 
That  poets  celebrate;  those  golden  times  395 
And  those  Arcadian  scenes  that  Maro  sings, 
And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetic  prose. 
Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had 

hearts 
That  felt  their  virtues.    Innocence,  it  seems. 
From  courts  dismissed,  found  shelter  in  the 

groves ;  4°° 

The  footsteps  of  simplicity,  impressed 
Upon  the  yielding  herbage  (so  they  sing). 
Then    were    not    all    effaced.     Then    speech 

profane 
And   manners  profligate  were  rarely   found 
Observed  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaimed. 
Vain    wish!    those    days    were    never:    airy 

dreams  4o6 

Sat  for  the  picture ;  and  the  poet's  hand, 
Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade. 
Imposed  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 
Grant  it;  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age  4io 
That    favored   such   a   dream,   in   days   like 

these 
Impossible,  when  virtue  is  so  scarce 
That  to  suppose  a  scene  where  she  presides 
Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief.      414 
No.     We  are  polished  now.    The  rural  lass, 
Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace, 
Her  artless  manners  and  her  neat  attire. 
So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 
Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance. 
Is  seen  no  more.     The  character  is  lost.  420 
Her  head  adorned  with  lappets  pinned  aloft 
And  ribbons  streaming  gay,  superbly  raised 
And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size. 
Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's   hand 
For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains; 
Her  elbows  ruffled,  and  her  tottering   form 
111  propped  upon  French  heels;  she  might  be 

deemed  4-'7 

(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 
Interprets  her  more  truly)   of  a  rank 
Too     proud     for     dairy-work,     or     sale     of 

eggs ;  430 

Expect  her  soon  with  foot-boy  at  her  heels, 
No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load. 
Her  train  and  her  umbrella  all  her  care. 

The  town  has  tinged  the  country;  and  the 
stain 


390 
1, 
your 


Appears  a  spot  upon  the  vestal's  robe,      43S 
The  worse   for  what  it  soils. 
*     *     * 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandoned,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret. 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It    knew    not    once,    the    country    wins    me 
still.  440 

I  never  framed  a  wish  or  formed  a  plan 
That    flattered    me    with    hopes    of    earthly 

bliss. 
But    there    I    laid    the    scene.    There    early 

strayed 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural,  rural  too      446 
The  first-born  efforts  of  my  youthful  muse. 
Sportive,  and  jingling  her  poetic  bells 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  pow- 
ers. 
No  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was 
tuned  450 

To  Nature's  praises.     Fleroes  and  their  feats 
Fatigued  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling  as  he  sang 
The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  favorite  beech. 
Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms: 
New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpassed  456 
The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 
To  speak  its  excellence;   I  danced   for  joy. 
I  marveled  much  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 
As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then 
first  460 

Engaged  my  wonder,  and  admiring  still. 
And   still   admiring,  with   regret   supposed 
The  joy  half  lost  because  not  sooner  found. 
Thee,  too,  enamored  of  the  life  I  loved. 
Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit  465 

Determined,  and  possessing  it   at  last 
With  transports  such  as  favored  lovers  feel, 
I    studied,    prized,    and    wished    that    I    had 

known 
Ingenious    Cowley:    and    though    now,    re- 
claimed 
By  modern  lights   from  an  erroneous  taste. 
I   cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit         47' 
Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools. 
1  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retired. 
Though  stretched  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent 

bowers, 
Not  unemployed,  and  finding  rich  amends 
For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse.      476 
'T  is   born   with   all.     The   love   of    Nature's 

works 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound,  man, 
Infused   at    the  creation   of   the   kind. 
And     though     the     Almighty     Maker     has 
throughout  480 


MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 


477 


Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 
And  touches  of  His  hand,  with  so  much  art 
Diversified,   that  two  were  never   found 
Twins  at  all  points  — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 
That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works,     485 
And   ail   can    taste  them :   minds   that   have 

been   formed 
And  tutored,  with  a  relish  more  exact, 
But    none    without    some    relish,    none    un- 
moved. 
It  is  a  flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 
Where   nothing   feeds   it.     Neither   business, 
crowds,  490 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life, 
Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 
In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 
The   villas,   with   which   London   stands   be- 
girt 
Like  a  swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads, 
Prove  it.     A  breath  of  unadulterate  air,    496 
The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they 

cheer 
The  citizen  and  brace  his  languid  frame ! 
Even  in  the  stilling  bosom  of  the  town, 
A    garden    in    which    nothing    thrives,    has 
charms  500 

That  soothe  the  rich  possessor;  much  con- 
soled 
That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mourn- 
ful mint. 
Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 
He  cultivates.     These  serve  him  with  a  hint 
That     Nature     lives;     that     sight-refreshing 
green  505 

Is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear. 
Though    sickly    samples    of    the    exuberant 

whole. 
What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping 

herbs 
The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 
Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the   fragrant   weed. 
The  Frenchman's  darling?  are  they  not  all 
proofs  511 

That  man,  immured  in  cities,  still  retains 
His  inborn,  inextinguishable  thirst 
Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 
By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may?  SiS 
The   most   unfurnished    with   the   means    of 

life. 
And   they   that   never  pass   their   brick-wall 

bounds 
To   range  the   fields,  and   treat   their   lungs 

with  air, 
Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct :  over-head 
Suspend  their  crazy  boxes  planted  thick    520 
And  watered  duly.     There  the  pitcher  stands 
A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there: 
Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 


The  country,  with  what  ardor  he  contrives 
A  peep  at  nature,  when  he  can  no  more.    52s 

Hail,    therefore,   patroness   of   health   and 

ease 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys 
And    harmless    pleasures,    in    the    thronged 

abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown,  hail  rural  life! 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit    53o 
Of  honors,  or  emolument,  or   fame, 
I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  offices  will  have 
Great    talents.     And    God    gives    to    every 

man  535 

The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste. 
That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  fill. 
To  the  deliverer  of  an  injured  land  539 

He  gives  a  tongue  to  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs ; 
To  monarchs  dignity,  to  judges  sense; 
To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 
To  me  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt       545 
A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 
Found    here   that    leisure    and    that    ease    I 

wished. 

(1785) 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S 
PICTURE 

Oh,  that  those  lips  had  language!    Life  has 

passed 
With    me    but    roughly    since    I   heard   thee 

last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thy  own  sweet  smile 

I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice    only    fails,    else    how    distinct    they 

say,  5 

'  Grieve   not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears 

away ! ' 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blessed  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)    here   shines  on  me  still  the 

same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song. 
Affectionate,    a   mother    lost    so    long, 

1  will   obey,  not   willingly  alone,  J5 
But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 
And,  while  that   face  renews  my  filial  grief, 


478 


WILLIAM  COVVPER 


Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  PZlysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she.       20 
My  mother !  when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast 
dead 
Say,    wast    thou    conscious    of    the    tears    I 

shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch   even   then,   life's   journey   just   be- 
gun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest   me,  though   unfelt,   a 
kiss:  _     25 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 
Ah,    that    maternal     smile!     It     answers  — 

Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu!  31 
But    was    it    such  ?  —  It    was. —  Where    thou 

art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The   parting   word    shall    pass    my    lips    no 
more !  35 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  iny  con- 
cern. 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled,  40 

Dupe  of  to-morroiv  even   from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  for- 
got. _  45 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard 
no  more, 
Children    not   thine   have   trod    my   nursery 

floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted     with     my     bauble     coach,     and 
wrapped  so 

In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'T  is  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our 

own. 
Short-lived  possession!   but  the  record    fair 
That    memory    keeps,    of    all    thy    kindness 
there,  55 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That    thou     mightst     know     me     safe     and 

warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,  60 


The  biscuit,   or  confectionary   plum; 

The   fragrant  waters  on  my  check  bestowed 

By  thy  own  hand,  till   fresh  they  shone  and 

glowed  ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy   constant    flow    of    love,    that    knew    no 

fall,  65 

Ne'er    roughened    by    those    cataracts    and 

brakes 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this   still   legible  in  memory's  page. 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay  7° 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed 

here. 
Could    Time,    his    flight    reversed,    restore 

the  hours. 
When,    playing    with    thy    vesture's    tissued 

flowers,  75 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jassamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And    thou    wast    happier    than    myself    the 

while, 
Wouldst   softly  speak,  and   stroke  my  head 

and  smile), 
Could    those    few   pleasant    days    again    ap- 
pear, 80 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would   I   wish 

them  here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart  —  the  dear  de- 
light 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I   might. — 
But  no  —  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much,     85 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound   spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,    as    a    gallant    bark    from    Albion's 

coast 
(The   storms    all    weathered   and   the   ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle. 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons 

smile,  91 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous   form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around    her,    fanning    light    her    streamers 

gay ;  95 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reached 

the  shore, 
'  Where    tempests    never    beat    nor    billows 

roar.' 
And    thy    loved    consort    on    the    dangerous 

tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest,  Joo 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 


479 


Always    from    port    withheld,    always    dis- 
tressed — 
Me   howling    blasts    drive    devious,    tempest 

tost. 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  com- 
pass lost. 
And  day  by  day   some  current's   thwarting 

force 
Sets    me   more   distant    from   a   prosperous 
course.  105 

Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and 

he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From    loins    enthroned    and    rulers    of    the 

earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise  — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies!  m 
And   now,    farewell  —  Time   unrevoked   has 

run 
His    wonted   course,   yet   what    I    wished    is 

done. 

By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I    seem    to    have    lived    my    childhood    o'er 

again;  us 

To   have   renewed   the  joys  that   once   were 

mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine: 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft  — 
Thyself   removed,   thy  power  to   soothe   me 
left. 

(1798) 


SONNET  TO  MRS.  UNWIN 

Mary !     I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings ; 
Such    aid    from    Heaven    as    some    have 

feigned  they  drew  1 
An    eloquence    scarce    given    to    mortals, 
new. 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things ! 
That,    ere   through   age   or   woe  I   shed   my 
wings,  s 

I  may  record  thy  worth,  with  honor  due. 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, — 
Verse,  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings ! 
But  thou  hast  little  need :  there  is  a  book, 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly 
light,  10 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look; 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright! 


There    all    thy   deeds,    my    faithful    Mary, 

shine, 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare 

thee  mine.  (1803) 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL 
GEORGE 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave. 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave. 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried. 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 
And  she  was  overset ;  1 

Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is   fought;  1 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock.  : 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up,  ■ 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tears  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder. 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


(1803) 


GEORGE  CRABBE  (1754-1832) 


When  Goldsmith  sat  down  to  sketch  for  all  time  the  picture  of  his  native  village,  it 
was  after  an  absence  of  eighteen  years  and  he  saw  it  through  a  tinted  haze  of  retrospect 
and  soft  sentimental  reflection.  Crabbe  came  to  his  task  fresh  from  the  hardships  of 
his  youth;  he  wrote  'with  his  eye  on  the  object';  and  he  painted  the  cot  'as  Truth 
will  paint  it  and  as  Bards  will  not,'  in  all  the  reality  of  its  hard  and  sordid  detail.  The 
Village  was  Aldborough,  a  rude  fishing  port  on  the  '  frowning  coast '  of  Sulfolk.  Here 
Crabbe  was  born,  the  eldest  child  of  a  collector  of  salt-duties.  After  a  scattered  education 
which  consisted  partly  in  loading  butter  and  cheese  in  the  neighboring  port,  he  was 
apprenticed,  at  fourteen,  to  a  surgeon  near  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  who  employed  him  in 
'hoeing  turnips.'  After  some  years  of  study  he  set  up  as  a  surgeon  in  his  native  village; 
but  his  rewards  were  meager  and  he  desired  to  marry.  In  the  meantime,  lie  had  begun 
to  cultivate  the  Muses  and  he  resolved  to  try  his  lot  in  London.  On  the  verge  of  starva- 
tion, he  was  taken  up  by  Burke,  who  introduced  him  to  his  distinguished  friends,  aided 
the  publication  of  his  first  successful  poem.  The  Library  (1781),  and  induced  him  to 
exchange  the  knife  for  the  prayer-book.  Keturning  to  Aldborough  as  a  curate,  he  became, 
shortly  after,  through  Burke's  introduction,  a  protege  of  the  Duke  of  Rutland,  and  was 
never  again  i'n  want.  His  literary  fame,  during  most  of  his  life;  was  based  on  The  Village, 
which  he  published  in  1783  and  followed  with  a  silence  of  twenty-four  years,  broken  only 
by  the  publication  of  a  trifling  poem.  The  JSicwspapcr  (1785).  During  these  years  he 
wrote  and  destroyed  large  quantities  of  verse  and  a  treatise  on  botany  and  busied  himself 
with  domestic  life,  but  was  especially  occupied  in  healing  both  the  minds  and  bodies  of 
the  poor  of  his  various  parishes.  His  second  period  of  publication,  beginning  with  The 
Parish  Register  (1807),  including  The  Borough  (1810)  and  Talcs  in  Vase  (1812),  and 
concluding  with  Talcs  of  the  Hall  (1819),  brought  him  into  the  world  of  Wordsworth, 
Byron,  and  Scott.     He  outlived  the  second  and  died   in  the  same  year  with  the  last. 

Crabbe's  powerful  realism  has  been  greatly  admired  by  the  men  of  his  own  craft.  He 
has,  as  Tennyson  said,  '  a  world  of  his  own.'  It  is  a  far  more  populous  world  than  that 
of  Cowper  or  even  of  Wordsworth  and  it  is  not  more  unlovely  than  that  of  Burns;  but 
he  brought  to  its  interpretation  little  of  the  tenderness  of  the  first,  the  '  internal  bright- 
ness '  of  the  second,  or  the  human  tears  and  laughter  of  the  third.  We  may  be  stunned 
or  impressed  by  Crabbe's  world,  but  we  will  never  love  it. 


THE  VILLAGE,  Book  I 

The  Village  Life,  and  every  care  that  reigns 
O'er      youthful      peasants      and      declining 

swains; 
What    labor    yields,    and    what,    that    labor 

past, 
Age,  in  its  hour  of  languor,  finds  at  last ; 
What  form  the  real  Picture  of  the  Poor,     s 
Demand    a    song  —  the    Muse    can    give    no 
more. 
Fled  are  those  times,  when,  in  harmonious 
strains, 
The  rustic  poet  praised  his  native  plains : 
No    shepherds    now,    in    smooth    alternate 

verse. 
Their  country's  beauty  or  their  nymphs  re- 
hearse; 1° 


Yet    still    for    these    we    frame    the    tender 
strain. 

Still  in  our  lays  fond  Corydons  complain. 

And    shepherds'    boys    their    amorous    pains 
reveal, 

The  only  pains,  alas !  they  never  feel. 
On   Mincio's  banks,   in   Caesar's  bounteou.= 
reign,  '5 

If  Tityrus  found  the  Golden  Age  again, 

Must  sleepy  bards  the  flattering  dream  pro- 
long, 

Mechanic  echoes  of  the  Mantuan  song? 

From    Truth    and    Nature    shall    we    widely 
stray, 

Where   Virgil,   not   where   Fancy,   leads   the 

way  ?  ^^ 

Yes,  thus  the  Muses  sing  of  happy  swains. 

Because  the  Muses  never  knew  their  pains: 


THE  VILLAGE 


481 


They  boast  their  peasant's  pipes;  but  peas- 
ants now 

Resign    their    pipes    and    plod    behind    the 
plough ; 

And  few,  amid  the  rural  tribe,  have  time  2s 

To  number  syllables,  and  play  with  rime ; 

Save  honest  Duck,  what  son  of  verse  could 
share 

The  poet's  rapture  and  the  peasant's  care? 

Or  the  great  labors  of  the  field  degrade, 

With  the  new  peril  of  a  poorer  trade?       3° 
From   this    chief   cause  these   idle   praises 
spring, 

That  themes  so  easy  few  forbear  to  sing; 

For    no    deep    thought   the   trifling   subjects 
ask; 

To  sing  of  shepherds  is  an  easy  task; 

The     happy    youth     assumes     the     common 
strain,  35 

A  nymph  his  mistress,  and  himself  a  swain; 

With   no   sad   scenes   he  clouds   his   tuneful 
prayer. 

But  all,  to  look  like  her,  is  painted  fair. 
I  grant  indeed  that  fields  and  flocks  have 
charms  39 

For  him  that  grazes  or  for  him  that  farms; 

But    when    amid     such    pleasing    scenes     I 
trace 

The  poor  laborious  natives  of  the  place. 

And  see  the  mid-day  sun,  with   fervid  ray. 

On  their  bare  heads  and  dewy  temples  play; 

While  some,  with  feebler  heads,  and  fainter 
hearts  45 

Deplore    their     fortune,    yet     sustain    their 
parts  — 

Then  shall  I  dare  these  real  ills  to  hide. 

In   tinsel  trappings  of  poetic  pride? 

No ;  cast  by  Fortune  on  a  frowning  coast, 

Which    neither    groves    nor    happy    valleys 
boast ;  50 

Where  other  cares  than  those  the  Muse  re- 
lates. 

And     other     shepherds     dwell     with     other 
mates ; 

By  such  examples  taught,  I  paint  the  Cot, 

As   Truth   will   paint   it,  and  as   Bards  will 
not: 

Nor   you,    ye   poor,   of   lettered    scorn   com- 
plain, 55 

To   you    the    smoothest    song   is    smooth    in 
vain  ; 

O'ercome  by  labor,  and  bowed  down  by  time, 

Feel  you  the  barren  flattery  of  a  rime? 

Can   poets    soothe   you,   when   you   pine    for 
bread, 

By    winding    myrtles     round     your     ruined 
shed  ?  60 


Can    their    light    tales    your    weighty    griefs 
o'erpower, 

Or  glad  with  airy  mirth  the  toilsome  hour? 
Lo !  where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake 
grown  o'er. 

Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neigh- 
boring poor 

From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  ap- 
pears, 65 

Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  withered 
ears. 

Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 

Reign   o'er   the   land,   and   rob  the   blighted 
rye; 

There    thistles    stretch    their    prickly    arms 
afar. 

And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war;     70 

There  poppies,  nodding,  mock  the  hope   of 
toil, 

There    the    blue    bugloss    paints    the    sterile 
soil; 

Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 

The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 

O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a 
shade,  75 

And    clasping   tares   cling   round   the    sickly 
blade; 

With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 

And  a  sad  splendor  vainly  shines  around. 

So    looks    the   nymph    whom   wretched    arts 
adorn, 

Betrayed    by    man,    then    left    for    man    to 
scorn ;  80 

Whose    cheek   in   vain   assumes    the    mimic 
rose. 

While  her  sad  eyes  the  troubled  breast  dis- 
close: 

Whose  outward  splendor  is  but  folly's  dress. 

Exposing  most  when  most  it  gilds  distress. 

Here    joyless    roam    a    wild    amphibious 

race,  85 

With  sullen  woe  displayed  in  every  face ; 

WHio,  far  from  civil  arts  and  social  fly, 

And  scowl  at  strangers  with  suspicious  eye. 
Here  too  the  lawless  merchant  of  the  main 

Draws     from    his     plough    the     intoxicated 
swain ;  90 

Want  only  claimed  the  labor  of  the  day. 

But  vice  now  .steals  his  nightly  rest  away. 
Where   are   the   swains,   who,   daily   labor 
done. 

With  rural   games  played  down  the  setting 
sun ; 

Who  struck  with  matchless  force  the  bound- 
ing ball,  95 

Or  made  the  ponderous  quoit  obliquely  fall ; 

While  some  huge  Ajax,  terrible  and  strong. 


482 


GEORGE  CRABBE 


Engaged  some  artful  stripling  of  the  throng. 

And     fell    beneath    him,     foiled,    while     far 
around 

Hoarse    triumph    rose,    and    rocks    returned 
the  sound?  '"" 

Where   now  are   these?  —  Beneath  yon  cliff 
they  stand. 

To    show    the    freighted    pinnace    where    to 
land ; 

To  load  the  ready  steed  with  guilty  haste, 

To   i\y  in  terror  o'er  the  pathless   waste, 

Or,     when     detected,     in     their     straggling 
course,  'os 

To  foil  their  foes  by  cunning  or  by  force ; 

Or,  yielding  part    (which   equal   knaves  de- 
mand), 

To  gain  a  lawless  passport  through  the  land. 
Here,  wandering  long,  amid  these   frown- 
ing fields, 

I  sought  the  simple  life  that  Nature  yields; 

Rapine   and   Wrong  and   Fear  usurped   her 
place,  III 

And    a   bold,   artful,    surly,   savage   race; 

Who,   only   skilled   to   take   the   finny  tribe. 

The  yearly  dinner,  or  septennial  bribe. 

Wait  on  the   shore,  and,   as  the  waves   run 
high,  IIS 

On  the  tossed  vessel  bend  their  eager  eye, 

Which    to    their    coast    directs    its    vent'rous 
way; 

Theirs  or  the  ocean's  miserable  prey. 
As  on  their  neighboring  beach  yon  swal- 
lows stand, 

And   wait   for  favoring  winds  to  leave  the 
land;  i-'Q 

While    still    for    flight    the    ready    wing    is 
spread : 

So  waited  I  the  favoring  hour,  and  fled; 

Fled    from    these    shores    where    guilt    and 
famine  reign, 

And   cried,   Ah!   hapless  they  who   still   re- 
main : 

Who  still  remain  to  hear  the  ocean  roar,  12s 

Whose   greedy    waves   devour  the   lessening 
shore ; 

Till   some   fierce   tide,  with  more   imperious 
sway 

Sweeps  the  low  hut  and  all  it  holds  away; 

When   the   sad  tenant   weeps   from   door  to 
door, 

And  begs  a  poor  protection  from  the  poor ! 
But  these  are  scenes  where  Nature's  nig- 
gard hand  131 

Gave  a  spare  portion  to  the  famished  land ; 

Hers    is    the    fault,    if    here    mankind    com- 
plain 

Of  fruitless  toil  and  labor  spent  in  vain  ; 

But  yet  in  other  scenes  more  fair  in  view, 


When   Plenty  smiles  —  alas !   she   smiles    for 

few —  136 

And    those    who    taste    not,    yet    behold    her 

store, 
Are  as  the  slaves  that  dig  the  golden  ore  — 
The  wealth  around  them  makes  them  doubly 

poor. 
Or    will    you    deem    them    amply    paid    in 

health,  M'j 

Labor's     fair    child,    that    languishes     with 

wealth? 
Go,  then  !  and  see  them  rising  with  the  sun. 
Through  a  long  course  of  daily  toil  to  run  ; 
See    them    beneath    the    Dog-star's    raging 

heat, 
When    the   knees    tremble    and   the   temples 

beat;  145 

Behold  them,  leaning  on  their  scythes,  look 

o'er 
The  labor  past,  and  toils  to  come  explore; 
See   them    alternate    smis    and    showers    en- 
gage, 
And  hoard  up  aches  and  anguish  for  their 

age; 
Through  fens  and  marshy  moors  their  steps 

pursue,  ISO 

When  their  warm  pores  imbibe  the  evening 

dew; 
Then  own  that  labor  may  as  fatal  be 
To  these  thy  slaves,  as  thine  excess  to  thee. 

Amid  this  tribe  too  oft  a  manly  pride 
Strives  in   strong  toil  the   fainting  heart  to 

hide;  15s 

There   may   you    see   the   youth    of    slender 

frame 
Contend     with     weakness,     weariness,     and 

shame ; 
Yet,  urged  along,  and  proudly  loth  to  yield, 
He  strives  to  join  his  fellows  of  the  field; 
Till    long-contending   nature   droops   at   last, 
Declining  health  rejects  his  poor  repast,  161 
His    cheerless    spouse    the    coming    danger 

sees, 
And    mutual    murmurs    urge    the    slow    dis- 
ease. 
Yet  grant  them  health,  't  is  not  for  us  to 

tell. 
Though  the  head  droops  not,  that  the  heart 

is  well;  165 

Or  will  you  praise  that  homely,  healthy  fare, 
Plenteous    and    plain,    that    happy    peasants 

share! 
Oh  !  trifle  not  with  wants  you  cannot  feel. 
Nor  mock  the  misery  of  a  stinted  meal ; 
Homely,  not  wholesome,  plain,  not  plenteous. 

such  170 

As  you    who   praise,   would   never   deign   to 

touch. 


THE  VILLAGE 


483 


Ye  gentle  souls,  who  dream  of  rural  ease, 
Whom    the    smooth    stream    and    smoother 

sonnet  please; 
Go!   if  the  peaceful  cot  your  praises  share. 
Go  look  within,  and  ask  if  peace  be  there; 
If  peace  be   his,  that  drooping  weary  sire; 
Or  theirs,  that  offspring  round  their   feeble 

fire;  ^T7 

Or  hers,  that  matron  pale,  whose  trembling 

hand 
Turns  on  the  wretched  hearth  the  expiring 

brand.  i79 

Nor  yet  can  Time  itself  obtain  for  these 
Life's  latest  comforts,  due  respect  and  ease; 
For  yonder  see  that  hoary  swain,  whose  age 
Can  with  no  cares  except  its  own  engage ; 
Who,  propped  on  that  rude  staff,  looks  up 

to  see 
The  bare  arms  broken   from  the  withering 

tree,  iSs 

On   which,   a   boy,    he   climbed   the   loftiest 

bough. 
Then  his  first  joy,  but  his  sad  emblem  now. 
He  once  was  chief  in  all  the  rustic  trade ; 
His     steady    hand    the     straightest     furrow 

made; 
Full  many  a  prize  he  won,  and  still  is  proud 
To  find  the  triumphs  of  his  youth  allowed ; 
A  transient  pleasure  sparkles  in  his  eyes,  '9^ 
He  hears  and  smiles,  then  thinks  again  and 

sighs': 
For  now  he  journeys  to  his  grave  in  pain ; 
The  rich  disdain  him;  nay,  the  poor  disdain: 
Alternate  masters  now  their  slave  command. 
Urge  the  weak  efforts  of  his  feeble  hand, 
And,  when  his  age  attempts  its  task  in  vain. 
With  ruthless  taunts,  of  lazy  poor  complain. 
Oft  may  you  see  him,  when  he  tends  the 

sheep,  200 

His  winter  charge,  beneath  the  hillock  weep ; 
Oft   hear   him   murmur   to   the   winds   that 

blow 
O'er  his  white  locks  and  bury  them  in  snow, 
When,  roused  by  rage  and  muttering  in  the 

morn. 

He  mends  the  broken  edge  with  icy  thorn :  — 

'  Why  do  I  live,  when  I  desire  to  be     206 

At  once,  from  life  and  life's  long  labor  free? 

Like  leaves  in  spring,  the  young  are  blown 

away. 
Without  the  sorrows  of  a  slow  decay; 
I,  like  yon  withered  leaf,  remain  behind,  210 
Nipped  by  the   frost,  and  shivering  in  the 

wind ; 
There  it  abides  till  younger  buds  come  on 
As  I,  now  all  my  fellow-swains  are  gone; 
Then   from  the  rising  generation   thrust, 
It  falls,  like  me,  unnoticed  to  the  dust.    215 


'These     fruitful     fields,     these     numerous 

flocks  I  see, 
Are  others'  gain,  but  killing  cares  to  me; 
To  me  the  children  of  my  youth  are  lords, 
Cool  in  their  looks,  but  hasty  in  their  words: 
Wants  of  their  own  demand  their  care;  and 

who  220 

Feels  his  own  want  and  succors  others  too? 
A  lonely,  wretched  man,  in  pain  I  go, 
None   need  my  help,  and  none  relieve  my 

woe; 
Then  let  my  bones  beneath  the  turf  be  laid. 
And  men  forget  the  wretch  they  would  not 

aid.'  225 

Thus   groan    the   old,   till    by   disease   op- 
pressed. 
They  taste  a  final  woe,  and  then  they  rest. 
Theirs  is  yon  House  that  holds  the  parish 

poor. 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken 

door ; 
There,    where    the    putrid    vapors,    flagging, 

play,  230 

And   the   dull   wheel   hums   doleful   through 

the  day; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents' 

care; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell 

there ! 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
Forsaken    wives,   and   mothers   never    wed ; 
Dejected   widows   with   unheeded   tears,     236 
And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood 

fears ; 
The  lame,  the  blind,  and,   far  the  happiest 

they! 
The  moping  idiot,  and   the  madman  gay. 

Here  too  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive, 
Here  brought,  amid  the  scenes  of  grief,  to 

grieve,  241 

Where    the    loud    groans    from    some    sad 

chamber  flow. 
Mixed  with  the  clamors  of  the  crowd  be- 
low; 
Here,  sorrowing,  they  each  kindred  sorrow 

scan. 
And  the  cold  charities  of  man  to  man :     245 
Whose  laws  indeed  for  ruined  age  provide. 
And    strong    compulsion    plucks    the    scrap 

from  pride; 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  with  many  a 

sigh. 
And  pride  embitters  what  it  can't  deny. 

Say,  ye,  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes. 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose ; 
Who   press   the   downy   couch,   while   slaves 

advance  ^s^ 

With  timid  eye  to  read  the  distant  glance; 


484 


GEORGE  CRABBE 


Who    with    sad    prayers    the    weary    doctor 

tease, 
To  name  the  nameless  ever  new  disease;  255 
Who    with    mock    patience    dire    complaints 

endure, 
Which  real  pain  and  that  alone  can  cure; 
How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 
Despised,    neglected,    left    alone   to    die? 
How    would    ye    bear    to    draw    your    latest 

breath  260 

Where  all  that 's  wretched  paves  the  way  for 

death? 
Such  is  that  room  which  one  rude  beam 

divides. 
And  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  sides ; 
Where  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch 

are  seen, 
And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between ; 
Save  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patched, 

gives  way  266 

To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  day: 
Here,    on    a    matted    flock,    with    dust    o'er- 

sprcad. 
The    drooping   wretch   reclines   his   languid 

head; 
For  him  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies,  270 
Or  wipes  the  tear  that  stagnates  in  his  eyes; 
No  friends  with  soft  discourse  his  pain  be- 
guile, 
Or  promise  hope,  till  sickness  wears  a  smile. 
But  soon  a  loud  and  hasty  summons  calls, 
Shakes  the  thin  roof,  and  echoes  round  the 

walls;  275 

Anon,  a  figure  enters,  quaintly  neat, 
All  pride  and  business,  bustle  and  conceit; 
With    looks    unaltered    by   these    scenes    of 

woe. 
With  speed  that,  entering,  speaks  his  haste 

to  go, 
He  bids  the  gazing  throng  around  him  fly, 
And  carries  fate  and  physic  in  his  eye :     281 
A  potent  quack,  long  versed  in  human  ills. 
Who  first  insults  the  victim  whom  he  kills ; 
Whose    murd'rous    hand    a    drowsy    Bench 

protect,  284 

And  whose  most  tender  mercy  is  neglect. 
Paid  by  the  parish   for  attendance  here, 
He  wears  contempt  upon  his  sapient  sneer ; 
In  haste    he    seeks    the    bed    where    Misery 

lies. 
Impatience  marked  in  his  averted  eyes; 
And,  some  habitual  queries  hurried  o'er,  290 
Without  reply,  he  rushes  on  the  door : 
His  drooping  patient,  long  inured  to  pain, 
And    long    unheeded,    knows    remonstrance 

vain ; 
He  ceases  now  the  feeble  help  to  crave 
Of  man;  and  silent  sinks  into  the  grave.  29s 


But  ere  his  death  some  pious  doubts  arise. 
Some   simple   fears,   which   '  bold   bad '   men 

despise ; 
Fain  would  he  ask  the  parish  priest  to  prove 
His  title  certain  to  the  joys  above: 
For  this  he  sends  the  murmuring  nurse,  who 

calls  300 

The  holy  stranger  to  these  dismal  walls: 
And  doth  not  he,  the  pious  man,  appear. 
He,    '  passing    rich,    with     forty    pounds   a       J 

year  ?  '  1 

Ah!  no;  a  shepherd  of  a  different  stock:  ' 

And   far  unlike  him,  feeds  this  little  flock  : 
A  jovial  youth,  who  thinks  his  Sunday's  task 
As  much  as  God  or  man  can  fairly  ask ;  307 
The  rest  he  gives  to  loves  and  labors  light, 
To    fields    the    morning,    and    to    feasts    the 

night ;  j 

None  better  skilled  the  noisy  pack  to  guide, 
To   urge   their   chase,   to  cheer   them  or   to 

chide;  311 

A    sportsman  keen,  he  shoots  through  half 

the  day. 
And,  skilled  at  whist,  devotes  the  night  to 

play: 
Then,  while  such  honors  bloom  around  his 

head. 
Shall  he  sit  sadly  by  the  sick  man's  bed,  315 
To  raise  the  hope  he  feels  not,  or  with  zeal 
To  combat  fears  that  e'en  the  pious  feel?  ■ 

*  *  *  ^ 

Now  to  the  church  behold  the  mourners 
come, 
Sedately  torpid  and  devoutly  dumb; 
The  village  children  now  their  games  sus-      g 
pend,  320      I 

To    see    the    bier    that    bears   their    ancient 

friend : 
For  he  was  one  in  all  their  idle  sport, 
And  like  a  monarch  ruled  their  little  court; 
The  pliant  bow  he  formed,  the  flying  ball. 
The  bat,  the  wicket,  were  his  labors  all ;  32s 
Him    now    they    follow    to   his   grave,    and 

stand, 
Silent  and  sad,  and  gazing  hand  in  hand ;  ■ 

While  bending  low,  their  eager  eyes  explore 
The  mingled  relics  of  the  parish  poor. 
The    bell    tolls    late,    the    moping    owl    flies 
round,  33o 

Fear    marks    the    flight    and    magnifies    the 

sound. 
The  busy  priest,  detained  by  weightier  care, 
Defers  his  duty  till  the  day  of  prayer; 
And,    waiting    long,    the    crowd    retire    dis- 
tressed. 
To  think  a  poor  man's  bones  should  lie  un- 
blessed. 335 
(1783) 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  (1757-1827) 

'  I  walked  the  other  evening  to  the  end  of  the  heath  and  touched  the  sky  with  my  finger.' 
Was  the  man  inspired  or  mad  who  made  this  statement  in  fierce  literalness,  when  bored 
by  some  scientific  cant  about  'the  vastness  of  space'?  One's  answer  to  this  question  will 
determine  one's  attitude  toward  Blake,  llie  ordinary  biographical  summary  hardly  seems 
to  apply  to  him  ;  yet  undeniably,  like  the  hero  in  the  old  song,  '  This  man  was  born,  lived, 
drank,  and  died.'  He  was  born  in  Loudon,  he  spent  his  life  there,  he  did  not  drink  much  and 
frequently  had  none  too  much  to  eat  and  wear,  and  in  London  he  died,  '  leaving  the  delusive 
Goddess  Nature  to  her  laws,  to  get  into  freedom  from  all  law  of  the  numbers,  into  the  mind, 
in  which  every  one  is  king  and  priest  in  his  own  house.'  Yet  this  man  who  denied  the 
validity  of  positive  science  and  repudiated  the  reality  of  physical  nature  was  a  twofold 
artist,  draughtsman  and  poet.  After  the  bare  rudiments  of  an  education,  he  began  at  ten 
the  study  of  drawing  and  almost  as  early  the  writing  of  verses.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he 
was  apprenticed  to  the  well-known  engraver,  Basire.  About  the  same  time  he  wrote  some 
of  his  published  poems.  He  first  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  ITSO,  and  three  years 
later  brought  out  his  first  volume,  Poetical  Sketches,  the  only  one  of  his  publications  which 
was  printed  in  the  ordinary  manner.  Songs  of  Innocence  (17S9),  Songs  of  Exijcriencc 
(1794),  and  the  series  of  enormous,  crazed,  diflicult,  or  unintelligible  Prophetic  Books  were 
all  engraved  upon  plates  and  embellished  with  designs  by  himself.  Other  published  designs 
and  engravings  of  importance  were  those  for  Young's  Night  Thoughts  (1797),  Hayley's 
Life  of  Cowper  (1803),  Blair's  The  Grave  (1808),  the  Book  of  Job  (1825),  and  Dante 
(1824-27). 

None  of  his  accomplishments,  whether  in  literature  or  design,  brought  him  any  considerable 
return  in  money  or  immediate  fame.  He  lived  most  of  his  life  in  almost  squalid  poverty 
which  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  and,  when  he  had  means,  bestowed  them  with  unstinted 
charity  and  without  concern  for  the  future.  His  conduct  was  fairly  within  the  law  of 
conventional  society  and  government ;  his  doctrines  were  revolutionary  and  extreme  even 
for  the  age  of  revolution  in  which  he  lived.  With  all  their  wildness  they  are  sometimes 
startlingly  modern,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  world  is  yet  to  ring  with  some  of  his 
ideas.  As  a  workman  in  lines  he  was  strangely  original  and  powerful,  and  has  been  com- 
pared with  the  greatest  artists  of  design  that  ever  lived ;  though  often  crudely  careless  or 
perverse  he  could  draw  with  propriety  and  beauty  when  he  chose,  and  with  tremendous 
energy  and  suggestiveness.  It  would  be  hard  to  conceive  of  finer  illustrations  than  his 
'Winter'  and  'Evening'  for  Cowper's  Task.  His  poetry  speaks  for  itself.  Like  his  design 
it  is  often  absurdly  crude  and  at  other  times  his  speech  is  something  more  than   mortal. 

'  When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears  ' — 

We  happen  upon   a   line  like   this  and   we  seem   to   have  heard   a   voice  of  other  worlds. 


TO  SPRING 

O  thou  with  dewy  locks,  who  lookest  down 
Through  the  clear  windows  of  the  morning, 

turn 
Thine  angel  eyes  upon  our  western  isle. 
Which  in   full  choir  hails   thy  approach,   O 

Spring ! 

The  hills  tell  each  other,  and  the  listening  5 
Valleys    hear;    all    our    longing    eyes    are 

turned 
Up  to  thy  bright  pavilions :  issue  forth, 
And  let  thy  holy  feet  visit  our  clime. 


Come    o'er   the    eastern    hills,    and    let    our 

winds 
Kiss  thy  perfumed  garments;  let  us  taste    1° 
Thy  morn  and  evening  breath;   scatter  thy 

pearls 
Upon   our   love-sick   land   that   mourns   for 

thee. 

O    deck    her    forth    with    thy    fair    fingers; 

pour 
Thy  soft  kisses  on  her  bosom;  and  put     '4 
Thy  golden  crown  upon  her  languished  head. 
Whose    modest   tresses   were   bound   up    for 

thee.  (1783) 


485 


486 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


TO  THE  MUSES 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 

The  clianibers  of  the  sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased ; 

VVlicthcr  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair,  5 

Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth. 

Or  the  bhie  regions  of  the  air 
Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth ; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove, 

Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea  i° 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove, 
Fair   Nine,    forsaking   Poetry ! 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you! 

The  languid   strings  do  scarcely  move!   >5 
The  sound  is  forced,  tiie  notes  are  few  ! 
(1783) 


MAD  SONG 

The  wild  winds  weep, 

And   the   night    is   a-cold; 

Come   hither,    Sleep ; 

And   my   griefs   enfold!     .     .     . 

But  lo !   the  morning  peeps  5 

Over  the  eastern   steeps. 

And  the  rustling  [birds]  of  dawn 

The  earth  do  scorn. 

Lo!  to  the  vault 

Of  paved  heaven,  1° 

With    sorrow    fraught, 

My  notes   are   driven : 

They  strike  the  ear  of  night, 

Make  weep  the  eyes  of  day; 

They  make  mad  the  roaring  winds,       i5 

And  with  tempests  play. 

Like  a  fiend  in  a  cloud, 

With  howling  woe 

After  night  I  do  crowd 

And  with  night  will  go;  20 

I  turn  my  back  to  the  east 

From  whence  comforts  have  increased; 

For  light  doth  seize  my  brain 

With  frantic  pain. 

(1783) 


THE    PIPER 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild. 
Piping   songs    of   pleasant    glee. 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 


'  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb ! ' 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

'  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again ; ' 
So  I  piped :  he  wept  to  hear. 

'  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer : * 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

*  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read.' 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen. 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear. 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

(1789) 


THE   SHEPHERD 

How  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  lot ! 

From  the  morn  to  the  evening  he  strays;       J 
He  shall  follow  his  sheep  ail  the  day,  | 

And  his  tongue  shall  be  filled  with  praise. 

For  he  hears  the  lamb's   innocent   call,         5 
And  he  hears  the  ewe's  tender  reply; 

He  is  watchful  while  they  are  in  peace, 
For  they  know  when  their  shepherd  is  nigh. 
(1789) 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK  BOY 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  O  my  soul  is  white; 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree,     s 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day. 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me. 
And,  pointing  to  the  east,  began  to  say: 

'  Look  on  the  rising  sun, —  there  God  does 

live. 

And   gives   his    light,   and   gives   his   heat 

away;  '« 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men 

receive 

Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

'  And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space. 
That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of 
love; 


CRADLE  SONG                                                  487 

And   these   black  bodies   and   this   sunburnt 

Sweet  babe,  once  like  thee. 

face 

IS 

Thy  Maker  lay  and  wept  for  me. 

Is  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

Wept  for  me,  for  thee,  for  all,                  25 

'For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the 

heat 

When  he  was  an  infant  small. 

to   bear, 

Thou  his  image  ever  see. 

The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear 

his 

Heavenly   face  that  smiles  on  thee, 

voice, 

Saying:    "Come   out    from   the   grove, 

my 

Smiles  on  thee,  on  me,  on  all ; 

love  and  care, 

Who  became  an  infant  small.                     30 

And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs 

rc- 

Infant  smiles  are  His  own  smiles; 

joice." ' 

20 

Heaven  and  earth  to  peace  beguiles. 

(1789) 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed 

mc; 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 

When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white  c 
free. 
And   round   the   tent   of   God    like   la 

oud 

CRADLE   SONG 

mbs 

FROM    SONGS    OF    EXPERIENCE 

we  joy, 

Sleep!   sleep!  beauty  bright. 
Dreaming  o'er  the  joys  of  night; 

I  '11    shade   him    from   the   heat,   till   he 

can 

Sleep!   sleep!  in  thy  sleep 

bear 

25 

Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  father's  knee 

And   then    I  '11    stand   and    stroke   his    si 

Iver 

Sweet  Babe,  in  thy  face                              5 

hair, 

Soft  desires  I  can  trace. 

And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love 

me. 

Secret  joys  and   secret   smiles, 

(1789) 

Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 

CRADLE   SONG 

Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal                 1° 

FROM   SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE 

O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  does  rest. 

Sweet  dreams,  form  a  shade 

O'er  my  lovely  infant's  head; 

0 !  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 

Sweet  dreams  of  pleasant  streams 

In  thy  little  heart  asleep. 

By  happy,   silent,    moony  beams. 

When  thy  little  heart  does  wake              i5 
Then    the    dreadful    lightnings    break. 

Sweet  sleep,  with  soft  down 

5 

Weave  thy  brows  an  infant  crown. 

From  thy  cheek  and   from  thy  eye. 

Sweet   sleep,   Angel   mild. 

O'er  the  youthful   harvests  njgh. 

Hover  o'er  my  happy  child. 

Infant  wiles  and  infant  smiles 

Heaven  and  Earth  of  peace  beguiles.      20 

Sweet  smiles,  in  the  night 

(1794) 

Hover  over  my  delight; 

10 

Sweet  smiles,  mother's  smiles, 

All  the  livelong  night  beguiles. 

A  DREAM 

Sweet  moans,   dovelike   sighs, 

Once  a  dream  did  weave  a  shade 

Chase  not  slumber  from  thy  eyes. 

O'er  my  Angel-guarded   bed, 

Sweet  moans,  sweeter  smiles, 

IS 

That  an  emmet  lost  its  way 

All   the  dovelike  moans  beguiles. 

Where  on  grass  methought  I  lay. 

Sleep,  sleep,  happy  child. 

Troubled,  'wildered,  and   forlorn,               5 

All  creation   slept  and   smil'd; 

Dark,    benighted,    travel-worn. 

Sleep,  sleep,  happy  sleep. 

Over  many  a  tangled   spray, 

While  o'er  thee  thy  mother  weep. 

20 

All  heart-broke  I  heard  'her  say: 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 

'0,  my  children!  do  they  cry? 

Holy  image  I  can  trace. 

Do  they  hear  their  father  sigh?                10 

488 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


Now   they   look   abroad   to   see: 
Now  return  and  weep  for  me.' 

Pitying,  I   dropped   a  tear ; 
But  I  saw  a  glow-worm  near, 
Who  replied  :     '  What  wailing  wight 
Calls  the  watchman  of  the  night? 

'  I  am  set  to  light  the  ground, 
While  the  beetle  goes  his  round: 
Follow  now  the  beetle's  hum; 
Little  wanderer,  hie  thee  home.' 


(1789) 


THE  DIVINE  IMAGE 


To  Mercy,   Pity,   Peace,  and  Love, 
All   pray   in   their   distress, 
And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return   their   thankfulness. 

For  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love, 
Is  God  our  Father  dear ; 
And  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love, 
Is  man,  his  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart; 

Pity,  a  human  face ;  

And  Love,  the  human  form  divine^ 
And  Peace,  the  human  dress.         —~ 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime. 
That    prays    in    his   distress, 
QPrays  to  the  human  form  divine: 
Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 


^n3^i_must  love^  th^_human_form,./ 
In  Iieatiicn,  Turk,  or  Jew. 
Where   Mercy,  Love,   and  Pity  dwell. 
There  God  is  dwelling  too. 

(1789) 


THE  CHIMNEY  SWEEPER 

A  little  black  thing  among  the  snow. 
Crying  'weep!   weep!'   in   notes  of  woe! 
'Where  arc  thy  father  and  mother,  say?' — 
'  They  are   both  gone  up  to  the  church  to 
pray. 

'  Because  I  was  happy  upon  the  heath,       5 
And   smiled  among  the  winter's  snow. 
They  clothed  me  in  the  clothes  of  death. 
And  taught  me  to  sing  the  notes  of  woe. 

'  And  because   I   am  happy   and   dance   and 
sing. 


They  think  they  have  done  me  no  injury,  >o 
And  are  gone  to  praise  God  and  his  priest 

and  king. 
Who  make  up  a  heaven  of  our  misery.' 

(1794) 


THE  CLOD  AND  THE  PEBBLE 

'  Love   sceketh   not  itself  to  please. 

Nor  for  itself  hath   any  care. 
But  for  another  gives  its  ease. 

And  builds  a  Heaven  in  Hell's  despair.' 

So  sung  a  little  clod  of  clay. 
Trodden    with   the   cattle's    feet. 

But  a  pebble  of  the  brook 
Warbled  out  these  meters  meet: 

'Love  seeketh  only  self  to  please, 

To    bind    another   to   its    delight,  i 

Joys  in  another's  loss  of  ease, 

And  builds  a  Hell  in  Heaven's  despite.' 
(1794) 


THE  TIGER 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright 
In  the   forests  of  the  night. 
What    immortal    hand   or   eye 
Could   frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies  S 

Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart?  10 

And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat. 
What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 

In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 

What   the   anvil?   what   dread   grasp  iS 

Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears. 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see? 
Did  he  who  made  the  Lamb  make  thee?    20 

Tiger !   Tiger  !   burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare   frame  thy  fearful   symmetry? 

(1794) 


FROM  MILTON 


4»9 


AH   SUNFLOWER 

Ah  Sunflower,  weary  of  time, 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the   sun. 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime 
Where  the  traveler's  journey  is  done  — 

Where  the  youth  pined  away  with  desire,  S 
And  the  pale  virgin,  shrouded  in   snow. 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go! 

(1794) 


NURSE'S  SONG 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on 
the  green 
And  whisperings  are  in  the  dale, 
The   days    of    my   youth    rise    fresh    in    my 
mind, 
My  face  turns  green  and  pale. 


sun 


Then  come  home,  my  children,   the 
gone  down. 
And  the  dews  of  night  arise; 
Your    spring   and   your   day   are    wasted 
play, 
And  your  winter  and  night  in  disguise. 
(1794) 


A  LITTLE  BOY  LOST. 

'  Nought  loves  another  as  itself, 
Nor  venerates   another   so. 
Nor  is  it  possible  to  thought 
A  greater  than  itself  to  know. 

'And,  father,  how  can  I  love  you 

Or  any  of  my  brothers  more? 

I  love  you  like  the  little  bird 

That  picks  up  crumbs  around  the  door.' 


The  priest  sat  by  and  heard  the  child; 
In  trembling  zeal  he  seized  his  hair,  10 

He  led  him  by  his  little  coat. 
And  all  admired  the  priestly  care. 

And  standing  on  the  altar  high, 

'  Lo,  what  a  fiend  is  here ! '  said  he : 

'  One  who  sets  reason  up  for  judge        is 

Of    our    most    holy    mystery.' 

The  weeping  child  could  not  be  heard, 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain : 
They  stripped  him  to  his  little  shirt. 
And  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain,  2° 

And  burned  him  in  a  holy  place 
Where  many  had  been  burned  before ; 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain. 
Are  such  things  done  on  Albion's  shore? 
(1794) 


From  MILTON 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountains  green? 

And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen? 

And  did  the  Countenance  Divine  5 

Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills? 

And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these   dark   Satanic    Mills? 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold ! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire!  1° 

Bring  me  my  spear!   O  clouds,  unfold! 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire ! 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till   we   have   built   Jerusalem  '5 

In   England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 
(1804) 


ROBERT  BURNS  (1759-1796) 

Burns  was  born  near  'Alloway's  auld  haunted  khk '  on  the  banks  of  the  Doon,  in  a 
two-roomed  cottage  which  his  father  had  built  with  liis  own  hands  out  of  rough  stone  and 
clay.  A  storm  blew  down  the  gable  a  few  days  after  his  birth,  and  '  A  blast  o'  Janwar  ' 
win'  Blew  hansel  in  on  Kobiu.'  *  JS'o  wonder  that  one  ushered  into  the  world  amid  such  a 
tempest  should  be  the  victim  of  stormy  passions,'  Burns  would  afterward  say.  His  father 
was  a  poor  '  renter '  who  moved  from  one  farm  to  another  while  Burns  was  growing  up. 
Amid  '  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley  slave,'  he  found  time  for  the  ordinary  education  of  a 
Scotch  peasant  lad  and  added  considerable  reading  in  history  and  English  poetry;  but  he 
had  known  many  a  weary  day  at  the  plow-tail  and  in  harvest  by  the  tmie  he  was  fifteen. 
It  was  at  this  age,  as  he  has  told  us,  that  he  found  himself  partner  in  the  harvest-field 
with  'a  bonnie  sweet  sonsie  lassie.'  'Among  her  love-inspiring  qualities,  she  sung  sweetly; 
and  it  was  her  favorite  reel  to  which  I  attempted  giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rime. 
.     .     .     Thus   with   me  began   love  and  poetry.' 

Farming,  love,  and  poetry  were  the  staples  of  Burns's  life  from  now  on.  lie  tried  flax- 
dressing  at  Irvine,  a  town  of  some  size  near-by,  but  succeeded  only  in  acquiring  the  bad 
habits  of  the  place  and  soon  returned  to  the  farm  and  to  poetry.  After  his  father's  death 
in  1784,  he  and  his  brother  Gilbert  moved  to  the  farm  of  Mossgiel  and  a  little  later  he 
met  Jean  Armour,  who  after  a  long  and  irregular  courtship  became  his  wife.  His  first 
collection  of  poems  was  issued  at  Kilmarnock  in  17SG,  and  such  was  their  immediate 
success  that  he  went  to  Edinburgh  and  brought  out  a  new  edition  the  following  winter. 
He  was  lionized  for  a  season,  but  had  bitterly  to  learn  the  difference  between  curiosity 
and  social  acceptance.  From  this  publication  he  realized  enough  money  to  pay  for  a 
tour  of  the  Highlands,  contribute  two  hundred  pounds  to  the  needs  of  his  brother,  and 
stock  a  farm  at  Ellisland.  Here  he  settled  with  his  wife  Jean,  now  regularly  marj-ied, 
in  December,  1788.  But  he  had  chosen  his  farm  with  a  poet's  rather  than  a  farmer's 
eye,  and  shortly  undertook  to  add  to  his  earnings  by  securing  a  post  in  the  excise  at 
Dumfries, —  'gauging  auld  wives'  barrels,'  he  called  it.  His  next  course  was  to  give  up 
the  farm  and  remove  his  family  to  town.  It  was  a  perilous  position  for  one  of  his 
temperament.  Too  many  '  trusty  droutby  cronies  '  clustered  around  him  ;  the  '  social  glass  ' 
became  too  frequent;   'thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low,  and  stained   his  name.' 

Yet  even  during  these  years  of  decline  in  health  and  respectability  his  genius  burned 
brightly.  Many  of  the  *old  Scots  songs'  with  which  his  name  is  inseparably  connected 
were  given  to  the  world  at  this  time;  many  equally  fine  were  not  printed  until  after  his 
death.  Though  it  is  totally  uncritical  to  think  of  him  as  merely  an  unlettered  natural 
singei-,  Burns  never  had  the  leisure  or  opportunity  to  become  a  highly  cultivated  poet  in 
the  English  language  or  on  the  grand  scale.  He  constantly  falls  back  upon  his  native 
dialect  for  his  most  telling  phrases  and  his  most  magical  bursts ;  and  he  is  at  his  best  in 
those  brief  snatches,  perfect  in  pitch  and  infinite  in  variety,  for  which  —  and  for  the 
passionate,    imperfect,    human    bounty    of   his    nature  —  the    world    so    deeply    loves    him. 


SONG:    MARY  MORISON 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be. 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor; 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw : 


Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a',  iS 

'  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.' 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whaie  only  faut  is  loving  thee?  20 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  : 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

(1800) 


490 


TO  JOHN  LAPRAIK 


491 


SONG:     MY  NANIE,  O 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows, 
'Mang  moors  an'   mosses   many,   O, 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos'd, 
An'  I  'II  awa  to  Nanie,  O. 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an'  shill :  5 
The  night 's  baith  mirk  an'  rainy,  O ; 

But  I  '11  get  my  plaid  an'  out  I  '11  steal, 
An'  owre  the  hill  to  Nanie,  O. 

My  Nanie  's  charming,  sweet,  an'  young ; 

Nae  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O:  ^° 

]\Iay  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 

That  wad  beguile  my  Nanie,  O. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true. 

As  spotless  as  she  's  bonie,  O : 
The  op'ning  gowan,  wat  wi'  dew,  'S 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nanie,  O. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree. 

An'   few  there  be  that  ken  me,   O ; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be? 
I  'm  welcome  aye  to  Nanie,  O.  20 

My  riches  a's  my  penny- fee, 

An'  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  O ; 

But  warl's  gear  ne'er  troubles  me,. 
My  thoughts  are  a'  my  Nanie,  O. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view  25 

His  sheep  an'  kye  thrive  bonie,  O ; 

But  I  'm  as  biythe  that  bauds  his  pleugh, 
And  has  nae  care  but  Nanie,  O. 

Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by, 
I  '11  tak  what  Heav'n  will  sen'  me,  O ;     30 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  hae  I, 
But  live,  an'  love  my  Nanie,  O. 

(1787) 


SONG:  GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES 

Chorus. —  Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I   spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O. 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  ban',     5 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O : 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O? 

The  war'ly  race  may  riches   chase. 
An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O;  10 


An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

But  gie  me  a  cannie  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,   O; 

An'  war'ly  cares,  an'  war'ly  men. 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,   O. 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this; 

Ye  're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O  : 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw. 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  O.  ■ 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  prentice  ban'  she  try'd  on  man. 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

(1803) 


From    LINES    TO    JOHN    LAPRAIK 

I  am  nae  Poet,  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  Rhymer  like  by  chance, 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance,         S 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,  '  How  can  you  e'er  propose. 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang?  '  10 

But,  by  your  leave,  my  learned   foes, 

Ye  're  maybe  wrang. 

What 's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools? 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools,  is 

What  sairs  your  grammars? 
Ye  'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools. 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes 
Confuse  their  brains   in  college  classes!     20 
They  gang  in   stirks  and  come  out  asses. 

Plain   truth   to   speak; 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 
By  dint  o'  Greek! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire,  25 

That 's  a'  the   learnin   I  desire ; 
Then,  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  Muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart.  30 

*     * 

(1786) 


492 


ROBERT  BURNS 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON   TURNING   UP   HER   NEST   WITH   THE   PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,    1 785 

Wee,   sleekit,   cowrin,   tim'rous   beastie. 
Oh,  what  a  panic  's  in  thy  brcastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  avva  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickcrin  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee  5 

Wi'   murd'rin  pattle! 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken   nature's   social  union, 
An'  justifies   that   ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle  'o 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'    fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve : 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave  '5 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
I  'II  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

An'  never  miss  't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 

Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  ^° 

An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'   foggage  green! 
An'  bleak   December's   winds   ensuin 

Baith   snell    an'  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste,    25 
An'  weary  winter  comin   fast. 
An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast 

Thou   thought   to  dwell, 
Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell.  30 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 

Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 

Now   thou 's   turn'd   out   for   a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble  35 

An'  cranreuch  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,  40 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 

But,  och  I  I  backward  cast  my  ee  45 

On   prospects   drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear ! 

(1786) 


THE  COTTER'S   SATURDAY  NIGHT 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT    AIKEN,    ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear   with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor, 

—  Gray. 

My    lov'd,    my    honored,    much    respected 
friend ! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With    honest    pride,    I    scorn    each    selfish 
end: 
My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and 

praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays,  5 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester 'd  scene; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
ways ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah  I    tho'    his    worth    unknown,    far    happier 
there,  I  ween ! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh. 

The    short'ning    winter    day    is    near    a 

close;  II 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh. 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their 

repose; 
The    toil-worn     Cotter    frae    his    labor 
goes, — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,— 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks  and  his 
hoes,  16 

Hoping    the    morn    in    ease    and    rest    to 
spend. 
And  weary  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ;     20 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stachcr 

through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'   fiichterin   noise 

an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonilie. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's 
smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does    a'   his    weary   kiaugh   and   care    be- 
guile, 26 
An'   makes    him   quite    forget   his    labor   an' 
his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some    ca    the    pleugh,    some    herd,    some 
tentie  rin  30 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  toun  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,   woman- 
grown. 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 


493 


In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  ee, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new 

gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee,       3S 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard- 
ship be. 

With   joy   unfeign'd   brothers   and   sisters 
meet, 
An'    each    for    other's    weelfare    kindly 
;  spiers : 

The    social   hours,   swift-wing'd,   unnotic'd 
fleet; 
Each    tells    the    uncos    that    he    sees    or 
hears.  40 

The  parents,   partial,   eye   their   hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 
The    mother,    wi'    her    needle    an'    her 
sheers. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  the 
new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due.    45 

Their   master's    an'    their    mistress's    com- 
mand 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
An'  ne'er  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or 

play: 
*  An'    O !     be    sure    to    fear    the    Lord 
alvvay,  50 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest     in     temptation's     path     ye     gang 
astray. 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright ! ' 

But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,    wha    kens    the    meaning    o'    the 

same,  56 

Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor. 

To    do    some    errands,    and   convoy   her 

hame. 
The    wily    mother    sees    the    conscious 
flame 
Sparkle    in    Jenny's    ee,    and    flush    her 
cheek;  60 

Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires 
his   name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears  it 's  nae  wild 
worthless   rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben, 

A  strappin  youth ;  he  takes  the  mother's 

eye ;  65 


Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  taen ; 
The    father    cracks    of    horses,    pleughs, 

and  kye. 
The   youngster's   artless   heart    o'erflows 
wi'  joy, 
But,    blate    and    laithfu',    scarce    can    weel 
behave ; 
The    mother    wi'    a    woman's    wiles    can 
spy  70 

What  maks  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae 
grave, 
Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn  's  respected 
like  the  lave. 

0  happy    love!    where    love    like    this    is 

found ! 
O  heart-felt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 

1  've     paced     much     this     weary,     mortal 

round,  75 

And    sage   experience   bids    me   this   de- 
clare— 
'If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleas- 
ure spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis    when    a    youthful,    loving,    modest 
pair. 
In    other's    arms    breathe    out    the    tender 
tale,  80 

Beneath    the    milk-white    thorn    that    scents 
the  ev'ning  gale.' 

Is    there,    in    human    form,    that    bears    a 
heart, 
A   wretch!   a   villain!    lost   to   love   and 
truth ! 
That  can  with  studied,  sly,   ensnaring  art 
Betray      sweet      Jenny's      unsuspecting 
youth?  85 

Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts!  dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points   to  the  parents   fondling  o'er  their 
child. 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  dis- 
traction wild?  90 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their   simple 

board, 

The  Jialesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia's 

food; 

The  sowpe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford. 

That  yont  the  hallan'  snugly  chows  her 

cud. 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental 
mood,  95 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck 
fell. 


494 


ROBERT  BURNS 


I 


And   aft   he's   prcst,   an'   aft   he   ca's   it 
guid; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i' 
the  bell. 

The    cheerfu'    supper    done,    wi'    serious 
face,  'o" 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er  with  patriarchal  grace 
The  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  ; 
His  bonnet   rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 
His   lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare; 
Those    strains    that    once    did    sweet    in 
Zion  glide,  ^°^ 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And,   '  Let   us   worship    God,'   he   says   with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant   their   artless  notes   in   simple 

guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 

aim:  "o 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures 

rise. 

Or    plaintive    Martyrs,    worthy    of    the 

name. 
Or   noble   Elgin   beats   the   heaven-ward 
flame. 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 
Compar'd   with  these,    Italian    trills    are 
tame;  "5 

The    tickl'd     ear    no    heart-felt    raptures 
raise; 
Nae    unison    hae    they    with    our    Creator's 
praise. 

The    priest-like    father    reads    the    sacred 
page,— 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage     i-o 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath   the   stroke   of   heaven's   avenging 
ire; 
Or    Job's    pathetic    plaint,    and    wailing 
cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire;         125 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps     the     Christian    volume     is     the 
theme, — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed; 
How  he,   who  bore  in  heav'n  the  second 
name. 
Had   not   on   earth   whereon   to   lay  his 
head:  130 


How    his    first    followers    and    servants 
sped ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land 
How  he,  who  lone   in   Patmos  banished, 
Saw   in    the   sun   a   mi.^hly   angel   stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'ion's  doom  pronounced 
by  Heav'n's  command.  us 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal 
King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 
prays : 
Hope    '  springs     exulting    on     triumphant 
wing,' 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 

days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,     140 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear. 
While    circling    Time    moves    round    in    an 
eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd   with  this,  how  poor   Religion's 
pride  '45 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When   men   display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace  except  the  heart ! 
The    Pow'r,    incens'd,    the    pageant    will 
desert. 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 
But  haply  in  some  cottage  far  apart    151 
May   hear,   well   pleased,  the   language   of 
the  soul. 
And   in   his   book   of   life  the   inmates  poor 
enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  ofif  their  sev'ral 
way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 
And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  re- 
quest, 157 
That  he,  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous 
nest 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the 
best,  160 
For   them   and    for   their    little   ones   pro- 
vide; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  gran- 
deur springs. 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd 
abroad : 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL 


495 


To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 
An'  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  pow'r,  an'  great  thy  fame ; 

Far  ken'd  an'  noted  is  thy  name; 

An  tho'  yon  lowin  heugh's  thy  hame,         is 

Thou  travels  far ; 
An'  faith!  thou 's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  rangin  like  a  roarin  lion. 

For  prey  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin  ;  20 

Whyles,  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin, 

Tirlin'  the  kirks; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin, 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I  've  heard  my  rev'rend  grannie  say,  z5 

In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray; 
Or  whare  auld  ruin'd  castles  gray 

Nod  to  the  moon, 
Ye   fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way 

Wi'  eldritch  croon.  3° 

When  twilight  did  my  grannie  summon 
To  say  her  pray'rs,  douce  honest  woman ! 
Aft  yont  the  dike  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi  eerie  drone ; 
Or,  rustlin,  thro'  the  boortrees  comin,        35 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night. 

The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin  light, 

Wi'  you  mysel  I  gat  a  fright 

Ayont  the  lough  ;  40 

Ye  like  a  rash-buss  stood  in  sight 

Wi'  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 
Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake. 
When  wi'  an  eldritch,  stoor  '  Quaick,  quaick,' 

Amang    the    springs,  46 

Awa  ye  squatter'd  like  a  drake, 

On    whistlin    wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim  an'  wither'd  hags 

Tell  how  wi'  you  on  ragweed  nags  50 

They  skim  the  muirs  an'  dizzy  crags 

Wi'   wicked   speed ; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Owre  howket   dead. 

Thence,  countra  wives  wi'  toil  an'  pain     ss 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 
For  oh !  the  yellow  treasure's  taen 

By  witchin   skill ; 
An'  dawtet,   twal-pint   hawkie's  gaen 

As   yell's   the   bill.  60 


Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of 

kings,  ^65 

'An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of 

God': 
And    certes,    in    fair    Virtue's    heavenly 
road. 
The    cottage    leaves    the    palace    far    be- 
hind : 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous 
load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied    in   arts   of   hell,   in    wickedness   re- 
fin'd!  171 

O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven 
is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be    blest    with    health,    and    peace,    and 
sweet  content !  J/S 

And,  oh !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives 
prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,   howe'er  crowns  and  coronets   be 
rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
lov'd  isle.  j8o 

O  thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart. 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or     nobly     die,     the     second     glorious 

part, — 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 
His    friend,    inspirer,    guardian,    and    re- 
ward!) 186 
O  never,  never   Scotia's  realm  desert, 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 
Li  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 


guard ! 


(1786) 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL 

0  thou !   whatever  title   suit  thee, — 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie ! 
Wha  in  yon  cavern,  grim  an'  sootie, 

Clos'd  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie 
To  scaud  poor  wretches ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 

1  'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  deil. 


496 


ROBERT  BURNS 


Thence,   mystic   knols   inak   ^rcat   abuse, 
On  young  guidmen,   fond,  keen,   an'  crousc ; 
When  the  best  wark-lunie  i'  the  house, 

By  cantrip  wit, 
Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse,  ^s 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord. 
An'  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord 
Then   water-kelpies   haunt  the    foord 

By    your    direction,  7o 

An'  nighted  trav'lers  are  allur'd 

To   their   destruction. 

And  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  is : 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkeys    75 

Delude  his  eyes, 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is. 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

When  masons'  mystic  word  and  grip 

In   storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up,         80 

Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop. 

Or,  strange  to  tell, 
The  youngest  brither  ye  wad  whip 

Aff   straught   to   hell! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonie  yard,  ^s 

When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
And  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

The  raptur'd  hour, 
Sweet  on  the   fragrant  flow'ry  swaird. 

In  shady  bow'r;  90 

Then  you,  ye   auld  sneck-drawin  dog! 

Ye  cam  to   Paradise  incog. 

And  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your    fa'!) 
And  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog,  95 

Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

D  'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 
Wi'  reeket  duds  and  reestet  gizz, 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

Mang  better   folk,  100 

An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uz 

Your   spitefu'   joke? 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall, 

An'  brak'  him  out  o'  house  and  hal', 

While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall,      io5 

Wi'   bitter   claw. 
An'  lows'd  his  ill-tongued,  wicked  scaul. 

Was  warst  ava? 

But   a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 

Your  wily  snares  an'   fechtin  fierce,  '"o 


Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down   to   this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  now,  auld  Clools,  I  ken  ye  're  thinkin, 
A  certain   Bardie's  rantin,  drinkin,  "6 

Some   luckless  hour  will   send  him   linkin. 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But   faith!  he'll  turn  a  corner  jinkin. 

An'  cheat  you  yet.  120 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ! 

0  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men'! 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I   dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake: 

1  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den,  '^5 

Ev'n   for  your  sake ! 

(1786) 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool? 

Let  him   draw   near ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,  5 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 

Who,   noteless,   steals  the  crowds  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng?  — 

Oh,  pass  not  by!  ^° 

But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 

Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer. 

Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career  i5 

Wild  as  the  wave?  — 
Here  pause  —  and  thro'  the  starting  tear 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know,       20 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name ! 

Reader,  attend !  whether  thy  soul  25 

Soars   fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,   prudent,   cautious   self-control 

Is  wisdom's   root.  3° 

(1786) 


TAM  GLEN 


497 


OF  A'   THE   AIRTS    THE   WIND   CAN 
BLAW 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There  's  wild  woods  grow  an'  rivers  row     s 

An'  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flow'rs, 

I  see  her  sweet  an'  fair:  lo 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air: 
There's  not  a  bonie  flow'r  that  springs 

By   fountain,   shaw  or  green  ; 
There's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings,  i5 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

(1790) 


GO  FETCH  TO  ME  A  PINT  O'  WINE 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine. 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie; 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonie  lassie : 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith,  s 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  f  rae  the  Ferry ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly. 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready, 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar,  n 

The   battle   closes   deep   and   bloody ; 
It 's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Would  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar —  is 

It 's  leaving  thee,  my  bonie  Mary ! 

(1790) 


AULD  LANG  SYNE 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  min'? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  auld  lang  syne? 

Cho. —  For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 
For  auld  lang  syne, 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-stowp, 
And  surely  I  '11  be  mine ! 
32 


And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine; 
But  we  've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  fit     15 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

From  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne.  2c 

And  there  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier, 

And  gie  's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

(1796) 


JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 

Your  bonie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

(1790) 


TAM  GLEN 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  tittie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len'; 

To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity, 
But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tam  Glen? 

I  'm   thinking,  wi'  sic  a  braw   fellow,  S 

In  poortith  I  might  mak  a  fen': 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow. 
If  I  maunna  marry  Tam  Glen? 

There  's  Lowrie,  the  laird  o'  Dumeller, 
'  Guid-day  to  you' — brute!  he  comes  ben: 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller,  n 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ^ 


498 


ROBERT  BURNS 


My  niiiinie  does  constantly  dcave  mc, 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men ; 

They   tlatter,   she  says,  to  deceive  me;         '3 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tarn  Glen? 

My  daddie  says,  gin   I  '11   forsake  him, 
lie '11  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten: 

But,  if  it 's  ordain'd  I  maun  tak  him, 
O,  wha  will  I  get  but  Tarn  Glen?  20 

Yestreen  at  the  valentines'  dealing. 
My  heart  to  my  mou  gied  a  sten : 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written,  '  Tam  Glen ' ! 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin  23 

My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken : 

His   likeness   cam   up   the  house    staukin, 
And  the  very  gray  breeks  o'  Tam  Glen ! 

Come  counsel,  dear  tittie,  don't  tarry; 

I  '11  gie  ye  my  bonie  black  hen,  3o 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 

(1790) 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN 

Thou   ling'ring   star,   with   less'ning  ray. 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

Aly   Mary   from   my   soul   was  torn. 
O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  !  5 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st    thou    the    groans    that    rend    his 
breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I   forget  the  hallowed  grove,  10 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past. 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace —  'S 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last  1 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbl'd  shore, 

O'erhung     with     wild     woods,     thick'ning 
green ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 

Twin'd  amorous  round  the  raptur'd  scene: 
The  flow'rs  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest,       21 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray. 
Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 


Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes,  25 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ! 
'lime  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest?  30 

See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st    tliou    the    groans    that    rend    his 
l)rrast  ? 

(1790) 


TAM  O'  SHANTER 
A  TALE 

Of   Brovvnyis   and   of    Bogillis   full   is   this   buke. 
• —  Gawin    Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies   leave  the   street, 
And  drouthy  neibors,  neibors  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 
While  we  sit  bousin  at  the  nappy  5 

And  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare   sits   our   sulky,    sullen   dame,  10 

Gathering  her  brows   like   gathering   storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter : 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,  '5 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 

O  Tam !  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  bletherin,   blusterin,  drunken  blellum ;     20 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 
That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on,  25 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on ; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that,   late  or  soon. 
Thou    would    be    found    deep    drown'd    in 
Doon ;  3o 

Or  catch't  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !  it  gars  me  greet. 
To  think  how  mony  counsels   sweet. 
How  mony  lengthened   sage  advices,  35 

The  husband   frae  the  wife  despises! 


TAM  O'  SHANTER 


499 


But  to  our  tale  :  —  Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezin  finely, 
Wi'  reamin  swats  that  drank  divinely;      4o 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony: 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs   and  clatter ; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better:  46 

The  landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious 
Wi'  secret  favors,  sweet,  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus :       so 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle 
Tarn  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy : 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure,       ss 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure  ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ;       60 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A    moment   white  —  then   melts    forever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form  65 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide : 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride, — 
That    hour,   o'    night's    black   arch    the    key- 

stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ;  70 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in. 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ;       74 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mear,  Meg, — 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, —  80 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  son- 
net, 
Whiles  glowrin  round  wi'  prudent  cares,  85 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-Alioway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 


By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman   smoor'd ; 
And  pa.st  the  birks  and  meikle  stane,         91 
Whare  drucken   Charlie  brak 's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn : 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well,  95 

Whare   Mungo's  mither  hang'd   hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ;       '0° 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway   seemed    in   a   bleeze : 
Thro'   ilka  bore  the  beams   were  glancing. 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  !  los 

What  dangers  thou  can'st  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi'  usquebae  we  '11  face  the  devil ! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle.         "o 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd. 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light ; 
And,  wow !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance;  us 

Nae    cotillon    brent-new    frae    France, 
But   hornpipes,  jigs,   strathspeys,  and   reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels: 
A  winnock  bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  Auld  Nick  in  shape  o'  beast;     120 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them   music  was  his  charge; 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. — 
Coffins  stood   round  like  open  presses,       125 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light. 
By  which   heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table  '3o 

A  murderer's  banes  m  gibbet  aims ; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,   unchristen'd  bairns ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted   frae  the  rape  — 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted;       '35 
Five  scymitars,   wi'  murder  crusted ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled ; 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft  — 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft;       '40 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu*. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious: 


500 


ROBERT  BURNS 


The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew,  hs 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 

They    reel'd,    they    set,    they    cross'd,    they 

cleekit, 
Till   ilka  carlin   swat  and  rcckit 
And  coost  her  duddics  to  the  wark 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark!  'So 

Now  Tam,  O  Tarn !  had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been   snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  ! — 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair,  'SS 

That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdles. 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies ! 


But     Tam     ken'd     what     was     what     fu' 
brawlie; 
There  was  ae  winsom  wench  and  walie,  i6o 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore: 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear,  165 
And   kept  the  country-side  in   fear)  ; 
Her  cutty  sark  o'  Paisley  harn. 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.         170 
Ah !  little  kent  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches). 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow'r, 
Sic   flights  are   far  beyond  her  povv'r;       176 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  fiang, 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitch'd. 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd;  180 

Even  Satan  glowr'd  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain. 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  '  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark! '  185 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark: 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 
When   plundering   herds   assail   their  byke; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal   foes,  191 

When  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  '  Catch  the  thief  !  '  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches   follow,         >95 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skriech  and  hollo. 


Ah,  Tam !  ah,  Tam  !  thou  '11  get  thy  fairin  I 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman!  200 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  ut;iiost,   Meg, 
And   win  the  kcy-stane  of  the  brig: 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make,    20s 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle —        210 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale. 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail. 

(1793) 


WILLIE   BREWED   A    PECK   O'   MAUT 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut,  i 

An'  Rob  an'  Allan  cam  to  see : 
Three  biyther  hearts  that  Ice-lang  night 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 

Chorus. —  We    are    na    fou,    we  're    nae 
that  fou,  5 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  ee; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw. 
And  aye  we  'II  taste  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys. 
Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we;  10 

An'  mony  a  night  we  've  merry  been. 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be! 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn. 
That's  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 
She  shines  sae  bright  to  wile  us  hame,    is 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she  '11  wait  a  wee ! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa', 
A  cuckold,  coward  loon  is  he ! 
Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa". 
He  is  the  king  amang  us  three !  20 

(1790) 


A  WINTER  NIGHT 

Poor    naked    wretches,    wheresoe'er    you    are, 
That   bide   the   pelting  of   this   pitiless   storm! 
How   shall   your   houseless   heads   and   unfed  sides, 
Your  looped  and  windowed  raggedness,  defend  you 
From   seasons   such   as   these? 

SlIAKSPERE. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure. 
Sharp   shivers   thro'  the   leafless  bow'r; 


DUNCAN  GRAY 


501 


When   Phoebus  gies  a  short  lived  glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-darkening   thro'   the    flaky    show'r  S 

Or  whirling  drift; 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked, 
Poor  Labor  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked, 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up-choked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl,  10 

Or,  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bocked, 

Down  headlong  hurl : 

Listening  the  doors  and  winnocks  rattle, 

I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 

Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle  '5 

O'  winter  war. 
An'  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

Ilk  happin  bird  —  wee,  helpless  thing! — 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring  2° 

Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing 

An'  close  thy  ee? 

Ev'n  you  on  murd'ring  errands  toil'd,         -5 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil'd, — 
The  blood-stain'd  roost  an'  sheep-cot  spoil'd 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats.  30 


(1787) 


HIGHLAND  MARY 


Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes,         S 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel, 

O'    my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How    rich    the    hawthorn's    blossom,         10 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life,  'S 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder:  20 


But  O !   fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips,  25 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly! 
And  closed    for  aye  the  sparkling  glance. 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mould'ring  now  in   silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly !  30 

But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

(1799) 


BONIE  DOON 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird,  s 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days. 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird. 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate;  10 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  wood-bine  twine. 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve,  is 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me.  20 


(1808) 


DUNCAN  GRAY 


Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu  hiegh,  s 

Look'd   asklent   and   unco   skiegh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abiegh; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 

Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  i» 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 


502 


ROBERT  BURNS 


Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin'. 
Spak  o'  lowpin  owre  a  linn;  "5 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

Time  and  chance  arc  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  2° 

'  Shall   I,  like  a   fool,'  quoth  he, 
'For  a  haughty  hizzie  die? 
She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  ! ' 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 

How  it  conies  let  doctors  tell,  ^s 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings;  3o 

And  O !  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things ! 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case,  35 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath; 
Now  they  're  crouse  and  cantie  baith ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't !  40 

(1798) 


SCOTS  WHA  HAE 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victory ! 
Now  's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour ;       5 
See   the   front  o'  battle  lour; 
See   approach   proud   Edward's   power  — 

Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave?  ^° 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 
Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa',  '5 

Let  him  follow  mc ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 


We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be   free ! 

Lay  the  proud   usurpers  low! 

'jyrants   fall   in  every  foe! 

Liberty  's  in  every  blow  !  — 
Let  us  do  or  die ! 


(1794) 


A  MAN  'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that,  5 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's   stamp ; 
The  man  's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  the'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden-gray,  an'  a'  that ;  'o 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor,     i5 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that.  20 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that. 
The   man   o'   independent   mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight,  ^s 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 
But   an   honest   man 's   aboon   his   might, 
Guid   faith  he  niauna  fa    that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that,  3° 

The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth. 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth,    35 
May  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

It  s  coming  yet,   for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that.  4o 

(1800) 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH   (1770-1850) 

Wordsworth  was  boru  at  Cockermouth  in  Cumberland,  and  educated  at  Plawkshead 
Grammar  School  between  Esthwaite  Water  and  Windermere  in  the  Lake  District,  with 
which  his  whole  life  was  closely  connected.  At  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  according  to 
bis  own  account,  he  was  neither  among  the  '  loyal  students  faithful  to  their  books,'  nor 
among  the  *  honest  dunces,'  but  one  of  the  '  half-and-half  idlers '  who  '  read  lazily  in 
trivial  books,'  amused  themselves  with  athletic  sports,  '  and  let  the  stars  Come  forth,  per- 
haps, without  one  quiet  thought.'  In  recollection,  Wordsworth  probably  exaggerated  his 
youthful  idleness,  for  he  read  extensively,  in  both  classical  and  modern  languages,  but  he 
was  not  for  that  hour,  nor  for  that  place,'  and  he  undoubtedly  profited  more,  intellectually 
and  spiritually,  by  his  vacations  in  the  Lake  District  and  in  France.  He  became  a  warm 
sympathizer  with  the  French  revolutionary  movement,  which  deeply  stirred  his  imagination. 
The  declaration  of  war  between  France  and  England  and  the  Ileign  of  Terror  in  France  cast 
him  into  deep  melancholy,  but  he  clung  to  his  revolutionary  principles  until  the  Napoleonic 
despotism  finally  threw  him  back  into  agreement  with  his  conservative  fellow-countrymen. 

In  this  spiritual  crisis  Wordsworth  owed  much  to  the  companionship  of  his  sister  Dorothy, 
with  whom  he  decided  to  retire  from  the  world  and  devote  himself  to  '  plain  living  and  high 
thinking.'  A  legacy  of  £900  from  a  young  admirer  (Raisley  Calvert)  enabled  the  Words- 
worths,  who  were  living  in  the  Lake  District  on  milk  and  potatoes,  to  carry  out  this 
resolution,  and  in  1795  they  took  a  cottage  at  Racedown.  in  Worcestershire,  where  they 
were  visited  by  Coleridge.  In  the  autumn  of  1797  the  three  friends  took  a  long  walk 
together  in  the  Quantock  Hills ;  and  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  excursion,  the  young  men 
planned  a  small  volume  of  poetry,  which  was  published  the  following  year  by  an  obscure 
Bristol  printer  under  the  title  of  Lyrical  Bullads.  Containing  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner 
and  Wordsworth's  Lines  icritten  above  Tintern  Abbey,  it  marked  very  distinctly  the  two 
new  streams  of  influence  which  were  to  enrich  English  poetry  throughout  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  it  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  important  events  in  the  history 
of  literature,  although  at  the  time  it  attracted  little  attention.  In  the  same  year  (1798) 
the  Wordsworths  and  Coleridge  sailed  for  Germany,  where  the  latter  plunged  deep  into 
the  study  of  German  literature  and  philosophy,  while  Wordsworth  began  the  composition 
of  The  Prelude,  an  account  of  his  own  poetical  and  spiritual  development,  which  was  fin- 
ished in   1S05,   although  withheld  from   publication   until   after  his  death. 

In  1799  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  settled  permanently  in  the  Lake  District,  their  home 
for  the  next  nine  years  being  Dove  Cottage,  Grasmere.  In  ISOO  the  payment  of  a  long 
deferred  debt  to  the  family  enabled  Wordsworth  to  marry  a  lifelong  friend,  Mary  Hutchison, 
sung  by  him  in  '  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight '  and  other  poems.  In  1813  he  was  given 
a  government  sinecure  as  distributor  of  stamps,  which  brought  him  in  £400  a  year,  and 
he  was  able  to  remove  to  a  larger  house  at  Rydal  Mount,  where  he  stayed  until  his  death. 
Most  of  his  work  now  recognized  as  of  the  highest  excellence  was  published  by  1807, 
though  his  longest  poem,  The  Excursion,  appeared  in  1814 ;  The  M'hitc  Doe  of  Rylstone 
and  Laodamia  in  1815;  Tlte  Waggoner  and  I'etcr  Bell  in  1819;  the  fine  series  of  son- 
nets, The  River  Duddon,  in  1820;  and  a  less  successful  sequence.  Ecclesiastical  Sketches, 
in  1822.  On  the  death  of  Southey  in  1843,  he  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate,  and  was  in 
turn  succeeded  by  Tennyson,  who  received  '  the  laurel  greener  from  the  brow,  Of  him  who 
uttered  nothing  base.' 

Wordsworth's  most  obvious  service  to  English  poetry  was  to  free  it  from  the  bondage 
of  the  artificial  diction  which  the  school  of  Pope  received  as  a  tradition  and  hardened  into 
a  convention.  Subsequent  ages  owe  him  a  greater  debt  for  opening  their  minds  to  truer 
and  deeper  relations  with  Nature,  and  their  hearts  to  sympathy  with  simple  things  and 
simple  people.  But  his  greatest  gift  was  neither  a  theory  of  diction  nor  a  system  of 
philosophy,  l)ut  the  union  of  high  imaginative  powers  with  a  rare  faculty  of  expression, 
which  enabled  him  to  enrich  English  poetry  with  priceless  treasures.  INIatthew  Arnold's  con- 
viction that  '  the  poetical  performance  of  Wordsworth  is  after  that  of  Shakspere  and  Mil- 
ton .  .  .  undoubtedly  the  most  considerable  in  our  language  from  the  Elizabethan  age 
to  the  present  time  '  has  been  confirmed  by  the  judgment  of  later  critics. 

503 


504  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


PREFACE  TO  LATER  ISSUES  ^""'^^    ''    healthy    or    depraved ;    which, 

RMTAi^t:'  ^g^i">   could   not   be   determined,   without 

OF     L\I\ICAL   BALLADS  pointing   out,    in   what   manner    language 

and    the   human    mind    act    and    react   on 

The  first  volume  of  these  poems  has  5  each  other,  and  without  retracing  the 
already  been  sul)mitted  to  general  revolutions,  not  of  literature  alone,  but 
perusal.  It  was  published  as  an  expcri-  likewise  of  society  itself.  I  have  there- 
mcnt,  which,  I  hoped,  might  be  of  some  fore  altogether  declined  to  enter  reg- 
use  to  ascertain,  how  far,  by  fitting  to  ularly  upon  this  defense;  yet  I  am 
metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  10  sensil^le,  that  there  would  be  some  im- 
real  language  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  propriety  in  abruptly  obtruding  upon  the 
sensation,  that  sort  of  pleasure  and  that  public,  without  a  few  words  of  intro- 
quantity  of  pleasure  may  be  imparted,  duction,  poems  so  materially  different 
which  a  poet  may  rationally  endeavor  to  from  those  upon  which  general  approba- 
impart.  15  tion   is  at  present  bestowed. 

I    had    formed   no   very    inaccurate    es-  It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  of  writ- 

timate  of  the  probable  effect  of  those  ing  in  verse  an  author  makes  a  formal 
poems:  I  flattered  myself  that  they  who  engagement  that  he  will  gratify  certain 
should  be  pleased  with  them  would  read  known  habits  of  association ;  that  he  not 
them  with  more  than  common  pleasure ;  20  only  thus  apprises  the  reader  that  certain 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was  well  classes  of  ideas  and  expressions  will  be 
aware,  that  by  those  who  should  dis-  found  in  his  book,  but  that  others  will  be 
like  them,  they  would  be  read  with  more  carefully  excluded.  This  exponent  or 
than  common  dislike.  The  result  has  symbol  held  forth  by  metrical  language 
differed  from  my  expectation  in  this  25  must  in  different  eras  of  literature  have 
only,  that  a  greater  number  have  been  excited  very  different  expectations:  for 
pleased  than  I  ventured  to  hope  I  should  example,  in  the  age  of  Catullus,  Terence, 
please.  and    Lucretius,    and    that    of    Statins    or 

Several  of  my  friends  are  anxious  for  Claudian;  and  in  our  own  country,  in  the 
the  success  of  these  poems  from  a  be-  30  age  of  Shakspere  and  Beaumont  and 
lief,  that,  if  the  views  with  which  they  Fletcher,  and  that  of  Donne  and  Cowley, 
were  composed  were  indeed  realized,  a  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I  will  not  take  upon 
class  of  poetry  would  be  produced  well  me  to  determine  the  exact  import  of  the 
adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  promise  which  by  the  act  of  writing  in 
and  not  unimportant  in  the  quality  and  31;  verse  an  author,  in  the  present  day,  makes 
in  the  multiplicity  of  its  moral  relations:  to  his  reader;  but  it  will  undoubtedly 
and  on  this  account  they  have  advised  me  appear  to  many  persons  that  I  have  not 
to  add  a  systematic  defense  of  the  theory  fulfilled  the  terms  of  an  engagement  thus 
upon  which  the  poems  were  written.  voluntarily  contracted.  They  who  have 
But  I  was  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  40  been  accustomed  to  the  gaudiness  and 
because  I  knew  that  on  this  occasion  the  inane  phraseology  of  many  modern 
reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  argu-  writers',  if  they  persist  in  reading  this 
ments,  since  I  might  be  suspected  of  book  to  its  conclusion,  will,  no  doubt, 
having  been  principally  influenced  by  frequently  have  to  struggle  with  feelings 
the  selfish  and  foolish  hope  of  reasoning  4'^  oi  strangeness  and  awkwardness:  they 
him  into  an  approbation  of  these  partic-  will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be 
ular  poems:  and  I  was  still  more  unwill-  induced  to  inquire  by  what  species  of 
ing  to  undertake  the  task,  because,  courtesy  these  attempts  can  be  per- 
adequately  to  display  my  opinions,  and  mitted  to  assume  that  title.  I  hope  there- 
fully  to  enforce  my  arguments,  would  50  fore  the  reader  will  not  censure  me,  for 
require  a  space  wholly  disproportionate  attempting  to  state  what  I  have  proposed 
to  a  preface.  For  to  treat  the  subject  to  myself  to  perform;  and  also  (as  far 
with  the  clearness  and  coherence  of  as  the  limits  of  a  preface  will  permit)  to 
which  it  is  susceptible,  it  would  be  explain  some  of  the  chief  reasons  which 
necessary  to  give  a  full  account  of  the  55  have  determined  me  in  the  choice  of  my 
present  state  of  the  public  taste  in  this  purpose:  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared 
country,   and   to   determine   how    far   this      any     unpleasant     feeling     of     disappoint- 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  505 


ment,  and  that  I  myself  may  be  protected  and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent, 
from  one  of  the  most  dishonorable  ac-  and  a  far  more  philosophical  language, 
cusations  which  can  be  brought  against  than  that  which  is  frequently  substituted 
an  author,  namely,  that  of  an  indolence  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  that  they  are 
which  prevents  him  from  endeavormg  5  conferring  honor  upon  themselves  and 
to  ascertain  what  is  his  duty,  or,  when  his  their  art,  in  proportion  as  they  separate 
duty  is  ascertained,  prevents  him  from  themselves  from  the  sympathies  of  men, 
performing  it.  and    indulge    in   arbitrary    and   capricious 

The  principal  object,  then,  proposed  in      habits  of  expression,   in  order  to  furnish 
these  poems  was  to  choose  incidents  and  10  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and  fickle  appetites, 
situations   from   common   life,   and  to   re-      of  their  own  creation, 
late  or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the 

as  was  possible,  in  a  selection  of  Ian-  present  outcry  against  the  triviality  and 
guage  really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the  meanness,  both  of  thought  and  language, 
same  time,  to  throw  over  them  a  certain  15  which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have 
coloring  of  imagination,  whereby  ordi-  occasionally  introduced  into  their  metrical 
nary  things  should  be  presented  to  the  compositions ;  and  I  acknowledge  that  this 
mind  in  an  unusual  aspect,  and,  further,  defect,  where  it  exists,  is  more  dis- 
and  above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  honorable  to  the  writer's  own  character 
and  situations  interesting  by  tracing  in  20  than  false  refinement  or  arbitrary  innova- 
them,  truly  though  not  ostentatiously,  tion,  though  I  should  contend  at  the  same 
the  primary  laws  of  our  nature :  chiefly,  time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the 
as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in  which  we  sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such 
associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement,  verses  the  poems  in  these  volumes  will  be 
Humble  and  rustic  life  was  generally  25  found  distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark 
chosen,  because,  in  that  condition,  the  of  difference,  that  each  of  them  has  a 
essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  worthy  purpose.  Not  that  I  always  be- 
better  soil  in  which  they  can  attain  their  gan  to  write  with  a  distinct  purpose 
maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  formally  conceived;  but  habits  of  med- 
speak  a  plainer  and  more  emphatic  Ian-  30  itation  have,  I  trust,  so  prompted  and 
guage;  because  in  that  condition  of  life  regulated  my  feelings,  as  that  my  de- 
our  elementary  feelings  co-exist  in  a  state  scriptions  of  such  objects  as  strongly 
of  greater  simplicity,  and,  consequently,  excite  those  feelings,  will  be  found  to 
may  be  more  accurately  contemplated,  carry  along  with  them  a  purpose.  If 
and  more  forcibly  communicated;  be- 35  this  opinion  is  erroneous,  I  can  have 
cause  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate  little  right  to  the  name  of  a  poet.  For 
from  those  elementary  feelings;  and  from  all  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  over- 
the  necessary  character  of  rural  occupa-  flow  of  powerful  feelings :  and  though 
tions,  are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  this  be  true,  poems  to  which  any  value 
are  more  durable ;  and,  lastly,  because  m  40  can  be  attached  were  never  produced  on 
that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man, 
incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and  per-  who,  being  possessed  of  more  than  usual 
manent  forms  of  nature.  The  language,  organic  sensibility,  had  also  thought  long 
too,  of  these  men  is  adopted  (purified  in-  and  deeply.  For  our  continued  influxes 
deed  from  what  appears  to  be  its  real  45  of  feeling  are  modified  and  directed  by 
defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational  '  our  thoughts,  which  are  indeed  the  reprc- 
causes  of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such  sentatives  of  all  our  past  feelings;  and, 
men  hourly  communicate  with  the  best  as  by  contemplating  the  relation  of  these 
objects  from  which  the  best  part  of  Ian-  general  representatives  to  each  other,  we 
guage  is  originally  derived;  and  because,  5o  discover  what  is  really  important  to  men. 
from  their  rank  in  society  and  the  same-  so,  by  the  repetition  and  continuance  of 
ness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  inter-  this  act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected 
course,  being  less  under  the  influence  of  with  important  subjects,  till  at  length,  if 
social  vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  we  be  originally  possessed  of  much  sen- 
and  notions  in  simple  and  unelaborated  55  sibility,  such  habits  of  mind  will  be  pro- 
expressions.  Accordingly  such  a  Ian-  duced,  that,  by  obeying  blindly  and 
guage,  arising  out  of  repeated  experience      mechanically  the  impulses  of  those  habits. 


5o6  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter  senti-  elder  writers,  I  bad  almost  said  the  works 
nients,  of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such  of  Shakspere  and  Milton,  are  driven  into 
connection  with  each  other,  that  the  un-  neglect  by  frantic  novels,  sickly  and 
derstanding  of  the  reader  must  necessarily  stupid  German  tragedies,  and  deluges  of 
be  in  some  degree  enlightened,  and  his  5  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in  verse.^ — 
affections   strengthened   and   purified.  When  I  think  upon  this  degrading  thirst 

I  have  said  that  each  of  these  poems  after  outrageous  stinmlation,  I  am  almost 
has  a  purpose.  But  it  is  proper  that  I  ashamed  to  have  spoken  of  the  feeble 
should  mention  one  other  circumstance  endeavor  made  in  these  volumes  to  coun- 
which  distinguishes  these  poems  from  the  10  teract  it;  and,  reflecting  upon  the  mag- 
l)opular  poetry  of  the  day;  it  is  this,  that  nitude  of  the  general  evil,  I  sliould  be 
the  feeling  therein  developed  gives  im-  oppressed  with  no  dishonorable  melan- 
portance  to  the  action  and  situation,  and  cboly,  had  I  not  a  deep  impression  of 
not  the  action  and  situation  to  the  feel-  certain  inherent  and  indestructible  quail- 
ing. My  meaning  will  be  rendered  per- ^5  ties  of  the  human  mind,  and  likewise  of 
fectly  intelligible  by  referring  my  reader  certain  powers  in  the  great  and  perma- 
to  the  poems  entitled  Poor  Susan  and  the  ncnt  objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are 
Childless  Pother,  particularly  to  the  last  equally  inherent  and  indestructible;  and 
stanza  of  the  latter  poem.  did   I  not   further  add  to  this   imi)ression 

I    will    not    suffer    a     sense    of    false  *°  a    belief,    that    the    time    is    approaching 
modesty    to    prevent    me    from    asserting,      when   the  evil   will   be   systematically  op- 
that  I  point  my  reader's  attention  to  this      posed,    by    men    of    greater    powers,    and 
mark  of  distinction,  far  less  for  the  sake      with   far  more  distinguished  success, 
of  these  particular  poems  than  from  the  Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects 

general  importance  of  the  subject.  The  25  and  aim  of  these  poems,  I  shall  request 
subject  is  indeed  important !  For  the  the  reader's  permission  to  apprise  him  of 
human  mind  is  capable  of  being  excited  a.  few  circumstances  relating  to  their 
without  the  application  of  gross  and  vio-  style,  in  order,  among  other  reasons,  that 
lent  stimulants;  and  he  must  have  a  very  I  may  not  be  censured  for  not  having 
faint  perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity  30  performed  what  I  never  attempted.  The 
who  does  not  know  this,  and  who  does  reader  will  find  that  personifications  of 
not  further  know,  that  one  being  is  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur  in  these 
elevated  above  another,  in  proportion  as  volumes ;  and,  I  hope,  are  utterly  re- 
he  possesses  this  capability.  It  has  there-  jected,  as  an  ordinary  device  to  elevate 
fore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  endeavor  to  35  the  style,  and  raise  it  above  prose.  I 
produce  or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  have  proposed  to  myself  to  imitate,  and, 
of  the  best  services  in  which,  at  any  as  far  as  is  possible,  to  adopt  the  very 
period,  a  writer  can  be  engaged;  but  this  language  of  men;  and  assuredly  such 
service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  espe-  personifications  do  not  make  any  natural 
cially  so  at  the  present  day.  For  a  40  or  regular  part  of  that  language.  They 
multitude  of  causes,  unknown  to  former  are,  indeed,  a  figure  of  speech  occasion- 
times,  are  now  acting  with  a  combined  ally  proiupted  by  passion,  and  I  have 
force  to  blunt  the  discriininating  powers  made  use  of  them  as  such ;  but  I  have 
of  the  mind,  and  unfitting  it  for  all  endeavored  utterly  to  reject  them  as  a 
voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a  state  4S  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as  a  fam- 
of  almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  ef-  ily  language  which  writers  in  meter  seem 
fective  of  these  causes  are  the  great  to  lay  claim  to  by  prescription.  I  have 
national  events  which  are  daily  taking  wished  to  keep  my  reader  in  the  company 
place,  and  the  increasing  accumulation  of  flesh  and  blood,  persuaded  that  by  so 
of  men  in  cities,  where  the  uniformity  5o  doing  I  shall  interest  him.  Others  who 
of  their  occupations  produces  a  craving  pursue  a  different  track  will  interest  him 
for  extraordinary  incident,  which  the  likewise;  I  do  not  interfere  with  their 
rapid  communication  of  intelligence  claim,  but  wish  to  prefer  a  different  claim 
hourly  gratifies.  To  this  tendency  of  life  of  my  own.  There  will  also  be  found  in 
and  manners  the  literature  and  theatrical  55  these  pieces  little  of  what  is  usually  called 
exhibitions  of  the  country  have  conformed  poetic  diction ;  as  much  pains  has  been 
themselves.     The  invaluable  works  of  our      taken   to   avoid   it   as   is   ordinarily   taken 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  507 

to  produce  it;  this  has  been  done  for  the  found  to  be  strictly  the  language  of  prose, 
reason  already  alleged,  to  bring  my  Ian-  when  prose  is  well  written.  The  truth 
guage  near  to  the  language  of  men,  and  of  this  assertion  might  be  demonstrated 
further,  because  the  pleasure  which  I  by  innumerable  passages  from  almost  all 
have  proposed  to  myself  to  impart,  is  of  5  the  i)oetical  writings,  even  of  Milton 
a  kind  very  different  from  that  v^-hich  himself.  To  illustrate  the  subject  in  a 
is  supposed  by  many  persons  to  be  the  general  manner,  I  will  here  adduce  a 
proper  object  of  poetry.  Without  being  short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at 
culpably  particular,  I  do  not  know  how  the  head  of  those  who,  by  their  reason- 
to  give  my  reader  a  more  exact  notion  10  ings,  have  attempted  to  widen  the  space 
of  the  style  in  which  it  was  my  wish  and  of  separation  betwixt  prose  and  metrical 
intention  to  write,  than,  by  informing  him  composition,  and  was  more  than  any  other 
that  I  have  at  all  times  endeavored  to  look  man  curiously  elaborate  in  the  structure 
steadily  at  my  subject;  consequently,  of  his  own  poetic  diction, 
there    is,    I    hope    in    these    poems    little  i5 

falsehood  of  description,  and  my  ideas  In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
are  expressed  in  language  fitted  to  their  And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire: 
respective  importance.  Something  must  The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant 
have   been   gained   by   this  practice,   as   it  join, 

is  friendly  to  one  property  of  all  good  2°  Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire, 
poetry,  namely,  good  sense;  but  it  has  These  ears,  alas!  for  other  notes  repine; 
necessarily  cut  me  off  from  a  large  por-  A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require; 
tion  of  phrases  and  figures  of  speech  My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine; 
which  from  father  to  son  have  long  been  And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire: 
regarded  as  the  common  inheritance  of  25  Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  expedient  And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier 
to    restrict    myself    still    further,    having  m^" ." 

abstained  from  the  use  of  many  expres-  The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear; 
sions,  in  themselves  proper  and  beautiful,  To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  corn- 
but    which    have    been    foolishly    repeated  30  plani. 

by  bad  poets,  till  such  feelings  of  disgust  '  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 
are  connected  with  them  as  it  is  scarcely  ^"'^  "^^'<-'<-'P  ^'^^  ^>iore  because  I  zveep  in  vain. 
possible  by  any  art  of  association  to  over-  It    will    easily    be    perceived,    that    the 

po\ver.  only  part  of  this  sonnet  which  is  of  any 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  35  value  is  the  lines  printed  in  italics;  it  is 
series  of  lines,  or  even  a  single  line,  in  equally  obvious,  that,  except  in  the  rime, 
which  the  language,  though  naturally  ar-  and  in  the  use  of  the  single  word  '  fruit- 
ranged,  and  according  to  the  strict  laws  less  '  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far  a  de- 
of  meter,  does  not  differ  from  that  of  feet,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in 
prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class  of  critics  40  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  prose, 
who,     when     they     stumble     upon     these  By    the     foregoing    quotation     I     have 

prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  imagine  that  shown  that  the  language  of  prose  may 
they  have  made  a  notable  discovery,  and  yet  be  well  adapted  to  poetry;  and  it  was 
exult  over  the  poet  as  over  a  man  previously  asserted,  that  a  large  portion 
ignorant  of  his  own  profession.  Now  45  of  the  language  of  every  good  poem  can 
these  men  would  establish  a  canon  of  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good 
criticism  which  the  reader  will  conclude  prose.  We  will  go  further.  It  may  be 
he  must  utterly  reject,  if  he  wishes  to  safely  affirmed,  that  there  neither  is,  nor 
be  pleased  with  these  pieces.  And  it  can  be,  any  essential  difference  between 
would  be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to  5o  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical  com- 
him,  that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large  position.  We  are  fond  of  tracing  the 
portion  of  every  good  poem,  even  of  the  resemblance  between  poetry  and  paint- 
most  elevated  character,  must  necessarily,  ing,  and.  accordingly,  we  call  them  sisters : 
except  with  reference  to  the  meter,  in  no  but  where  shall  we  find  bonds  of  con- 
respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose,  55  nection  sufficiently  strict  to  typify  the 
but  likewise  that  some  of  the  most  in-  affinity  betwixt  metrical  and  prose  com- 
tcresting  parts  of  the  best  poems  will  Ije      position?     They  both  speak  by  and  to  the 


5o8  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


same  organs;  the  bodies  in  which  both  of  his  own  with  that  which  the  passion  natu- 
thcni  are  clothed  may  be  said  to  be  of  the  rally  suggests:  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
same  substance,  their  affections  are  such  a<ldilion  is  unnecessary.  And, 
kindred,  and  almost  identical,  not  neces-  surely,  it  is  more  jjrobable  that  those 
sarily  differing  in  degree;  poetry^  sheds  5  passages,  which  with  propriety  al)ound 
no  tears  'such  as  angels  weep'  but  with  metaphors  and  figures,  will  have 
natural  and  human  tears;  she  can  boast  their  due  effect,  if,  upon  other  occasions 
of  no  celestial  ichor  that  distinguishes  where  the  passions  are  of  a  milder  char- 
her  vital  juices  from  those  of  prose;  the  acter,  the  style  also  be  subdued  and 
same  human  blood  circulates  through  the  lo  temperate, 
veins  of  them   ])oth.  But,   as   the   pleasure   which   I   hope   to 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rime  and  metrical  give  by  the  poems  now  presented  to  the 
arrangement  of  themselves  constitute  a  reader  must  depend  entirely  on  just  no- 
distinction  which  overturns  what  has  just  tions  upon  this  subject,  and,  as  it  is  in 
been  said  on  the  strict  aflinity  of  metrical  ^5  itself  of  high  importance  to  our  taste 
language  with  that  of  prose,  and  paves  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot  content  my- 
the  way  for  other  artificial  distinctions  self  with  these  detached  remarks.  And 
which  the  mind  voluntarily  admits,  I  an-  if,  in  what  I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall 
swer  that  the  language  of  such  poetry  as  appear  to  some  that  my  labor  is  unneces- 
is  here  recommended  is,  as  far  as  is2osary,  and  that  I  am  like  a  man  fighting 
possible,  a  selection  of  the  language  really  a  battle  without  enemies,  such  persons 
spoken  by  men;  that  this  selection,  where-  may  be  reminded,  that,  whatever  may  be 
ever  it  is  made  with  true  taste  and  feeling,  the  language  outwardly  holden  by  men, 
will  of  itself  form  a  distinction  far  a  practical  faith  in  the  opinions  which 
greater  than  would  at  first  be  imagined,  25  I  am  wishing  to  establish  is  almost  un- 
and  will  entirely  separate  the  composi-  known.  If  my  conclusions  are  admitted, 
tion  from  the  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  and  carried  as  far  as  they  must  be  car- 
ordinary  life;  and,  if  meter  be  superadded  ried  if  admitted  at  all,  our  judgments 
thereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimilitude  will  concerning  the  works  of  the  greatest 
be  produced  altogether  sufficient  for  the  30  poets  both  ancient  and  modern  will  be 
gratification  of  a  rational  mind.  What  far  different  from  what  they  are  at  pres- 
other  distinction  would  we  have  ?  ent,  both  when  we  praise,  and  when  we 
Whence  is  it  to  come?  And  where  is  it  censure:  and  our  moral  feelings  influenc- 
to  exist?  Not,  surely,  where  the  poet  ing  and  influenced  by  these  judgments 
speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  charac-  35  will,  I  believe,  be  corrected  and  purified, 
ters :   it   cannot  be  necessary  here,   either  Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  gen- 

for  elevation  of  style,  or  any  of  its  sup-  eral  grounds,  let  me  ask  what  is  meant 
posed  ornaments:  for,  if  the  poet's  sub-  by  the  word  'poet'?  What  is  a  poet? 
ject  be  judiciously  chosen,  it  will  natu-  To  whom  does  he  address  himself?  And 
rally,  and  upon  fit  occasion,  lead  him  to  40  what  language  is  to  be  expected  from 
passions  the  language  of  which,  if  selected  him?  He  is  a  man  speaking  to  men:  a 
truly  and  judiciously,  must  necessarily  be  man,  it  is  true,  endowed  with  more  lively 
dignified  and  variegated,  and  alive  with  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tender- 
metaphors  and  figures.  I  forbear  to  ness,  who  has  a  greater  knowledge  of 
speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would  45  human  nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive 
shock  the  intelligent  reader  should  the  soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  common 
poet   interweave   any   foreign   splendor   of      among  mankind;  a  man  pleased  with  his 

own  passions  and  volitions,  and  who  re- 

1 1  here  use  the  word  '  poetry '   (though  against      joices  more  than  Other  men  in  the  spirit 

my   own   judsment)   as  opposed   to  the   word   '  prose,'  ^    y^        j          j       ■       j;          delighting    tO    COn- 

and     synonymous     with     metrical     composition.      But  ,              .      .,               ...              '^  ,        "     . 

much    confusion    has    been    introduced    into    criticism  template    SUlldar    VOlltlOns    and    pasSlOUS    aS 

by  this  contradistinction  of  poetry  and  prose,  instead  manifested    in    the    goingS-On    of    the    Uni- 

of    the    more    philosophical    one    of    poetry    and    mat-  ^     habitually     impelled     tO     Create 

ter   of    fact,    or    science.     The    only    strict    antithesis  ,          '       ,             ,          i                  ,     /-      i      i                t- 

to  prose  is  meter;   nor  is  this,   in  truth,  a  strict      thcm   where   he  does   not   find   them.      10 

antithesis;     because     lines    and     passages     of     meter  55  these     qualities     he    haS     added,     a     disposi- 

so  naturally  occur  in  writing  prose,  that  it  would      ^.j^j^  ^^  j^^  affected  more  than  Other  men 

be    scarcely    possible    to    avoid    them,    even    were    it        ,  ,  ^    ,,  .  -r   ii  .-„    * 

desirable.  bv  absent  thmgs  as  if  they  were  present; 


I 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  509 

an  ability  of  conjuring  up  in  himself  pas-  But   it  may   be   said   by   those   who   do 

sions,  which  are  indeed  far  from  being  not  object  to  the  general  spirit  of  these 
the  same  as  those  produced  by  real  events,  remarks,  that,  as  it  is  impossible  for  the 
yet  (especially  in  those  parts  of  the  gen-  poet  to  produce  upon  all  occasions  lan- 
eral  sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and  de-  5  guage  as  exquisitely  fitted  for  the  passion 
hghtful)  do  more  nearly  resemble  the  as  that  which  the  real  passion  itself  sug- 
passions  produced  by  real  events,  than  gcsts,  it  is  proper  that  he  should  consider 
anything  which,  from  the  motions  of  their  himself  as  in  the  situation  of  a  trans- 
own  minds  merely,  other  men  are  ac-  lator,  who  does  not  scruple  to  substitute 
customed  to  feel  in  themselves ;  whence,  10  excellencies  of  another  kind  for  those 
and  from  practice,  he  has  acquired  a  which  are  unattainable  by  him;  and  en- 
greater  readiness  and  power  in  expressing  deavors  occasionally  to  surpass  his  orig- 
what  he  thinks  and  feels,  and  especially  inal  in  order  to  make  some  amends 
those  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  by  his  for  the  general  inferiority  to  which  he 
own  choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his  15  feels  that  he  must  submit.  But  this 
own  mind,  arise  in  him  without  immedi-  would  be  to  encourage  idleness  and  un- 
ate   external   excitement.  manly    despair.     Further,    it    is    the    lan- 

But,  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  guage  of  men  who  speak  of  what  they 
we  may  suppose  even  the  greatest  poet  do  not  understand ;  who  talk  of  poetry 
to  possess,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  but  20  as  of  a  matter  of  amusement  and  idle 
that  the  language  which  it  will  suggest  pleasure;  who  will  converse  with  us  as 
to  him  must  often,  in  liveliness  and  gravely  about  a  taste  for  poetry,  as  they 
truth,  fall  far  short  of  that  which  is  express  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  as  in- 
uttered  by  men  in  real  life,  under  the  different  as  a  taste  for  rope-dancing,  or 
actual  pressure  of  those  passions,  certain  =5  frontiniac  or  sherry.  Aristotle,  I  have 
shadows  of  which  the  poet  thus  produces,  been  told,  has  said,  that  poetry  is  the 
or  feels  to  be  produced,  in  himself.  most  philosophic  of  all  writing:  it  is  so: 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  its  object  is  truth,  not  individual  and 
wish  to  cherish  of  the  character  of  a  local,  but  general,  and  operative;  not 
poet,  it  is  obvious,  that,  while  he  de-  30  standing  upon  external  testimony,  but 
scribes  and  imitates  passions,  his  employ-  carried  alive  into  the  heart  by  passion ; 
ment  is  in  some  degree  mechanical,  com-  truth  which  is  its  own  testimony,  which 
pared  with  the  freedom  and  power  of  gives  competence  and  confidence  to  the 
real  and  substantial  action  and  suffer-  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and  receives 
ing.  So  that  it  will  be  the  wish  of  the  35  them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is 
poet  to  bring  his  feelings  near  to  those  the  image  of  man  and  nature.  The  ob- 
of  the  persons  whose  feelings  he  de-  staclcs  which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidel- 
scribes,  nay,  for  short  spaces  of  time,  ity  of  the  biographer  and  historian  and  of 
perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into  an  entire  their  consequent  utility,  are  incalculably 
delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  40  greater  than  those  which  are  to  be  encoun- 
his  own  feelings  with  theirs;  modifying  tered  by  the  poet  who  comprehends  the 
only  the  language  which  is  thus  sug-  dignity  of  his  art.  The  poet  writes  under 
gested  to  him  by  a  consideration  that  he  one  restriction  only,  namely,  that  of  the 
describes  for  a  particular  purpose,  that  of  necessity  of  giving  immediate  pleasure  to 
giving  pleasure.  Here,  then,  he  will  apply  45  a  human  being  possessed  of  that  informa- 
the  principle  of  selection  which  has  been  tion  which  may  be  expected  from  him, 
already  insisted  upon.  He  will  depend  not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  mariner, 
upon  this  for  removing  what  would  an  astronomer,  or  a  natural  philosopher, 
otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in  the  but  as  a  man.  Except  this  one  restric- 
passion;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  50  tion,  there  is  no  object  standing  between 
necessity  to  trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature :  the  poet  and  the  image  of  things ;  between 
and,  the  more  industriously  he  applies  this  this,  and  the  biographer  and  historian 
principle,  the  deeper  will  be  his  faith  that      there  are  a  thousand. 

no  words,  which  his  fancy  or  imagination  Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  im- 

can  suggest,  will  be  to  be  compared  with  55  mediate  pleasure  be  "  considered  as  a 
those  which  are  the  emanations  of  reality  degradation  of  the  poet's  art.  It  is  far 
and  truth.  otherwise.     It    is    an    acknowledgment   of 


5IO  WILLIy\M  WORDSWORTH 


the  beauty  of  the  universe,  an  acknovvl-  converses  with  general  nature  with  affec- 
edgnient  the  more  sincere,  because  not  tions  akin  to  those,  which,  through  labor 
foriual,  but  indirect;  it  is  a  task  light  and  and  length  of  time,  the  man  of  science 
easy  to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the  has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing 
spirit  of  love:  further,  it  is  a  homage  5  witli  those  particular  parts  of  nature 
paid  to  the  native  and  naked  dignity  of  which  are  the  objects  of  his  studies, 
man,  to  the  grand  elementary  princii)lc  The  knowledge  both  of  the  poet  and  the 
of  pleasure,  by  which  he  knows,  and  man  of  science  is  pleasure ;  but  the  know- 
fccls,  and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have  no  ledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  neces- 
sympathy  but  what  is  propagated  by  lo  sary  part  of  our  existence,  our  natural 
pleasure :  I  would  not  be  misunderstood ;  and  inalienable  inheritance ;  the  other  is 
but  wherever  we  sympathize  with  pain,  a  personal  and  individual  acquisition, 
it  will  be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by  no  habitual 
produced  and  carried  on  by  subtle  com-  and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us  with 
binations  with  pleasure.  We  have  no  '5  our  fellow-beings.  The  man  of  science 
knowdedge,  that  is,  no  general  principles  seeks  truth  as  a  remote  and  unknown 
drawn  from  the  contemplation  of  par-  benefactor;  he  cherishes  and  loves  it  in 
ticular  facts,  but  what  has  been  built  up  his  solitude:  the  poet,  singing  a  song  in 
by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us  by  pleasure  wliich  all  human  beings  join  with  him, 
alone.  The  man  of  science,  the  chemist  2°  rejoices  in  the  presence  of  truth  as  our 
and  mathematician,  whatever  difficulties  visible  friend  and  hourly  companion, 
and  disgusts  they  may  have  had  to  Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all 
struggle  with,  know  and  feel  this.  How-  knowledge ;  it  is  the  impassioned  exprcs- 
ever  painful  may  be  the  objects  with  sion  which  is  in  the  countenance  of  all 
which  the  anatomist's  knowledge  is  con- 25  science.  Emphatically  may  it  be  said  of 
nectcd,  he  feels  that  his  knowledge  is  the  poet,  as  Shakspere  hath  said  of  man, 
pleasure;  and  where  he  has  no  pleasure  'that  he  looks  before  and  after.'  He  is 
he  has  no  knowledge.  What  then  does  the  rock  of  defence  of  human  nature;  an 
the  poet?  He  considers  man  and  the  ob-  upholder  and  preserver,  carrying  every- 
jects  that  surround  him  as  acting  and  re- 30  where  with  him  relationship  and  love, 
acting  upon  each  other,  so  as  to  produce  In  spite  of  difference  of  soil  and  climate, 
an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and  pleas-  of  language  and  manners,  of  laws  and 
ure;  he  considers  man  in  his  own  nature  customs,  in  spite  of  things  silently  gone 
and  in  his  ordinary  life  as  contemplating  out  of  mind,  and  things  violently  de- 
this  with  a  certain  quantity  of  immediate  35  stroyed,  the  poet  binds  together  by  pas- 
knowledge,  with  certain  convictions,  intui-  sion  and  knowledge  the  vast  empire  of 
tions,  and  deductions,  which  from  habit  human  society,  as  it  is  spread  over  the 
acquire  the  quality  of  intuitions;  he  con-  whole  earth,  and  over  all  time.  The 
siders  him  as  looking  upon  this  complex  objects  of  the  poet's  thoughts  are  every- 
scene  of  ideas  and  sensations,  and  finding 40  where;  though  the  eyes  and  senses  of 
everywhere  objects  that  immediately  ex-  man  are,  it  is  true,  his  favorite  guides, 
cite  in  him  sympathies  which,  from  the  yet  he  will  follow  wheresoever  he  can 
necessities  of  his  nature,  are  accompanied  find  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which 
by  an  overbalance  of  enjoyment.  to   move    his    wings.     Poetry   is   the   first 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  45  and  last  of  all  knowledge  —  it  is  as  im- 
carry  about  with  them,  and  to  these  mortal  as  the  heart  of  man.  li  the  labors 
sympathies  in  which  without  any  other  of  men  of  science  should  ever  create  any 
discipline  than  that  of  our  daily  life,  we  material  revolution,  direct  or  indirect,  in 
are  fitted  to  take  delight,  the  poet  prin-  our  condition,  and  in  the  impressions 
cipally  directs  his  attention.  He  con-5o  which  we  habitually  receive,  the  poet  will 
siders  man  and  nature  as  essentially  sleep  then  no  more  than  at  present,  but 
adapted  to  each  other,  and  the  mind  of  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps  of 
man  as  naturally  the  mirror  of  the  fairest  the  man  of  science,  not  only  in  those  gen- 
and  nifist  interesting  qualities  of  nature,  eral  indirect  effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his 
And  thus  the  poet,  prompted  by  this  feel- 55  side,  carrying  sensation  into  the  midst  of 
ing  of  pleasure  which  accompanies  him  the  objects  of  the  science  itself.  The 
through  the   whole  course  of  his  studies,      remotest  discoveries   of   the   chemist,    the 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  51 1 

botanist,  or  mineralogist,  will  be  as  men  by  a  greater  promptness  to  think  and 
proper  objects  of  the  poet's  art  as  any  feel  without  immediate  external  excite- 
upon  which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  nient,  and  a  greater  power  in  expressing 
time  should  ever  come  when  these  things  such  thoughts  and  feelings  as  are  pro- 
shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  the  relations  5  duced  in  him  in  that  manner.  But  these 
under  which  they  are  contemplated  by  the  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings  are 
followers  of  these  respective  sciences  the  general  passions  and  thoughts  and 
shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably  material  feelings  of  men.  And  with  what  are  they 
to  us  as  enjoying  and  suti'ering  beings.  connected?  Undoubtedly  with  our  moral 
If  the  time  should  ever  come  when  what  10  sentiments  and  animal  sensations,  and 
is  now  called  science,  thus  familiarized  with  the  causes  which  excite  these;  with 
to  men,  shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  the  operations  of  the  elements,  and 
were,  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  poet  the  appearances  of  the  visible  universe ; 
will  lend  his  divine  spirit  to  aid  the  trans-  with  storm  and  sunshine,  with  the  revolu- 
figuration,  and  will  welcome  the  being  is  tions  of  the  seasons,  with  cold  and  heat, 
thus  produced,  as  a  dear  and  genuine  in-  with  loss  of  friends  and  kindred,  with 
mate  of  the  household  of  man. —  It  is  not,  injuries  and  resentments,  gratitude  and 
then,  to  be  supposed  that  any  one,  who  hope,  with  fear  and  sorrow.  These,  and 
holds  that  sublime  notion  of  poetry  which  the  like,  are  the  sensations  and  objects 
I  have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  20  which  the  poet  describes,  as  they  are 
in  upon  the  sanctity  and  truth  of  his  the  sensations  of  other  men,  and  the  ob- 
pictures  by  transitory  and  accidental  jects  which  interest  them.  The  poet 
ornaments,  and  endeavor  to  excite  ad-  thinks  and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  the  pas- 
miration  of  himself  by  arts,  the  necessity  sions  of  men.  How,  then,  can  his  lan- 
of  which  must  manifestly  depend  upon  ^5  guage  differ  in  any  material  degree  from 
the  assumed  meanness  of  his  sul)ject.  that   of   all    other   men   who    feel   vividly 

What  I  have  thus  far  said  applies  to  and  see  clearly?  It  might  be  proved  that 
poetry  in  general;  but  especially  to  those  it  is  impossible.  But  supposing  that  this 
parts  of  composition  where  the  poet  were  not  the  case,  the  poet  might  then 
speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  charac-  3o  be  allowed  to  use  a  peculiar  language 
ters ;  and  upon  this  point  it  appears  to  when  expressing  his  feelings  for  his  own 
authorize  the  conclusion,  that  there  are  gratification,  or  that  of  men  like  himself, 
few  persons  of  good  sense,  who  would  But  poets  do  not  write  for  poets  alone, 
not  allow  that  the  dramatic  parts  of  com-  but  for  men.  Unless  therefore  we  are 
position  are  defective,  in  proportion  as  35  advocates  for  that  admiration  which  sub- 
they  deviate  from  the  real  language  of  sists  upon  ignorance,  and  that  pleasure 
nature,  and  are  colored  by  a  diction  of  the  which  arises  from  hearing  what  we  do 
poet's  own,  either  peculiar  to  him  as  an  not  understand,  the  poet  must  descend 
individual  poet  or  belonging  simply  to  from  this  supposed  height,  and,  in  order 
poets  in  general,  to  a  body  of  men  who,  40  to  excite  rational  sympathy,  he  must  ex- 
from  the  circumstance  of  their  composi-  press  himself  as  other  men  express  them- 
tions  being  in  meter,  it  is  expected  will  selves.  To  this  it  may  be  added,  that 
employ    a    particular    language.  while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the   real 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  language  of  men,  or,  which  amounts  to 
of  composition  that  we  look  for  this  dis-  45  the  same  thing,  composing  accurately  in 
tinction  of  language ;  but  still  it  may  be  the  spirit  of  such  selection,  he  is  treading 
proper  and  necessary  where  the  poet  upon  safe  ground,  and  we  know  what  we 
speaks  to  us  in  his  own  person  and  char-  are  to  expect  from  him.  Our  feelings 
acter.  To  this  I  answer  by  referring  my  are  the  same  with  respect  to  meter;  for, 
reader  to  the  description  which  I  have  5o  as  it  may  be  proper  to  remind  the  reader, 
before  given  of  a  poet.  Among  the  the  distinction  of  meter  is  regular  and 
qualities  which  I  have  enumerated  as  uni-form,  and  not,  like  that  which  is  pro- 
principally  conducing  to  form  a  poet,  is  duced  by  what  is  usually  called  poetic 
implied  nothing  differing  in  kind  from  diction,  arbitrary,  and  subject  to  infinite 
other  men,  but  only  in  degree.  The  sum  55  caprices  upon  which  no  calculation  what- 
of  what  I  have  there  said  is,  that  the  ever  can  be  made.  In  the  one  case,  the 
poet   is    chiefly   distinguished    from   other      reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  poet 


512  WILLIAM  WORi:)S\VORTH 

respecting  what  imagery  or  diction  he  which  poems  have  continued  to  give 
may  choose  to  connect  with  the  passion,  pleasure  from  generation  to  generation, 
whereas,  in  the  other,  the  meter  obeys  Now,  if  nakedness  and  simpHcity  be  a 
certain  laws,  to  which  the  poet  and  reader  defect,  the  fact  here  mentioned  affords 
both  willingly  submit  because  they  are  5  a  strong  presumption  that  poems  some- 
certain,  and  because  no  interference  is  what  less  naked  and  simple  are  capable 
made  by  them  with  the  passion  but  such  of  affording  pleasure  at  the  present  day; 
as  the  concurring  testimony  of  ages  has  and,  what  I  wished  chiefly  to  attempt,  at 
shown  to  heighten  and  improve  the  pleas-  present,  was  to  justify  myself  for  having 
ure    which    co-exists    with    it.  lo  written  under  the  impression  of  this  be- 

lt  will   now   be   proper   to   answer   an      lief, 
obvious   question,   namely,   Why,   profess-  But    various    causes    might    be    pointed 

ing  these  opinions,  have  I  written  in  out  why,  when  the  style  is  manly,  and 
verse?  To  this,  in  addition  to  such  an-  the  subject  of  some  importance,  words 
swer  as  is  included  in  what  I  have  al- 15  metrically  arranged  will  long  continue 
ready  said,  I  reply,  in  the  first  place,  to  impart  such  a  pleasure  to  mankind  as 
Because,  however  I  may  have  restricted  he  who  is  sensible  of  the  extent  of  that 
myself,  there  is  still  left  open  to  me  what  pleasure  will  be  desirous  to  impart.  The 
confessedly  constitutes  the  most  valuable  end  of  poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in 
object  of  all  writing,  whether  in  prose  20  coexistence  with  an  overbalance  of 
or  verse,  the  great  and  universal  pas-  pleasure.  Now,  by  the  supposition,  ex- 
sions  of  men,  the  most  general  and  citement  is  an  unusual  and  irregular 
interesting  of  their  occupations,  and  the  state  of  the  mind;  ideas  and  feelings  do 
entire  world  of  nature  before  me  to  not,  in  that  state,  succeed  each  other  in 
supply  endless  combinations  of  forms  and  25  accustomed  order.  If  the  words,  how- 
imagery.  Now,  supposing  for  a  moment  ever,  by  which  this  excitement  is  pro- 
that  whatever  is  interesting  in  these  ob-  duced  be  in  themselves  powerful,  or  the 
jects  may  be  as  vividly  described  in  images  and  feelings  have  an  undue  pro- 
prose,  why  should  I  be  condemned,  for  portion  of  pain  connected  with  them, 
attempting  to  superadd  to  such  descrip-  30  there  is  some  danger  that  the  excitement 
tion  the  charm,  which,  by  the  consent  of  may  be  carried  beyond  its  proper 
all  nations,  is  acknowledged  to  exist  in  bounds.  Now  the  co-presence  of  some- 
metrical  language?  To  this,  by  such  as  thing  regular,  something  to  which  the 
are  yet  unconvinced,  it  may  be  answered  mind  has  been  accustomed  in  various 
that  a  very  small  part  of  the  pleasure  35  moods,  and  in  a  less  excited  state,  cannot 
given  by  poetry  depends  upon  the  meter,  but  have  great  efficacy  in  tempering  and 
and  that  it  is  injudicious  to  write  in  restraining  the  passion  by  an  intertex- 
meter,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  the  ture  of  ordinary  feeling,  and  of  feeling 
other  artificial  distinctions  of  style  with  not  strictly  and  necessarily  connected 
which  meter  is  usually  accompanied,  and  40  with  the  passion.  This  is  unquestionably 
that,  by  such  deviation,  more  will  be  lost  true,  and  hence,  though  the  opinion  will 
from  the  shock  which  will  thereby  be  at  first  appear  paradoxical,  from  the 
given  to  the  reader's  associations  than  tendency  of  meter  to  divest  language,  in 
will  be  counterbalanced  by  any  pleasure  a  certain  degree,  of  its  reality,  and  thus 
which  he  can  derive  from  the  general  45  to  throw  a  sort  of  half  consciousness  of 
power  of  numbers.  In  answer  to  those  unsubstantial  existence  over  the  whole 
who  still  contend  for  the  necessity  of  ac-  composition,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  but 
companying  meter  with  certain  appropri-  that  more  pathetic  situations  and  senti- 
ate  colors  of  style  in  order  to  the  accom-  ments,  that  is,  those  which  have  a  greater 
plishment  of  its  appropriate  end,  and  who  50  proportion  of  pain  connected  with  them, 
also,  in  my  opinion,  greatly  underrate  the  may  be  endured  in  metrical  composition, 
power  of  meter  in  itself,  it  might,  per-  especially  in  rime,  than  in  prose.  The 
haps,  as  far  as  relates  to  these  volumes,  meter  of  the  old  ballads  is  very  artless : 
have  been  almost  sufficient  to  observe,  yet  they  contain  many  passages  wbicli 
that  poems  are  extant,  written  upon  more  55  would  illustrate  this  opinion,  and  I  hoi)c, 
humble  subjects,  and  in  a  more  naked  if  the  following  poems  be  attentively 
and   simple   style   than   I   have   aimed   at,      perused,   similar   instances  will   be  found 


PREFACE    TO    LYRICAL    BALLADS  513 

in  them.  This  opinion  may  be  further  is  produced.  But  my  limits  will  not  per- 
illustrated  by  appealing  to  the  reader's  niit  me  to  enter  upon  this  subject,  and  I 
own  experience  of  the  reluctance  with  must  content  myself  with  a  general  sum- 
which  he  comes  to  the  re-perusal  of  the      mary. 

distressful  parts  of  Clarissa  Harlowe,  or  5  I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spon- 
the  Gamester.  While  Shakspere's  writ-  taneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings ; 
ings,  in  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  never  it  takes  its  origin  from  emotion  recol- 
act  upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond  the  lected  in  tranquillity;  the  emotion  is  con- 
bounds  of  pleasure  —  an  effect  which,  templated,  till,  by  a  species  of  reaction, 
in  a  much  greater  degree  than  might  at  10  the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and 
first  be  imagined,  is  to  be  ascribed  to  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that  which  was 
small,  but  continual  and  regular  impulses  before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is 
of  pleasurable  surprise  from  the  metrical  gradually  produced,  and  does  itself  ac- 
arrangement. —  On  the  other  hand,  (what  tually  exist  in  the  mind.  In  this  mood 
it  must  be  allowed  will  much  more  fre- 15  successful  composition  generally  begins, 
quently  happen,)  if  the  poet's  words  and  in  a  mood  similar  to  this  it  is  carried 
should  be  incommensurate  with  the  pas-  on ;  but  the  emotion  of  whatever  kind, 
sion,  and  inadequate  to  raise  the  reader  and  in  whatever  degree,  from  various 
to  a  height  of  desirable  excitement,  then,  causes,  is  qualified  by  various  pleasures, 
(unless  the  poet's  choice  of  his  meter  has  20  so  that  in  describing  any  passions  what- 
been  grossly  injudicious,)  in  the  feel-  soever,  which  are  voluntarily  described, 
ings  of  pleasure  which  the  reader  has  the  mind  will,  upon  the  whole,  be  in  a 
been  accustomed  to  connect  with  meter  state  of  enjoyment.  If  nature  be  thus 
in  general,  and  in  the  feeling,  whether  cautious  to  preserve  in  a  state  of  enjoy- 
cheerful  or  melancholy,  which  he  has  25  ment  a  being  so  employed,  the  poet  ought 
been  accustomed  to  connect  with  that  par-  to  profit  by  the  lesson  held  forth  to  him, 
ticular  movement  of  meter,  there  will  be  and  ought  especially  to  take  care,  that, 
found  something  which  will  greatly  con-  whatever  passions  he  communicates  to 
tribute  to  impart  passion  to  the  words,  his  reader,  those  passions,  if  his  reader's 
and  to  effect  the  complex  end  which  the  30  mind  be  sound  and  vigorous,  should  al- 
poet  proposes  to  himself.  ways    be    accompanied    with    an    overbal- 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  systematic  de-  ance  of  pleasure.  Now  the  music  of  har- 
fense  of  the  theory  here  maintained,  it  monious  metrical  language,  the  sense  of 
would  have  been  my  duty  to  develop  the  difliculty  overcome,  and  the  blind  asso- 
various  causes  upon  which  the  pleasure  35  ciation  of  pleasure  which  has  been  previ- 
received  from  metrical  language  depends.  ously  received  from  works  of  rime  or 
Among  the  chief  of  these  causes  is  to  be  meter  of  the  same  or  similar  construc- 
reckoned  a  principle  which  must  be  well  tion,  an  indistinct  perception  perpetually 
known  to  those  who  have  made  any  of  the  renewed  of  language  closely  resembling 
arts  the  object  of  accurate  reflection;  I  40  that  of  real  life,  and  yet,  in  the  circum- 
mean  the  pleasure  which  the  mind  derives  stance  of  meter,  differing  from  it  so 
from  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dis-  widely  —  all  these  imperceptibly  make'  up 
similitude.  This  principle  is  the  great  a  complex  feeling  of  delight,  which  is  of 
spring  of  the  activity  of  our  minds,  and  the  most  important  use  in  tempering  the 
their  chief  feeder.  From  this  principle  45  painful  feeling  which  is  always  found  in- 
the  direction  of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  termingled  with  powerful  descriptions  of 
all  the  passions  connected  with  it,  take  the  deeper  passions.  This  effect  is  al- 
their  origin:  it  is  the  life  of  our  ordinary  ways  produced  in  pathetic  and  impas- 
conversation ;  and  upon  the  accuracy  with  sioned  poetry;  while,  in  lighter  composi- 
which  similitude  in  dissimilitude,  and  dis-5o  tions,  the  ease  and  gracefulness  with 
similitude  in  similitude  are  perceived,  de-  which  the  poet  manages  his  numbers  are 
pend  our  taste  and  our  moral  feelings,  themselves  confessedly  a  principal  source 
It  would  not  be  a  useless  employment  to  of  the  gratification  of  the  reader.  All 
apply  this  principle  to  the  consideration  that  it  is  necessary  to  say  upon  this  sub- 
of  meter,  and  to  show  that  meter  is  hence  55  ject,  may  be  effected  by  affirming  what 
enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure,  and  to  few  persons  will  deny,  that,  of  two  de- 
point  out  in  what  manner  that  pleasure  scriptions  either  of  passions,  manners,  or 
33 


SH  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

characters,  each  of  them  equally  well  ex-  lations  of  particular  ideas  to  each  other; 
ecutecl,  the  one  in  i)rose  and  the  other  in  and,  ahove  all,  since  they  are  so  much 
verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a  hundred  less  interested  in  the  subject,  they  may 
times  where  the  prose  is  read  once.  decide  lightly  and  carelessly. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  the  5  Long  as  the  reader  has  been  detained,  I 
reasons  for  writing  in  verse,  and  why  I  hope  he  will  permit  me  to  caution  him 
have  chosen  subjects  from  common  life,  against  a  mode  of  false  criticism  which 
and  endeavored  to  bring  my  language  has  been  applied  to  poetry,  in  which  the 
near  to  the  real  language  of  men,  if  I  language  closely  resembles  that  of  life 
have  been  too  minute  in  pleading  my  own  lo  and  nature.  Such  verses  have  been  tri- 
cause,  I  have  at  the  same  time  been  treat-  uniphed  over  in  parodies  of  which  Dr. 
ing  a  subject  of  general  interest;  and  Johnson's  stanza  is  a  fair  specimen, 
for    this    reason    a    few    words    shall    be 

added    with    reference     solely    to    these  ^  P"t  my  bat  upon  my  head 

particular    poems,    and    to    some    defects  i5  ^"^  walked  mto  the  Strand, 

which    will    probably   be    found   in    them.  :(^"^  ^herc  I  met  another  man 

I  am   sensible  that  my  associations  must  W^^°^^  ^at  was  m  his  hand, 

have  sometimes  been  particular  instead  of  y  1-^1  1        ^i.         i-  t       -n 

general,  and  that,  consequently,  giving  to        /"^'"^diately    under    these^  lines    I    wdl 
Things    a    false    importance,    I    may    have  -  P^^^    °"^,  f  ^^^^  most    jus   y-adm.red 
sometimes    written    upon    unworthy    sub-      ^^^"^^^  °^  ^'^^     ^^^'''  '"  ^^e  Wood. 
jects;  but  I  am  less  apprehensive  on  this  These  pretty  babes  with  hand  in  hand 

account,     than     that     my     language     may  Went  wandering  up  and  down ; 

frequently   have   suffered    from   those   ar-  But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 

bitrary  connections  of  feelings  and  ideas  25         Approaching  from  the  Town, 
with  particular  words  and  phrases,  from 

which    no    man    can     altogether    protect  I"   'joth   these   stanzas   the   words,    and 

himself.  Hence  I  have  no  doubt,  that,  the  order  of  the  words,  in  no  respect 
in  some  instances,  feelings,  even  of  the  differ  from  the  most  unimpassioned  con- 
ludicrous,  may  be  given  to  my  readers  3o  versation.  There  are  words  in  both,  for 
by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me  example,  '  The  Strand,'  and  '  The  Town,' 
tender  and  pathetic.  Such  faulty  expres-  connected  with  none  but  the  most  famil- 
sions,  were  I  convinced  they  were  faulty  iar  ideas;  yet  the  one  stanza  we  admit 
at  present,  and  that  they  must  necessarily  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a  fair  ex- 
continue  to  be  so,  I  would  willingly  take  35  example  of  the  superlatively  contemptible, 
all  reasonable  pains  to  correct.  But  it  is  Whence  arises  this  difference?  Not 
dangerous  to  make  these  alterations  on  from  the  meter,  not  from  the  language, 
the  simple  authority  of  a  few  individuals,  not  from  the  order  of  the  words;  but  the 
or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men;  for  Jiiattcr  expressed  in  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza 
where  the  understanding  of  an  author  is  40  is  contemptible.  The  proper  method  of 
not  convinced,  or  his  feelings  altered,  this  treating  trivial  and  simple  verses,  to 
cannot  be  done  without  great  injury  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would  be  a 
himself:  for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say,  This  is 
and  support;  and,  if  he  set  them  aside  in  a  bad  kmd  of  poetry,  or.  This  is  not 
one  instance,  he  may  be  induced  to  re-  4S  poetry;  but.  This  wants  sense;  it  is 
peat  this  act  till  his  mind  shall  lose  all  neither  interesting  in  itself,  nor  can  lead 
confidence  in  itself,  and  becomes  utterly  to  anything  interesting;  the  images 
debilitated.  To  this  it  may  be  added,  that  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state  of 
the  reader  ought  never  to  forget  that  he  feeling  which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor 
is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  50  can  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the 
the  poet,  and,  perhaps,  in  a  much  greater  reader.  This  is  the  only  sensible  man- 
degree:  for  there  can  be  no  presumption  ner  of  dealing  with  such  verses.  Why 
in  saying  of  most  readers  that  it  is  not  trouble  yourself  about  the  species  till  you 
probable  they  will  be  so  well  acquainted  have  previously  decided  upon  the  genus? 
with  the  various  stages  of  meaning  SS  Why  take  pains  to  prove  that  an  ape  is 
through  which  words  ^have  passed,  or  not  a  Newton,  when  it  is  self-evident  that 
with  the  fickleness  or  stability  of  the  re-      he  is  not  a  man? 


PREFACE  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS  51 5 

I  must  make  one  request  of  my  reader,  pleased  by  such  composition;  and  what 
which  is.  that  in  judging  these  poems  more  can  be  done  for  him?  The  power 
he  would  decide  by  his  own  feelings  gen-  of  any  art  is  limited ;  and  he  will  suspect, 
uinely,  and  not  by  reflection  upon  what  that,  if  it  be  proposed  to  furnish  him  with 
will  probably  be  the  judgment  of  others.  5  new  friends,  that  can  be  only  upon  con- 
How  common  is  it  to  hear  a  person  say,  dition  of  his  abandoning  his  old  friends. 
'  I  myself  do  not  object  to  this  style  of  Besides,  as  I  have  said,  the  reader  is 
composition,  or  this  or  that  expression,  himself  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which 
but,  to  such  and  such  classes  of  people,  he  has  received  from  such  composition, 
it  will  appear  mean  or  ludicrous ! '  10  composition  to  which  he  has  peculiarly 
This  mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive  of  attached  the  endearing  name  of  poetry, 
all  sound  unadulterated  judgment,  is  al-  and  all  men  feel  an  habitual  gratitude, 
most  universal :  let  the  reader  then  abide  and  something  of  an  honorable  bigotry 
independently  by  his  own  feelings,  and  if  for  the  objects  which  have  long  con- 
he  finds  himself  affected,  let  him  not  suf-  15  tinued  to  please  them ;  we  not  only  wish 
fer  such  conjectures  to  interfere  with  his  to  be  pleased,  but  to  be  pleased  in  that 
pleasure.  particular   way   in   which   we   have   been 

If  an  author,  by  any  single  composition,  accustomed  to  be  pleased.  There  is  in 
has  impressed  us  with  respect  for  his  tal-  these  feelings  enough  to  resist  a  host 
ents,  it  is  useful  to  consider  this  as  af- 20  of  arguments;  and  I  should  be  the  less 
fording  a  presumption,  that  on  other  oc-  able  to  combat  them  successfully,  as  I  am 
casions  where  we  have  been  displeased,  willing  to  allow,  that,  in  order  entirely 
he,  nevertheless,  may  not  have  written  ill  to  enjoy  the  poetry  which  I  am  recom- 
or  absurdly;  and,  further,  to  give  him  mending,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give 
so  much  credit  for  this  one  composition  25  up  much  of  what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed, 
as  may  induce  us  to  review  what  has  But,  would  my  limits  have  permitted  me 
displeased  us,  with  more  care  than  we  to  point  out  how  this  pleasure  is  pro- 
should  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it.  duced,  many  obstacles  might  have  been 
This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice,  but,  removed,  and  the  reader  assisted  in  per- 
in  our  decisions  upon  poetry  especially,  30  ceiving  that  the  powers  of  language  are 
may  conduce,  in  a  high  degree,  to  the  im-  not  so  limited  as  he  may  suppose;  and 
provenient  of  our  own  taste:  for  an  that  it  is  possible  for  poetry  to  give  other 
accurate  taste  in  poetry,  and  in  all  the  enjoyments,  of  a  purer,  more  lasting,  and 
other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  more  exquisite  nature.  This  part  of  the 
observed,  is  an  acquired  talent,  which  can  35  subject  has  not  been  altogether  neglected; 
only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a  long-  but  it  has  not  been  so  much  my  present 
continued  intercourse  with  the  best  mod-  aim  to  prove,  that  the  interest  excited 
els  of  composition.  This  is  mentioned,  by  some  other  kinds  of  poetry  is  less 
not  with  so  ridiculous  a  purpose  as  to  vivid,  and  less  worthy  of  the  nobler 
prevent  the  most  inexperienced  reader  40  powers  of  the  mind,  as  to  offer  reasons 
from  judging  for  himself  (I  have  already  for  presuming,  that,  if  my  purpose  were 
said  that  I  wish  him  to  judge  for  him-  fulfilled,  a  species  of  poetry  would  be 
self),  but  merely  to  temper  the  rashness  produced,  which  is  genuine  poetry;  in 
of  decision,  and  to  suggest,  that,  if  its  nature  well  adapted  to  interest  man- 
poetry  be  a  subject  on  which  much  time  45  kind  permanently,  and  likewise  impor- 
has  not  been  bestowed,  the  judgment  may  tant  in  the  multiplicity  and  quality  of  its 
be  erroneous;  and  that,  in  many  cases,  it  moral  relations, 
necessarily  will  be  so.  From    what   has    been    said,    and    from 

Nothing  would,  I  know,  have  so  ef-  a  perusal  of  the  poems,  the  reader  will  be 
fectually  contributed  to  further  the  end  5°  able  clearly  to  perceive  the  object  which 
which  i  have  in  view,  as  to  have  shown  I  had  in  view;  he  will  determine  how  far 
of  what  kind  the  pleasure  is,  and  how  it  has  been  attained ;  and,  what  is  a  much 
that  pleasure  is  produced,  which  is  con-  more  important  question,  whether  it  be 
fessedly  produced  by  metrical  composi-  worth  attaining;  and  upon  the  decision 
tion  essentially  different  from  that  which  55  of  these  two  questions  will  rest  my  claim 
I  have  here  endeavored  to  recommend :  to  the  approbation  of  the  public. 
for  the  reader  will  say  that  he  has  been  (1800) 


5i^> 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


THE  TRELUDE 

FROM    BOOK     I 

Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear: 
Much    favored    in    my    birth-place,    and    no 

less 
In  that  beloved  Vale  to  which  erelong 
We   were  transplanted  —  there   were   we   let 
loose  5 

For  sports  of  wider  range.     Ere  I  had  told 
Ten   birth-days,   when   among   the   mountain 

slopes 
Frost,  and  the  breath  of    frosty  wind,  had 

snapped 
The  last  autumnal  crocus,  't  was  my  joy 
With    store    of    springes    o'er    my    shoulder 
hung  " 

To  range  the  open  heights  where  woodcocks 

run 
Along  the  smooth  green  turf.     Through  half 

the  night. 
Scudding  away  from  snare  to  snare,  I  plied 
That   anxious  visitation;  —  moon  and  stars 
Were  shining  o'er  iny  head.     I  was  alone,  '5 
And  seemed  to  be  a  trouble  to  the  peace 
That  dwelt  among  them.     Sometimes  it  be- 
fell 
In  these  night  wanderings,  that  a  strong  de- 
sire 
O'erpowered  my  better  reason,  and  the  bird 
Which  was  the  captive  of  another's  toil       2° 
Became  my  prey  ;  and  when  the  deed  was  done 
I  heard  among  the  solitary  hills 
Low     breathings     coming     after     me,     and 

sounds 
Of  undistinguishable  motion,  steps 
Almost  as  silent  as  the  turf  they  trod.         ^s 

Nor    less    when    spring    had    warmed    the 
cultured  Vale, 
Moved  we  as  plunderers  where  the  mother- 
bird 
Had  in  high  places  built  her  lodge;  though 

mean 
Our  object  and  inglorious,  yet  the  end 
Was  not  ignoble.     Oh !  when  I  have  hung  3o 
Above  the  raven's  nest,  by  knots  of   grass 
And  half-inch  fissures  in  the  slippery  rock 
But  ill  sustained,  and  almost  (so  it  seemed) 
Suspended  by  the  blast  that  blew  amain, 
Shouldering  the  naked  crag,  oh,  at  that  time 
While  on  the  perilous  ridge  I  hung  alone,  36 
With    what    strange   utterance    did   the    loud 

dry  wind 
Blow  through  my  ear!  the  sky  seemed  not 
a  sky 


Of  earth — and  with  what  motion  moved  the 
clouds ! 

Dust  as  we  are,  the  immortal  spirit  grows 
Like  harmony  in   music ;   there   is  a  dark  41 
Inscrutable  workmanship  that  reconciles 
Discordant    elements,   makes   them   cling   to- 
gether 
In  one  society.     How  strange  that  all 
The   terrors,   pains,  and   early  miseries,       45 
Regrets,  vexations,  lassitudes  interfused 
Within  my  mind,  should  e'er  have  borne  a 

part, 
And  that  a  needful  part,  in  making  up 
The  calm  existence  that  is  mine  when   I 
Am  worthy  of  myself!  Praise  to  the  end!  50 
Thanks  to  the  means  which   Nature  deigned 

to  employ; 
Whether  her   fearless   visitings,   or   those 
That    came    with    soft    alarm,    like    hurtless 

light 
Opening  the  peaceful  clouds ;  or  she  may  use 
Severer  interventions,  ministry  55 

More  palpable,  as  best  might  suit  her  aim. 

One  summer  evening  (led  by  her)  I  found 
A  little  boat  tied  to  a  willow  tree 
Within  a  rocky  cave,  its  usual  home. 
Straight  I  unloosed  her  chain,  and  stepping 

in  60 

Pushed   from  the  shore.     It  was  an   act   of 

stealth 
And  troubled  pleasure,  nor  without  the  voice 
Of  mountain-echoes  did  my  boat  move  on; 
Leaving  behind  her  still,   on  either   side. 
Small  circles  glittering  idly  in  the  moon,  65 
Until  they  melted  all  into  one  track 
Of  sparkling  light.     But  now,  like  one  who 

rows. 
Proud  of  his  skill,  to  reach  a  chosen  point 
With  an  unswerving  line,  I  fixed  my  view 
Upon  the  summit  of  a  craggy  ridge,  70 

The  horizon's  utmost  boundary ;   far  above 
Was  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  gray  sky. 
She  was  an  elfin  pinnace ;  lustily 
I  dipped  my  oars  into  the  silent  lake, 
And,  as  I  rose  upon  the  stroke,  my  boat    75 
Went    heaving    through    the    water    like    a 

swan ; 
When,    from    behind    that    craggy    steep    till 

then 
The  horizon's  bound,  a  huge  peak,  black  and 

huge. 
As  if  with  voluntary  power  instinct 
Upreared    its    head.     I     struck    and    struck 

again,  ^° 

And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape 


"THE  PRELUDE 


517 


Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  and 

still, 
For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 
And  measured  motion  like  a   living  thing, 
Strode    after    me.     With    trembling    oars    I 

turned,  85 

And  through  the  silent  water  stole  my  way 
Back  to  the  covert  of  the  willow  tree; 
There    in     her     mooring-place     I     left     my 

bark, — 
And  through  the  meadows  homeward  went, 

in  grave 
And  serious  mood ;  but  after  I  had  seen      90 
That  spectacle,  for  many  days,  my  brain 
Worked  with  a  dim  and  undetermined  sense 
Of    unknown    modes    of    being;     o'er    my 

thoughts 
There  hung  a  darkness,  call  it  solitude 
Or  blank  desertion.     No  familiar  shapes     95 
Remained,  no  pleasant  images  of  trees. 
Of  sea  or  sky,  no  colors  of  green  fields; 
But   huge   and   mighty    forms   that   do   not 

live 
Like  living  men,  moved  slowly  through  the 

mind  99 

By  day,  and  were  a  trouble  to  my  dreams. 


Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe! 
Thou  Soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought. 
That  givest   to   forms   and   images  a  breath 
j        And   everlasting  motion,  not   in  vain 
I        By    day    or    star-light    thus    from    my    first 
I  dawn  105 

Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
i        The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 
Not    with    the    mean    and    vulgar    works    of 
!  man, 

But     with     high     objects,      with     enduring 

things  -r- 
With  life  and  nature  —  purifying  thus       no 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought. 
And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline. 
Both  pain  and   fear,  until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart.    114 
Nor  was  this   fellowship  vouchsafed  to   me 
With  stinted  kindness.     In  November  days. 
When  vapors  rolling  down  the  valley  made 
A     lonely     scene     more     lonesome,     among 

woods. 
At    noon    and    'mid    the    calm    of    summer 
nights,  119 

When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills  homeward  I  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine ; 


Mine    was    it    in    the    fields    both    day    and 

night. 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile  126 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twi- 
light gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  —  for  me  129 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  1  Clear  and  loud 
The    village    clock    tolled    six, —  I    wheeled 

about, 
Proud    and    exulting   like   an    untired   horse 
That    cares    not    for    his    home.     All    shod 

with  steel. 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,   imitative  of  the  chase  '35 

And    woodland    pleasures, —  the    resounding 

horn. 
The    pack    loud    chiming,    and    the    hunted 

hare. 
So   through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we 

flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud ;  140 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled   like   iron ;   while   far   distant   hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien   sound 
Of    melancholy    not    unnoticed,    while    the 

stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the 

west  145 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced    sideway,    leaving    the    tumultuous 

throng. 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star  150 

That     fled,     and,     flying     still     before     me, 

gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain ;   and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the   shadowy  banks  on   either   side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spin- 
ning still  155 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  Once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels. 
Stopped    short;    yet    still    the    solitary    cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me  —  even  as  if  the  earth  had 

rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round!     160 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train. 
Feebler     and     feebler,     and     I     stood     and 

watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

(1850) 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


LINES 

composed  a  fkw  miles  above  tintern  abbey 

on  revisiting  the  banks  of  the  wye 

durinc.  a  tour. 

July  13,  1798 

Five   years    have    past ;    five    summers,    with 

the  length 
Of  five  long  winters!   and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling   from  their  mountain- 
springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur  1  —  Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs,     5 
That  on  a  wild  secluded   scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;  and  con- 
nect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here   under   this   dark    sycamore,   and    view 
These    plots    of    cottage-ground,    these    or- 
chard-tufts, " 
Which    at    this    season,    with    their    unripe 

fruits. 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  them- 
selves 
'Mid     groves     and    copses.     Once     again     I 

see 
These    hedgerows,    hardly    hedgerows,    little 
lines  '5 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild;  these  pastoral 

farms. 
Green    to    the    very   door;    and    wreaths    of 

smoke 
Sent  up  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem. 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his 
fire  ^' 

The   hermit   sits   alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been   to 

me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye :  24 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind,  -9 
With  tranquil  restoration  :  —  feelings,  too, 
Of  unremembered  pleasure:  such  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On    that    best    portion    of    a    good    man's 

Hfe, 
His   little,   nameless,   unremembered   acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 

1  The    river    is    not    affected    by    the    tides    a    few 
miles    above    Tintern. 


To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift,     36 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood, 
In   which  the  burden   of  the   mystery. 
In   which   the  heavy  and   the   weary   weight 
Of   all    this   unintelligible   world,  4° 

Is     lightened :  —  that     serene     and     blessed 

mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And   even   the   motion   of   our   human   blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep        45 
In   body,   and   become  a   living   soul: 
While    with    an     eye    made    quiet    by    the 

power 
Of    harmony,   and   the   deep    power    of    joy. 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!  how  oft —  5° 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world. 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart. 
How   oft,   in   spirit,  have  I  turned   to   thee, 

0  sylvan    Wye!     Thou    wanderer    through 

the   woods,  s6 

How   often    has   my   spirit   turned   to   thee! 

And      now,     with     gleams     of     half-ex- 
tinguished   thought. 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and   faint, 
And    somewhat   of   a   sad    perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mmd  revives  again : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of     present     pleasure,     but     with     pleasing 

thoughts 

That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 

For     future     years.     And     so     I     dare     to 

hope.  6s 

Though,    changed,    no    doubt,    from    what    I 

was   when   first 

1  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 
Wherever  nature  led ;  more  like  a  man  70 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than 

one 
Who   sought  the   thing  he   loved.    For   na- 
ture  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal   movements  all  gone 

by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. —  I  cannot  paint       75 
What   then    I    was.     The    sounding   cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock. 
The    mountain,    and    the    deep    and    gloomy 

wood, 
Their  colors  and  their   forms,  were  then  to 
me 


THE  PRELUDE 


519 


An    appetite ;   a    feeling   and   a    love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed    from    the    eye. —  That    time    is 

past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And    all    its    dizzy    raptures.     Not    for    this 
Faint    I,    nor    mourn    nor    murmur;    other 
gifts  86 

Have  followed ;   for  such  loss,  I  would  be- 
lieve. 
Abundant   recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of    thoughtless    youth;    but    hearing    often- 
times 90 
The    still,    sad    music    of    humanity, 
Nor    harsh    nor    grating,    though    of    ample 

power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime  95 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air. 
And    the    blue    sky,    and    in    the    mind    of 

man : 
A   motion    and   a    spirit,   that   impels         1°° 
All     thinking     things,   -all     objects     of     all 

thought. 
And    rolls    through    all    things.     Therefore 

am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 
And    mountains ;    and    of    all    that    we    be- 
hold 
From   this   green   earth;    of   all   the   mighty 
world  105 

Of    eye,    and    ear, —  both    what    they    half 

create. 
And  what  perceive;   well  pleased  to  recog- 
nize 
In   nature   and   the    language   of    the    sense. 
The    anchor    of    my    purest    thoughts,    the 

nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and 
soul  110 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor    perchance, 
If    I    were    not    thus    taught,    should    I    the 

more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of       this     fair     river;     thou     my     dearest 
Friend,  115 

My  dear,  dear  Friend;  and  in   thy  voice   I 

catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the   shooting  lights 
Of   thy    wild    eyes.     Oh !    yet    a    little    while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once       i-^o 


My   dear,    dear    Sister!    and    this    prayer    I 

make 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The   heart    that   loved    her ;    't  is    her   privi- 
lege 
Through  all   the  years  of  this  our  life,  to 

lead 
From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform    i-S 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,   so  impress 
With  quietness  and  lieauty,  and  so   feed 
With     lofty     thoughts,     that     neither     evil 

tongues. 
Rash    judgments,   nor   the   sneers    of    selfish 

men. 
Nor    greetings    where    no    kindness    is,    nor 
all  130 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall    e'er    prevail    against    us,    or    disturb 
Our    cheerful    faith   that   all    which    we    be- 
hold 
Is     full     of     blessings.     Therefore     let     the 

moon 
Shine   on  thee  in  thy   solitary  walk;  '35 

And   let   the   misty   mountain-winds   be   free 
To   blow  against  thee :   and,  in  after  years. 
When    these    wild    ecstasies    shall    be    ma- 
tured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure ;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,    140 
Thy  memory  be  as   a   dwelling-place 
For   all    sweet    sounds   and   harmonies ;    oh ! 

then. 
If   solitude,   or   fear,  or  pain,   or  grief. 
Should    be   thy   portion,    with    what   healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me,     m5 
And    these    my     exhortations!       Nor,     per- 
chance— 
If   I   should  be  where   I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy    voice,    nor    catch    from    thy    wild    eyes 

these  gleams 
Of    past    existence  —  wilt    thou    then    forget 
That     on     the     banks     of     this     delightful 
stream  150 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A    worshipper    of    Nature,    hither    came 
Unwearied  in  that  service :   rather  say 
With    warmer    love  —  oh!    with    far    deeper 

zeal 
Of    holier    love.     Nor    wilt    thou    then    for- 
get, 155 
That    after    many    wanderings,    many    years 
Of    absence,    these    steep    woods    and    lofty 

cliffs. 
And  this  green  pastoral   landscape,  were  to 

me 
More    dear,    both    for    themselves    and    for 
thy  sake!  160 

(1798) 


520 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


STRANGE    FITS    OF    PASSION    HAVE 
I    KNOWN 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  1   known: 
And    I    will   dare   to   tell, 
But   in   the   Lover's   ear  alone, 
What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she   I   loved   looked  every  day,  5 

Fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 

I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 

Beneath   an   evening  moon. 

Upon  the   moon   I   fixed   my  eye. 
All  over  the  wide  lea;  'o 

With   quickening  pace   my  horse  drew   nigh 
Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard  plot ; 
And   as   we   climbed  the   hill, 
The  sinking  moon  to  Lucy's  cot  '5 

Came  near  and  nearer   still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept. 

Kind    Nature's   gentlest   boon ! 

And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 

On   the    descending   moon.  20 

My  horse  moved  on;  hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopped : 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof, 
At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thought  will  slide 
Into   a   lover's   head !  —  ^^ 

'  Oh,   mercy ! '   to   myself    I    cried, 
*  If  Lucy  should  be  dead  1 ' 

(1800) 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTROD- 
DEN   WAYS 

She  dwelt   among  the   untrodden   ways 

Beside   the    springs   of    Dove, 
A   Maid   whom  there   were   none   to   praise. 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  s 

Half-hidden    from    the    eye ! 
Fair  as  a   star,  when   only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When    Lucy   ceased   to   be ;  1° 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me! 

(1800) 


I  TRAVELED  AMONG  UNKNOWN 

MEN 

I    traveled    among    unknown    men, 

In   lands   beyond   the   sea; 
Nor,   England !    did   I   know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'T  is   past,   that  melancholy  dream !  5 

Nor   will    I   quit   thy   shore 
A  second  time;   for  still  I  seem 

To   love  thee   more  and   more. 

Among   thy   mountains   did   I    feel 

The    joy    of    my    desire;  10 

And   she   I   cherished   turned   her   wheel 
Beside   an   English   fire. 

Thy     mornings     showed,     thy     nights     con- 
cealed 
The  bowers   where  Lucy  played ; 
And   thine   too   is   the   last   green   field  'S 

That    Lucy's    eyes    surveyed. 

(1807) 


THREE   YEARS    SHE   GREW    IN    SUN 
AND    SHOWER 

Three  years   she   grew   in   sun   and   shower, 

Then  Nature  said,  '  A  lovelier  tiower 

On   earth   was   never   sown ; 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take. 

She  shall  be  mine,  and   I   will  make  5 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

'  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse :  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower,  Jo 

Shall   feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

'  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 

That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or    up    the    mountain    springs;  '5 

And   hers  shall   be   the  breathing   balm. 

And  hers   the   silence   and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

'The   floating  clouds   their   state   shall    lend 
To   her;    for  her  the   willow   bend;  -o 

Nor  shall   she   fail   to  see 
Even   in    the   motions   of   the    Storm 
Grace  that  shall  mold  the  Maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 


MICHAEL 


5^1 


'  The    stars    of    midnight    shall    be    dear     ^s 

To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In    many    a    secret    place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And   beauty   born   of   murmuring   sound 

Shall    pass    into   her    face.  3o 

'  And    vital    feelings    of    delight 

Shall   rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her    virgin    bosom    swell ; 

Such    thoughts   to   Lucy  I   will   give 

While  she  and  I  together  live  35 

Here    in   this    happy   dell.' 

Thus      Nature      spake  —  The      work      was 

done  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene;     40 
The   memory   of   what   has   been. 
And  never  more   will  be. 

(1800) 


A    SLUMBER    DID    MY    SPIRIT    SEAL 

A   slumber  did  my   spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears : 
She  seemed   a  thing  that  could  not  feel 
i  The  touch   of   earthly  years. 

I         No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force;  S 

;  She    neither    hears    nor    sees; 

I         Rolled   round   in   earth's   diurnal   course. 
With    rocks,    and    stones,    and   trees. 

(1800) 


MICHAEL 

A    PASTORAL    POEM 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps; 

Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head 
Ghyll, 

You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 

Your  feet  must  struggle;  in  such  bold 
ascent 

The  pastoral  mountains  front  you  face  to 
face.  5 

But  courage!  for  around  that  boisterous 
brook 

The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  them- 
selves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be   seen :   but  they 

Who   journey   thither   find   themselves   alone 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones, 
and  kites  '' 


That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 

It   is   in   truth   an   utter   solitude ; 

Nor    should    I    have   made    mention   of   this 

Dell 
But     for     one     object     which     you     might 

pass  by,  ^5 

Might     see     and     notice     not.    Beside     the 

brook 
Appears     a     straggling     heap     of     unhewn 

stones! 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains, 
A   story  unenriched  with   strange   events. 
Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside,        20 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved; — not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and 

hills  25 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 
Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 
Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of   natural   objects   led  me  on   to   feel       3o 
For    passions   that    were   not    my   own,   and 

think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 
On    man,    the    heart    of    man,    and    human 

life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history  34 

Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of  a   few  natural  hearts; 
And,   with   yet   fonder   feeling,   for  the   sake 
Of    youthful    Poets    who    among   these    hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There   dwelt   a   Shepherd,    Michael    was   his 

name;  ^i 

An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of 

limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been   from  youth  to 

age 
Of  an  unusual  strength:  his  mind  was  keen. 
Intense,  and   frugal,  apt   for  all  affairs,       45 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And   watchful   more  than   ordinary   men. 
Hence   had   he   learned   the   meaning   of    all 

winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When    others    heeded    not.    He    heard    the 

South  50 

i\Iake    subterraneous    music,    like    the    noise 
Of    bagpipers    on    distant    Highland    hills. 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  fiock 
Bethought    him,    and    he    to    himself    would 

say,  54 

'  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me ! ' 


522 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


And,    truly,    at    all    times,    the    storm,    that 

drives 
The  traveler  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains ;   he  had  been   alone 
Amid   the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists. 
That    came    to    him    and    left    him    on    the 
heights.  6° 

So    lived    he    till    his    eightieth    year    vi'as 

past. 
And    grossly    that    man    errs,    who    should 

suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and 

rocks, 
Were    things    indifferent    to   the    Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields,   where   with   cheerful   spirits  he  had 
breathed  ^s 

The  common   air;   hills,   which   with   vigor- 
ous step 
He   had   so   often   climbed;    which   had   im- 
pressed 
So   many    incidents   upon   his   mind  68 

Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which  like  a  book  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 
Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts. 
The  certainty  of  honorable  gain; 
Those  fields,  those  hills  —  what  could  they 
less?  —  had  laid  74 

Strong  hold  on  his  afYections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  single- 
ness. 
His  Helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old  — 
Though   younger    than    himself    full    twenty 

years.  ^° 

She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house:  two  wheels 

she  had 
Of    antique    form,    this    large    for    spinning 

wool. 
That  small  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had 

rest, 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work.  §5 
The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house. 
An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 
To    deem    that   he    was    old, —  in    shepherd's 

phrase,  ^9 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only  Son, 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a 

storm. 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say. 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale     94 
For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone. 


And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even 
then, 

Their   labor  did   not  cease;   unless   when  all 

Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and 
there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed 
milk,  100 

Sat  round  the  basket  piled  with  oaten 
cakes. 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.  Yet 
when   the  meal 

Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was 
named) 

And  his  old  father  both  betook  them- 
selves los 

To   such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 

Their  hands  by  the  fire-side;  perhaps  to 
card 

Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  re- 
pair 

Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 

Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field.       no 

Down   from   the  ceiling  by  the  chimney's 

edge 
That   in   our  ancient   uncouth   country   style 
With  huge  and  black  projection  ovcrbrowed 
Large    space   beneath,    as   duly   as   the    light 
Of    day   grew   dim    the    Housewife    hung    a 

lamp;  us 

An   aged  utensil,   which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of   its  kind. 
Early  at   evening   did   it   burn   and   late. 
Surviving  comrade   of  uncounted  hours, 
Which    going    by    from    year    to    year    had 

found  120 

And   left  the   couple  neither   gay  perhaps 
Nor    cheerful,    yet    with    objects    and    with 

hopes. 
Living  a  life  of   eager  industry. 
And     now,     when     Luke    had    reached    his 

eighteenth  year 
There    by   the   light   of   this   old   lamp   they 

sat,  125 

Father  and  Son,  while  far  into  the  night 
The     Housewife     plied     her     own     peculiar 

work. 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life  ui 
That    thrifty    Pair    had    lived.     For,    as    it 

chanced. 
Their   cottage  on  a  plot   of   rising  ground 
Stood    single,    with    large    prospect,    north 

and  south,  '34 

High    into    Easedale,    up   to    Dunmail-Raise, 


MICHAEL 


523 


And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake ; 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And   so   far  seen,  the   House  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt   within  the  limits   of  the  vale, 
Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Even- 
ing Star.  '40 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of 

years, 
The    shepherd,    if    he    loved    himself,    must 

needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate;  but  to   Michael's 

heart 
This    son    of    his    old    age    was    yet    more 

dear —  144 

Less    from   instinctive   tenderness,   the    same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood 

of  all  — 
Than    that    a    child,    more    than    all    other 

gifts. 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man 
Brings   hope    with   it,   and    forward    looking 

thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they     iso 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His   heart  and   his   heart's   joy!    For  often- 
times 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms. 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone  '55 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy  160 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love. 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young  one  in  his  sight,  when 

he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's 

stool 
Sat     with     a     fettered     sheep     before     him 

stretched,  165 

Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his  door. 
Stood  single,  and,   from  matchless  depth  of 

shade. 
Chosen    for   the    Shearer's   covert    from   the 

sun,  , 

Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The    Clipping   Tree,"^    a    name    which   yet    it 

bears.  170 

There,   while   they  two    were   sitting   in    the 

shade. 
With    others    round    them,    earnest    all    and 

blithe, 

'  Clipping  is  the  word  used  in  the  North  of  Eng- 
land  for   shearing. 


Would     Michael     exercise     his     heart     with 

looks 
Of    fond    correction    and    reproof    bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared    them,    while    they    lay    still    beneath 

the  shears.  177 

And    when    by    Heaven's    good    grace   the 

boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old. 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut  181 
With    his    own    hand    a    sapling,    which    he 

hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due   requisites   a   perfect   shepherd's   staff, 
And  gave  it  to  the  Boy;  wherewith  equipt 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called,       '88 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help ; 
And   for  this  course  not  always,   I  believe. 
Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise ; 
Though     nought     was     left     undone    which 

staff  or  voice. 
Or     looks,     or    threatening    gestures    could 

perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could 
stand  195 

Against  the  mountain  blasts;  and  to  the 
heights. 

Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 

He  with  his   Father  daily   went,  and  they 

Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 

That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  be- 
fore 200 

Were  dearer  now?  that  from  the  Boy  there 
came 

Feelings  and  emanations  —  things  which 
were 

Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind ; 

And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born 
again. 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew  up; 

And  now  when  he  had  reached  his  eight- 
eenth year,  206 

He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While    in   this    sort   the   simple   household 

lived 
From    day    to  day,    to    Michael's    ear    there 

came 
Distressful    tidings.     Long   before    the    time 
Of   which   I   speak,  the   Shepherd  had  been 

bound  an 


5^4 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 

Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means  — 

But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 

Had    pressed    upon    him, —  and   old    Michael 

now 
Was    summoned    to    discharge    the    forfei- 
ture, 216 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than    half    his    substance.     This    unlooked 

for  claim 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As    soon    as    he    had    armed    himself    with 

strength 
To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 
The  Shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at  once 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields.  225 

Such    was     his    first    resolve;    he    thought 

again. 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     'Isabel,'  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
'  I    have    been    toiling    more    than    seventy 

years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love  230 
Have  we  all  lived;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I ;  235 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That   was,   and  made  an   evil  choice,   if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false. 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like 

this  240 

Had  been  no  sorrow.     I   forgive  him  —  but 
'T  were  better  to  be  dumb,  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of   remedies  and  of   a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 
He  shall  possess  it  free  as  is  the  wind     247 
That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know- 

est. 
Another  kinsman  —  he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prosperous  man. 
Thriving   in   trade  —  and   Luke  to  him  shall 
go,  251 

And   with   his   kinsman's   help  and  his   own 

thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.     If  here  he  stay. 
What    can    be    done?    Where    every    one    is 
poor,  255 

What  can  be  gained  ? '  At  this  the  old  Man 

paused, 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 


Was   busy,  looking  back   into   past   times. 
There 's    Richard    Bateman,    thought    she   to 

herself, 
lie   was   a  parish-boy  —  at   the  church-door 
They   made   a    gathering    for   him,    shillings, 

pence,  261 

And    halfpennies,    wherewith    the    neighbors 

bought 
A    basket,    which    they    filled    with    pedlar's 

wares ; 
And  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 
Who  out  of  many  chose  the  trusty  boy  266      M 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise  ■ 

Beyond  the  seas :  where  he  grew  wondrous      I 

rich,  I 

And  left  estates  and  monies  to  the  poor. 
And  at  his  birthplace  built  a  chapel  floored 
With   marble,    which   he    sent    from    foreign 

lands.  271 

These    thoughts,    and    many    others    of    like 

sort. 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel 
And    her    face    brightened.     The    old    Man 

was  glad. 
And    thus    resumed:  —  'Well,    Isabel!     this 

scheme  275 

These   two   days   has   been   meat   and   drink 

to   me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
We  have  enough  —  I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were    younger, —  but    this    hope    is    a    good 

hope. 
Make    ready   Luke's    best   garments,    of    the 

best  280 

Buy    for    him    more,    and    let    us    send    him 

forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night:  I 

If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night.'       * 

Here    Michael    ceased,    and    to    the    fields 

went   forth 
With    a    light    heart.     The    Housewife    for 

five  days  285 

Was   restless   morn   and   night,  and   all   day 

long 
Wrought   on   with   her   best   fingers   to   pre- 
pare 
Things  needful   for* the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when   Sunday  came 
To    stop   her    in    her    work :    for,    when    she 

lay  290 

By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two 

nights 
Heard    him,    how    he    was    troubled    in    his 

sleep : 
And   when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could 

see 


MICHAEL 


525 


That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  day  at 
noon 

She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  them- 
selves 29s 

Were  sitting  at  the  door.    'Thou  must  not 
go: 

We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
\2_        None  to  remember  —  do  not  go  away, 

For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die.' 

The    Youth    made    answer    with    a    jocund 
voice ;  300 

And   Isabel,  when   she  had  told  her   fears. 

Recovered    heart.     That    evening    her    best 
fare 

Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 

Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel   resumed  her  work; 
And    all    the    ensuing    week   the    house    ap- 
peared 306 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  Spring:  at  length 
The    expected    letter    from    their    kinsman 

came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy;  310 
To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forth- 
with 
He   might   be    sent   to   him.    Ten   times   or 

more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went    forth    to    show    it    to    the    neighbors 

round ; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than   Luke's.   When  Isabel 
Had    to   her   house    returned,    the   old    Man 
said,  317 

'  He  shall  depart  to-morrow.'     To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much   of 

things 

Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go. 

Would    surely   be    forgotten.     But   at   length 

She    gave    consent,    and     Michael     was    at 

ease.  2^2 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head 

Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold;  and,  before  he  heard 
The    tidings    of    his    melancholy    loss,       326 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's 

edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready   for  the  work. 
With    Luke     that    evening    thitherward    he 

walked ;  330 

And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he 

stopped, 


And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him. — '  My 

son. 
To-morrow   thou    wilt   leave   me:    with    full 

heart 
I   look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth,  335 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories;  'twill  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art   from  me,  even  if  I   should 

touch 
On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.— After 

thou  340 

First  cam'st  into  the  world  —  as  oft  befalls 
To     new-born     infants  —  thou     didst     sleep 

away 
Two  days,  and  blessings   from  thy  Father's 

tongue 
Then    fell    upon   thee.     Day   by   day   passed 

on, 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire- 
side 347 
First    uttering,    without    words,    a    natural 

tune ; 
While    thou,    a    feeding   babe,    didst    in    thy 

joy 
Sing    at    thy    Mother's    breast.     Month    fol- 
lowed month,     ,  350 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And    on    the    mountains,    else    I    think    that 

thou 
Hadst   been   brought   up   upon    thy   Father's 

knees. 
But  we  were  playmates,  Luke:  among  these 

hills, 
As    well    thou    know'st,    in    us    the    old    and 

young  355 

Have    played    together,    nor    with    me    didst 

thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know.' 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart;  but  at  these  words 
He    sobbed    aloud.    The    old    Man    grasped 

his  hand 
And  said,  '  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so  —  I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not 

speak.  361 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind  and  a  good  Father :  and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands ;  for,  though  now 

old  365 

Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 
Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 
Both    of    them    sleep    together :    here    they 

lived 


526 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


As    all    their    forefathers    had    done;    and 

when 
At   length  their  time  was  come,  they  were 

not  loath  37o 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mold. 
I    wished    that    thou    shouldst    live    the    life 

they  lived. 
But  't  is  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 
And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 
These     fields     were     burdened     when     they 

came  to  me  ;  375 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my 

work, 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was 

free. 
It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure        380 
Another  Master.  Heaven   forgive  me,  Luke, 
If  I  judge  ill   for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That    thou    shouldst    go.'     At    this    the    old 

Man  paused; 
Then,    pointing    to    the    stones    near    which 

they  stood. 
Thus,  after  a  short   silence,  he   resumed: 
*  This    was    a   work    for   us ;    and    now,   my 


son. 


386 


It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone  — 
Here,  lay  it   for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own 

hands.  , 

Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope;  —  we  both  may 

live 
To  see  a  better  day.    At  eighty-four  390 

I  still   am  strong  and  hale ;  —  do  thou    thy 

part, 
I  will  do  mine. —  I  will  begin  again 
With    many    tasks    that    were    resigned    to 

thee; 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms. 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do      395 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone. 
Before    I    knew    thy    face. —  Heaven    bless 

thee,   Boy ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating 

fast 
With    many    hopes;    it    should    be    so  —  yes 

—  yes  — 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke :  thou  hast  been  bound 
to   me  401 

Only  by  links  of  love:  when  thou  art  gone. 
What  will  be  left  to  us !  —  But,  I   forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone. 
As  I  requested;  and  hereafter,   Luke,       405 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 
And     of     this     moment ;     hither     turn     thy 
thoughts. 


And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Mayst    bear    in    mind    the    life    thy    Fathers 

lived,  411 

Who,  being  innocent,  did   for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare  thee 

well  — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt 

see 
A  work  which  is  not  here:  a  covenant     415 
'Twill   be  between   us  —  But,   whatever    fate 
P>ofall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last. 
And     bear    thy    memory    with    me    to    the 

grave.' 

The     Shepherd     ended     here;     and    Luke 

stooped  down, 
And,   as   his   Father   had   requested,   laid  420 
The   first   stone   of  the   Sheep-fold.     At   the 

sight 
The    old    Man's    grief   broke    from   him ;    to 

his  heart 
He    pressed    his    Son,    he    kissed    him    and 

wept ; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
Hushed  was  that  House  in  peace,  or  seem- 
ing peace,  425 
Ere   the   night    fell ;  —  with   morrow's   dawn 

the  Boy 
Began     his     journey,     and     when     he     had 

reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face ; 
And    all    the    neighbors    as    he    passed   their 

doors 
Came   forth   with  wishes  and  with   farewell 

prayers,  430 

That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A   good    report   did    from   their    Kinsman 

come. 
Of  Luke  and  his  well  doing:  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news. 
Which,  as   the  Housewife   phrased   it,   were 

throughout  435 

'  The  prettiest   letters  that  were  ever   seen.' 
Both     parents     read     them     with     rejoicing 

hearts. 
So,    many    months    passed    on:     and    once 

again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;   and 

now  440 

Sometimes    when    he    could    find    a    leisure 

hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought      at      the      sheep-fold.     Meantime 

Luke  began 
To   slacken   in   his   duty;   and   at   length 


TO  THE  CUCKOO 


527 


He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself       445 
To  evil  courses :   ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To   seek   a  hiding-place  beyond   the    seas. 

There    is    a    comfort    in    the    strength    of 

love;  449 

'T  will   make  a  thing  endurable,  which   else 

Would     overset    the    brain,    or     break    the 

heart : 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who 

well 
Remember  the  old   Man,   and   what  he   was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His   bodily    frame   had   been    from   youth   to 
age  455 

Of  an  unusual   strength.     Among  the  rocks 
He   went,   and    still    looked   up   to    sun   and 

cloud 
And  listened  to  the  wind ;  and  as  before 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep, 
,        And   for  the  land  his  small  inheritance.  460 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
I        Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  fold  of  which 

His  flock  had  need.     'T  is  not  forgotten  yet 
I        The  pity   which  was  then  in  every  heart 
I        For  the  old  Man  —  and  'tis  believed  by  all 

That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went, 
i        And  never  lifted  up  a  single   stone.         467 

There,  by  the  Sheep-fold,   sometimes  was 
he  seen 
Sitting  alone,   or  with  his    faithful   Dog, 
I         Then   old,   beside  him,  lying  at  his   feet.  47° 
I         The   length   of    full   seven   years    from   time 
j  to  time 

[  He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold 
\  wrought, 

I        And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
I        Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
j        Survive    her    Husband:    at    her    death    the 
I  estate  475 

I  Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
I  The  cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening 
!  Star 

Is  gone  —  the  ploughshare  has  been  through 

the  ground 
On  which  it  stood;  great  changes  have  been 

wrought 
In   all    the   neighborhood:  —  yet   the   oak   is 
left  480 

That   grew    beside   their   door ;    and   the   re- 
mains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the   boisterous  brook  of   Green-head 
Ghyll. 

(1800) 


MY    HEART    LEAPS    UP    WHEN  I 
BEHOLD 

^ly  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now,  I  am  a  man : 
So  be  it  when   I   shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

(1807) 


THE  SPARROW'S  NEST 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade, 

Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid! 

On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 

Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  delight. 

I  started  —  seeming  to  espy  5 

The  home  and  sheltered  bed, — 

The  Sparrow's  dwelling,  which,  hard  by, 

My  Father's  house,  in  wet  or  dry, 

My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 

Together  visited.  'o 

She  looked  at  it,  and  seemed  to  fear  it; 
Dreading,  tho'  wishing  to  be  near  it: 

Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 

A   little   Prattler  among  men. 

The   Blessing  of   my  later  years  'S 

Was  with  me  when  a  boy : 

She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears; 

And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears ; 

A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears; 

And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy.  20 

(1807) 


TO  THE  CUCKOO 

0  blithe  New-comer!   I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O    Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or   but   a    wandering    Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass. 
At   once    far   off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of   flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 


528 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the   Spring! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  nie 
No   hird,   but   an   invisible   thing,  'S 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  vi'hom  in  my  school-boy  days 
I  listened  to;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and   sky.  20 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through   woods  and   on   the   green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet;  25 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O    blessed  Bird !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be  3° 

An  unsubstantial,   faery   place ; 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee! 

(1807) 


RESOLUTION    AND    INDEPENDENCE 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night; 

The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods; 

But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright; 

The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods : 

Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove 
broods ;  s 

The  Jay  makes  answer  as  the  Magpie  chat- 
ters; 

And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise 
of  waters. 

AH    things    that    love    the    sun    are    out    of 

doors : 
The   sky   rejoices   in   the  morning's   birth; 
The    grass    is    bright    with    rain-drops ;  —  on 

the  moors  10 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth; 
And    with    her    feet    she    from    the    plashy 

earth 
Raises  a  mist;   that,  glittering  in  the   sun, 
Runs   with   her    all    the    way,   wherever    she 

doth  run. 

I  was  a  Traveler  then  upon  the  moor;       "S 
I  saw  the  hare  that  raced  about  with  joy; 
I   heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters  roar, 
Or  heard   them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy: 
The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ: 
My     old     remembrances     went      from     me 
wholly;  -'o 


Antl  all  the  ways  of  men  so  vain  and 
melancholy ! 

IJut,    as    it    sometimes    chanceth,     from    the 

might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go, 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection   do  we   sink   as   low,        25 
To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so ; 
And     fears,    and     fancies,    thick    upon    me 

came ; 
Dim   sadness  —  and   blind   thoughts,    1    knew 

not,  nor  could  name. 

I   heard   the  sky-lark   warbling  in   the   sky; 
And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare:  3° 
Even   such   a   happy  child   of   earth   am   I ; 
Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I   fare; 
Far   from  the  world   I   walk,  and    from   all 

care; 
But   there   may   come   another   day  to   me  — 
Solitude,      pain      of     heart,     distress,      and 

poverty.  35 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant 
thought, 

As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer  mood; 

As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  un- 
sought 

To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good ; 

But  how  can  He  expect  that  others  should 

Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 

Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no 
heed  at  all?  42 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvelous  Boy, 
The    sleepless    Soul    that    perished    in    his 

pride  ; 
Of  Him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy  45 
Following  his  plough,   along  the  mountain- 
side: 
By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified : 
We  Poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness; 
But   thereof   come    in    the    end    despondency 
and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace,     so 
A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 
Yet  it  befell,  that,  in  this  lonely  place. 
When  I  with  these  untoward  thoughts  had 

striven. 
Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 
I    saw   a    Man   before   me   unawares :  55 

The   oldest   man   he   seemed   that   ever   wore 

gray   hairs. 
As   a   huge   stone   is   sometimes   seen   to   lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence; 
Wonder  to  all   who  do  the  same  espy, 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE 


529 


By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and 
whence ;  60 

So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense : 

Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a 
shelf 

Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  it- 
self; 

Such    seemed    this    Man,    not    all    alive    nor 

dead, 
Nor  all  asleep  —  in  his  extreme  old  age:  65 
His  body  was  bent  double,   feet  and  head 
Coming   together   in    life's   pilgrimage; 
As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 
Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 
A  more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame 

had  cast.  70 

Himself  he  propped,  limbs,  body,  and    pale 

face, 
Upon  a  long  gray   staff  of   shaven  wood: 
And,  still  as  I  drew  near  with  gentle  pace. 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood ;  7S 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they 

call ; 
And  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 
Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned,  80 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book: 
And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took; 
And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say, 
i    '  This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a  glori- 
ous  day.' 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  Man  make,    83 
In   courteous   speech   which    forth   he   slowly 

drew : 
And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  bespake, 
'What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue? 
This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you.' 
Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise 
Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet  vivid 

eyes.  91 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble  chest. 
But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each. 
With  something  of  a  lofty  utterance  drest ; 
Choice    word,    and    measured    phrase,    above 

the   reach  95 

Of  ordinary   men  ;   a   stately  speech ; 
Such  as  grave  Livers  do  in  Scotland  use, 
Religious   men,   who  give  to   God   and   man 

their  dues. 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 
To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor:  100 
Employment    hazardous    and    wearisome! 
34 


And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure: 

From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor 
to  moor ; 

Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice 
or  chance ; 

And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  main- 
tenance, los 

The  old  Man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side; 
But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a  stream 
Scarce  heard ;  nor  word  from  word  could  I 

divide  ; 
And  the  whole  body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like  one  whom  I  had  met  with  in  a  dream; 
Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent. 
To    give    me    human    strength,    by    apt    ad- 
monishment. 112 

My  former  thoughts  returned:  the  fear  that 

kills; 
And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed; 
Cold,  pain  and  labor,  and  all  fleshly  ills; 
And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead.  "6 
Perplexed,   and  longing  to  be  comforted, 
My  question  eagerly  did   I   renew, 
'  How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you 

do?' 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat; 
And    said,   that,   gathering   leeches,    far   and 

wide  121 

He  traveled;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 
The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 
'  Once    I    could    meet    with    them    on    every 

side; 
But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay; 
Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I 

may.'  126 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place, 
The    old      Man's     shape,     and     speech,     all 

troubled  me: 
In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 
About  the  weary  moors  continually,  130 

Wandering   about   alone   and    silently. 
While   I   these  thoughts   within  myself  pur- 
sued. 
He,    having    made    a    pause,    the    same    dis- 
course renewed. 

And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blended. 
Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanor  kind,  us 
But    stately    in    the    main;    and    when    he 

ended, 
I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn  to  find 
In  that  decrepit  Man   so  firm  a  mind. 
'God,'  said  I,  'be  rny  help  and  stay  secure; 
I  '11     think    of    the     leech-gatherer    on    the 

lonely  moor  I  '  140 

(1807) 


530 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

WHO   HAD   BEEN    REPROACHED  FOR   TAKING   LONG 
WALKS     IN     THE     COUNTRY 

Dear    child    of   nature,    let    them    rail ! 

There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A   harbor   and   a   hold, 

Where   thou,   a   Wife   and   Friend,   shalt   see 

Thy  own  heart-stirring  days,  and  be  5 

A   light   to  young   and   old. 

There,  healthy  as  a   shepherd-boy, 

And   treading   among   flowers   of   joy, 

Which  at  no  season   fade. 

Thou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee  cling,     'o 

Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  Woman  may  be  made. 

Thy   thoughts   and    feelings   shall   not   die. 
Nor  leave  thee  when  gray  hairs  are  nigh, 
A  melancholy  slave;  'S 

But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright. 
And   lovely  as  a  Lapland  night. 
Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

(1807) 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon   solitary   Highland   Lass! 
Reaping   and    singing   by    herself; 
Stop   here,   or   gently   pass ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And   sings   a   melancholy   strain ; 
O  listen !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the   sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of   travelers    in    some   shady   haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne  'er  was  heard 
In   spring-time    from   the   Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the   farthest   Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings?  — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,   far-off  things. 

And  battles  long  ago : 

Or   is   it   some   more   humble   lay. 

Familiar    matter    of    to-day? 

Some   natural   sorrow,   loss,  or   pain. 

That    has    been,    and    may    be    again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending 


(1807) 


I    saw   her   singing   at    her    work, 
And    o'er    the    sickle    bending ;  — 
I    listened,    motionless    and    still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill. 
The  music  in  my  heart  I   bore. 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


YARROW     UNVISITED 


See  the  various  Poems  the  scene  of  wliicli  is  laid 
111011  tlie  liaiiUs  of  the  ^'arrow;  in  jiarlicular,  the 
jxquisite    Uallail    of    Hamilton,    beginning: 

'  Busk   ye,   busk   ye,   my   bonny,   bonny    bride, 
Itusk   ye,   busk   ye,  my   winsome   Marrow  I 


From   Sterling   Castle   we  had   seen 

The  mazy   Forth  unraveled. 

Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  traveled  : 

And    when    we   came   to   Cloven  ford,  S 

Then  said  my  winsome  Marroiu, 

'  Whate'er   betide,   wc  'II   turn   aside, 

And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

'  Let   Yarrow   folk,  jrac  Selkirk  tov.n. 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling,  u 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own; 
Each   maiden    to   her   dwelling ! 
On   Yarrow's  banks  let  herons   feed,  J 

Hares   couch,   and    rabbits   burrow!  I 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed,     '5 
Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

'  There  's  Gala  Water,  Leader  Haughs,  ■ 

Both   lying   right  before  us;  ■ 

And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 
The    lintwhites    sing   in   chorus;  20 

There 's    pleasant    Teviotdale,    a    land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 
Why  throw  away  a  needtul  day 
To  go  in   search  of   Yarrow? 

'  What 's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare,  25 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under?  ■< 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere  ■ 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder.' 
Strange    words    they   seemed   of    slight    and 

scorn : 
My  True  love  sighed  for  sorrow :  3" 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I    thus   could   speak   of    Yarrow ! 

'Oh!    green,'   said   I,   'are    Yarrow's   holms, 

And   sweet   is   Yarrow   flowing ! 

Fair  hangs  the   apple   frae  the   rock,i         3i 

•  See    Hamilton's    ballad,    as    above. 


TO  A  SKY-LARK 


531 


But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 
We  '11    wander    Scotland    thorough ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow.  4° 

'  Let   beeves   and   home-bred   kine   partake 
The   sweets   of   Burn-mill   meadow; 
The  swan   on   still   St.   Mary's   Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow ! 
We   will    not   see   them ;    will    not   go,         45 
To-day,   nor   yet   to-morrow ; 
Enough   if   in   our   hearts   we   know 
There  's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

*  Be   Yarrow    stream   unseen,   unknown  ! 

It   must,   or   we   shall   rue   it :  so 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 

Ah!   why   should   we  undo   it? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We  '11    keep    them,    winsome    Marrow ! 

For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair,  55 

'Twill   be  another  Yarrow! 

'  If   Care,   with   freezing  years   should   come, 
And    wandering    seem    but    folly, — 
Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home. 
And   yet   be   melancholy ;  6° 

Should  life  be  dull,   and   spirits  low, 
'Twill   soothe  us  in  our  sorrow. 
That  earth  has   something  yet  to   show, 
The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow ! ' 

(1807) 


SHE     WAS     A     PHANTOM     OF     DE- 
LIGHT 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A    lovely    Apparition,    sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as   stars  of   Twilight   fair;  s 

Like  Twilight's  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But   all   things   else   about    her   drawn 

From   May-time  and  the  cheerful   Dawn ; 

A   dancing   Shape,  an    Image   gay, 

To  haunt,  to   startle,   and   waylay.  'o 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A   Spirit,  yet  a   Woman   too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And    steps    of    virgin    liberty; 

A  countenance   in   which   did   meet  '5 

Sweet    records,   promises   as    sweet ; 

A   Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For   human    nature's    daily    food ; 


For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,      blame,      love,      kisses,      tears,    and 
smiles.  20 

And   now   I   see  with   eye   serene 
The    very   pulse    of    the    machine; 
A    Being  breathing   thoughtful    breath, 
A  Traveler  between  life  and  death; 
The    reason   firm,    the   temperate    will,         25 
Endurance,    foresight,    strength,    and    skill, 
A    perfect    Woman,    nobly   planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And   yet   a   Spirit   still,   and   bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 

(1807) 


I   WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

I   wandered   lonely  as   a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  cloud, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils ; 

Beside   the   lake,   beneath   the   trees,  S 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And   twinkle   on   the   milky   way, 

They   stretched   in   never-ending   line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay:  10 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 

Tossing  their  heads  in   sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee :  — 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay  '5 

In    such    a    jocund    company : 
I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft   when   on   my  couch    I   lie 

In   vacant   or   in   pensive   mood,  20 

They  flash   upon   that   inward   eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude. 

And   then   my  heart   with   pleasure   fills. 

And    dances    with    the    daff"odils. 

(1807) 


TO  A  SKY-LARK 

Up  with  me!  up  with   me   into  the  clouds! 

For   thy   song.   Lark,    is   strong; 
Up   with  me,  up  with   me  into  the  clouds! 

Singing,    singing. 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing,     S 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind. 


532 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


I   have  walked   through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart   is   weary; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery  lo 

Up  to  thee  would   I   tly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In   that   song  of  thine ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me,  high   and  high 

To  thy  banqucting-place  in  the  sky!  'S 

Joyous  as  morning. 
Thou    art   laughing  and    scorning ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,   though    little   troubled   with   sloth, 
Drunken  Lark !  thou  wouldst  be  loath        20 
To  be  such  a  traveler  as  I. 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  almighty  Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both !  -5 

Alas!  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 
Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must 

wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind. 
As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 
I,  with   my   fate  contented,   will   plod   on,  30 
And   hope    for   higher   raptures,   when   life's 

day  is  done. 

(1807) 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS 

SUGGESTED   BY    A    PICTURE   OF    PEELE    CASTLE    IN 
A   STORM   PAINTED  BY   SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT 

I  was  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile ! 
Four    summer    weeks    I    dwelt    in    sight    of 

thee: 
I  saw  thee  every  day ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the   sky,   so  quiet   was  the   air;     5 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day ! 
Whene'er     I    looked,    thy    Image    still    was 

there; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How   perfect   was   the   calm !    it    seemed    no 

sleep ; 
No    mood    which     season    takes     away    or 

brings:  10 

I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  Things. 

Ah!    then,    if   mine   had   been   the    Painter's 
hand. 


To  express   what   then   I   saw ;   and   add   the 

gleam 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,    >s 
The   consecration   and   the    Poet's   dream ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  Pile ! 
Amid  a  world  how  different   from  this! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss.  20 

Thou    should'st    have    seemed    a    treasure- 
house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years;  a  chronicle  of  heaven;  — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A   Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease,       25 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely   silent    Nature's   breathing   life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart. 
Such    Picture    would    I    at    that    time    have 
made :  30 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part ; 
A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — 't  is  so  no 
more ; 

I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 

A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  re- 
store; 35 

A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  Soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been: 
The   feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old; 
This,    which    I    know,    I    speak    with    mind 
serene.  4° 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend !  who  would  have 
been  the  Friend, 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  com- 
mend ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

Oh,  'tis  a  passionate  Work! — yet  wise  and 
well;  45 

Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here ; 
That  Hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly  swell. 
This    rueful    sky,   this   pageantry   of    fear ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sub- 
lime, 
I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves. 
Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old  time  51 
The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling 
waves. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


533 


Farewell,     farewell,     the     heart     that    lives 

alone, 
Housed    in    a   dream,   at   distance    from   the 

Kind ! 
Such   happiness,   wherever  it  be   known,     ss 
Is  to  be  pitied ;  for  't  is  surely  blind. 

But   welcome    fortitude,   and   patient   cheer. 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 
Such    sights,    or    worse,    as    are    before    me 
here. —  59 

Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

(1807) 


ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law  S 

When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 
And     calm'st     the     weary     strife     of     frail 
humanity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye  1° 

Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth. 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth ; 

Glad   Hearts !   without  reproach  or  blot ; 

Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not:         is 

O      if    through    confidence    misplaced    they 

fail. 
Thy    saving    arms,    dread     Power !    around 

them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When   love   is   an   unerring  light,  20 

And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet    seek    thy    firm    support,    according    to 
their  need.  ^s 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried ; 
No   sport   of   every   random   gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,   when   in  my  heart   was  heard    30 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 
But  thee   I  now   would  serve  more   strictly, 
if  I  may. 


Through  no  disturbance  of  my   soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought,    35 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this   unchartered    freedom   tires; 

T   feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  41 

Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face :  45 

Flowers   laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds; 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And     the    most     ancient     heavens,    through 
Thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power!         50 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 
Give   unto   me,  made  lowly   wise. 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice;  55 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let 
me  live ! 

(1807) 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY 
WARRIOR 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
It     is     the     generous     Spirit,     who,     when 

brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon    the     plan     that    pleased     his    boyish 
thought :  5 

Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That    makes    the    path    before    him    always 

bright : 
Who,   with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What    knowledge    can    perform,    is    diligent 
to  learn ;  9 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there. 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care ; 
Who  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power  15 
Which     is     our     human     nature's     highest 

dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  be- 
reaves. 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  re- 
ceives ; 


534 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


By  objects,   which   might    force  the   soul   to 

abate 
Her    feeling,   rendered   more   compassionate ; 
Is  placable  — because  occasions  rise  2' 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice; 
More   skilful   in   self-knowledge,   even   more 

pure, 
As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure. 
As  more  exposed  to   suffering  and  distress; 
Thence,  also  more  alive  to  tenderness.       26 
'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted 

still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill,        30 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth   seldom  on  a  right   foundation   rest, 
He   labors  good  on  good  to  fix,   and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows; 
Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command,     3S 
Rises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 
Who    comprehends    his    trust,    and    to    the 

same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim;  40 
And    therefore    does    not    stoop,    nor    lie    in 

wait 
For  wealth,  or  honors  or  for  worldly  state; 
Whom   they    must    follow;    on   whose   head 

must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 
Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  com- 
mon strife,  45 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven   has 
joined  49 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 
Is  happy  as  a  Lover;  and  attired 
With    sudden    brightness,    like    a    Man    in- 
spired ; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the 

law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he   fore- 
saw; 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed,  55 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need : 
He  who  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 
And   faculty    for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ; 
Sweet  images!   which,  wheresoe'er  he  be,  61 
Are  at  his  heart ;  and   such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 
More  brave   for  this  that  he  hath  much  to 
love : — 


'T  is,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high      6s 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye. 
Or   left   unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,   with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where   what   he   most   doth   value   must  be 
won :  71 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor   thought   of   tender   happiness   betray; 
Who,  not  content  that   former  worth   stand 

fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last,      75 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the 

earth 
For   ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth. 
Or  he  must  fall  to  sleep  without  his  fame. 
And  leave  a  dead  unprofital^le   name,  80 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 
And,    while    the    mortal    mist    is    gathering, 

draws 
His    breath    in   confidence    of    Heaven's    ap- 
plause : 
This   is   the  happy   Warrior;    this   is   He 
Whom  every  Man   in   arms   should   wish  to 
be.  85 

(1807) 

ODE 

INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM   RECOLLEC- 
TIONS    OF     EARLY     CHILDHOOD 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove  and 

stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common   sight, 
To  me  did   seem 
Appareled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.     5 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see 
no  more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes,  »o 

And   lovely  is   the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look    round    her    when    the    heavens    are 
bare. 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair;  '5 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet   I   know,   where'er   I   go. 
That    there    hath    past    away    a    glory    from 

the  earth. 
Now,    while    the   birds    thus    sing   a    joyous 
song. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 


535 


And   while  the   young   lambs   bound     20 
As   to   the   tabor's   sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A    timely    utterance    gave   that    thought    re- 
lief, 
And  I  again  am  strong: 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the 
steep ;  25 

No    more    shall    grief    of    mine    the    season 

wrong ; 
I    hear    the    Echoes   through    the    mountains 

throng. 
The  Winds  come  to  me   from  the  fields  of 
sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and   sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth   every  Beast  keep  holiday;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout    round    me,    let    me    hear   thy    shouts, 
thou    happy    Shepherd-boy !     35 

Ye    blessed    Creatures,    I    have    heard    the 
call 
Ye  to  each  other  make ;   I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 
My   head   hath    its   coronal,  4° 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it 
all. 
Oh  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This    sweet    May-morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culling  45 

On  every  side. 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh   flowers;    while   the    sun    shines 
warm, 
And    the    Babe    leaps    up    on    his    Mother's 
arm:  — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear !  so 

—  But  there  's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both    of    them   speak   of   something   that   is 
gone: 
The   Pansy   at   my   feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat :  55 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,         60 
And  Cometh   from  afar : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And   not   in   utter   nakedness. 
But   trailing   clouds   of   glory   do    we   come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home :  65 


Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon   the  growing   Boy, 
But    he    beholds    the    light,    and    whence    it 
flows 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy;  70 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,   still   is   Nature's   Priest, 

And  by  the  vision   splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away,  75 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth    fills    her    lap    with    pleasures    of    her 

own ; 
Yearnings    she    hath    in    her    own    natural 

kind, 
And    even    with    something    of    a    Mother's 
mind, 
And   no   unworthy   aim,  80 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold     the     Child     among     his     new-born 
blisses,  85 

A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he 

lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart,  9o 
Some   fragment   from  his  dream  of   human 

life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 
A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A   mourning  or  a   funeral, 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart,         95 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  'oo 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling    from    time    to    time    his    '  humorous 

stage ' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation  106 

Were   endless   imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity;  '"9 

Thou  best   Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy   heritage,   thou    Eye   among   the   blind. 
That,     'eaf    and    silent,    read'st    the    eternal 
deep, 


536 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


Haunted   for   ever  by  the  eternal   mind,— 
Mighty   Prophet!    Seer  blest! 
On   whom  those  truths  do  rest,       "5 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
'I'hou,   over   whom   thy   Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by;       '^o 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of    heaven-born     freedom    on    thy    being's 

height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  pro- 
voke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full   soon   thy   Soul   shall   have   her   earthly 
freight,  '^^ 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

Oh  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live,  '30 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth 

breed 
Perpetual    benediction :    not    indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight   and   liberty,   the   simple   creed       136 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his 
breast : — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise;       mo 
But   for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized,         MS 
High    instincts    before    which    our    mortal 

nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those   shadowy   recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may,  150 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 
Uphold   us,   cherish,   and   have   power   to 
make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake,  '55 

To  perish  never; 
Which    neither    listlessness,    nor    mad    en- 
deavor, 
Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can    utterly    abolish    or    destroy!  160 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 


Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which   brought   us   hither. 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither,       165 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And    hear   the   mighty   waters    rolling   ever- 
more. 

Then    sing,   ye    Birds,    sing,    sing   a    joyous 
song! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound!  170 

We  in   thought  will  join  your  throng. 
Ye   that    pipe   and    ye   that   play. 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 

What  though  the  radiance  which   was  once 
so  bright  '75 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight. 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of   splendor   in   the  grass,  of   glory   in   the 
flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind;  180 
In  the  primal  sympathy  _ 

Which    having   been    must   ever   be;        | 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human   suffering;  184 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death. 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and 

Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 
Yet    in    my    heart    of    hearts    I    feel    your 

might ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight         '90 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual   sway. 
I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  chan- 
nels  fret. 
Even  more  than  when   I  tripped  lightly  as 

they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 
Is   lovely  yet;  '95 

The   Clouds   that   gather   round   the   setting 

sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another    race    hath    been,    and    other    palms 

are  won. 
Thanks   to   the   human   heart   by   which    we 

live,  200 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me   the  meanest   flower   that  blows   can 

give 
Thoughts    that    do    often    lie    too    deep    for 

tears. 

(1807) 


I 


SONNETS 


537 


NUNS      FRET     NOT     AT     THEIR 
CONVENT'S  NARROW  ROOM 

Nuns    fret    not    at    their    convent's    narrow- 
room  ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells; 
And   students   with   their   pensive   citadels: 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit    blithe    and    happy;    bees    that    soar    for 
bloom,  5 

High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness  Fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells: 
In  truth,  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is :  and  hence  for  me, 
In  sundry,  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be 
bound  ^° 

Within  the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground; 
Pleased    if     some    Souls     (for    such    there 

needs  must  be) 
Who    have    felt    the    weight    of    too    much 

liberty. 
Should   find   brief    solace   there,   as    I    have 
found. 

(1807) 

PERSONAL  TALK 
I. 

I  am  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk, — 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk. 
Or   neighbors,   daily,   weekly,   in   my   sight : 
And,     for     my    chance-acquaintance,     ladies 

bright,  5 

Sons,    mothers,    maidens    withering    on    the 

stalk, 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with 

chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors   for  one   feast 

night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire ; 
To   sit   without    emotion,   hope,    or   aim,     n 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire. 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame. 
Or  kettle  whispering  its   faint  undersong. 


Yet  life,'  you  say,  '  is  life ;  we  have  seen 

and  see. 
And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The   languid   mind   into   activity. 
Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and 

glee  5 

Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe.' 
Even  be  it  so,  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 
Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not 

me ! 


Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  their 
world  lies 

More  justly  balanced;  partly  at  their   feet, 

And  part  far  from  them  —  sweetest  melo- 
dies II 

Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more 
sweet ; 

Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own 
eyes. 

He  is  a  Slave ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 


Wings  have  we, —  and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We     may     find     pleasure :     wilderness     and 

wood,  16 

Blank    ocean    and    mere    sky,    support    that 

mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,    books,    are     each    a    world;     and 

books,   we   know  s 

Are    a    substantial    world,    both    pure    and 

good: 
Round   these,    with  tendrils   strong   as   flesh 

and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There   find   I    personal   themes,   a   plenteous 

store. 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am,  10 

To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 
Two  shall  be  named,  preeminently  dear, — 
The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor; 
And    heavenly    Una    with    her    milk-white 

Lamb. 


IV. 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 

Great  gains  are  mine;    for  thus  1  live  re- 
mote 

From  evil-speaking;  rancor,  never  sought. 

Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 

Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 

Smooth     passions,     smooth     discourse,     and 
joyous  thought :  6 

And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 

Rocks   in  its  harbor,  lodging  peaceably. 

Blessings      be      with      them  —  and      eternal 
praise. 

Who    gave    us    nobler    loves    and     nobler 
cares —  10 

The    poets,    who    on    earth    have    made    us 
heirs 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays! 

Oh !    might   my    name   be   numbered    among 
theirs, 

Then  gladly  would   I   end  my  mortal  days. 

(1807) 


538 


WILLIAM   W'ORIXS WORTH 


COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE  SEPT.  3   1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull   would  he  he  of   soul   who   could  pass 

by 
A  sight  so  touching  m  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;   silent,  bare,  5 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theaters,  and  temples 

lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All   bright   and    glittering   in   the    smokeless 

air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill;   10 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never   felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

(1807) 


COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEA-SIDE  NEAR 
CALAIS   AUGUST    1802 

Fair  Star  of  evening.  Splendor  of  the  west, 
Star    of    my    Country!  —  on    the    horizon's 

brink 
Thou  hangest,   stooping,  as  might   seem,  to 

sink 
On    England's    bosom:    yet    well    pleased    to 

rest, 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest  5 
Conspicuous  to  the  Nations.     Thou,  I  thmk, 
Shouldst     be     my     Country's     emblem;     and 

should'st  wink. 
Bright  Star !  with  laughter  on  her  banners, 

drest 
In   thy   fresh   beauty.     There!    that   dusky 

spot 
Beneath    thee    that    is    England;    there    she 

lies.  1° 

Blessings   be    on   you   both!    one   hope,   one 

lot. 
One  life,  one  glory !     I  with  many  a  fear 
For  my  dear  Country,  many  heartfelt  sighs. 
Among   men   who   do    not   love   her,    linger 

here. 

(1807) 


IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING,  CALM 
AND  FREE 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free. 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun, 
Breathless  with  adoration :  the  broad   sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 


The    gentleness   of    heaven   broods   o'er   the 
sea ;  s 

Listen !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth   with  his  eternal   motion  make 
A    sound    like   thunder  —  everlastingly. 
Dear    Child !    dear    Girl !    that    walkest   with 

me  here. 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine:     " 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year. 
And     worshipp'st     at     the     Temple's     inner 

shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

(1807) 


ON    THE    EXTINCTION    OF    THE 
VENETIAN  REPUBLIC 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee; 
And    was   the    safeguard    of    the    west:    the 

worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest   Child  of   liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free;     S 
No  guile   seduced,  no   force  could  violate; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She   must    espouse   the   everlasting    Sea! 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those   titles   vanish,    and   that   strength   de- 
cay; 10 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When    her   long   life   hath    reached   its   final 

day: 
Men  arc  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the 

Shade 
Of    that    which   once    was    great,    is    passed 
away. 

(1807) 


TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men ! 
Whether     the     whistling     Rustic     tend     his 

plough 
Within   thy   hearing,   or   thy  head  be   now 
Pillowed    in    some    deep    dungeon's    earless 

den  ; 
O  miserable  Chieftain !  where  and  when      s 
Wilt    thou   find   patience  ?    Yet   die   not !    do 

thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow: 
Though   fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  be- 
hind 
Powers  that   will   work   for   thee,  air,   earth, 
and  skies  :  '  ' 


SONNETS 


539 


There 's    not    a    breathing    of    the    common 

wind 
That  will  forget  thee;  thou  hast  great  allies; 
Thy    friends    are    exultations,    agonies, 
And  love,   and  man's  unconquerable   mind. 
.     (1807) 


SEPTEMBER  1802  NEAR  DOVER 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood ; 
And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  and  air  was 

clear. 
The  coast  of   France,  the  coast  of  France 

how  near ! 
Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighborhood. 
I   shrunk,   for  verily  the  barrier  flood  5 

Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair, 
A  span  of  waters ;  yet  what  power  is  there ! 
What  mightiness   for  evil   and    for  good ! 
Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 
Virtuous      and      wise.     Winds      blow,      and 

waters  roll,  10 

Strength    to    the    brave,    and    Power,    and 

Deity, 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing !   One  decree 
Spake   laws  to   thetn,  and   said  that   by  the 

soul 
Only  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free ! 

(1807) 


LONDON    1802 

Milton !     thou    shouldst    be    living    at    this 

hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters;  altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,    the    heroic    wealth    of    hall    and 

bower. 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh !   raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ;  7 

And     give     us     manners,     virtue,     freedom, 

power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice   whose   sound  was   like 

the  sea;  10 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

(1807) 


IT  IS  NOT  TO  BE  THOUGHT  OF 
THAT  THE  FLOOD 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 
Of  British   freedom,  which,  to  the  open   sea 


Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  'with  pomp  of  waters  unwith 

stood,' 
Roused   though  it  be   full  often  to  a  mood 
Which   spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, 
That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  bogs  and 

sands  7 

Should  perish;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armory  of  the  invincible  knights  of  old:    Jo 
We    must    be    free    or    die,    who    speak    the 

tongue 
That  Shakspere  spake :  the  faith  and  morals 

hold 
Which    Alilton  held.     In  everything   we   are 

sprung 
Of  earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 

(1807) 


WHEN  I  HAVE  BORNE  IN   MEMORY 
WHAT  HAS  TAMED 

When    I   have   borne   in   memory   what    has 
tamed 

Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  de- 
part 

When  men  change  swords   for  ledgers  and 
desert 

The    student's   bower    for   gold,    some    fears 
unnamed 

I  had,  my  Country !  —  am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

Now  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou 
art,  6 

Verily,   in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  unfilial   fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For    dearly   must    we   prize    thee ;    we    who 
find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men;     1° 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then. 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind. 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  1 

(1807) 


TO    THE    MEN    OF   KENT    OCTOBER 
1803 

Vanguard  of  Liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent, 
Ye  children  of  a  soil  that  doth  advance 
Her    haughty    brow    against    the    coast    of 

France, 
Now  is  the  time  to  prove  your  hardiment! 
To   France  be  words  of  invitation   sent!     5 
They  from  their  fields  can  see  the  counte- 
nance 
Of  your  fierce  war,  may  ken  the  glittering 
lance 


540 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


And    hear    you    shouting    forth    your    brave 
intent. 

Left  single,  in  bold  parley,  ye  of  yore, 

Did  from  the  Norman  win  a  gallant  wreath ; 

Confirmed  the  charters  that   were  yours  be- 
fore;—  " 

No     parleying    now!       In     Britain     is     one 
breath ; 

We  all   are   with   you   now    from    shore    to 
shore : 

Ye  men  of  Kent,  'tis  victory  or  death! 

(1807) 


THOUGHT    OF    A    BRITON    ON    THE 
SUBJUGATION    OF   SWITZERLAND 

Two  Voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea. 

One  of  the  mountains;  each  a  mighty  Voice: 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  re- 
joice. 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 

There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee     s 

Thou  fought'st  against  him;  but  hast  vainly 
striven. 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art 
driven, 

Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft ; 

Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still 
is  left;  10 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would 
it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  be- 
fore, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee ! 

(1807) 


THE   WORLD   IS    TOO    MUCH    WITH 
US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us:   late   and 

soon. 
Getting    and    spending,    we    lay    waste    our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a   sordid 

boon  I 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours,  6 
And     are     up-gathered     now     like     sleeping 

flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not. —  Great  God !  I  'd  rather  be 
A   Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn;         'o 
So   might    I,    standing   on   this   pleasant   lea, 


Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  for- 
lorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

(1807) 


AFTER-THOUGHT     TO     THE     RIVER 
DUDDON 

I    thought    of    Thee,    my    partner    and    my 

guide, 
As  being  past  away.     Vain  sympathies ! 
For,  backward,  Duddon !  as  1  cast  my  eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide; 
Still   glides  the   Stream,  and   shall    for  ever 

glide ;  5 

The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies ; 
While   we,   the   brave,   the   mighty,   and   the 

wise, 
We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  ;  —  be  it  so  ! 
Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have 

power  10 

To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour; 
And  if,  as  towards  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 
Through    love,    through    hope,    and    faith's 

transcendent  dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

(1820) 


INSIDE  OF  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL 
CAMBRIDGE 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 
With    ill-matched    aims    the    Architect    who 

planned,  _ 

Albeit  laboring  for  a  scanty  band  I 

Of  white-robed  Scholars  only,  this  immense       ' 
And  glorious  Work  of  fine  intelligence!     s 
Give    all    thou    canst;    high    Heaven    rejects 

the  lore 
Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more; 
So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the 

sense 
These    lofty    pillars,    spread    that    branching 

roof 
Self -poised,  and   scooped   into  ten  thousand 

cells,  10 

Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music 

dwells 
Lingermg  —  and   wandering   on    as   loath  to 

die; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth 

proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

(1822) 


SONNETS 


541 


CONTINUED 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 
Who   thus  could   build.     Be  mine,   in   hours 

of  fear 
Or  groveling  thought,  to  seek  a  refuge  here; 
Or    through    the    aisles    of    Westminster    to 

roam ; 
Where    bubbles    burst,    and    folly's    dancing 

foam  5 

Melts,   if  it   cross  the  threshold;    where  the 

wreath 
Of   awe-struck   wisdom   droops:    or   let    my 

path 
Lead   to   that  younger    Pile,   whose   sky-like 

dome 
Hath  typified  by  reach  of  daring  art 
Infinity's  embrace;  whose  guardian  crest,    1° 
The    silent    Cross,    among    the    stars    shall 

spread 
As  now,  when  She  hath  also  seen  her  breast 
Filled   with   mementos,   satiate   with   its   part 
Of   grateful    England's   overflowing   Dead. 

(1822) 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SIR  WAL- 
TER SCOTT  FROM  ABBOTSFORD 
FOR  NAPLES 

I        A  trouble  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain, 

I        Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 

)        Engendered,     hangs     o  'er     Eildon's     triple 

height : 
I        Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 
For    kindred    Power    departing    from    their 
sight ;  5 

i        While    Tweed,    best    pleased    in    chanting    a 
;  blithe  strain, 

:        Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  Mourners !    for  the 

might 
Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him 

goes; 
Blessings  and  prayers  in  nobler  retinue     1° 
Than  sceptered  King  or  laureled  Conqueror 

knows, 
Follow    this    wondrous    Potentate.     Be   true. 
Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea. 
Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope! 

(1835) 


'THERE!'    SAID   A    STRIPLING, 

POINTING  WITH  MEET 

PRIDE 

'  There ! '    said    a    Stripling,    pointing    with 

meet  pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half 

concealed, 
'  Is    Mossgiel    Farm ;    and    that 's    the    very 

field 
Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy.'     Far 

and  wide 
A    plain    below    stretched    sea-ward,    while, 

descried  s 

Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath  '  the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone  ' 
Myriads    of    daisies    have    shone    forth    in 

flower  10 

Near  the    lark's   nest,   and    in   their   natural 

hour 
Have  passed  away,  less  happy  than  the  One 
That  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare  died  to 

prove 
The  tender  charm  of  Poetry  and  Love. 

(1835) 


CONCLUSION 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To    pace    the    ground    if    path    be    there    or 

none. 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveler  lies, 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 
Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene,    s 
The  work  of  Fancy  or  some  happy  tone 
Of    meditation,    slipping   in    between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
If   Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that 

day 
Let    us    break    off    all    commerce    with    the 

Muse;  10 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our 

way, 
Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse 
The   Mind's   internal  heaven   shall   shed  her 

dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

(1835) 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  (1772-1834) 

Coleridge  was  the  son  of  a  Devoushire  clergyman,  about  whose  eccentricities  some  amus- 
ing stories  are  told.  As  a  '  poor,  friendless  boy  '  he  came  lo  London  at  the  age  of  ten, 
and  entered  Christ's  Hospital,  the  famous  charity  school  founded  by  Edward  VI,  at  the 
same  time  as  Charles  Lamb,  with  whom  he  struck  up  a  friendship  which  lasted  as  long 
as  they  lived.  Coleridge  was  a  dreamy,  precocious  youth,  who  talked  neo-platonism  and 
recited  Homer  and  Pindar  in  Greek  in  the  play  ground.  In  17U1  he  was  admitted  as  a 
'  sizar '  or  poor  student  at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  which  he  left  in  his  second  year, 
encumbered  with  debt  and  disappointed  in  love,  to  enlist  in  a  dragoon  regiment  under  the 
name  of  Silas  TomUyn  Cumberback.  As  he  could  not  ride  or  clean  his  horse  and  accoutre- 
ments, he  proved  unsuccessful  as  a  cavalry  soldier,  and  after  four  months  was  sent  back 
to  the  university.  Lie  left  Cambridge  without  a  degree  in  1795,  having  already  formed  with 
Southey,  who  was  at  Oxford,  the  design  of  the  Pantisocracy,  an  ideal  community  to  be 
founded  on  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna  by  twelve  gentlemen  and  twelve  ladies  of  good 
education  and  liberal  principles.  Southey  and  Coleridge  did  not  go  to  America,  but  they 
married  the  tw^o  JMiss  Frickers,  who  were  to  have  been  their  partners  in  the  adventure. 
Mrs.  Coleridge  complained  that  her  husband  '  would  walk  up  and  down  composing  poetry 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  in  bed,'  and  the  union  proved  an  ill-assorted  one,  but  as 
Coleridge  brought  his  bride  to  a  cottage  near  Bristol  unfurnished  with  groceries  or  kitchen 
ware,  the  fault  was  not  entirely  on  lier  side.  Coleridge  was  all  his  life  terribly  impractical, 
as  his  own  story  of  the  publication  of  The  Watchman  at  this  time,  given  below,  abundantly 
shows.  In  the  same  year  (ITSJG)  Coleridge  made  the  acquaintance  of  Wordsworth,  and 
the  two  poets  formed  a  strong  friendship,  based  upon  mutual  affection,  admiration,  and 
reverence.  Wordsworth  thought  Coleridge  '  the  only  wonderful  man  he  had  ever  met ;  '  Coleridge 
said  of  Wordsworth,  '  I  feel  myself  a  little  man  by  his  side.'  The  two  poets  were  very 
different  in  appearance  and  disposition.  WordswortlVs  tall,  gaunt  frame,  his  high  ascetic 
forehead,  stately  expression  and  reserved  manner  contrasted  sharply  with  Coleridge's  stockish 
figure,  awkward  gait,  and  good-natured  face  with  curly  black  hair  and  ardent  gray  eyes. 
For  more  than  a  year  (1797-8)  the  two  poets  were  constantly  together,  and  their  communion 
resulted,  not  only  in  the  publication  of  Lyrical  Ballads,  as  already  related  (p.  503),  but  in 
the  permanent  enrichment  of  each  poetic  nature  by  contact  with  another,  richly  though  differ- 
ently endowed.  After  transitory  appearances  as  a  Unitarian  minister  and  a  London  journalist, 
Coleritlge  returned  from  his  studies  in  Germany  to  publish  his  translation  of  Schiller's 
Wullcnstcin  (ISOO)  and  to  establish  his  family  at  Greta  Hall,  Keswick,  a  few  miles  from 
the  Wordsvvorths.  His  lack  of  will  pov^-er  was  increased  by  the  habit  of  taking  laudanum, 
which  became  tixed  in  1803,  and  grew  upon  him  to  an  alarming  extent.  Lamb  described  him 
in  ISOt)  as  '  an  archangel,  a  little  damaged  ' ;  a  less  humorous  account  says  he  was  '  ill, 
penniless,  and  worse  than  homeless.'  Another  attempt  at  periodical  publication.  The  Friend 
(1809),  was  no  better  managed,  and  no  more  successful  than  The  Watchman.  His  lectures 
in  Loudon,  begun  about  the  same  time,  were  more  profitable,  both  to  himself  and  to  the 
public,  in  spite  of  his  habit  of  lecturing  on  anything  but  the  subject  announced,  and  his 
occasional  failure  to  come  at  all ;  the  scattered  notes  he  left  behind  contain  some  most  valuable 
contributions  to  Shaksperean  criticism.  Unable  to  break  himself  of  the  opium  habit,  Coleridge 
in  181G  put  himself  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Gillman,  of  Highgate,  a  London  suburb,  with 
whom  he  lived  until  his  death.  His  poetic  productivity  had  practically  ceased  years  before, 
but  he  continued  to  write  prose  (Biographia  Literaria,  1817;  Aids  to  Reflection,  1825),  and 
to  pour  forth  the  flood  of  impassioned  and  philosophical  talk  he  had  begun  as  a  school  boy 
at    Christ's    Hospital.     Some    of    it    is    preserved    in    Table    Talk,    published    after    his    death. 

Coleridge  had  all  the  powers  of  a  great  poet  except  the  ordinairy  virtues  of  concentration 
and  continuity  of  pui-pose.  The  only  great  poem  he  succeeded  in  completing  was  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  on  which  he  worked  under  the  spur  of  Wordsworth's  influence.  He 
projected  innumerable  literary  undertakings,  most  of  which  were  not  even  begun.  Yet  his 
influence  in  producing  what  a  modern  critic  has  called  '  the  renascence  of  wonder '  was  as 
revolutionary  as  that  of  Wordsworth  in  another  way,  and  if  the  change  in  poetry  is  rightly 
named  '  the  romantic  revival.'  Coleridge  must  be  given  a  place  by  the  side  of  bis  greater 
friend  and  fellow  poet  as  one  of  the  makers  of  the  new  era. 

542 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  543 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  Earl  of  Bottle,  for  aught  I  knew  of  him, 

FROM  CHAPTER  X  ^^'''°   ^^^^^   ^^<^^"    Content    to   reverence    the 

peerage  in  abstracto,  rather  than  in  con- 
An  imprudent  man  of  common"  good-  crctis.  Of  course  The  Friend  was  reg- 
ness  of  heart  cannot  but  wish  to  turn  5  ularly  sent  as  far,  if  I  remember  right, 
even  his  imprudences  to  the  benefit  of  as  the  eighteenth  number;  that  is,  till  a 
others,  as  far  as  this  is  possible.  If  fortnight  before  the  subscription  was  to 
therefore  any  one  of  the  readers  of  this  be  paid.  And  lo  !  just  at  this  time  I  re- 
semi-narrative  should  be  preparing  or  ceived  a  letter  from  his  lordship,  reprov- 
intending  a  periodical  work,  I  warn  him,  10  ing  me  in  language  far  more  lordly  than 
in  the  first  place,  against  trusting  in  the  courteous  for  my  impudence  in  directing 
number  of  names  on  his  subscription  list,  my  pamphlets  to  him,  who  knew  nothing 
For  he  cannot  be  certain  that  the  names  of  me  or  my  work  !  Seventeen  or  eight- 
were  put  down  by  sufficient  authority;  een  numbers  of  which,  however,  his  lord- 
or,  should  that  be  ascertained,  it  still  re-  ^5  ship  was  pleased  to  retain,  probably  for 
mains  to  be  known,  whether  they  were  the  culinary  or  post-culinary  conveniences 
not     extorted     by     some     over     zealous      of  his  servants. 

friend's    importunity;    whether    the    sub-  Secondly,    I   warn   all   others    from   the 

scriber  had  not  yielded  his  name,  merely  attempt  to  deviate  from  the  ordinary 
from  want  of  courage  to  answer,  no ;  and  20  mode  of  publishing  a  work  by  the  trade. 
with  the  intention  of  dropping  the  work  I  thought  indeed,  that  to  the  purchaser 
as  soon  as  possible.  One  gentleman  pro-  it  was  indififerent,  whether  thirty  per 
cured  me  nearly  a  hundred  names  for  cent,  of  the  purchase-money  went  to  the 
The  Friend,  and  not  only  took  frequent  booksellers  or  to  the  government ;  and 
opportunity  to  remind  me  of  his  success  25  that  the  convenience  of  receiving  the 
in  his  canvass,  but  labored  to  impress  work  by  the  post  at  his  own  door  would 
my  mind  with  the  sense  of  the  obligation,  give  the  preference  to  the  latter.  It  is 
I  was  under  to  the  subscribers;  for,  (as  hard,  I  own,  to  have  been  laboring  for 
he  very  pertinently  admonished  me,)  years,  in  collecting  and  arranging  the 
'  fifty-two  shillings  a  year  was  a  large  30  materials ;  to  have  spent  every  shilling 
sum  to  be  bestowed  on  one  individual,  that  could  be  spared  after  the  necessaries 
where  there  were  so  many  objects  of  of  life  had  been  furnished,  in  buying 
charity  with  strong  claims  to  the  as-  books,  or  in  journeys  for  the  purpose  of 
sistance  of  the  benevolent.'  Of  these  consulting  them  or  of  acquiring  facts  at 
hundred  patrons  ninety  threw  up  the  35  the  fountain  head ;  then  to  buy  the  paper, 
publication  before  the  fourth  number,  pay  for  the  printing,  and  the  like,  all  at 
without  any  notice;  though  it  was  well  least  fifteen  per  cent,  beyond  what  the 
known  to  them,  that  in  consequence  of  trade  would  have  paid ;  and  then  after  all 
the  distance,  and  the  slowness  and  ir-  to  give  thirty  per  cent,  not  of  the  net 
regularity  of  the  conveyance,  I  was  com-  40  profits,  but  of  the  gross  results  of  the 
pelled  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  stamped  paper  sale,  to  a  man  who  has  merely  to  give 
for  at  least  eight  weeks  beforehand ;  each  the  books  shelf  or  warehouse  room,  and 
sheet  of  which  stood  me  in  five  pence  permit  his  apprentice  to  hand  them  over 
previously  to  its  arrival  at  my  printer's ;  the  counter  to  those  who  may  ask  for 
though  the  subscription  money  was  not  to  45  them ;  and  this  too  copy  by  copy,  although, 
be  received  till  the  twenty-first  week  after  if  the  work  be  on  any  philosophical  or 
the  commencement  of  the  work ;  and  scientific  subject,  it  may  be  years  before 
lastly,  though  it  was  in  nine  cases  out  of  the  edition  is  sold  off.  All  this,  I  con- 
ten  impracticable  for  me  to  receive  the  fess,  must  seem  a  hardship,  and  one,  to 
money  for  two  or  three  numbers  without  50  which  the  products  of  industry  in  no 
paymg  an  equal  sum  for  the  postage.  other  mode  of  exertion  are  subject.     Yet 

In  confirmation  of  my  first  caveat,  I  even  this  is  better,  far  better,  than  to 
will  select  one  fact  among  many.  On  my  attempt  in  any  way  to  unite  the  functions 
list  of  subscribers,  among  a  consider-  of  author  and  publisher.  But  the  most 
able  number  of  names  equally  flattering,  55  prudent  mode  is  to  sell  the  copyright,  at 
was  that  of  an  Earl  of  Cork,  with  his  ad-  least  of  one  or  more  editions,  for  the  most 
dress.     He   might   as   well   have   been    an      that   the    trade   will   offer.     By    few   only 


544  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

can  a  large  remuneration  be  expected ;  much.' —  Still  nothing  amiss.  Selleridge 
but  fifty  pounds  and  ease  of  mind  are  of  (for  orthography  is  no  necessary  part 
more  real  advantage  to  a  literary  man,  of  a  bookseller's  literary  acquirements) 
than  the  chance  of  five  hundred  with  £3.  3^. '  '  Bless  me !  only  three  guineas 
the  certainty  of  insult  and  degrading  5  for  the  what  d'ye  call  it  —  the  scller- 
anxicties.  I  shall  have  been  grievously  idgef  'No  more,  sir!'  replied  the 
misunderstood,  if  this  statement  should  be  rider.  'Nay,  but  that  is  too  moderate!' 
interpreted  as  written  with  the  desire  of  rejoined  my  old  friend.  '  Only  three 
detracting  from  the  character  of  i)ook-  guineas  for  selling  a  thousand  copies  of 
sellers  or  publishers.  The  individuals  did  10  a  work  in  two  volumes?'  'O  sir!' 
not  make  the  laws  and  customs  of  their  (cries  the  young  traveler)  'you  have  mis- 
trade,  but,  as  in  every  other  trade,  take  taken  the  word.  There  have  been  none 
them  as  they  find  them.  Till  the  evil  can  of  them  sold;  they  have  been  sent  back 
be  proved  to  be  removable,  and  without  from  London  long  ago ;  and  this  £3.  ^s.  is 
the  substitution  of  an  equal  or  greater  in-  15  for  the  ccllaridgc,  or  warehouse-room  in 
convenience,  it  were  neither  wise  nor  our  book  cellar.'  The  work  was  in  con- 
manly  even  to  complain  of  it.  But  to  use  sequence  preferred  from  the  ominous 
it  as  a  pretext  for  speaking,  or  even  for  cellar  of  the  publisher's  to  the  author's 
thinking,  or  feeling,  unkindly  or  oppro-  garret ;  and,  on  presenting  a  copy  to  an 
briously  of  the  tradesmen,  as  individuals,  20  acquaintance,  the  old  gentleman  used  to 
would  be  something  worse  than  unwise  tell  the  anecdote  with  great  humor  and 
or  even  than  unmanly;  it  would  be  im-  still  greater  good  nature, 
moral  and  calumnious.     My  motives  point  With  equal  lack  of  worldly  knowledge, 

in  a  far  different  direction  and  to  far  I  was  a  far  more  than  equal  sufferer  for 
other  objects,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  con- 25  it,  at  the  very  outset  of  my  authorship, 
elusion  of  the  chapter.  Toward  the   close   of  the  first  year   from 

A  learned  and  exemplary  old  clergy-  the  time,  that  in  an  inauspicious  hour  I 
man,  who  many  years  ago  went  to  his  left  the  friendly  cloisters,  and  the  happy 
reward  followed  by  the  regrets  and  grove  of  quiet,  ever  honored  Jesus 
blessings  of  his  flock,  published  at  his  30  College,  Cambridge,  I  was  persuaded  by 
own  expense  two  volumes  octavo,  en-  sundry  philanthropists  and  Anti-polem- 
titled,  A  Neiv  Theory  of  Redemption.  ists  to  set  on  foot  a  periodical  work,  en- 
The  work  was  most  severely  handled  in  titled  The  Watchman,  that  according  to 
The  Monthly  or  Critical  Review,  I  the  general  motto  of  the  work,  all  might 
forget  which;  and  this  unprovoked  hos- 35  knoiv  the  truth,  and  that  the  truth  might 
tility  became  the  good  old  man's  favorite  make  us  free!  In  order  to  exempt  it 
topic  of  conversation  among  his  friends.  from  the  stamp-tax,  and  likewise  to  con- 
Well !  (he  used  to  exclaim.)  in  the  tribute  as  little  as  possible  to  the  sup- 
second  edition,  I  shall  have  an  oppor-  posed  guilt  of  a  war  against  freedom,  it 
tunity  of  exposing  both  the  ignorance  and  ^o  was  to  be  published  on  every  eighth  day, 
the  malignity  of  the  anonymous  critic.  thirty-two  pages,  large  octavo,  closely 
Two  or  three  years  however  passed  by  printed,  and  price  only  four-pence.  Ac- 
without  any  tidings  from  the  bookseller,  cordingly  with  a  flaming  prospectus, — 
who  had  undertaken  the  printing  and  '  Knozvledge  is  poivcr,'  '  To  cry  the  state 
publication  of  the  work,  and  who  was  45  of  the  political  atmosphere,' —  and  so 
perfectly  at  his  ease,  as  the  author  was  forth,  I  set  off  on  a  tour  to  the  North, 
known  to  be  a  man  of  large  property.  At  from  Bristol  to  Sheffield,  for  the  purpose 
length  the  accounts  were  written  for ;  and  of  procuring  customers,  preaching  by  the 
in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  they  were  way  in  most  of  the  great  towns,  as  a 
presented  by  the  rider  for  the  house,  in  50  hireless  volunteer,  in  a  blue  coat  and 
person.  My  old  friend  put  on  his  spec-  white  waistcoat,  that  not  a  rag  of  the 
tacles,  and  holding  the  scroll  with  no  very  woman  of  Babylon  might  be  seen  on  me. 
firm  hand,  began — 'Paper,  so  much:  6  For  I  was  at  that  time  and  long  after, 
moderate  enough  —  not  at  all  beyond  my  though  a  Trinitarian  (that  is  ad  normam 
expectation!  Printing,  so  much:  well !  55  P/o/onw)  in  philosophy,  yet  a  zealous 
moderate  enough!  Stitching,  covers,  ad-  Unitarian  in  religion;  more  accurately,  I 
vertisementSt,  carriage,   and   so   forth,   so      was   a   Psilanthropist,   one   of  those   who 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  545 

believe  our  Lord  to  have  been  the  real  Phileleutheros,  the  tallow-chandler,  vary- 
son  of  Joseph,  and  who  lay  the  main  ing  my  notes,  through  the  whole  gamut 
stress  on  the  resurrection  rather  than  on  of  eloquence,  from  the  ratiocinative  to  the 
the  crucifixion.  O !  never  can  I  remem-  declamatory,  and  in  the  latter  from  the 
ber  those  days  with  either  shame  or  re-  5  pathetic  to  the  indignant.  I  argued,  1 
gret.  For  I  was  most  sincere,  most  described,  I  promised,  I  prophesied ;  and 
disinterested.  My  opinions  were  indeed  beginning  with  the  captivity  of  nations 
in  many  and  most  important  points  er-  I  ended  with  the  near  approach  of  the 
roneous ;  but  my  heart  was  single,  millennium,  finishing  the  whole  with  some 
Wealth,  rank,  life  itself  then  seemed  lo  of  my  own  verses  describing  that  glorious 
cheap  to  me,  compared  with  the  interests  state  out  of  the  Religious  Musings : 
of  what   I   believed  to  be  the  truth,   and 

the    will    of   my    Maker.     I    cannot    even      Such  delights 

accuse  myself  of  having  been  actuated  by      As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitants! 
vanity ;    for   in   the   expansion  of  my  en-  i5  When  in  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 
thusiasm  I  did  not  think  of  myself  at  all.      The  massive  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 
My   campaign   commenced   at   Birming-      Wide   open,   and    forth    come    in    fragments 
ham;  and  my  first  attack  was  on  a  rigid  wild 

Calvinist,     a     tallow-chandler     by     trade.      Sweet   echoes   of  unearthly   melodies, 
He  was  a  tall  dingy  man,  in  whom  length  20  And    odors    snatched    from    beds    of    ama- 
was    so    predominant    over    breadth,    that  ranth, 

he  might  almost  have  been  borrowed  for      And    they,   that    from   the   crystal    river   of 
a   foundry   poker.     O   that   face !    a   face  ^^^^ 

Kar'    €fjicf>amv\     I    have    it    before    me    at      Spring    up    on    freshened    wing,    ambrosial 
this  moment.     The  lank,  black,  twine-like  25         gales  . 
hair,    pingui-nitescent,    cut    in    a    straight 

line   along  the   black   stubble   of   his   thin  My   taper   man   of  lights   listened   with 

gunpowder  eye-brows,  that  looked  like  a  perseverant  and  praiseworthy  patience, 
scorched  after-math  from  a  last  week's  though,  as  I  was  afterwards  told,  on 
shaving.  His  coat  collar  behind  in  per-  30  complaining  of  certain  gales  that  were 
feet  unison,  both  of  color  and  luster,  not  altogether  ambrosial,  it  was  a  melt- 
with  the  coarse  yet  glib  cordage,  which  ing  day  with  him.  '  And  what.  Sir,'  he 
I  suppose  he  called  his  hair,  and  which  said,  after  a  short  pause,  *  might  the  cost 
with  a  bend  inward  at  the  nape  of  the  be?'  'Only  four-pence,' — (O!  how  I 
neck, —  the  only  approach  to  flexure  in  his  35  felt  the  anti-climax,  the  abysmal  bathos 
whole  figure, —  slunk  in  behind  his  waist-  of  that  four-pence!) — 'Only  four-pence, 
coat;  while  the  countenance  lank,  dark,  Sir,  each  number,  to  be  published  on 
very  hard,  and  with  strong  perpendicular  every  eighth  day.' — '  That  comes  to  a  deal 
furrows,  gave  me  a  dim  notion  of  some  of  money  at  the  end  of  a  year.  And 
one  looking  at  me  through  a  4.ised  grid-  40  how  much,  did  you  say,  there  was  to  be 
iron,  all  soot,  grease,  and  iron!  But  he  for  the  money?' — '  Thirty-two  pages,  Sir, 
was  one  of  the  thorough-bred,  a  true  large  octavo,  closely  printed.' — '  Thirty 
lover  of  liberty,  and,  as  I  was  informed,  and  two  pages  ?  Bless  me  !  why  except 
had  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  many,  what  I  does  in  a  family  way  on  the  Sab- 
that  Mr.  Pitt  was  one  of  the  horns  of  45  bath,  that 's  more  than  I  ever  reads,  Sir ! 
the  second  beast  in  The  Revelations,  all  the  year  round.  I  am  as  great  a  one, 
that  spake  as  a  dragon.  A  person,  to  as  any  man  in  Brummagem,  Sir !  for 
whom  one  of  my  letters  of  recommenda-  liberty  and  truth  and  all  them  sort  of 
tion  had  been  addressed,  was  my  intro-  things,  but  as  to  this, —  no  offense,  I  hope, 
ducer.  It  was  a  new  event  in  my  life,  50  sir, —  I  must  beg  to  be  excused.' 
my  first  stroke  in  the  new  business  I  had  So  ended  my  first  canvass :  from  causes 

undertaken  of  an  :  uthor.  yea,  and  of  an  that  I  shall  presently  mention,  I  made 
author  trading  on  his  own  account.  My  but  one  other  application  in  person.  This 
companion  after  some  imperfect  sentences  took  place  at  Manchester  to  a  stately  and 
and  a  multitude  of  hums  and  ha's  aban-  55  opulent  wholesale  dealer  in  cottons.  He 
doned  the  cause  of  his  client;  and  I  com-  took  my  letter  of  introduction,  and,  hav- 
menced  an  harangue  of  half  an  hour  to  ing  perused  it,  measured  me  from  head 
35 


546  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


to  foot  and  again  from  foot  to  head,  and  and  with  the  cold  drops  of  perspiration 
tlien  asked  if  I  had  any  bill  or  invoice  of  running  down  it  from  my  forehead,  while 
the  thing.  I  presented  my  prospectus  to  one  after  another  there  dropped  in  the 
him.  Me  rapidly  skinuned  and  hummed  different  gentlemen,  who  had  been  in- 
over  the  first  side,  and  still  more  rapidly  5  vited  to  meet,  and  spend  the  evening  with 
the  second  and  concluding  page ;  crushed  me,  to  the  number  of  from  fifteen  to 
it  within  his  fingers  and  the  palm  of  his  twenty.  As  the  ])oison  of  tobacco  acts 
hand;  then  most  deliberately  and  signifi-  but  for  a  short  time,  I  at  length  awoke 
cantly  rubbed  and  smoothed  one  part  from  insensibility,  and  looked  round  on 
against  the  other ;  and  lastly  putting  it  lo  the  party,  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  candles 
into  his  pocket  turned  his  back  on  me  which  had  been  lighted  in  the  interim, 
with  an  '  over-run  with  these  articles ! '  By  way  of  relieving  my  embarrassment 
and  so  without  another  syllable  retired  one  of  the  gentlemen  began  the  conversa- 
into  his  counting-house.  And,  I  can  truly  tion,  with  '  Have  you  seen  a  paper  to-day, 
say,  to  my  unspeakable  amusement.  i5  Mr.  Coleridge?'  'Sir,'  I  replied,  rubbing 

This,  I  have  said,  was  my  second  and  niy  eyes,  '  I  am  far  from  convinced,  that 
last  attempt.  On  returning  baffled  from  a  christian  is  permitted  to  read  either 
the  first,  in  which  I  had  vainly  essayed  newspapers  or  any  other  works  of  merely 
to  repeat  the  miracle  of  Orpheus  with  political  and  temporary  interest.'  This 
the  Brummagem  patriot,  I  dined  with  ^o  remark,  so  ludicrously  inapposite  to,  or 
the  tradesman  who  had  introduced  me  rather,  incongruous  with,  the  purpose,  for 
to  him.  After  dinner  he  importuned  me  which  I  was  known  to  have  visited 
to  smoke  a  pipe  with  him,  and  two  or  Birmingham,  and  to  assist  me  in  which 
three  other  illmninati  of  the  same  rank.  they  were  all  then  met,  produced  an  m- 
I  objected,  both  because  I  was  engaged  ^^  voluntary  and  general  burst  of  laughter ; 
to  spend  the  evening  with  a  minister  and  seldom  indeed  have  I  passed  so  many 
and  his  friends,  and  because  I  had  never  delightful  hours,  as  I  enjoyed  in  that 
smoked  except  once  or  twice  in  my  life-  room  from  the  moment  of  that  laugh  till 
time,  and  then  it  was  herb  tobacco  mixed  an  early  hour  the  next  morning.  Never, 
with  Oronooko.  On  the  assurance,  3°  perhaps,  in  so  mixed  and  numerous  a 
however,  that  the  tobacco  was  equally  party  have  I  since  heard  conversation 
mild,  and  seeing  too  that  it  was  of  a  sustained  with  such  animation,  enriched 
yellow  color;  —  not  forgetting  the  lam-  with  such  variety  of  information  and  en- 
entable  difficulty,  I  have  always  experi-  livened  with  such  a  flow  of  anecdote, 
enced,  in  saying,  '  No,'  and  in  abstaining  35  Both  then  and  afterwards  they  all  joined 
from  what  the  people  about  me  were  in  dissuading  me  from  proceeding  with 
doing, —  I  took  half  a  pipe,  filling  the  my  scheme;  assured  me  in  the  most 
lower  half  of  the  bowl  with  salt.  I  was  friendly  and  yet  most  flattering  expres- 
soon  however  compelled  to  resign  it,  in  sions,  that  neither  was  the  employment 
consequence  of  a  giddiness  and  distress- 40  fit  for  me,,  nor  I  fit  for  the  employment, 
ful  feeling  in  my  eyes,  which,  as  I  had  Yet,  if  I  determined  on  persevering  in  it, 
drunk  but  a  single  glass  of  ale,  must,  I  they  promised  to  exert  themselves  to  the 
knew,  have  been  the  effect  of  the  utmost  to  procure  subscribers,  and  in- 
tobacco.  Soon  after,  deeming  myself  re-  sisted  that  I  should  make  no  more  ap- 
covered,  I  sallied  forth  to  my  engage-  45  plications  in  person,  but  carry  on  the 
ment;  but  the  walk  and  the  fresh  air  canvass  by  proxy.  The  same  hospitable 
brought  on  all  the  symptoms  again,  and,  reception,  the  same  dissuasion,  and.  that 
I  had  scarcely  entered  the  minister's  failing,  the  same  kind  exertions  in  my 
drawing-room,  and  opened  a  small  packet  behalf,  I  met  with  at  Manchester,  Derby, 
of  letters,  which  he  had  received  from  50  Nottingham,  Sheffield, —  indeed,  at  every 
Bristol  for  me;  ere  I  sank  back  on  the  place  in  which  I  took  up  my  sojourn, 
sofa  in  a  sort  of  swoon  rather  than  I  often  recall  with  affectionate  pleasure 
sleep.  Fortunately  I  had  found  just  time  the  many  respectable  men  who  interested 
enough  to  inform  him  of  the  confused  themselves  for  me,  a  perfect  stranger  to 
state  of  my  feelings,  and  of  the  occasion,  55  them,  not  a  few  of  whom  I  can  still  name 
For  here  and  thus  I  lay,  my  face  like  a  among  my  friends.  They  will  bear  wit- 
wall   that  is  white-washing,  deathly   pale      ness   for  me  how  opposite  even  then  my 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  547 

principles  were  to  those  of  Jacobinism  or  political  melioration.  Thus  by  the  time 
even  of  democracy,  and  can  attest  the  the  seventh  number  was  published,  I  had 
strict  accuracy  of  the  statement  which  I  the  mortification — (but  why  should  I  say 
have  left  on  record  in  the  tenth  and  this,  when  in  truth  I  cared  too  little  for 
eleventh  numbers  of  The  Friend.  5  any    thing    that    concerned    my    worldly 

From  this  rememberable  tour  I  returned  interests  to  be  at  all  mortified  about  it?) 
with  nearly  a  thousand  names  on  the  — of  seeing-  the  preceding  numbers  ex- 
subscription  list  of  The  Watchman;  posed  in  sundry  old  iron  shops  for  a 
yet  more  than  half  convinced,  that  pru-  penny  a  piece.  At  the  ninth  number  I 
dence  dictated  the  abandonment  of  the  10  dropped  the  work.  But  from  the  London 
scheme.     But  for  this  very' reason  I  per-      publisher   I   could   not   obtain   a   shilling; 

severed  in  it ;  for  I  was  at  that  period  of      he  was  a  and  set  me  at  defiance. 

my  life  so  completely  hag-ridden  by  the  From  other  places  I  procured  but  little, 
fear  of  being  influenced  by  selfish  motives,  and  after  such  delays  as  rendered  that 
that  to  know  a  mode  of  conduct  to  be  the  15  little  worth  nothing;  and  I  should  have 
dictate  of  prudence  was  a  sort  of  pre-  been  inevitably  thrown  into  jail  by  my 
sumptive  proof  tO  my  feelings,  that  the  Bristol  printer,  who  refused  to  wait  even 
contrary  was  the  dictate  of  duty.  Ac-  for  a  month,  for  a  sum  between  eighty 
cordingly,  I  commenced  the  work,  which  and  ninety  pounds,  if  the  money  had  not 
was  announced  in  London  by  long  bills  20  been  paid  for  me  by  a  man  by  no  means 
in  letters  larger  than  had  ever  been  seen  affluent,  a  dear  friend,  who  attached  him- 
before,  and  which,  I  have  been  informed,  self  to  me  from  my  first  arrival  at  Bristol, 
for  I  did  not  see  them  myself,  eclipsed  who  has  continued  my  friend  with  a  fidel- 
the  glories  even  of  the  lottery  puffs,  ity  unconquered  by  time  or  even  by  my 
But  alas!  the  publication  of  the  very  first 25  own  apparent  neglect;  a  friend  from 
number  was  delayed  beyond  the  day  an-  whom  I  never  received  an  advice  that 
nounced  for  its  appearance.  In  the  was  not  wise,  nor  a  remonstrance  that 
second  number  an  essay  against  fast  days,  was  not  gentle  and  affectionate, 
with   a  most   censurable   application   of  a  Conscientiously  an  opponent  of  the  first 

text  from  Isaiah  for  its  motto,  lost  me  30  revolutionary  war,  yet  with  my  eyes 
near  five  hundred  of  my  subscribers  at  thoroughly  opened  to  the  true  character 
one  blow.  In  the  two  following  numbers  and  impotence  of  the  favorers  of  revolu- 
I  made  enemies  of  all  my  Jacobin  and  tionary  principles  in  England,  principles 
democratic  patrons;  for,  disgusted  by  which  I  held  in  abhorrence, —  (for  it  was 
their  infidelity,  and  their  adoption  of  35  part  of  my  political  creed,  that  whoever 
French  morals  with  French  psilosophy ;  ceased  to  act  as  an  individual  by  making 
and  perhaps  thinking,  that  charity  ought  himself  a  member  of  any  society  not 
to  begin  nearest  home ;  instead  of  abus-  sanctioned  by  his  Government,  forfeited 
ing  the  government  and  the  Aristocrats  the  rights  of  a  citizen) — a  vehement 
chiefly  or  entirely,  as  had  been  expected  40  Anti-Ministerialist,  but  after  the  inva- 
of  me,  I  leveled  my  attacks  at  '  modern  sion  of  Switzerland,  a  more  vehement 
patriotism,'  and  even  ventured  to  declare  Anti-Gallican,  and  still  more  intensely  an 
my  belief,  that  whatever  the  motives  of  Anti-Jacobin,  I  retired  to  a  cottage  at 
ministers  might  have  been  for  the  sedi-  Stowey,  and  provided  for  my  scanty 
tion,  or  as  it  was  then  the  fashion  to  call  45  maintenance  by  writing  verses  for  a 
them,  the  gagging  bills,  yet  the  bills  them-  London  morning  paper,  I  saw  plainly, 
selves  would  produce  an  effect  to  be  de-  that  literature  was  not  a  profession,  by 
sired  by  all  the  true  friends  of  freedom,  which  I  could  expect  to  live ;  for  I  could 
as  far  as  they  should  contribute  to  deter  not  disguise  from  myself,  that,  whatever 
men  from  openly  declaiming  on  subjects,  50  my  talents  might  or  might  not  be  in  other 
the  principles  of  which  they  had  never  respects,  yet  they  were  not  of  the  sort 
bottomed  and  from  'pleading  to  the  poor  that  could  enable  me  to  become  a  pop- 
and  ignorant,  instead  of  pleading  for  ular  writer,  and  that  whatever  my  opin- 
them.'  At  the  same  time  I  avowed  my  ions  might  be  in  themselves,  they  were 
conviction,  that  national  education  and  55  almost  equi-distant  from  all  the  three 
a  concurring  spread  of  the  Gospel  were  prominent  parties,  the  Pittites,  the  Fox- 
the   indispensable    condition   of   any   true      ites,   and  the   Democrats.     Of  the  unsal- 


548  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

able  nature  of  my  writings  I  had  an  surveillance  of  myself  and  friend.  There 
annising  memento  one  morning  from  our  must  have  been  not  only  abundance,  but 
own  servant  girl.  For  hai)pening  to  rise  variety  of  those  '  honorable  men  '  at 
at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  I  observed  the  disposal  of  Ministers;  for  this  proved 
her  putting  an  extravagant  quantity  of  5  a  very  honest  fellow.  After  three  weeks' 
paper  into  the  grate  in  order  to  light  truly  Indian  perseverance  in  tracking  us, 
the  fire,  and  mildly  checked  her  for  her  (for  we  were  commonly  together,)  dur- 
wastefulness;  'La,  Sir!'  (replied  poor  ing  all  which  time  seldom  were  we  out 
Nanny)    'why,    it   is   only   Watchmen.'  of  doors,   but  he   contrived   to   l)e   within 

I  now  devoted  myself  to  poetry  and  10  hearing, —  and  all  the  while  utterly  un- 
to the  study  of  ethics  and  psychology ;  suspected ;  how  indeed  could  such  a  sus- 
and  so  profound  was  my  admiration  at  picion  enter  our  fancies  ?  —  he  not  only 
this  time  of  Hartley's  Essay  on  Man,  rejected  Sir  Dogberry's  request  that  he 
that  I  gave  his  name  to  my  first-born.  would  try  yet  a  little  longer,  but  declared 
In  addition  to  the  gentleman,  my  neigh- 15  to  him  his  belief,  that  both  my  friend 
bor,  whose  garden  joined  on  to  my  and  myself  were  as  good  subjects,  for 
little  orchard,  and  the  cultivation  of  aught  he  could  discover  to  the  contrary, 
whose  friendship  had  been  my  sole  motive  as  any  in  His  Majesty's  dominions.  He 
in  choosing  Stowey  for  my  residence,  I  had  repeatedly  hid  himself,  he  said, 
was  so  fortunate  as  to  acquire,  shortly  20  for  hours  together  behind  a  bank  at  the 
after  my  settlement  there,  an  invaluable  sea-side,  (our  favorite  seat,)  and  over- 
blessing  in  the  society  and  neighborhood  heard  our  conversation.  At  first  he 
of  one,  to  whom  I  could  look  up  with  fancied,  that  we  were  aware  of  our  dan- 
equal  reverence,  whether  I  regarded  him  ger;  for  he  often  heard  me  talk  of  one 
as  a  poet,  a  philosopher,  or  a  man.  His  25  Spy  No::y,  which  he  was  inclined  to  in- 
conversation  extended  to  almost  all  suli-  terpret  of  himself,  and  of  a  remarkable 
jects,  except  physics  and  politics;  with  feature  belonging  to  him;  but  he  was 
the  latter  he  never  troubled  himself.  speedily  convinced  that  it  was  the  name 
Yet  neither  my  retirement  nor  my  utter  of  a  man  who  had  made  a  book  and  lived 
abstraction  from  all  the  disputes  of  the  30  long  ago.  Our  talk  ran  most  upon  books, 
day  could  secure  me  in  those  jealous  times  and  we  were  perpetually  desiring  each 
from  suspicion  and  obloquy,  which  did  not  other  to  look  at  this,  and  to  listen  to  that; 
stop  at  me,  but  extended  to  my  excellent  but  he  could  not  catch  a  word  about 
friend,  whose  perfect  innocence  was  even  politics.  Once  he  had  joined  me  on  the 
adduced  as  a  proof  of  his  guilt.  One  of  35  road;  (this  occurred,  as  I  was  returning 
the  many  busy  sycophants  of  that  day, —  home  alone  from  my  friend's  house, 
(I  here  use  the  word  sycophant  in  its  which  was  about  three  miles  from  my 
original  sense,  as  a  wretch  who  flatters  own  cottage,)  and,  passing  himself  off 
the  prevailing  party  by  informing  against  as  a  traveler,  he  had  entered  into  con- 
his  neighbors,  under  pretence  that  they  40  versation  with  me,  and  talked  of  purpose 
are  exporters  of  prohibited  figs  or  fancies,  in  a  democrat  way  in  order  to  draw  me 
—  for  the  moral  application  of  the  term  out.  The  result,  it  appears,  not  only 
it  matters  not  which) — one  of  these  convinced  him  that  I  was  no  friend  of 
sycophantic  law-mongrels,  discoursing  on  Jacobinism;  but,  (he  added,)  I  had 
the  politics  of  the  neighborhood,  uttered  45  'plainly  made  it  out  to  be  such  a  silly  as 
the  following  deep  remark:  'As  to  well  as  wicked  thing,  that  he  felt 
Coleridge,  there  is  not  so  much  harm  in  ashamed  though  he  had  only  put  it  on.' 
him,    for   he    is    a   whirl-brain    that   talks      I    distinctly    remembered    the    occurrence, 

whatever  come  uppermost;  but  that !       and    had    mentioned    it    immediately    on 

he  is  the  dark  traitor.     Yon  never  hear  so  my    return,    repeating   what   the   traveler 

HIM  say  a  syllable  on  the  subject.'  with    his    Bardolph    nose    had    said,    with 

*     *     *  my  own  answer ;  and  so  little  did  I  sus- 

The  dark  guesses  of  some  zealous  Quid-  pect  the  true  object  of  my  '  tempter  ere 
nunc  met  with  so  congenial  a  soil  in  the  accuser,'  that  I  expressed  with  no  small 
grave  alarm  of  a  titled  Dogberry  of  our  55  pleasure  my  hope  and  belief  that  the  con- 
neighborhood,  that  a  spy  was  actually  versation  had  been  of  some  service  to  the 
sent    down    from    the    government    pour      poor    misled    malcontent.     This    incident 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA  549 


therefore  prevented  all  doubt  as  to  the  eminent.  What  have  you  heard?  L. 
truth  of  the  report,  which  through  a  Why,  folks  do  say,  your  Honor!  as  how 
friendly  medium  came  to  me  from  the  that  he  is  a  Poet,  and  that  he  is  going 
master  of  the  village  inn,  who  had  been  to  put  Quantock  and  all  about  here  in 
ordered  to  entertain  the  Government  sprint;  and  as  they  be  so  much  together, 
gentleman  in  his  best  manner,  but  above  I  suppose  that  the  strange  gentleman  has 
all  to  be  silent  concerning  such  a  person  some  consarn  in  the  lousiness. —  So  ended 
being  in  his  house.  At  length  he  received  this  formidable  inquisition,  the  latter  part 
Sir  Dogberry's  commands  to  accompany  of  which  alone  requires  explanation,  and 
his  guest  at  the  final  interview;  and,  after  10  at  the  same  time  entitles  the  anecdote 
the  absolving  suffrage  of  the  gentleman  to  a  place  in  my  literary  life.  I  had  con- 
Jionored  zvith  the  confidence  of  Ministers,  sidered  it  as  a  defect  in  the  admirable 
answered,  as  follows,  to  the  following  poem  of  The  Task,  that  the  subject, 
queries:  D.  Well,  landlord!  and  what  which  gives  the  title  to  the  work,  was 
do  you  know  of  the  person  in  question  ?  15  not,  and  indeed  could  not  be,  carried  on 
L.   I  see  him  often  pass  by  with  maister      beyond  the  three  or  four  first  pages,  and 

,  my  landlord,    {that  is,  tJie  ozvncr      that,    throughout    the    poem,    the    connec- 

of  the  house,)  and  sometimes  with  the  tions  are  frequently  awkward,  and  the 
new-comers  at  Holford;  but  I  never  said  transitions  abrupt  and  arbitrary.  I 
a  word  to  him  or  he  to  me.  D.  But  do  20  sought  for  a  subject  that  should  give 
you  not  know,  that  he  has  distributed  equal  room  and  freedom  for  descrip- 
papers  and  hand-bills  of  a  seditious  na-  tion,  incident,  and  impassioned  reflections 
ture  among  the  common  people?  L.  No,  on  men,  nature,  and  society,  yet  supply 
your  Honor !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  in  itself  a  natural  connection  to  the  parts, 
thing.  D.  Have  you  not  seen  this  Mr.  25  and  unity  to  the  whole.  Such  a  subject 
Coleridge,  or  heard  of,  his  haranguing  I  conceived  myself  to  have  found  in  a 
and  talking  to  knots  and  clusters  of  the  stream,  traced  from  its  source  in  the 
inhabitants?  —  What  are  you  grinning  at,  hills  among  the  yellow-red  moss  and  coni- 
sir?  L.  Beg  your  Honor's  pardon!  but  I  cal  glass-shaped  tufts  of  bent,  to  the  first 
was  only  thinking,  how  they'd  have  30  break  or  fall,  where  its  drops  become 
stared  at  him.  li  what  I  have  heard  be  audible,  and  it  begins  to  form  a  channel; 
true,  your  Honor !  they  would  not  have  thence  to  the  peat  and  turf  barn,  itself 
understood  a  word  he  said.  When  our  built  of  the  same  dark  squares  as  it  shel- 
Vicar  was  here,  Dr.  L.  the  master  of  the  tered;  to  the  sheepfold;  to  the  first  cul- 
great  school  and  Canon  of  Windsor,  there  35  tivated  plot  of  ground ;  to  the  lonely 
was    a    great    dinner    party    at    maister      cottage  and  its  bleak  garden  won  from  the 

's;    and   one   of   the    farmers,   that      heath;    to    the    hamlet,    the    villages,    the 

was  there,  told  us  that  he  and  the  Doctor  market-town,  the  manufactories,  and  the 
talked  real  Hebrew  Greek  at  each  other  seaport.  My  walks  therefore  were  al- 
for  an  hour  together  after  dinner.  D.  40  most  daily  on  top  of  Quantock.  and 
Answer  the  question,  sir !  does  he  ever  among  its  sloping  coombes.  With  my 
harangue  the  people?  L.  I  hope  your  pencil  and  memorandum-book  in  m\  hand, 
Honor  ain't  angry  with  me.  I  can  say  I  was  making  studies,  as  the  artir.ts  call 
no  more  than  I  know.  I  never  saw  him  them,  and  often  monldmg  my  thoughts 
talking  with  any  one,  but  my  landlord,  45  into  verse,  with  the  objects  and  imagery 
and  our  curate,  and  the  strange  gentle-  immediately  before  my  senses.  Many 
man.  D.  Has  he  not  been  seen  wander-  circumstances,  evil  and  good,  intervened 
ing  on  the  hills  towards  the  Channel,  and  to  prevent  the  completion  of  the  poem, 
along  the  shore,  with  books  and  papers  which  was  to  have  been  entitled  The 
in  his  hand,  taking  charts  and  maps  of  5o  Brook.  Had  I  finished  the  work,  it  was 
the  country?  L.  Why,  as  to  that,  your  my  purpose  in  the  heat  of  the  moment 
Honor !  I  own,  I  have  heard ;  I  am  sure,  to  have  dedicated  it  to  our  then  com- 
I  would  not  wish  to  say  ill  of  any  body ;  mittee  of  public  safety  as  containing  the 
but  it  is  certain,  that  I  have  heard  —  t).  charts  and  maps,  with  which  I  was  to 
Speak  out,  man  !  don't  be  afraid,  you  are  55  have  supplied  the  French  Government  in 
doing  your  duty  to  your  King  and  Gov-      aid  of  their  plans  of  invasion.     And  these 


550  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


too  for  a  tract  of  coast  that,  from  Cleve-  and  directing  it  to  the  loveHness  and  the 
don  to  Minehead,  scarcely  permits  the  wonders  of  the  world  before  us;  an  in- 
ai)proach  of  a  fishing-boat !  exhaustible    treasure,    but    for    which,    in 

consequence    of    the    film    of    familiarity 
CHAPTER  XIV  ^  '^"'^   selfish   solicitude,   we   have  eyes,   yet 

see   not,   ears   that   hear  not,   and   hearts 
During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Words-      that    neither    feel    nor   understand, 
worth    and    I    were    neighl)ors,    our    con-  With    this    view    I    wrote    the    Ancient 

versations  turned  frequently  on  the  two  Mariner,  and  was  preparing,  among  other 
cardinal  points  of  poetry,  the  power  of  lo  poems,  the  Dark  Ladic,  and  the  Chris- 
exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  by  tabcl,  in  which  I  should  have  more  nearly 
a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  na-  realized  my  ideal  than  I  had  done  in  my 
lure,  and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest  first  allcmpt.  But  Mr.  Wordsworth's  in- 
of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colors  of  dustry  had  proved  so  much  more  success- 
imagination.  The  sudden  charm,  which  i5  ful,  and  the  number  of  his  poems  so  much 
accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which  moon-  greater,  that  my  compositions,  instead  of 
light  or  sunset,  diffused  over  a  known  forming  a  balance,  appeared  rather  an 
and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  rep-  interpolation  of  heterogeneous  matter, 
resent  the  practicability  of  combining  both.  Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two  or  three 
These  are  the  poetry  of  nature.  The  20  poems  written  in  his  own  character,  in 
thought  suggested  itself  (to  which  of  us  the  impassioned,  lofty,  and  sustained 
I  do  not  recollect)  that  a  series  of  poems  diction  which  is  characteristic  of  his 
might  be  composed  of  two  sorts.  In  the  genius.  In  this  form  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  were  published ;  and  were  presented  by 
be,  in  part  at  least,  supernatural;  and  the  25  him,  as  an  experiment,  whether  subjects, 
excellence  aimed  at  was  to  consist  in  which  from  their  nature  rejected  the 
the  interesting  of  the  affections  by  the  usual  ornaments  and  extra-colloquial  style 
dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions,  as  of  poems  in  general,  might  not  be  so 
would  naturally  accompany  such  situa-  managed  in  the  language  of  ordinary  life 
tions,  supposing  them  real.  And  real  in  30  as  to  produce  the  pleasurable  interest 
this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  hu-  which  it  is  the  peculiar  business  of 
man  being  who,  from  whatever  source  poetry  to  impart.  To  the  second  edition 
of  delusion,  has  at  any  time  believed  him-  he  added  a  preface  of  considerable  length; 
self  under  supernatural  agency.  For  the  in  which,  notwithstanding  some  passages 
second  class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  35  of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was 
from  ordinary  life;  the  characters  and  understood  to  contend  for  the  extension 
incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  of  this  style  to  poetry  of  all  kinds,  and 
found  in  every  village  and  its  vicinity  to  reject  as  vicious  and  indefensible  all 
where  there  is  a  meditative  and  feeling  phrases  and  forms  of  style  that  were  not 
mind  to  seek  after  them,  or  to  notice  4°  included  in  what  he  (unfortunately,  I 
them  when  they  present  themselves.  think,  adopting  an  equivocal  expression) 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  called  the  language  of  real  life.  From 
Lyrical  Ballads;  in  which  it  was  agreed  this  preface  prefixed  to  poems  in  which 
that  my  endeavors  should  be  directed  to  it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  presence  of 
persons  and  characters  supernatural,  or  at  45  original  genius,  however  mistaken  its 
least  romantic;  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  direction  might  be  deemed,  arose  the 
our  inward  nature  a  human  interest  and  whole  long-continued  controversy.  For 
a  semblance  of  truth  sufficient  to  procure  from  the  conjunction  of  perceived  power 
for  these  shadows  of  imagination  that  with  supposed  heresy  I  explain  the  in- 
willing  suspension  of  disbelief  for  the  So  veteracy,  and  in  some  instances,  I  grieve 
moment,  which  constitutes  poetic  faith.  to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions,  with 
IMr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  which  the  controversy  has  been  conducted 
to  propose  to  himself  as  his  object,  to  give      by   the   assailants. 

the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the 

day,  and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous  to  55  silly,  the  childish  things  which  they  were 
the  supernatural,  by  awakening  the  mind's  for  a  long  time  described  as  being;  had 
attention    from    the    lethargy    of    custom,      they   been    really   distinguished    from    the 


J 


BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA 


551 


compositions  of  other  poets  merely  by  the  privilege  of  the  philosopher  to  pre- 
meanness  of  language,  and  inanity  of  serve  himself  constantly  aware  that  dis- 
thought;  had  they  indeed  contained  noth-  tinction  is  not  division.  In  order  to 
ing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the  paro-  obtain  adequate  notions  of  any  truth,  we 
dies  and  pretended  imitations  of  them ;  5  must  intellectually  separate  its  distin- 
they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead  guishable  parts;  and  this  is  the  technical 
weight,  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and  process  of  philosophy.  But  having  so 
have  dragged  the  preface  along  with  done,  we  must  then  restore  them  in  our 
them.  But  year  after  year  increased  the  conceptions  to  the  unity  in  which  they 
number  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  admirers.  10  actually  coexist;  and  this  is  the  result  of 
They  were  found,  too,  not  in  the  lower  philosophy.  A  poem  contains  the  same 
classes  of  the  reading  public,  but  chiefly  elements  as  a  prose  composition;  the  dif- 
among  young  men  of  strong  sensibility  ference,  therefore,  must  consist  in  a  dif- 
and  meditative  minds;  and  their  admira-  ferent  combination  of  them,  in  conse- 
tion  (inflamed  perhaps  in  some  degree  15  quence  of  a  different  object  proposed, 
by  opposition)  was  distinguished  by  its  According  to  the  diiTerence  of  the  object 
intensity,  I  might  almost  say,  by  its  re-  will  be  the  difference  of  the  combination, 
ligious  fervor.  These  facts,  and  the  in-  It  is  possible  that  the  object  may  be 
tellectual  energy  of  the  author,  which  merely  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of 
was  more  or  less  consciously  felt,  where  20  any  given  facts  or  observations  by  arti- 
it  was  outwardly  and  even  boisterously  ficial  arrangement;  and  the  composition 
denied,  meeting  with  sentiments  of  aver-  will  be  a  poem,  merely  because  it  is  dis- 
sion  to  his  opinions,  and  of  alarm  at  their  tinguished  from  prose  by  meter,  or  by 
consequences,  produced  an  eddy  of  crit-  rime,  or  by  both  conjointly.  In  this,  the 
icism,  which  would  of  itself  have  borne  25  lowest  sense,  a  man  might  attribute  the 
up  the  poems  by  the  violence  with  which  name  of  a  poem  to  the  well-known  enu- 
it  whirled  them  round  and  round.  With  meration  of  the  days  in  the  several 
many  parts  of  this  preface,  in  the  sense      months: 

^'"'J^Ti^^''  them,  and  which  the  words  j^^-        ^        ^^^^  September, 

undoubtedly    seem   to    authorize,    I    never  30         ^pril,  June,  and  November,  etc. 
concurred;  but,  on  the  contrary,  objected 

to  them  as  erroneous  in  principle,  and  as  and  others  of  the  same  class  and  pur- 
contradictory  (in  appearance  at  least)  pose.  And  as  a  particular  pleasure  is 
both  to  other  parts  of  the  same  preface  found  in  anticipating  the  recurrence  of 
and  to  the  author's  own  practice  in  the  35  sound  and  quantities,  all  compositions  that 
greater  number  of  the  poems  themselves,  have  this  charm  superadded,  whatever  be 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  in  his  recent  collection,  their  contents,  may  be  entitled  poems, 
has,   I   find,  degraded   this   prefatory  dis-  So   much    for   the   superficial    form.     A 

quisition  to  the  end  of  his  second  vol-  difference  of  object  and  contents  supplies 
ume,  to  be  read  or  not  at  the  reader's  40  an  additional  ground  of  distinction.  The 
choice.  But  he  has  not,  as  far  as  I  can  immediate  purpose  may  be  the  communi- 
discover,  announced  any  change  in  his  cation  of  truths:  either  of  truth  absolute 
poetic  creed.  At  all  events,  considering  and  demonstrable,  as  in  works  of  science; 
it  as  the  source  of  a  controversy,  in  which  or  of  facts  experienced  and  recorded,  as 
I  have  been  honored  more  than  I  de-  45  in  history.  Pleasure,  and  that  of  the 
serve  by  the  frequent  conjunction  of  my  highest  and  most  permanent  kind,  mav 
name  with  his,  I  think  it  expedient  to  result  from  the  attainment  of  the  end; 
declare,  once  for  all,  in  what  points  I  but  it  is  not  itself  the  immediate  end. 
coincide  with  his  opinions,  and  in  what  In  other  works  the  communication  of 
points  I  altogether  differ.  But  in  order  so  pleasure  may  be  the  immediate  purpose; 
to  render  myself  intelligible,  I  must  and  though  truth,  either  moral  or  intel- 
previously,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  lectual,  ought  to  be  the  ultimate  end,  yet 
explain  my  ideas,  first,  of  a  poem ;  and  this  will  distinguish  the  character  of  the 
secondly,  of  poetry  itself,  in  kind  and  in  author,  not  the  class  to  which  the  work 
essence.  55  belongs.     Blest    indeed    is    that    state    of 

The  oflSce  of  philosophical   disquisition      society,   in   which   the   immediate   purpose 
consists   in   just   distinction;    while    it   is     would  be  baffled  by  the  perx-ersion  of  the 


552  SAMUICL    TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

proper  ultimate  end;  in  which  no  charm  the  ultimate  judgment  of  all  countries, 
of  diction  or  imagery  could  exempt  the  in  equally  denying  the  praises  of  a  just 
Bathyllus  even  of  an  Anacreon,  or  the  poem,  on  the  one  hand  to  a  scries  of 
Alexis  of  Virgil,  from  disgust  and  aver-  striking  lines  or  distichs,  each  of  which 
sion !  5  absorbing    the     whole     attention     of    the 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may  reader  to  itself,  disjoins  it  from  its  con- 
be  the  immediate  object  of  a  work  not  text,  and  makes  it  a  separate  whole,  in- 
metrically  composed ;  and  that  object  may  stead  of  a  harmonizing  part ;  and  on  the 
have  been  in  a  high  degree  attained,  as  other  hand,  to  an  unsustained  composi- 
in  novels  and  romances.  Would  then  the  lo  tion,  from  which  the  reader  collects 
mere  superaddition  of  meter,  with  or  rapidly  the  general  result  unattracted  by 
without  rime,  entitle  these  to  the  name  the  component  parts.  The  reader  should 
of  poems?  The  answer  is,  that  nothing  be  carried  forward,  not  merely  or  chiefly 
can  permanently  please,  which  does  not  by  the  mechanical  impulse  of  curiosity,  or 
contain  in  itself  the  reason  why  it  is  so,  15  by  a  restless  desire  to  arrive  at  the  final 
and  not  otherwise.  If  meter  be  super-  solution;  but  by  the  pleasurable  activity 
added,  all  other  parts  must  be  made  con-  of  mind  excited  by  the  attractions  of  the 
sonant  with  it.  Thev  must  be  such  as  to  journey  itself.  Like  the  motion  of  a  ser- 
justify  the  perpetual  and  distinct  atten-  pent,  which  the  Egyptians  made  the  em- 
tion  to  each  part,  which  an  exact  cor-2oblem  of  intellectual  power;  or  like  the 
respondent  recurrence  of  accent  and  path  of  sound  through  the  air,  at  ever} 
sound  are  calculated  to  excite.  The  step  he  pauses  and  half  recedes,  and  from 
final  definition  then,  so  deduced,  may  be  the  retrogressive  movement  collects  the 
thus  worded.  A  poem  is  that  species  of  force  which  again  carries  him  onward, 
composition,  which  is  opposed  to  works  25  Praecipitandus  est  liber  spiritus  [The  free 
of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  im-  spirit  must  be  urged  onward],  says  Pe- 
mediate  object  pleasure,  not  truth;  and  tronius  Arbiter  most  happily.  The  epi- 
from  all  other  species  (having  this  object  thet,  liber,  here  balances  the  preceding 
in  common  with  it)  it  is  discriminated  verb:  and  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  more 
by  proposing  to  itself  such  delight  from  3°  meaning  condensed  in  fewer  words. 
the   whole,   as   is   compatible   with   a  dis-  But    if   this    should    be    admitted    as    a 

tinct  gratification  from  each  component  satisfactory  character  of  a  poem,  we  have 
part.  still    to    seek    for   a   definition   of   poetry. 

Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited  in  The  writings  of  Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor, 
consequence  of  the  disputants  attaching  35  and  the  Thcoria  Sacra  of  Burnet,  furnish 
each  a  different  meaning  to  the  same  undeniable  proofs  that  poetry  of  the 
word ;  and  in  few  instances  has  this  been  highest  kind  may  exist  without  meter, 
more  striking  than  in  disputes  concerning  and  even  without  the  contra-distinguish- 
the  present  subject.  If  a  man  chooses  to  ing  objects  of  a  poem.  The  first  chapter 
call  every  composition  a  poem,  which  is  4°  of  Isaiah  (indeed  a  very  large  proportion 
rime,  or  measure,  or  both,  I  must  leave  of  the  whole  book)  is  poetry  in  the  most 
his  opinion  uncontroverted.  The  dis-  emphatic  sense;  yet  it  would  be  not  less 
tinction  is  at  least  competent  to  charac-  irrational  than  strange  to  assert,  that 
terize  the  writer's  intention.  If  it  were  pleasure,  and  not  truth,  was  the  imme- 
subjoined,  that  the  whole  is  likewise  en-45diate  object  of  the  prophet.  In  short, 
tertaining  or  affecting  as  a  tale,  or  as  a  whatever  specific  import  we  attach  to  the 
series  of  interesting  reflections,  I  of  word  poetry,  there  will  be  found  involved 
course  admit  this  as  another  fit  ingredi-  in  it,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  that  a 
ent  of  a  poem,  and  an  additional  merit,  poem  of  any  length  neither  can  be,  nor 
But  if  the  definition  sought  for  be  that  50  ought  to  be,  all  poetry.  Yet  if  a  har- 
of  a  legitimate  poem,  I  answer,  it  must  monious  whole  is  to  be  produced,  the  re- 
be  one  the  parts  of  which  mutually  sup-  maining  parts  must  be  preserved  in  keep- 
port  and  explain  each  other;  all  in  their  ing  with  the  poetry;  and  this  can  be  no 
proportion  harmonizing  with,  and  sup-  otherwise  effected  than  by  such  a  studied 
porting  the  purpose  and  known  influences  55  selection  and  artificial  arrangement  as 
of  metrical  arrangement.  The  philo-  will  partake  of  one.  though  not  a  pecul- 
sophic    critics   of   all    ages    coincide    with      iar   property   of   poetry.     And   this   again 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARI- 
NER 

IN   SEVEN    PARTS 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER  553 

can    be    no    other    than    the    property    of      From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts  their 
exciting  a  more  continuous  and  equal  at-  forms, 

tention  than  the  language  of  prose  aims      And    draws    a    kind    of    quintessence    from 
at,  whether  colloquial  or  written.  things; 

My  own  conclusions  on  the  nature  of  S  Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms 
poetry,  in  the  strictest  use  of  the  word,  To  bear  them  light  on  her  celestial  wings. 
have  been  in  part  anticipated  in  the  pre- 
ceding disquisition  on  the  fancy  and  im-  Thus  does  she,  when  from  individual  states 
agination.  What  is  poetry?  is  so  nearly  She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds; 
the  same  question  with,  what  is  a  poet?  10  Which  then  re-clothed  in  divers  names  and 
that  the  answer  to  the  one  is  involved  in  fates 

the    solution    of   the    other.     For    it   is    a      ^*^^'  ^^^^^^  through  our  senses  to  our  minds, 
distinction     resulting     from     the     poetic  t-     n  j  •     ,     1     ,       r 

genius  itself,  which  sustains  and  modifies  Finally,  good  sense  is  the  body  of  poetic 

the  images,  thoughts,  and  emotions  of  the  .5  g^"'"^'  fa"cy  its  drapery    motion  its  life, 
poet's    own    mind.     The    poet,    described      ^"^    imagination   the   sou     that   is   every- 
in  ideal  perfection,  brings  the  whole  soul      ^''^^^^'   ^"^  '"  ^ch;  and   forms  all  into 
of  man   into   activity,   with   the   subordi-      °"^  graceful  and  intelligent  whole 
nation  of  its  faculties  to  each  other,  ac-  i^^^7) 

cording  to  their  relative  worth  and  dig-  20 
nity.  He  diffuses  a  tone  and  spirit  of 
unity,  that  blends,  and  (as  it  were)  fuses, 
each  into  each,  by  that  synthetic  and 
magical  power,  to  which  we  have  exclu- 
sively appropriated  the  name  of  imagina-  ^^ 
tion.     This  power,  first  put  in  action  by  Part  I 

the  will  and  understanding,   and  retained      it  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 
under    their    irremissive,    though    gentle      And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three, 
and     unnoticed,     control     (laxis    effcrtur      '  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 
hahenis  [he  is  borne  with  loose  reins]),  30  Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me? 
reveals  itself  in   the   balance  or  reconcil- 
iation of  opposite  or  discordant  qualities :      '  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide,  s 
of  sameness,  with  difference ;  of  the  gen-      And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 
eral,    with    the    concrete ;    the    idea,    w^ith      The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
the  image ;  the  individual,  with  the  repre-  35  JNIay'st  hear  the  merry  din.' 
sentative;     the     sense     of     novelty     and 

freshness,  with  old  and  familiar  objects;      He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
a  more  than  usual  state  of  emotion,  with      'There  was  a  ship,'  quoth  he.  10 

more    than    usual    order;    judgment    ever      'Hold  off!   unhand  me,  graybeard  loon!' 
awMke    and    steady    self-possession,    with  40  Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 
enthusiasm  and  feeling  profound  or  vehe-      tt    1    , 1    ,  •         •■,■,■ 
ment;    and   while    it   blends    and    harmo-      S  ^^l"^'  '?'"' ^^'^^  ^''  glittering  eye- 
nizes  the  natural   and   the   artificial,   still      T^^,  )Vedding-Guest  stood  still 
subordinates   art   to   nature;   the   manner      ^"^  ^f  ^."^  like  a  three  years    child:        :5 
to  the  matter;  and  our  admiration  of  the 45  ^h^  Manner  hath  his  will, 
poet   to    our    sympathy    woth    the    poetry.      ^he  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 

Doubtless,    as  Sir  John  Davies  observes      j^e  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
of    the    soul     (and    his    words    may    with       ^.^^  ^^us  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
slight    alteration    be    applied,    and    even      -pi^^  bright-eyed   Mariner, 
more  appropriately,  to  the  poetic  imagina-  5o 
tion),  'The  ship  was  cheered,  the   harbor  cleared. 

Merrily  did  we  drop 
Doubtless    this   could    not    be,   but    that    she      Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

turns       ^  ^  Below   the   lighthouse   top. 

Bodies  to  spirit  by  sublimation  strange,         55 

As  fire  converts  to  fire,  the  things  it  burns,      '  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left,  25 

As  we  our  food  into  our  nature  change.  Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 


554 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


And  he  shone  bright,  and  on   the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

'Higher  and  higher  every  day,^ 
Till  over  the  mast  at   noon  — '  3° 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

Red   as   a   rose   is   she; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes         35 

The   merry   minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  thus   spake  on  that   ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed   Mariner:  4o 

'  And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was    tyrannous    and    strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

'  With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow,     45 

As  who  pursued  with   yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  so 

'  And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 

And   it   grew  wondrous  cold ; 

And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 

As  green  as  emerald. 

'And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts    55 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

'  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around:  6o 

It    cracked    and    growled,    and    roared    and 

howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 

'  At  length  did   cross  an   Albatross : 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came : 
As   if    it   had   been   a    Christian    soul,         6$ 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

'  It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The   ice  did   split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through !  7° 

'And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 


And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

'  In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud,       75 

It  perched   for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles    all    the    night,    through     fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered   the   white   moon-shine.' 

'  God    save    thee,    ancient    Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus!  —  8o 
Why    look'st    thou    so  ? ' — '  With    my    cross- 
bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross ! ' 


Part  II 

'  The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he. 

Still    hid    in    mist,    and   on    the   left  8s 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

'  And    the   good    south    wind    still    blew    be- 
hind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day,   for   food   or   play, 
Came  to   the   mariner's  hollo !  9o 

'  And   I  had  done  a  hellish  thing. 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe ; 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That   made   the   breeze   to   blow. 

Ah,   wretch !   said  they,  the  bird  to  slay     95 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

'  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head. 
The    glorious    Sun    uprist : 
Then   all   averred,   I   had   killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  '0° 

'T  was  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

'  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 
The    furrow    followed    free : 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst  ^°s 

Into  that   silent   sea. 


'  Down    dropt    the    breeze,    the    sails 

down, 
'T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

'  All  in  a  hot  and  copper   sky, 
The    bloody   Sun,    at    noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the   Moon. 


dropt 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


555 


'Day   after   day,   day   after   day,  ''S 

We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

'  Water,  water,  everywhere, 

And   all   the  boards  did   shrink;  '^o 

Water,    water,    everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

'  The  very  deep  did  rot :     O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs       '^s 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

'  About,   about,   in   reel   and   rout, 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white.  '3o 

'  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so: 
Nine   fathom  deep  he  had   followed  us. 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

'  And   every  tongue,  through  utter  drought. 
Was  withered  at  the  root;  '36 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been   choked   with   soot. 

'Ah!   well-a-day!  what  evil  looks 
Had  I   from  old  and  young!  >4o 

Instead  of  the  cross,   the   Albatross 
About   my  neck  was  hung. 


Part   III 

'There   passed   a   weary  time.    Each   throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A   weary   time !      A   weary  time !  US 

How  glazed  each   weary  eye! 

When  looking  westward   I   beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

'  At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then   it   seemed   a  mist:  '5o 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

'  A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 

And   still   it   neared  and   neared : 

As   if   it   dodged   a    water-sprite,  iss 

It  plunged   and  tacked   and   veered. 

'  With    throats     unslaked,     with     black    lips 

baked. 
We  could   nor  laugh   nor   wail ; 
Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 


I   bit   my  arm,   I   sucked   the  blood, 
And  cried,   "  A   sail !  a  sail !  " 


'  With     throats    unslaked,     with    black     lips 

baked. 
Agape  they  heard   me  call : 
Gramercy!  they   for  joy  did  grin. 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in,        i6s 
As   they  were  drinking  all. 

"See!  see  (I  cri^d)   she  tacks  no  more! 

Hither  to  work   us  weal ; 

Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

She    steadies    with    upright    keel !  "  170 

'The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame: 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done : 

Almost  upon   the   western   wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright   Sun  : 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly  '75 

Betwixt  us  and  the   Sun. 

'  And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars. 
(Heaven's    Mother   send   us   grace!) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon  grate  he  peered. 
With  broad  and  burning   face.  180 

'Alas!   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How    fast   she   nears   and   nears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 

'  Are    those    her    ribs    through    which    the 
Sun  185 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that   a   Death?  and  are   there   two? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

'  Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free,  '9° 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 
The   Nightmare   Life-in-Death   was  she. 
Who  thicks  man's  blood   with  cold. 

'  The  naked  hulk  alongside  came,  '95 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 
"  The  game  is  done !  I  've  won,  I  've  won  !  " 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

'  The  Sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush  out : 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ;  ^00 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  specter-bark. 

'  We   listened   and   looked    sideways   up ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My    life-blood    seemed    to    sip!  ^°5 


556 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 
The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 

white; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  — 
Till   clomb   above   tiic  eastern   bar 
The  horned  Moon  with  one  bright  star      21° 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

'One   after   one,   by   the   star-dogged   Moon, 
Too  quick   for  groan  or  sigh. 
Each   turned  his   face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye.  -^'S 

'  Four   times    fifty   living   men, 
(And   I   heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With   heavy   thump,   a   lifeless   lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

•The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly —    220 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe ! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by. 

Like  the  whiz  of  my  cross-bow ! ' 

Part    IV 

'  I    fear    thee,    ancient    Mariner ! 
I  fear  thy  skinny  hand !  225 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

'  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown.' — 

'  Fear   not,    fear   not,   thou    Wedding-Guest ! 

This  body  dropt  not  down.  231 

'  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea ! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My   soul    in    agony.  235 

'  The   many  men,   so   beautiful ! 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 
And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on;  and  so  did  I. 

'  I   looked  upon  the  rotting  sea,  240 

And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

'I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht,  245 

A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close. 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 
For  the   sky  and  the   sea,   and  the  sea  and 
the  sky. 


Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye,  251 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

'  'I'hc  cold   sweat   melted   from  their  limbs. 
Nor   rot   nor   reck  did  they: 
'i'he  look  with  which  they  kjoked  on  me    255 
Had  never  passed  away. 

'  An   orphan's  curse   would   drag   to   hell 

A   spirit   from  on  high; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye!  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,   I   saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

'  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky. 
And   nowhere   did   abide : 
Softly  she  was  going  up,  265 

And  a  star  or  two  beside  — 

'  Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main. 
Like   April   hoar-frost    spread; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge   shadow  lay. 
The  charmed   water  burnt   alvvay  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

'  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I   watched  the   water-snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And   when  they   reared,   the   elfish  light    273 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

'  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,   glossy  green,  and   velvet   black. 

They  coiled  and  swam ;  and  every  track    280 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

'  O   happy   living  things !   no   tongue 
Their  beauty  might   declare : 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware !  28s 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me. 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

'The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 
And   from  my  neck  so   free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank  290 

Like  lead  nito  the  sea. 


Part    V 

'  Oh,  sleep !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

Beloved   from   pole   to  pole ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven,  29s 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


557 


'  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained.  300 

'  My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still   my  body  drank. 

'  I   moved,   and   could   not    feci   my   limbs : 
I  was  so  light  —  almost  306 

I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

'  And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind : 
It  did  not  come  anear;  310 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

'  The  upper  air  burst  into  life ! 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 

To  and   fro  they  were  hurried  about;       S'S 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

*  And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black 
cloud ;  3~o 

The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

'  The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag. 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag,  325 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 

'  The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship. 

Yet   now   the   ship   moved  on ! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  330 

'  They    groaned,    they    stirred,    they    all    up- 
rose. 
Nor  spake  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

'  The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on ; 
Yet  never  a   breeze  up-blew ;  336 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do : 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

'  The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 


The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me.' 

'  I    fear   thee,   ancient    Mariner !  '  34> 

'  Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 

'T  was  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain. 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again. 

But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

'For  when   it   dawned  — they  dropped  their 

arms. 
And  clustered   round  the  mast;  351 

Sweet     sounds     rose     slowly    through     their 

mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

*  Around,   around,   flew  each   sweet  sound. 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun ;  35s 
Slowly  the  sounds  come  back  again, 

Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

'  Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are,  360 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

'And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song,  36s 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

'  It  ceased ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A   pleasant  noise  till   noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In   the   leafy   month   of  June,  37o 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

'  Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 

Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 

Slowly   and   smoothly   went   the   ship,         375 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

'  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

The  spirit  slid ;  and  it  was  he 

That   made   the   ship   to   go.  380 

The  sails  at  noon  left  ofi^  their  tune. 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

*  The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean  ; 

But  in  a  minute  she  'gan   stir,  385 

With   a   short  uneasy  motion  — 
Backwards   and   forwards  half  her  length, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 


558 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


'  Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 

She  made  a  sudden  bound:  39o 

It  tlung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

'  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

I  have  not  to  declare; 

But  ere  my  living  life  return'd,  395 

I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discern'd 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

*"Is  it  he?"  quoth  one,  "is  this  the  man? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low  400 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

'"The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow."  4os 

'The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance  done. 

And  penance  more  will  do." 

Part  VI 

FIRST    VOICE 

'  "  But  tell  me,  tell  me !  speak  again  410 

Thy  soft  response  renewing  — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing?" 

SECOND   VOICE 

' "  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast;  415 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast  — 

*"If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him,  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see !  how  graciously  420 

She  looketh  down  on  him." 

FIRST    VOICE 

•"But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind?" 

SECOND  VOICE 

'"The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

And  closes  from  behind.  42s 

•  "  Fly  brother,  f^y !  more  high,  more  high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated: 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated." 


'  I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on,  4^0 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

'T  was    night,    calm    night,    the    moon    was 

high ; 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 

'  All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 

For   a   charncl-dungcon    fitter :  435 

All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 

That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

'  The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away: 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs,      440 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

'And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:  once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green. 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen —  445 

'  Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

'  But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 

In  ripple  or  in  shade.  455 

'  It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like   a   meado.w-gale   of   spring  — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

'  Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship,  460 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too: 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze  — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

'Oh!  dream  of  joy!  is  this  indeed 

The   lighthouse   top   I   see?  4C5 

Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the  kirk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

'  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 

And  I  with   sobs  did  pray  — 

"  O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God !  470 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway." 

'  The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 

And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon.  475 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


559 


'The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steeped  in   silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

'And  the  bay  was   white   with   silent   light, 
Till  rising  from  the  same,  481 

Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

'  A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those   crimson    shadows   were:  485 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck  — 

Oh,  Christ!  what  saw  I  there! 

'  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood ! 

A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man,  490 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

'  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the   land. 

Each  one  a  lovely  light :  495 

'  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand. 
No  voice  did  they  impart  — 
No  voice ;  but  oh !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

'  But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars,  soo 

I  heard  the  pilot's  cheer ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

'The  Pilot,  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast :  505 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

'I  saw  a  third  —  I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns  510 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He  '11  shrieve  my  soul,  he  '11  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

Part   VII 

'  This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the   sea.  51 S 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come   from  a   far  countree. 

'He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve  — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump :  520 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 


'  The  skiff-boat  neared :  I  heard  them  talk, 
"  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and   fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now?"  s^e 

'  "  Strange,  by  my  faith  !  "  the  Hermit  said  — 

"And  they  answered  not  our  cheer! 

The    planks    look    warped !    and    see    those 

sails, 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere !  530 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them. 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

' "  Brown   skeletons  of  leaves  that   lag 
My  forest-brook  along : 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with   snow,     535 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 

' "  Dear   Lord !   it  hath   a  fiendish   look"— 
(The  pilot  made  reply) 
"  I   am  a-feared  " — "  Push  on,   push   on  !  " 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily.  541 

'  The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But   I   nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the   ship. 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard.  545 

'  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still   louder  and  more   dread : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

'  Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful   sound, 
Which  sky  and  ocean  smote,  55' 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned, 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I   found 
Within  the  Pilot's  boat.  555 

'  Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship. 
The   boat   spun   round   and   round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

'I  moved  my  lips  —  the  Pilot  shrieked.      560 

And   fell  down  in  a  fit ; 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  ej'es. 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

'  I  took  the  oars :  the  Pilot's  boy. 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go,  565 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  quoth  he,  "  full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 


56o 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


And  now,  all  in  my  t)wn  countree,  57o 

I   stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 
The  Hermit  stepped   forth   from  the  boat, 
And   scarcely  he  conld   stand. 

'  ■■  O  shrieve  me,  slirievc  me,  h(jly  man  !  " 
The   Hermit  crossed  his  brow.  575 

"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  thee  say  — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?" 

'Forthwith      this      frame      of      mine      was 

wrenched 
With  a  woeful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ;  s8o 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

'  Since  then  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That   agony   returns ; 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 

This  heart  within  me  burns.  s8s 

'  I   pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 

I   have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

T'.at  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 

I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 

'  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door : 

The  wedding-guests  are  there; 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are ; 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell,  595 

Which  biddcth  me  to  prayer ! 

'  O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be.  600 

'  O  sweeter  than  the  marriage- feast, 
'T  is  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  !  — 

*  To  walk  together  to  the  kirk,  605 

And  all  together  pray, 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends. 
And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 

'Farewell,  farewell!  but  this  I  tell  610 

To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

'  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small;  615 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us. 

He  made  and  loveth  all.' 


The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright. 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone;  and  now  the  Wedding-Ciuest        620 
Turned   from   the  bridegroom's  door. 


He  went   like  (mk-  that   lialli 
And   is  of  sense   forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


CHRISTABEL 


■en   stunned, 


625 


(1798) 


Part  I 

'T  is  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And    the    owls    have    awaken'd    the    crowing 

cock ; 
Tu-whit !  —  Tu-whoo  ! 
.And   hark,   again !   the   crowing   cock. 
How  drowsily  it  crew.  5 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron   rich. 
Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 
From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
Maketh  answer  to  the  clock. 
Four   for  the   quarters,  and  twelve    for  the 

hour;  10 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and   shower. 
Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud ; 
Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark? 

The  night  is  chilly,   but  not  dark.  i5 

The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high. 

It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 

The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the   full ; 

And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 

The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray :  20 

'T  is  a  month  before  the  month  of   ^lay, 

And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The   lovely   lady,   Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late,         25 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that 's  far  away.  30 

She   stole  along,   she   nothing  spoke. 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low. 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 
But   moss   and   rarest   misletoe : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree,  35 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 


CHRISTABEL 


561 


It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. —  40 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be. 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air  4S 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek  — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,  5° 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the 
sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jcsu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak,       55 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That   shadowy  in   the   moonlight   shone :     60 

The  neck  that  made   that   white   robe   wan. 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare ; 

Her   blue-veined    feet   unsandaled   were; 

And    wildly   glittered    here    and    there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair.  6s 

I  guess,  't  was  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she  — 

Beautiful  exceedingly! 

'  Mary  mother,  save  me  now  !  ' 

Said  Christabel,  'and  who  art  thou?'         70 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet :  — 
'  Have  pity  on   my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear ! ' 
Said  Christabel,  'How  camest  thou  here? '76 
And   the   lady,   whose   voice   was    faint   and 

sweet, 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet :  — 
'  My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 
And  my  name  is  Geraldine :  80 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 
Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 
They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 
And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind,  85 

And  they  rode   furiously  behind. 
They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were  white: 
And  once  wc  crossed  the   shade  of  night. 
As  sure  as   Heaven   shall   rescue  me, 
36 


I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be ;        9° 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced,  I  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 

Took  me   from  the   palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive.  95 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke : 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak ; 

He   swore  they   would   return   with   haste ; 

Whither  they   went   I   cannot  tell  — • 

I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past,       1°° 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch   forth  thy  hand,'  thus  ended  she, 

'  And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee.' 

Then   Christabel   stretched   forth  her  hand, 
And   comforted    fair    Geraldine:  '"S 

'O  well,  bright  dame,  may  you  command 
The  service  of  Sir  Leoline; 
And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 
Will  he  send  forth,  and  friends  withal, 
To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free     >io 
Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall.' 

She  rose:  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,   fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest. 

And  thus  spake   on   sweet   Christabel:       I'S 

'  All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth;  120 

And   I   beseech   your  courtesy, 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me.' 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well; 

A   little  door   she  opened   straight,  '-5 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  with- 
out. 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched 
out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main         13° 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate: 

Then  the  lady  rose  again. 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So,  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear,       133 
They    crossed    the    court :    right    glad    they 

were. 
And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  Lady  by  her  side ; 
'  Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine. 
Who  halh   rescued  thee   from  thy  distress!' 


562 


SAMUFX  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


141 


'  Alas,  alas  !  '  said  Geraldine, 
'  I  cannot  speak   for  weariness.' 
So,  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
They    crossed    the    court :    right    glad    they 
were. 

Outside  her  kennel  the  mastiff  old  MS 

Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make. 
And   what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell  iSo 

Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch  : 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still. 

Pass   as    lightly   as  you   will.  'SS 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying ; 

But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame; 

And   Christabel   saw  the  lady's   eye,  160 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 

Save  the  boss  of  the   shield  of   Sir   Leoline 

tall, 
Which   hung  in  a  murky  old   niche   in   the 

wall. 
*  O  softly  tread,'  said  Christabel, 
'My   father   seldom    sleepeth   well:'  165 

Sweet  Christabel  her   feet  doth  bare. 
And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air, 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom. 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room,       170 
As   still   as   death,   with   stifled   breath! 
And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door; 
And  now  doth   Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air,       i75 

And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 

But   they   without   its   light   can   see 

The  chamber  carved  so  curiously. 

Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 

All   made  out  of  the  carver's  brain,         180 

For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 

The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 

Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim ; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim.  i8s 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright, 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 

While   Geraldine,  in   wretched  plight, 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0    weary    lady,    Geraldine,  190 

I  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine ! 


It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers; 

My   mother   made  it  of   wild   flowers.' 

'  And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 

Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn?'  195 

Christabel   answered —' Woe  is  me! 

She   died   the  hour  that   I    was  born. 

I  have  heard  the  gray-haired  friar  tell, 

How  on  her  death-bed  she  did   say. 

That  she  .should  hear  the  castle-bell  20° 

Strike   twelve   upon    my   wedding  day. 

0  mother  dear!  that  thou  wert  here!' 
'I  would,'  said  Geraldine,  'she  were!' 

But   soon,   with   altered   voice,    said   she  — 
'Off,  wandering  mother!     Peak  and  pine! 

1  have  power  to  bid  thee   flee.'  206 
Alas!    what   ails   poor   Geraldine? 

Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye? 

Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy? 

And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she,         210 

'Off,   woman,   off!   this   hour   is  mine  — 

71iough  thou  her  guardian   spirit  be. 

Off,  woman,  off!  'tis  given  to  me.' 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side. 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue —  215 
'Alas!'  said  she,  'this  ghastly  ride  — 
Dear  lady!  it  hath  wildered  you!' 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And    faintly   said,   '  'T  is   over   now  !  ' 
Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank:     220 
Her   fair  large   eyes   'gan   glitter   bright, 
And  from  the  floor,  whereon  she  sank, 
'Jlie  lofty  lady  stood  upright : 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree.  225 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake  — 

'  All  they,   who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 

Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel ! 

And  you   love   them,  and   for  their  sake. 

And  for  the  good  which  me  befell,  230 

Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try. 

Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 

But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 

Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie.' 

Quoth   Christabel,  'So  let  it  be!'  235 

And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain,  of  weal  and  woe. 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro,  240 

That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close ; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline. 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 


CHRISTABEL 


563 


Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed,  -245 

And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud, 
Like   one   that   shuddered,   she   unbound 
'       The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast : 
I       Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest,  ^5° 

j       Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view. 
Behold!  her  bosom  and  half  her  side  — 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 
O  shield  her!  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs :  25s 

Ah !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift   some  weight  with   sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay ; 
Then   suddenly,  as  one  defied,  -60 

Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side !  — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took. 

Ah,   well-a-day! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look        •zes 
These  words  did  say: 

'  In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh 

a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel ! 
Thou   knowest   to-night,   and   wilt   know   to- 
morrow. 
This   mark  of   my  shame,   this   seal    of   my 
sorrow ; 

But  vainly  thou  warrest,  271 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare. 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning,  -75 

And    found'st    a    bright    lady,    surpassingly 

fair: 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee,  in  love 

and  in  charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp 
air.' 

The  Conclusion   to   Part   I 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 

The  lady  Christabel,  when   she  280 

Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 

To  make  her  gentle  vows ;  28s 

Her  slender  palms  together  prest. 
Heaving  sometimes   on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale  — 
Her  face,  oh,  call  it  fair  not  pale, 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear. 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear.  291 


With  open  eyes   (ah,  woe  is  me!) 
Asleep,   and   dreaming   fearfully, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is —  29s 

O   sorrow  and   shame !     Can   this  be  she, 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree? 
And  lo !  the  worker  of  these  harms. 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild,  300 

As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

O  Geraldine !  since  arms  of  thine 

Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

O  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine  —  305 

Thou'st  had  thy  will !     By  tairn  and  rill, 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu-whoo !  tu-whoo ! 

Tu-whoo!  tu-whoo!  from  wood  and  fell!  310 

And   see !   the  lady   Christabel 

Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance; 

Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 

Grows   sad  and  soft ;   the  smooth   thin  lids 

Close  o'er  her  eyes;  and  tears  she  sheds  — 

Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 

And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile         317 

As  infants  at  a  sudden  light! 

Yea,  she  doth   smile,  and  she  doth  weep. 

Like  a  youthful  hermitess,  320 

Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 

Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 

And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 

Perchance,  't  is  but  the  blood  so  free 

Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet.  3^5 

No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 

What  if  her  guardian  spirit  'twere, 

What   if   she  knew  her  mother  near? 

But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes. 

That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call:         330 

For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all. 

Part  II 

Each  matin  bell,  the  Baron  saith. 

Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death. 

These  words   Sir   Lcoline  first   said, 

When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead :  335 

These  words   Sir  Leoline  will  say 

]\Iany  a  morn  to  his  dying  day! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began 

That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan. 

Who  duly  pulls   the  heavy  bell,  34o 

Five  and  forty  beads  must  tell 

Between   each   stroke  —  a   warning  knell, 

Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 

From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 


5^4 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  '  So  let  it  knell !       345 

And   let   the  drowsy  sacristan 

Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can ! ' 

There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween, 

As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 

In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair,  35o 

And   Dungeon-ghyll   so   foully  rent. 

With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 

Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent, 

Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t'  other. 

The  death-note  to  their  living  brother;       355 

And  oft  too,  by  the  knell  offended. 

Just  as  their  one!  two!  three!  is  ended. 

The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 

With  a  merry  peal  from  Borrowdale. 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud     360 

That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud; 

And  Geraldine  shakes  ofif  her  dread. 

And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed; 

Puts  on  her  silken  vestments  white. 

And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight,  365 

And  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell 

Awakens  the  lady  Christabel. 

*  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel  ? 

I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well.' 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied  370 

The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side  — 

O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 

Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak  tree! 

Nay,   fairer  yet !   and  yet  more   fair ! 

For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep  375 

Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep! 

And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air. 

Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 

That   (so  it  seemed)   her  girded  vests 

Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts.  380 

'  Sure  I  have  sinned !  '  said  Christabel, 

'Now  heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well!' 

And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet. 

Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 

With  such  perplexity  of  mind  385 

As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 

Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 

That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan. 

Might  wash   away  her  sins  unknown,       390 

She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 

To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 

Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall. 

And  pacing  on  through  page  and  groom,  395 

Enter  the  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 

His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast. 

With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 

The  lady   Geraldine  espies,  400 


And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same, 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale. 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  waxed   Sir  Leoline  so  pale,  40s 

Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again. 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine? 
Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth ; 
And    constancy   lives    in    realms   above;     410 
And  life  is  thorny;  and  youth  is  vain; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine. 
With   Roland  and   Sir   Leoline.  415 

Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 
They  parted — ^ ne'er  to  meet  again! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining  — 
They  stood  aloof,  the   scars   remaining,     421 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder. 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I   ween,  425 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 
Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face : 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again.  430 

0  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 

His  noble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage ; 

He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side 

He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide, 

With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry,  435 

That  they,  who  thus  had  wronged  the  dame 

Were   base  as   spotted   infamy! 

'And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same. 

My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week. 

And  let  the  recreant  traitors   seek  44° 

My  tourney  court  —  that  there  and   then 

1  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men  !  ' 
He  spake:   his  eye   in  lightning  rolls! 

For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized ;  and  he 

kenned  445 

In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face. 
And   fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 
Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look.  45o 

Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 
LIpon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 
The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 
She  shrunk  and  shuddered,  and  saw  again  — 
(Ah,  woe  is  me!     Was  it   for  thee,  455 

Thou  gentle  maid!  such  sights  to  see?) 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 


565 


Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

And    drew    in    her    breath    with    a    hissing 

sound : 
Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildly  round,  460 
And  nothing  saw,  but  his  own   sweet  maid 
With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away. 

And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest. 

Which  comforted  her  after-rest,  465 

While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay. 

Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 

And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 

Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
'What  ails  then  my  beloved  child?'  470 

The  Baron  said  —  His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  '  All  will  yet  be  well ! ' 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 


(1816) 


KUBLA  KHAN 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea.  5 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous 
rills  8 

Where   blossomed   many  an   incense-bearing 

tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,  1° 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But    oh !    that    deep    romantic    chasm    which 

slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 
A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover!     16 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil 

seething, 
As    if   this    earth    in    fast   thick   pants    were 

breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced ; 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst  20 
Huge     fragments     vaulted    like    rebounding 

hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
And   'mid   these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and 

ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 


Through    wood    and    dale    the    sacred    river 

ran,  26 

Then    reached    the    caverns    measureless    to 

man, 
And   sank  in  tumult   to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral    voices    prophesying    war!  30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleas- 
ure 
Floated   midway  on  the   waves ; 
Where      was      heard      the      mingled 

measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  35 

A    sumiy    pleasure-dome    with    caves    of 
ice  ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,    40 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song. 
To  such  a  deep  delight  't  would  win 
me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long,  45 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry.  Beware !  Beware ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair !  50 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

(1816) 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 

The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.     The  owlet's  cry 
Came   loud  —  and   hark,   again !   loud  as   be- 
fore. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits    s 
Abstruser  musings :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'T  is  calm   indeed !   so   calm,  that   it   disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with   its   strange 
And     extreme     silentness.     Sea,     hill,     and 
wood,  10 

This    populous    village !     Sea,    and    hill,    and 

wood. 
With  all   the   numberless  goings  on  of   life 
Inaudible  as  dreams !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not; 


566 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing.  '6 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling 
Spirit  20 

By  its  own  moods  interprets,  every  where 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But  O !  how  oft, 
How    oft,    at    school,    with    most    believing 

mind,  -5 

Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To   watch   that    fluttering   stranger!    and    as 

oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  drcan>t 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church - 

tower. 
Whose    bells,    the    poor    man's    only    nuisic, 

rang  3o 

From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So    sweetly,   that    they    stirred    and    haunted 

me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most    like    articulate    sounds    of    things    to 

come ! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  dreamt 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my 

dreams !  36 

And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed    by    the    stern   preceptor's    face,    mine 

eye 
Fixed    with    mock    study    on    my    swimming 

book: 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched 
A   hasty   glance,   and   still   my  heart    leaped 

up,  41 

For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My   play-mate   when   we   both   were   clothed 

alike! 

Dear   babe,    that    sleepest    cradled    by    my 

side,  45 

Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep 

calm, 
Fill   up   the   interspersed   vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee,  so 
And   think   that   thou   shalt   learn    far   other 

lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes  !     For  T  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim. 
And    saw    naught    lost-ly    hut    the    sky    and 
stars. 


But    thou,    my    babe !    shalt    wander    like    a 

brieve  55 

By    lakes    and     sandy    shores,    beneath    the 

Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds. 
Which    image   in    their   bulk   both   lakes   and 

shores 
And  mountain  crags:   so  shnlt   thou   see  and 

hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible    60 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher!  he  shall  mold 
Thy.  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask.       65 

Therefore    all    seasons    shall    be    sweet    to 

thee. 
Whether    the     summer    clothe    the    general 

earth 
With    greenness,    or    the    redbreast    sit    and 

sing 
Betwixt    the    tufts    of    snow    on    the    bare 

branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,   while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw ;   whether  the  eave- 

drops  fall  71 

Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles. 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon.  75 

(1798) 

HUMILITY    THE    MOTHER    OF 
CHARITY 

Frail  creatures  are  we  all !     To  be  the  best 

Is  but  the   fewest   faults  to  have:  — 
Look    thou    then    to    thyself,    and    leave    the 
rest 
To  God,  thy  conscience,  and  the  grave. 
(1830) 

EPITAPH 

Stop,    Christian    passer-by!  —  Stop,   child    of 

God, 
And   read   with   gentle   breast.     Beneath   this 

sod 
A  poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he. — 
O,  lift  one  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. ; 
That  he  who  many  a  year  with  toil  of  breath 
Found   death   in  life,  may  here  find  life   in 

death !  ^ 

Mercy  for  praise  —  to  be  forgiven  for   fame 
He  asked,  and  hoped,  through   Christ. 
Do  thou   the   same ! 

(Nov.  9,   1833) 


CHARLES  LAMB   (1775-1834) 


There  are  few  English  authors  with  whose  charat-tcr  aiul  circumstances  we  may  become 
so  closely  acquainted  as  with  Cliarles  Lamb's,  on  account  o£  his  habit  of  self-confession  in 
his  essays,  his  skill  and  charm  as  a  letter-writer,  and  his  many  literary  friendships.  The 
first  seven  years  of  bis  life  were  spent  at  the  Inner  Temple,  where  bis  father  bad  rooms 
as  clerk  and  confidential  servant  to  one  of  the  barristers ;  for  the  next  seven  he  was  a  '  blue  coat 
boy  '  at  Christ's  Hospital,  along  with  Coleridge.  Lamb  was  passionately  fond  of  London,  where 
be  passed  nearly  all  his  days,  but  in  Mackcrij  End  in  Hcrtfordsliire  and  other  essays  be  has  given 
us  delightful  glimpses  of  holiday  visits  to  the  country  home  of  bis  grandmother  Field.  It  was 
on  one  of  these  visits  that  he  fell  in  love  with  the  'fair  Alice'  of  Dream  Children,  but  this 
youthful  romance  was  cruelly  cut  short.  There  was  a  strain  of  mental  weakness  in  the 
family,  and  Lamb's  mind  gave  way.  Not  long  after  his  restoration,  his  sister  Mai-y, 
the  '  Bridget  Elia  '  of  the  essays,  in  a  sudden  fit  of  insanity,  was  the  cause  of  her  mother's 
death ;  on  her  recovery  it  was  necessary  that  some  one  should  be  responsible  for  her  safe 
keeping,  and  to  this  task  Charles  devoted  the  rest  of  his  life.  At  this  time  he  was  earning 
a  small  salary  as  a  clerk  in  the  ofKce  of  the  East  India  Company  and  his  first  efforts  in 
literature,  apart  from  a  few  sonnets  and  other  short  poems,  were  directed  to  eking  out 
their  scanty  income.  A  Tale  of  Rosamund  Gray,  published  in  1798,  had  no  great  success; 
he  could  not  get  his  tragedy,  John  ^Yoodvil,  put  on  the  stage ;  bis  comedy,  Mr.  H.,  was 
acted  at  Drury  Lane  and  failed.  He  contributed  '  witty  paragraphs  '  to  the  morning  papers 
at  the  rate  of  '  sixpence  a  joke,  and  it  was  thought  pretty  high,  too,'  as  he  tells  us  in 
the  essay  on  Newspapers  Thirty-five  Years  Ago.  Fortune  first  smiled  upon  them  in  the 
Tales  from  Shakspcre,  written  for  children  by  the  brother  and  sister  together,  Charles 
taking  the  tragedies  and  Mary  the  comedies.  His  Specimens  of  English  Dramatists  con- 
temporary tvith  Shakspere  was  an  important  contribution  to  the  criticism  of  the  Elizabethan 
drama,  and  his  position  in  the  world  of  letters  was  now  well  established.  Leigh  Hunt, 
Wordsworth,  Southcy,  Keats,  Ilazlitt,  De  Quincey,  and  many  other  famous  men  of  the 
time  were  among  his  friends,  and  much  of  his  leisure  was  spent  in  conversation  and  con- 
vivial meetings,  from  which  he  sometimes  returned,  as  bis  sister  says,  '  very  smoky  and 
drinky.'  His  ready  wit  and  unfailing  kindliness  of  heart  endeared  him  to  his  friends,  as 
the  charm  of  his  personality  and  the  delicacy  of  bis  humor  have  to  an  ever-increasing 
circle  of  readers.  His  most  characteristic  work  is  to  be  found  in  the  Essays  of  Elia, 
which  appeared  in  the  London  Magazine  from  1820  to  1826. 


THE    OLD    FAMILIAR    FACES 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 
school-days ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old   familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking   late,    sitting    late,    with    my   bosom 
cronies ;  5 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see 

her  — 
All,   all   are  gone,  the  old   familiar   faces.   9 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 
Like  an  ingrate.  T  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 


Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my 
childhood, 

Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  trav- 
erse, 

Seeking  to   find   the   old    familiar    faces.      '5 

Friend    of    my    bosom,    thou    more    than    a 

brother, 
Why    wert    not    thou    born    in    my    father's 

dwelling? 
So     might    we    talk    of     the     old     familiar 

faces —  i8 

How   some   they   have   died,   and   some   they 

have  left  me, 
And    some    are    taken    from    me;    all    are 

departed ;  20 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

(1798) 


567 


568  CHARLES  LAMB 


MACKERY    END    IN    HERTFORD-        brained,    generous    Margaret    Newcastle. 

SHIRE  It  has  been  the  lot  of  my  cousin,  oftener 

I)crhai)s  than  I  could  have  wished,  to  have 

Bridget  Elia  has  been  my  housekeeper      had    for    her    associates    and    mine,    free- 

for  many  a  long  year.     I  have  obligations   5  thinkers  —  leaders,  and  disciples,  of  novel 

to   Bridget,   extending  beyond  the   perio<l      philosophies  and  systems;  but  she  neither 

of     memory.     We     house     together,     old      wrangles    with,    nor    accepts,    their    opin- 

hachclor   and   maid,    in   a   sort   of  double      ions.     That   which   was   good   and   vener- 

singleness;    with    such   tolerable    comfort,      aljle    to    her,    when    a    child,    retains    its 

upon  the  whole,   that  I,   for  one,  find   in  lo  authority  over  her  mind  still.     She  never 

myself   no   sort   of  disposition   to   go   out      juggles   or   plays   tricks   with   her  under- 

upon  the  mountains,  with  the  rash  king's      standing. 

offspring,    to    bewail    my    celibacy.     We  We    are    both    of   us    inclined   to   be    a 

agree  pretty  well  in  our  tastes  and  habits      little   too   positive;   and   I   have   observed 

—  yet  so,  as  'with  a  difference.'  We '5  the  result  of  our  disputes  to  be  almost 
are  generally  in  harmony,  with  occa-  uniformly  this — ^  that  in  matters  of  fact, 
sional  bickerings  —  as  it  should  be  dates,  and  circumstances,  it  turns  out, 
among  near  relations.  Our  sympathies  that  I  was  in  the  right,  and  my  cousin 
are  rather  understood,  than  expressed ;  in  the  wrong.  But  where  we  have 
and  once,  upon  my  dissembling  a  tone  20  differed  upon  moral  points;  upon  some- 
in  my  voice  more  kind  than  ordinary,  my  thing  proper  to  be  done,  or  let  alone; 
cousin  burst  into  tears,  and  complained  whatever  heat  of  opposition,  or  steadiness 
that  I  was  altered.  We  are  both  great  of  conviction,  I  set  out  with,  I  am  sure 
readers  in  different  directions.  While  I  always,  in  the  long  run,  to  be  brought 
am    hanging    over     (for    the    thousandth  25  over  to  her  way  of  thinking. 

time)  some  passage  in  old  Burton,  or  one  I   must   touch   upon   the   foibles   of  my 

of  his  strange  contemporaries,  she  is  ab-  kinswoman  with  a  gentle  hand,  for 
stracted  in  some  modern  tale,  or  adven-  Bridget  does  not  like  to  be  told  of  her 
ture,  whereof  our  common  reading-table  faults.  She  hath  an  awkward  trick  (to 
is  daily  fed  with  assiduously  fresh  sup-  30  say  no  worse  of  it)  of  reading  in  com- 
plies. Narrative  teases  me.  I  have  little  pany :  at  which  times  she  will  answer 
concern  in  the  progress  of  events.  She  yes  or  no  to  a  question,  without  fully 
must  have  a  story  —  well,  ill,  or  indiffer-  understanding  its  purport  —  which  is 
ently  told  —  so  there  be  life  stirring  in  it,  provoking,  and  derogatory  in  the  highest 
and  plenty  of  good  or  evil  accidents.  35  degree  to  the  dignity  of  the  putter  of  the 
The  fluctuations  of  fortune  in  fiction  —  said  question.  Her  presence  of  mind  is 
and  almost  in  real  life  —  have  ceased  to  equal  to  the  most  pressing  trials  of  life, 
interest,  or  operate  but  dully  upon  me.  but  will  sometimes  desert  her  upon  trifling 
Out-of-the-way  humors  and  opinions  —  occasions.  When  the  purpose  requires  it, 
heads  with  some  diverting  twist  in  them  4°  and  is  a  thing  of  moment,  she  can  speak 

—  the  oddities  of  authorship  please  me  to  it  greatly;  but  in  matters  which  are 
most.  My  cousin  has  a  native  disrelish  not  stuff  of  the  conscience,  she  hath  been 
of  anything  that  sounds  odd  or  bizarre.  known  sometimes  to  let  slip  a  word  less 
Nothing    goes    down    with    her    that    is      seasonably. 

quaint,  irregular,  or  out  of  the  road  of  45  Her  education  in  youth  was  not  much 
common  sympathy.  She  'holds  Nature  attended  to;  and  she  happily  missed  all 
more  clever.'  I  can  pardon  her  blind-  that  train  of  female  garniture,  which 
ness  to  the  beautiful  obliquities  of  the  passeth  by  the  name  of  accomplishments. 
Religio  Medici ;  but  she  must  apologize  She  was  tumbled  early,  by  accident  or 
to  me  for  certain  disrespectful  insinua-  S°  design,  into  a  spacious  closet  of  good  old 
tions,  which  she  has  been  pleased  to  English  reading,  without  much  selection 
throw  out  latterly,  touching  the  Intel-  or  prohibition,  and  browsed  at  will  upon 
lectuals  of  a  dear  favorite  of  mine,  of  that  fair  and  wholesome  pasturage.  Had 
the  last  century  but  one  —  the  thrice  I  twenty  girls,  they  should  be  brought  up 
noble,  chaste,  and  virtuous, —  but  again  55  exactly  in  this  fashion.  I  know  not 
somewhat       fantastical,       and      original-      whether   their   chance   in   wedlock   might 


MACKERY  END  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE  569 

not  be  diminished  by  it;  but  I  can  an-  tion,  affected  me  with  a  pleasure  which  I 
swer  for  it,  that  it  makes  (if  the  worst  had  not  experienced  for  many  a  year, 
come  to  the  worst)  most  incomparable  For  though  /  had  forgotten  it,  we  had 
old  maids.  never  forgotten  being  there  together,  and 

In  a  season  of  distress,  she  is  the  truest  5  we  had  been  talking  about  Alackery  End 
comforter ;  but  in  the  teasing  accidents,  all  our  lives,  till  memory  on  my  part  be- 
and  minor  perplexities,  which  do  not  call  came  mocked  with  a  phantom  of  itself, 
out  the  zvill  to  meet  them,  she  sometimes  and  I  thought  I  knew  the  aspect  of  a 
maketh  matters  worse  by  an  excess  of  place,  which,  when  present,  O  how  un- 
participation.  If  she  does  not  always  10  like  it  was  to  that,  which  I  had  conjured 
divide  your  trouble,  upon  the  pleasanter  up  so  many  times  instead  of  it ! 
occasions   of   life    she    is    sure   always    to  Still  the  air  breathed  balmily  about  it; 

treble    your    satisfaction.     She    is    excel-      the   season   was   in   the   '  heart   of  June,' 
lent  to  be  at  play  with,  or  upon  a  visit ;      and  I  could  say  with  the  poet, 
but  best,  when  she  goes  a  journey  with  15 
you.  But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

We  made  an  excursion  together  a  few  To   fond   imagination, 

summers  since,  into  Hertfordshire,  to  beat  Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

up    the    quarters    of    some    of    our    less-  Her   delicate  creation! 

known  relations  in  that  fine  corn  country.  20 

The  oldest  thing  I  remember  is  Mack-  Bridget's  was  more  a  waking  bliss  than 

ery  End ;  or  Mackarel  End,  as  it  is  mine,  for  she  easily  remembered  her  old 
spelt,  perhaps  more  properly,  in  some  old  acquaintance  again  —  some  altered  fea- 
maps  of  Hertfordshire:  a  farm-house, —  tures,  of  course,  a  Httle  grudged  at.  At 
delightfully  situated  within  a  gentle  walk  25  first,  indeed,  she  was  ready  to  disbelieve 
from  Wheathampstead.  I  can  just  re-  for  joy;  but  the  scene  soon  reconfirmed 
member  having  been  there,  on  a  visit  to  itself  in  her  affections  —  and  she  trav- 
a  great-aunt,  when  I  was  a  child,  under  ersed  every  outpost  of  the  old  mansion, 
the  care  of  Bridget;  who,  as  I  have  said,  to  the  wood-house,  the  orchard,  the  place 
is  older  than  myself  by  some  ten  years.  30  where  the  pigeon-house  had  stood  (house 
I  wish  that  I  could  throw  into  a  heap  and  birds  were  alike  flown) — with  a 
the  remainder  of  our  joint  existences,  that  breathless  impatience  of  recognition, 
we  might  share  them  in  equal  division.  which  was  more  pardonable  perhaps  than 
But  that  is  impossible.  The  house  was  decorous  at  the  age  of  fifty  odd.  But 
at  that  time  in  the  occupation  of  a  sub-  35  Bridget  in  some  things  is  behind  her 
stantial    yeoman,    who    had    married    my      years. 

grandmother's     sister.     His     name     was  The  only  thing  left  was  to  get  into  the 

Gladman.  My  grandmother  was  a  Bru-  house  —  and  that  was  a  difficulty  which 
ton,  married  to  a  Field.  The  Gladnians  to  me  singly  would  have  been  insurmount- 
and  the  Brutons  are  still  flourishing  in  40  able ;  for  I  am  terribly  shy  in  making 
that  part  of  the  county,  but  the  Fields  myself  known  to  strangers  and  out-of- 
are  almost  extinct.  More  than  forty  date  kinsfolk.  Love,  stronger  than 
years  had  elapsed  since  the  visit  I  speak  scruple,  winged  my  cousin  in  without 
of ;  and,  for  the  greater  portion  of  that  me ;  but  she  soon  returned  with  a  crea- 
period,  we  had  lost  sight  of  the  other  45  ture  that  might  have  sat  to  a  sculptor 
two  branches  also.  Who  or  what  sort  for  the  image  of  Welcome.  It  was  the 
of  persons  inherited  Mackery  End  —  youngest  of  the  Gladmans ;  who,  by  mar- 
kindred  or  strange  folk  —  we  were  afraid  riage  with  a  Bruton,  had  become  mistress 
almost  to  conjecture,  but  determined  some  of  the  old  mansion.  A  comely  brood 
day  to  explore.  5o  are   the   Brutons,     Six   of   them,   females, 

By  somewhat  a  circuitous  route,  taking  were  noted  as  the  handsomest  young 
the  noble  park  at  Luton  in  our  way  from  women  in  the  county.  But  this  adopted 
Saint  Alban's,  we  arrived  at  the  spot  of  Bruton,  in  my  mind,  was  better  than  they 
our  anxious  curiosity  about  noon.  The  all  —  more  comely.  She  was  born  too 
sight  of  the  old  farm-house,  though  every  55  late  to  have  remembered  me.  She  just 
trace  of  it  was  effaced  from  my  recollec-      recollected  in  early  life  to  have  had  her 


570  CHARLES  LAMB 


cousin  Bridget  once  pointed  out  to  her,  DREAM-CHILDREN:  A  REVERIE 
climbing  a  stile.  But  the  name  of  kin- 
dred, and  of  cousinship,  was  enough.  Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about 
Those  slender  ties,  that  prove  slight  as  their  elders,  when  tlicy  were  children;  to 
gossamer  in  the  rending  atmosi)licre  of  5  stretch  their  imagination  to  the  concep- 
a  metropolis,  bind  faster,  as  we  found  it,  tion  of  a  traditionary  great-uncle,  or 
in  hearty,  homely,  loving  Hertfordshire,  grandamc,  whom  they  never  saw.  It  was 
In  five  minutes  we  were  as  thoroughly  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept 
acquainted  as  if  we  had  been  born  and  about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  al)out 
bred  up  together;  were  familiar,  even  to  Jo  their  great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived 
the  calling  each  other  by  our  christian  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred 
names.  So  christians  should  call  one  times  bigger  than  that  in  which  they  and 
another.  To  have  seen  Bridget,  and  her  papa  lived)  which  had  been  the  scene  — 
—  it  was  like  the  meeting  of  the  two  so  at  least  it  was  generally  believed  in 
scriptural  cousins !  There  was  a  grace  i5  that  part  of  the  country  —  of  the  tragic 
and  dignity,  an  amplitude  of  form  and  incidents  which  they  had  lately  become 
stature,  answering  to  her  mind,  in  this  familiar  with  from  the  ballad  of  the 
farmer's  wife,  which  would  have  shined  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is  that 
in  a  palace  —  or  so  we  thought  it.  We  the  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their 
were  made  welcome  by  husband  and  wife  20  cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved 
equally  —  we,  and  our  friend  that  was  out  in  wood  upon  the  chimney-piece  of 
with  us. —  I  had  almost  forgotten  him  —  the  great  hall,  the  whole  story  down  to 
but  B.  F.  will  not  so  soon  forget  that  the  Robin  Redbreasts,  till  a  foolish  rich 
meeting,  if  peradventure  he  shall  read  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble 
this  on  the  far-distant  shores  where  the  25  one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with 
kangaroo  haunts.  The  fatted  calf  was  no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one 
made  ready,  or  rather  was  already  so,  as  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to  be 
if  in  anticipation  of  our  coming;  and,  called  upbraiding.  Then  I  went  on  to  say, 
after  an  appropriate  glass  of  native  wine,  how  religious  and  how  good  their  great- 
never  let  me  forget  with  what  honest  30  grandmother  Field  was,  how  beloved  and 
pride  this  hospitable  cousin  made  us  respected  by  everybody,  though  she  was  not 
proceed  to  Wheathampstead,  to  introduce  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house, 
us  (as  some  new-found  rarity)  to  her  but  had  only  the  charge  of  it  (and  yet 
mother  and  sister  Gladmans,  who  did  in-  in  some  respects  she  might  be  said  to  be 
deed  know  something  more  of  us,  at  a  35  the  mistress  of  it  too)  committed  to  her 
time  when  she  almost  knew  nothing. —  by  the  owner,  who  preferred  living  in  a 
With  what  corresponding  kindness  we  newer  and  more  fashionable  mansion 
were  received  by  them  also  —  how  Brid-  which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in 
get's  memory,  exalted  by  the  occasion,  the  adjoining  county;  but  still  she  lived 
warmed  into  a  thousand  half-obliterated  40  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been  her 
recollections  of  things  and  persons,  to  my  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great 
utter  astonishment,  and  her  own  —  and  house  in  a  sort  while  she  lived,  which 
to  the  astoundment  of  B.  F.  who  sat  by,  afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly 
almost  the  only  thing  that  was  not  a  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments 
cousin  there. —  old  effaced  images  of  more  45  stripped  and  carried  away  to  the  owner's 
than  half-forgotten  names  and  circum-  other  house,  where  they  were  set  up,  and 
stances  still  crowding  back  upon  her,  as  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were 
words  written  in  lemon  come  out  upon  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had 
exposure  to  a  friendly  warmth, —  when  I  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey,  and  stick  them 
forget  all  this,  then  may  my  country  50  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt  drawing- 
cousins  forget  me;  and  Bridget  no  more  room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to 
remember,  that  in  the  days  of  weakling  say,  '  that  would  be  foolish,  indeed.'  And 
infancy  I  was  her  tender  charge  —  as  I  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die. 
have  been  her  care  in  foolish  manhood  her  funeral  was  attended  by  a  concourse 
since  —  in  those  pretty  pastoral  walks,  55  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry 
long  ago,  about  Mackery  End,  in  Hert-  too,  of  the  neighborhood  for  many  miles 
fordshire.                                          (1821)          round,  to  show  their  respect  for  her  mem- 


DREAM-CHILDREN  571 


ory,  because  she  had  been  such  a  good  or  in  lying  about  upon  the  fresh  grass, 
and  religious  woman ;  so  good  indeed  that  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me 
she  knew  all  the  Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  —  or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I  could 
and  a  great  part  of  the  Testament  be-  almost  fancy  myself  ripening  too  along 
sides.  Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands.  5  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that 
Then  I  told  what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  grateful  warmth  —  or  in  watching  the 
person  their  great-grandmother  Field  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish- 
once  was;  and  how  in  her  youth  she  was  pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with 
esteemed  the  best  dancer  —  here  Alice's  here  and  there  a  great  sulky  pike  hanging 
little  right  foot  played  an  involuntary  /o  midway  down  the  water  in  silent  state, 
movement,  till  upon  my  looking  grave,  it  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent  frisk- 
desisted —  the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  ings, —  I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy- 
in  the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  idle  diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet 
a  cancer,  came,  and  bowed  her  down  flavors  of  peaches,  nectarines,  oranges, 
with  pain;  but  it  could  never  bend  her  15  and  such  like  common  baits  of  children. 
good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop,  but  they  Here  John  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the 
were  still  upright,  because  she  was  so  plate  a  bunch  of  grapes  which,  not  unob- 
good  and  religious.  Then  I  told  how  she  served  by  Alice,  he  had  meditated  divid- 
was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  ing  with  her,  and  both  seemed  willing  to 
chamber  of  the  great  lone  house ;  and  how  20  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as  ir- 
she  believed  that  an  apparition  of  two  relevant.  Then  in  somewhat  a  more 
infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  glid-  heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  though  their 
ing  up  and  down  the  great  staircase  near  great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her 
where  she  slept,  but  she  said  '  those  in-  grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial  manner 
nocents  would  do  her  no  harm  ' ;  and  how  25  she    might    be    said    to    love    their    uncle, 

frightened  I  used  to  be,  though  in  those      John  L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome 

days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep  with  me,  and  spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king  to  the 
because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or  re-  rest  of  us ;  and,  instead  of  moping  about 
ligious  as  she  —  and  yet  I  never  saw  the  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he 
infants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his  3°  would  mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse 
eyebrows  and  tried  to  look  courageous.  he  could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger 
Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  than  themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him 
grandchildren,  having  us  to  the  great  half  over  the  county  in  a  morning,  and 
house  in  the  holidays,  where  I  in  par-  join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any  out 
ticular  used  to  spend  many  hours  by  my-  35  —  and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house 
self,  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of  the  and  gardens  too,  but  had  too  much  spirit 
twelve  Caesars,  that  had  been  emperors  to  be  always  pent  up  within  their  bound- 
of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  aries  —  and  how  their  uncle  grew  up  to 
seem  to  live  again,  or  I  to  he  turned  into  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was  hand- 
marble  with  them ;  how  I  never  could  be  40  some,  to  the  admiration  of  everybody,  but 
tired  with  roaming  about  that  huge  man-  of  their  great-grandmother  Field  most 
sion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with  especially;  and  how  he  used  to  carry  me 
their  worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapes-  upon  his  back  when  I  was  a  lame-footed 
try,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with  the  boy  —  for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than 
gilding  almost  rubbed  out  —  sometimes  in  -iS  me  —  many  a  mile  when  I  could  not  walk 
the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens,  which  for  pain;  —  and  how  in  after-life  he  be- 
I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now  came  lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not  al- 
and then  a  solitary  gardening  man  would  ways  (I  fear)  make  allowances  enough 
cross  me  —  and  how  the  nectarines  and  for  him  when  he  was  impatient,  and  in 
peaches  hung  upon  the  walls  without  my  5o  pain,  nor  remember  sufficiently  how  con- 
ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because  they  siderate  he  had  been  to  me  when  I  was 
were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then,  lame-footed ;  and  how  when  he  died, 
—  and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  though  he  had  not  been  dead  an  hour, 
strolling  about  among  the  old  melancholy-  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while 
looking  yew-trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking  55  ago.  such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life 
up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir  apples,  which  and  death ;  and  how  I  bore  his  death  as 
were   good   for  nothing  but  to   look  at  —      I   thought   pretty  well   at   first,   but   after- 


572  CHARLES  LAMB 

wards  it  haunted  and  haunted  me ;  and  exterior  twin  appendages,  hanging  orna- 
though  I  di'd  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  nients,  and  (architectually  speaking) 
as  some  do,  and  as  1  think  he  would  have  handsome  volutes  to  the  human  capital, 
done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  Belter  my  mother  had  never  borne  me. 
day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then  how  5  —  1  am,  I  think,  rather  delicately  than 
much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed  his  copiously  i^rovidcd  with  those  conduits; 
kindness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  and  I  feel  no  disposition  to  envy  the 
wished  him  to  he  alive  again,  to  be  mule  for  his  plenty,  or  the  mole  for  her 
quarreling  with  him  (for  we  quarreled  exactness,  in  those  ingenious  labyrinthine 
sometimes),  rather  than  not  have  him  10  inlets  —  those  indispensable  side-intelli- 
again,  and  was  as  uneasy  without  him,  as      gencers. 

he,    their    poor    uncle,    must    have    been  Neither  have  I  incurred,  or  done  any- 

when  the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here  thing  to  incur,  with  Defoe,  that  hideous 
the  children  fell  a-crying,  and  asked  if  disfigurement,  which  constrained  him  to 
their  little  mourning  which  they  had  on  15  draw  upon  assurance  —  to  feel  'quite  un- 
was  not  for  uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up,  abashed,'  and  at  ease  upon  that  article, 
and  prayed  me  not  to  go  on  about  their  I  was  never,  I  thank  my  stars,  in  the 
uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories  about  pillory;  nor,  if  I  read  them  aright,  is  it 
their  pretty  dead  mother.  Then  I  told  within  the  compass  of  my  destiny,  that 
how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  some-  20  I  ever  should  be. 
times,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting  When   therefore   I   say  that  I   have   no 

ever,   I    courted   the   fair   Alice   W n ;      ear,   you   will   understand   me   to  mean  — 

and,  as  much  as  children  could  under-  for  music. —  To  say  that  this  heart  never 
stand,  I  explained  to  them  what  coyness,  melted  at  the  concourse  of  sweet  sounds, 
and  difficulty,  and  denial  meant  in  25  would  be  a  foul  self-libel. — '  Water  parted 
maidens  —  when  suddenly,  turning  to  from  the  sea'  never  fails  to  move  it 
Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  strangely.  So  does  '  In  infancy.'  But 
out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of  they  were  used  to  be  sung  at  her  harpsi- 
representment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  chord  (the  old-fashioned  instrument  in 
which  of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  30  vogue  in  those  days)  by  a  gentlewoman 
whose  that  bright  hair  was ;  and  while  I  —  the  gentlest,  sure,  that  ever  merited 
stood  gazing,  both  the  children  gradually      the       appellation  —  the       sweetest  —  why 

grew   fainter   to   my   view,   receding,   and      should    I    hesitate    to    name    Mrs.    S , 

still  receding  till  nothing  at  last  but  two  once  the  blooming  Fanny  Weatheral  of 
mournful  features  were  seen  in  the  utter- 35  the  Temple  —  who  had  power  to  thrill  the 
most  distance,  which  without  speech,  soul  of  Elia,  small  imp  as  he  was,  even 
strangely  impressed  upon  me  the  effects  in  his  long  coats;  and  to  make  him  glow, 
of  speech:  'We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  tremble,  and  blush  with  a  passion,  that 
thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  not  faintly  indicated  the  day-spring  of 
children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  40  that  absorbing  sentiment,  which  was 
We  are  nothing;  less  than  nothing,  and  afterwards  destined  to  overwhelm  and 
dreams.     We   are   only  what  might   have      subdue     his     nature     quite,      for      Alice 

been,    and    must    wait    upon    the    tedious      W n. 

shores   of  Lethe  millions   of   ages   before  I    even   think    that   sentimentally   I    am 

we   have  existence   and  a  name' and  45  disposed   to  harmony.     But   organically   I 

immediately  awaking,  I  found  myself  am  incapable  of  a  tune.  I  have  been 
quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor  arm-chair,  practising  '  God  save  the  King '  all  my 
where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  with  the  faith-  life;  whistling  and  humming  of  it  over 
ful  Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side  —  but  to  myself  in  solitary  corners;  and  am  not 
John  L.  (or  James  Elia)  was  gone  for  50  yet  arrived,  they  tell  me,  within  many 
ever.  (1822)  quavers   of   it.     Yet   hath   the   loyalty   of 

Elia  never  been  impeached. 
A  CHAPTER  ON  EARS  I  am  not  without  suspicion  that  I  have 

an   undeveloped    faculty   of   music   within 

I  have  no  ear.—  55  me.     For,  thrumming,  in  my  wild  way,  on 

Mistake  me   not,   reader, —  nor  imagine      my  friend  A.'s  piano,  the  other  morning, 

that   I    am    by    nature   destitute   of   those      while    he    was    engaged    in    an    adjoining 


A  CHAPTER  ON  EARS  573 


parlor, — on  his  return  he  was  pleased  to  its  inaptitude,  to  thrid  the  maze;  like  an 
say,  'he  thought  it  could  not  be  the  unskilled  eye  painfully  poring  upon  hiero- 
viaid!'  On  his  first  surprise  at  hearing  glyphics.  I  have  sat  through  an  Italian 
the  keys  touched  in  somewhat  an  airy  Opera,  till,  for  sheer  pain,  and  inexpli- 
and  masterful  way,  not  dreaming  of  me,  5  cable  anguish,  I  have  rushed  out  into  the 
his  suspicions  had  lighted  on  Jenny.  noisiest  places  of  the  crowded  streets,  to 
But  a  grace  snatched  from  a  superior  solace  myself  with  sounds,  which  I  was 
refinement,  soon  convinced  him  that  some  not  obliged  to  follow,  and  get  rid  of  the 
being, —  technically  perhaps  deficient,  but  distracting  torment  of  endless,  fruitless, 
higher  informed  from  a  principle  common  10  barren  attention  !  I  take  refuge  in  the 
to  all  the  fine  arts, —  had  swayed  the  keys  unpretending  assemblage  of  honest  com- 
to  a  mood  which  Jenny,  with  all  her  mon-life  sounds;  —  and  the  purgatory  of 
(less-cultivated)  enthusiasm,  could  never  the  Enraged  Musician  becomes  my  para- 
have  elicited  from  them.     I  mention  this      disc. 

as  a  proof  of  my  friend's  penetration,  and  15  I  have  sat  at  an  Oratorio  (that  prof- 
not  with  any  view  of  disparaging  Jenny.      anation   of   the   purposes   of   the   cheerful 

Scientifically  I  could  never  be  made  to  playhouse)  watching  the  faces  of  the 
understand  (yet  have  I  taken  some  pains)  auditory  in  the  pit  (what  a  contrast  to 
what  a  note  in  music  is;  or  how  one  note  Hogarth's  Laughing  Audience!)  immov- 
should  differ  from  another.  Much  less  20  able,  or  affecting  some  faint  emotion, — 
in  voices  can  I  distinguish  a  soprano  from  till  (as  some  have  said,  that  our  occupa- 
a  tenor.  Only  sometimes  the  thorough  tions  in  the  next  world  will  be  but  a 
bass  I  contrive  to  guess  at  from  its  being  shadow  of  what  delighted  us  in  this)  I 
supereminently  harsh  and  disagreeable.  I  have  imagined  myself  in  some  cold 
tremble,  however,  for  my  misapplication  25  theater  in  Hades,  where  some  of  the 
of  the  simplest  terms  of  that  which  I  dis-  forms  of  the  earthly  one  should  be  kept 
claim.  While  I  profess  my  ignorance,  I  up,  with  none  of  the  enjoyment;  or  like 
scarce  know  what  to  say  I  am  ignorant  that  — 
of.     I  hate,  perhaps,  by  misnomers.     Sos- 

tenuto  and  adagio  stand  in  the  like  rela-  30  Party   in   a   parlor, 

tion  of  obscurity  to  me;  and  Sol,  Fa,  Mi,  All  silent,  and  all  damned! 

Re,  is  as  conjuring  as  Baralipton. 

It  is   hard  to   stand   alone  —  in   an  age  Above  all,  those  insufferable  concertos, 

like  this, —  (constituted  to  the  quick  and  and  pieces  of  music,  as  they  are  called, 
critical  perception  of  all  harmonious  com-  35  do  plague  and  embitter  my  apprehension, 
binations,  I  verily  believe,  beyond  all  pre-  — Words  are  something;  but  to  be  ex- 
ceding  ages,  since  Jubal  stumbled  upon  posed  to  an  endless  battery  of  mere 
the  gamut) — to  remain,  as  it  were,  sounds  ;  to  be  long  a  dying,  to  lie  stretched 
singly  unimpressible  to  the  magic  influ-  upon  a  rack  of  roses ;  to  keep  up  languor 
ences  of  an  art  which  is  said  to  have  40  by  unintermitted  effort ;  to  pile  honey 
such  an  especial  stroke  at  soothing,  upon  sugar,  and  sugar  upon  honey,  to  an 
elevating,  and  refining  the  passions. —  interminable  tedious  sweetness;  to  fill  up 
Yet,  rather  than  break  the  candid  current  sound  with  feeling,  and  strain  ideas  to 
of  my  confessions,  I  must  avow  to  you,  keep  pace  with  it ;  to  gaze  on  empty 
that  I  have  received  a  great  deal  more  45  frames,  and  be  forced  to  make  the  pic- 
pain  than  pleasure  from  this  so  cried-up  tures  for  yourself;  to  read  a  book  all 
faculty.  stops,  and  be  obliged  to  supply  the  verbal 

I  am  constitutionally  susceptible  of  matter ;  to  invent  extempore  tragedies  to 
noises.  A  carpenter's  hammer  in  a  warm  answer  to  the  vague  gestures  of  an  in- 
summer  noon,  will  fret  me  into  more  than  so  explicable  rambling  mime  —  these  are 
midsummer  madness.  But  those  uncon-  faint  shadows  of  what  I  have  undergone 
nected,  unset  sounds  are  nothing  to  the  from  a  series  of  the  ablest-executed  pieces 
measured  malice  of  music.  The  ear  is  of  this  empty  instrumental  music. 
passive  to  those  single  strokes;  willingly  I  deny   not,   that   in   the   opening  of   a 

enduring  stripes,  while  it  hath  no  task  to  S5  concert,  I  have  experienced  something 
con.  To  music  it  cannot  be  passive.  It  vastly  lulling  and  agreeable :  —  after- 
will  strive  —  mine  at  least  will  —  spite  of      wards  followeth  the  languor,  and  the  op- 


574  CHARLES  LAMB 


pression.  Like  that  disappointing  book  sion — (whether  it  be  that,  in  which  the 
in  Patmos;  or,  like  the  comings  on  of  psahnist,  weary  of  the  persecutions  of  bad 
melancholy,  described  by  Burton,  doth  men,  wisheth  to  himself  dove's  wings  — • 
music  make  her  first  insinuating  ap-  or  that  other  which,  with  a  like  measure 
proaches: — 'Most  pleasant  it  is  to  such  5  of  sobriety  and  pathos,  inquireth  by  what 
as  are  melancholy  given,  to  walk  alone  in  means  the  young  man  shall  best  cleanse 
some  solitary  grove,  betwixt  wood  and  his  mind) — a  holy  calm  pervadeth  me. — 
water,  by  some  brook  side,  and  to  meditate  I  am  for  the  time 
upon  some  delightsome  and  pleasant  sub- 
ject,   which    shall    effect    him    most,    am-  lo     rapt  above  earth, 

abilis  insania,  and  mentis  gratissimus  er-  And  possess  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth. 
ror.     A     most     incomparable     delight     to 

build  castles  in  the  air,  to  go  smiling  to  But  when  this  master  of  the  spell,  not 

themselves,  acting  an  infinite  variety  of  content  to  have  laid  a  soul  prostrate,  goes 
parts,  which  they  suppose,  and  strongly  15  on,  in  his  power,  to  inflict  more  bliss  than 
imagine,  they  act,  or  that  they  see  done.  lies  in  her  capacity  to  receive  —  impatient 
—  So  delightsome  these  toys  at  first,  they  to  overcome  her  'earthly'  with  his 
could  spend  whole  days  and  nights  without  '  heavenly.' —  still  pouring  in,  for  pro- 
sleep,  even  whole  years  in  such  contemp-  tracted  hours,  fresh  waves  and  fresh 
lations,  and  fantastical  meditations,  which  20  from  the  sea  of  sound,  or  from  that  inex- 
are  like  so  many  dreams,  and  will  hardly  hausted  German  ocean,  above  which,  in 
be  drawn  from  them  —  winding  and  un-  triumphant  progress,  dolphin-seated,  ride 
winding  themselves  as  so  many  clocks,  those  Arions  Haydn  and  Mozart,  with 
and  still  pleasing  their  humors,  until  at  their  attendant  Tritons  Bach,  Beethoven, 
last  the  SCENE  turns  upon  a  sudden,  and  25  and  a  countless  tribe,  whom  to  attempt 
they  being  now  habitated  to  such  medita-  to  reckon  up  would  but  plunge  me  again 
tions  and  solitary  places,  can  endure  no  in  the  deeps, —  I  stagger  under  the  weight 
company,  can  think  of  nothing  but  harsh  of  harmony,  reeling  to  and  fro  at  my 
and  distasteful  subjects.  Fear,  sorrow,  wit's  end; — -clouds,  as  of  frankincense, 
suspicion,  snbrnsticiis  pudor,  discontent,  30  oppress  me  —  priests,  altars,  censers, 
cares,  and  weariness  of  life,  surprise  them  dazzle  before  me  —  the  genius  of  his  re- 
on  a  sudden,  and  they  can  think  of  noth-  ligion  hath  me  in  her  toils  —  a  shadowy 
ing  else:  continually  suspecting,  no  sooner  triple  tiara  invests  the  brow  of  my  friend, 
are  their  eyes  open,  but  this  infernal  late  so  naked,  so  ingenuous  —  he  is  Pope, 
plague  of  melancholy  seizeth  on  them,  and  35  — and  by  him  sits,  like  as  in  the  anomaly 
terrifies  their  souls,  representing  some  of  dreams,  a  she-Pope  too, — tri-coroneted 
dismal  object  to  their  minds;  which  now,  like  himself!— -I  am  converted,  and  yet  a 
by  no  means,  no  labor,  no  persuasions,  Protestant;  —  at  once  malleus  hcretico- 
they  can  avoid,  they  cannot  be  rid  of,  runi,  and  myself  grand  heresiarch :  or 
they  cannot  resist.'  40  three    heresies    center    in    my    person :     I 

Something  like  this  'scene-turning'  am  Marcion,  Ebion,  and  Cerinthus  — 
I  have  experienced  at  the  evening  parties,  Gog  and  Magog  —  wdiat  not?  —  till  the 
at  the  house  of  my  good  Catholic   friend     coming    in    of    the    friendly    supper-tray 

Not' ;    who,   by   the   aid   of   a   capital      dissipates   the   figment,   and   a  draught   of 

organ,  himself  the  most  finished  of  play-  45  true  Lutheran  beer  (in  which  chiefly  my 
ers,  converts  his  drawing-room  into  a  friend  shows  himself  no  bigot)  at  once 
chapel,  his  week  days  into  Sundays,  and  reconciles  me  to  the  rationalities  of  a 
these  latter  into  minor  heavens.^  purer  faith ;  and   restores  to  me  the  gen- 

When  my  friend  commences  upon  one      uine  unterrifying  aspects  of  my  pleasant- 
of   those    solemn    anthems,    which    perad-  so  countenanced  host  and  hostess, 
venture    struck    upon    my    heedless    ear,  (1821) 

rambling   in    the    side    aisles    of   the    dim 

abbey,    some    five-and-thirty    years    since         ^   DISSERTATION    UPON    ROAST 
wakmg  a  new   sense,   and  puttmg  a  soul  pj^ 

of  old  religion  into  my  young  apprehen-    S 


I    have    been    there,    and    still    would    go 


Mankind,    says    a    Chinese    manuscript. 


'Tis  like  a  little  heaven  below.— Dr.   iVatts.  which  my  friend  M.  was  obliging  enough 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG  575 


to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first  them  in  his  booby  fashion  to  his  mouth, 
seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  Some  of  the  crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin 
clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  hving  ani-  had  come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for 
mal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  the  first  time  in  his  hfe  (in  the  world's 
day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  hinted  5  life  indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had 
at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  known  it)  he  tasted  —  crackling!  Again 
chapter  of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did  not 
he  designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the  burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his 
term  Cho-fang,  literally  the  Cooks'  holi-  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at 
day.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say,  10  length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding, 
that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and 
(which  I  take  to  be  the  elder  brother)  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious;  and,  sur- 
was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  man-  rendering  himself  up  to  the  new-born 
ner  following.  The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  hand- 
having  gone  out  into  the  woods  one  morn-  1;  fuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh 
ing,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down  his 
for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when  his 
of  his  eldest  son  Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking  rafters, 
boy,  who  being  fond  of  playing  with  fire,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and  find- 
as  younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  20  ing  how  affairs  stood,  began  to  rain  blows 
some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulders,  as 
straw,  which  kindling  quickly,  spread  the  thick  as  hail-stones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded 
conflagration  over  every  part  of  their  not  any  more  than  if  they  had  been  flies. 
poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  The  tickling  pleasure,  which  he  experi- 
Together  with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  ante-  25  enced  in  his  lower  regions,  had  rendered 
diluvian  makeshift  of  a  building,  you  may  him  quite  callous  to  any  inconveniences 
think  it),  what  was  of  much  more  im-  he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters. 
portance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could 
pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in  number,  per-  not  beat  him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had 
ished.  China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  30  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming 
a  luxury  all  over  the  East  from  the  re-  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation, 
motest  periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  something  like  the  following  dialogue 
was   in   the  utmost   consternation,   as  you      ensued. 

may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  '  You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you 

the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  3S  got  there  devouring?  Is  it  not  enough 
could  easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  that  you  have  burnt  me  down  three 
dry  branches,  and  the  labor  of  an  hour  houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be 
or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  hanged  to  you,  but  you  must  be  eating 
pigs.  While  he  was  thinking  what  he  fire,  and  I  know  not  what  —  what  have 
should  say  to  his  father,  and  wringing  40  you  got  there,  I  say?' 
his  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  '  O    father,   the  pig,   the   pig,   do   come 

one  of  those  untimely  sufferers,   an  odor      and  taste  how  nice  the  burnt  pig  eats.' 
assailed    his    nostrils,    unlike    any    scent  The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror, 

which  he  had  l^efore  experienced.     What      He  cursed  his  son  and  he  cursed  himself 
could   it    proceed    from  ?  —  not    from   the  45  that    ever    he    should    beget    a    son    that 
burnt  cottage  —  he   had   smelt   that   smell      should  eat  burnt  pig. 
before  —  indeed    this    was    by    no    means  Bo-bo,    whose    scent    was    wonderfully 

the  first  accident  of  the  kind  which  had  sharpened  since  morning,  soon  raked  out 
occurred  through  the  negligence  of  this  another  pig,  and  fairly  rending  it  as- 
unlucky  young  firebrand.  Much  less  did  5°  under,  thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main 
it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shout- 
or  flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  ing  out,  'Eat,  eat,  eat  the  ,  burnt  pig, 
the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  father,  only  taste, —  O  Lord,' — with  such- 
He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  like  barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all 
next  stooped  down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  S5  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 
were   any   signs   of   life   in   it.     He   burnt  Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he 

his  fingers,   and   to  cool   them   he  applied      grasped    the    abominable    thing,    wavering 


576  CHARLES  LAMB 


whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to  money.  In  a  few  days  his  lordships 
death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  town  house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire, 
when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was 
as  it  had  done  his  son's,  and  applying  the  nothing  to  be  seen  but  fires  in  every 
same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn  5  direction.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enor- 
tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  mously  dear  all  over  the  districts, 
what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a  pre-  The  insurance  offices  one  and  all  shut 
tense,  proved  not  altogether  displeasing  up  shop.  People  built  slighter  and 
to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manu-  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared 
script  here  is  a  little  tedious)  both  father  lo  that  the  very  science  of  architec- 
and  son  fairly  sat  down  to  the  mess,  and  ture  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to 
never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all  the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing 
that  remained  of  the  litter.  houses  continued,  till  in  process  of  time. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like 
the  secret  escape,  for  the  neighbors  would  15  our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery,  that 
certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other 
of  abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  animal,  might  be  cooked  (burnt,  as  thev 
of  improving  upon  the  good  meat  which  called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  con- 
God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  suming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then 
strange  stories  got  about.  It  was  ob-  20  first  began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron, 
served  that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  Roasting  by  the  string,  or  spit,  came  in 
down  now  more  frequently  than  ever.  a  century  or  two  later,  I  forget  in  whose 
Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward.  dynasty.  By  such  slow  degrees,  con- 
Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day,  eludes  the  manuscript,  do  the  most  use- 
others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the  ^5  ful,  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious  arts, 
sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  make  their  way  among  mankind. 
Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  himself,  Without   placing    too   implicit    faith    in 

which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  the  account  above  given,  it  must  be 
of  chastising  his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so 
indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length  30  dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these  days) 
discovered,  and  father  and  son  summoned  could  be  assigned  in  favor  of  any  culi- 
to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  in-  nary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse 
considerable  assize  town.  Evidence  was  might  be  found  in  ro.vst  pig. 
given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  35  Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole 
in  court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pro-  inimdiis  cdibilis,  I  will  maintain  it  to  be 
nounced,  when  the  foreman  of  the  jury  the  most  delicate  —  princeps  ohsoniornm. 
begged   that    some    of   the    burnt    pig,    of  I   speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers  — 

which  the  culprits  stood  accused,  might  things  between  pig  and  pork  —  those 
be  handed  into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  40  hobbydehoys  —  but  a  young  and  tender 
and  they  all  handled  it,  and  burning  their  suckling  —  under  a  moon  old  —  guiltless 
fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had  done  as  yet  of  the  sty  —  with  no  original  speck 
before  them,  and  nature  prompting  to  of  the  amor  immunditiae,  the  hereditary 
each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against  failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest  — 
the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  45  his  voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  some- 
charge  which  judge  had  ever  given,  thing  between  a  childish  treble,  and  a 
—  to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  grumble  —  the  mild  forerunner,  or 
townsfolk,  strangers,  reporters,  and  all  praeludium,  of  a  grunt. 
present  —  without  leaving  the  box,  or  any  He  must  be  roasted.     I  am  not  ignorant 

manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they  5°  that  our  ancestors  ate  them  seethed,  or 
brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  boiled  —  but  what  a  sacrifice  of  the  ex- 
Guilty.         .  terior  tegument ! 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow.  There  is  no  flavor  comparable,   I   will 

winked  at  the  manifest  iniquity  of  the  contend,  to  that  of  the  crisp,  tawny,  well- 
decision;  and,  when  the  court  was  dis-55  watched,  not  over-roasted,  crackling,  as  it 
missed,  went  privily,  and  bought  up  all  is  well  called  —  the  very  teeth  are  in- 
the   pigs   that  could   be  had   for   love   or      vited   to   their    share   of   the   pleasure   at 


i 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG  577 

this  banquet  in  overcoming  the  coy,  brit-  barter     her     consistently     for     a     mutton 

tie    resistance  —  with    the    adhesive    olea-  chop. 

ginous  — O  call  it  not  fat  —  but  an  inde-  Pig  —  let   me   speak   his  praise  —  is  no 

finable  sweetness  growing  up  to  it  —  the  less  provocative  of  the  appetite,  than  he 
tender    blossoming    of    fat- — fat    cropped  sis   satisfactory   to   the   criticalness   of   the 

in  the  bud  —  taken  in  the  shoot  —  in  the  censorious  palate.     The  strong  man  may 

first   innocence  —  the  cream   and  quintes-  batten  on  him,  and  the  weakling  refuseth 

sence    of    the    child-pig's    yet    pure    food  not  his  mild  juices. 

—  the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  ani-  Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters, 
mal  manna  —  or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  10  a  bundle  of  virtues  and  vices,  inexplicably 
it  must  be  so)  so  blended  and  running  intertwisted,  and  not  to  be  unraveled 
into  each  other,  that  both  together  make  without  hazard,  he  is  —  good  throughout. 
but  one  ambrosian  result,  or  common  Xo  part  of  him  is  better  or  worse  than 
substance.  another.     He  helpeth,  as  far  as  his  little 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  doing  —  it  15  means  extend,  all  around.  He  is  the 
seemeth  rather  a  refreshing  warmth,  than  least  envious  of  banquets.  He  is  all 
a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so  passive  to.      neighbors'  fare. 

How     equably     he     twirleth     round     the  I  am  one  of  those  who  freely  and  un- 

string! Now  he  is  just  done.  To  see  grudgingly  impart  a  share  of  the  good 
the  extreme  sensibility  of  that  tender  20  things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their  lot 
age,  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes —  (few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a 
radiant  jellies  —  shooting  stars —  friend.     I  protest  I  take  as  great  an  in- 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  terest  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his  rel- 
how  meek  he  lieth  !  —  wouldst  thou  have  ishes,  and  proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine 
had  this  innocent  grow  up  to  the  gross-  25  own.  '  Presents,'  I  often  say,  '  endear 
ness  and  indocility  which  too  often  ac-  Absents.'  Hares,  pheasants,  partridges, 
company  maturer  swinehood?  Ten  to  snipes,  barndoor  chickens  (those  'tame 
one  he  would  have  proved  a  glutton,  a  villatic  fowl'),  capons,  plovers,  brawn, 
sloven,   an  obstinate,  disagreeable  animal      barrels    of    oysters,    I    dispense    as    freely 

—  wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy  con- 30  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste  them, 
versation  —  from  these  sins  he  is  happily  as  it  were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend, 
snatched  away  —  But  a  stop  must  be  put  somewhere.     One 

would   not,    like    Lear,    '  give   everything.' 
Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow   fade,  I  make  my  stand  upon  pig.     Methinks  it 

Death  came  with  timely  care—  35  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good 

flavors,  to  extradomiciliate,  or  send  out 
his  memory  is  odoriferous  —  no  clown  of  the  house,  slightingly  (under  pretext 
curseth,  while  his  stomach  half  rejecteth,  of  friendship,  or  I  know  not  what),  a 
the  rank  bacon  —  no  coallieaver  bolteth  blessing  so  particularly  adapted,  pre- 
him  in  reeking  sausages  —  he  hath  a  fair  40  destined,  I  may  say,  to  my  individual 
sepulcher  in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  palate  —  It  argues  an  insensibility, 
judicious  epicure  —  and  for  such  a  tomb  I    remember   a   touch   of   conscience    in 

might  be  content  to  die.  this   kind   at  school.     My   good   old   aunt. 

He  is  the  best  of  sapors.  Pineapple  who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end  of 
is  great.  She  is  indeed  almost  too  tran-  45  a  holiday  without  stuffing  a  sweetmeat, 
scendent  —  a  delight,  if  not  sinful,  yet  or  some  nice  thing  into  my  pocket,  had 
so  like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender-  dismissed  me  one  evening  with  a  smok- 
conscienced  person  would  do  well  to  ing  plum-cake,  fresh  from  the  oven.  In 
pause  —  too  ravishing  for  mortal  taste,  my  way  to  school  (it  was  over  London 
she  woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  5o  Bridge)  a  gray-headed  old  beggar  saluted 
that  approach  her  —  like  lovers'  kisses,  me  (I  have  no  doubt  at  this  time  of  day 
she  biteth  —  she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  that  he  was  a  counterfeit).  I  had  no 
on  pain  from  the  fierceness  and  insanity  pence  to  console  him  with,  and  in  the 
of  her  relish  —  but  she  stoppeth  at  the  vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very  cox- 
palate —  she  meddleth  not  with  the  appe- 55  combry  of  charity,  school-boy-like,  I 
tite  —  and    the     coarsest     hunger     might      made  him  a  present  of  —  the  whole  cake ! 

37 


578 


CHARLES  LAMB 


I  walked  on  a  little,  buoyed  up,  as  one  is 
on  such  occasions,  with  a  sweet  soothing 
of  self-satisfaction;  but  before  I  had  got 
to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  my  better  feel- 
ings returned,  and  I  burst  into  tears, 
thinking  how  ungrateful  I  had  been  to 
my  good  aunt,  to  go  and  give  her  good 
gift  away  to  a  stranger,  that  I  had  never 
seen  before,  and  who  might  be  a  bad  man 
for  aught  I  knew ;  and  then  I  thought 
of  the  pleasure  my  aunt  would  be  taking 
in  thinking  that  I  —  I  myself,  and  not 
another  —  would  eat  her  nice  cake  —  and 
what  should  I  say  to  her  the  next  time 
I  saw  her  —  how  naughty  I  was  to  part 
with  her  pretty  present  —  and  the  odor 
of  that  spicy  cake  came  back  upon  my 
recollection,  and  the  pleasure  and  the 
curiosity  I  had  taken  in  seeing  her  make 
•it,  and  her  joy  when  she  sent  it  to  the 
oven,  and  how  disappointed  she  would 
feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in 
my  mouth  at  last  —  and  I  blamed  my  im- 
pertinent spirit  of  alms-giving,  and  out- 
of-place  hypocrisy  of  goodness,  and  above 
all  I  wished  never  to  see  the  face  again  of 
that  insidious,  good-for-nothing,  old  gray 
impostor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their 
method  of  sacrificing  these  tender  vic- 
tims. We  read  of  pigs  whipt  to  death 
with  something  of  a  shock,  as  we  hear 
of  any  other  obsolete  custom.  The  age 
of  discipline  is  gone  by,  or  it  would  be 
curious    to    inquire     (in    a    philosophical 


light  merely)  what  effect  this  process 
might  have  towards  intenerating  and 
dulcifying  a  substance,  naturally  so  mild 
and  dulcet  as  the  flesh  of  young  pigs.  It 
5  looks  like  refining  a  violet.  Yet  we 
should  be  cautious,  while  we  condemn  the 
inhumanity,  how  we  censure  the  wisdom 
of  the  practice.  It  might  impart  a 
gusto  — 

10  I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon 
by  the  young  students,  when  I  was  at 
St.  Omer's,  and  maintained  with  much 
learning  and  pleasantry  on  both  sides, 
*  Whether,    supposing   that   the    flavor   of 

>5  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death  by  whipping 
{per  Hagellationem  extremam)  super- 
added a  pleasure  upon  the  palate  of  a  man 
more  intense  than  any  possible  suffering 
we    can   conceive    in   the    animal,    is   man 

20  justified  in  using  that  method  of  putting 
the  animal  to  death  ? '  I  forget  the  de- 
cision. 

His   sauce   should   be   considered.     De- 
cidedly,   a    few    bread    crumbs,    done    up 

2S  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a  dash 
of  mild  sage.  But,  banish,  dear  Mrs. 
Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the  whole  onion 
tribe.  Barbecue  your  whole  hogs  to  your 
palate,   steep  them  in  shalots,   stuff  them 

30  out  with  plantations  of  the  rank  and 
guilty  garlic;  you  cannot  poison  them,  or 
make  them  stronger  than  they  are  —  but 
consider,  he  is  a  weakling  —  a  flower. 

(1822) 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  (1771-1832) 

Scott's  birthplace  was  Edinburgh.  His  father,  a  solicitor  of  creditable  standing,  had 
l)('en  the  first  of  his  family  to  adopt  a  town  life,  and  Scott  early  evinced  an  innate  attraction 
toward  those  ancestors  who  for  centuries  had  linked  their  history  with  the  stirring  life  of 
the  Border.  'You  will  find  me  a  rattle-skulled,  half-lawyer,  half-sportsman,  through  whose 
hoad  a  regiment  of  horse  has  been  exercising  since  he  was  live  years  old,'  he  once  wrote  to  a 
St  ranger.  Lameness  derived  from  a  fever  kept  him  inactive  as  a  child  and  he  was  dreamy 
and  fond  of  reading.  As  he  grew  up  he  entered  robustly  into  outdoor  sports;  but  his  choicest 
pastime  was  cruising  about  the  country-side  after  relics  of  folklore.  Passing  through  the 
High-School  and  the  College  in  Edinburgh,  he  studied  law  and,  in  1702,  became  an  advocate. 
His  taste  for  country  residence  led  him  to  settle  on  the  Esk  at  Lasswade  after  his  marriage 
iti  179S,  and  from  here  as  Sheriff  of  Selkirkshire,  he  removed  to  Ashestiel  on  the  Tweed,  in 
1S04.  His  Border  Minstrelsy  had  appeared  in  1802,  and  now  his  poems.  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel  (1S05),  Marmion  (1S08),  Lady  of  the  Lake  (ISIO),  and  others  in  quick  sequence 
began  to  supplement  his  profession  as  a  means  of  livelihood.  In  1812  he  succeeded  to  a 
salary  of  £1300  as  clerk  of  session,  and  he  proceeded  to  materialize  his  dream  of  a 
tJHidal  estate  by  purchasing,  as  nucleus,  a  hundred  acres  of  rough  land  five  miles  down  the 
Tweed  at  Abbotsford.  Thither  he  removed  with  '  twenty-five  cartloads  of  the  veriest  trash 
in  nature,  besides  dogs,  pigs,  ponies,  poultry,  cows,  calves ' ;  he  gives  an  amusing  and  sig- 
nificant account  of  '  the  procession  of  my  furniture,  in  which  old  swords,  bows,  targets,  and 
lances,  made  a  very  conspicuous  show.  A  family  of  turkeys  was  accommodated  within  the 
helmet  of  some  preux  chevalier  of  ancient  border  fame;  and  the  very  cows,  for  aught  I  know, 
were  bearing  banners  and  muskets.'  From  Abbotsford  came  the  series  of  historical  novels, 
beginning  with  ^\'al■erly  (1814)  and  closing  with  Castle  Dangerous  (1831, —  twenty-nine 
novels  in  half  as  many  years.  The  quantity  of  energy  which  Scott  poured  into  these  works 
of  fiction, —  to  say  nothing  of  his  Edition  of  Swift  and  Life  of  Napoleon, —  while  discharging 
his  official  duties  and  engaging  in  all  the  activities  of  a  country-gentleman,  is  almost  incon- 
ceivable. In  addition,  the  work  of  his  last  years  was  done  in  sharp  adversity.  Soon  after 
his  marriage  he  had  entered  into  a  secret  partnership  with  James  and  John  Ballantyne, 
publishers  of  Edinburgh,  and  this  business  had  been  complicated  with  that  of  Constable  and 
Co.  His  partners  were  feeble  managers ;  only  the  extraordinary  success  of  the  novels  had 
tided  over  a  crisis  for  several  years.  It  is  estimated  that  Scott's  writings  earned  him.  during 
his  lifetime,  nearly  a  million  dollars;  but  his  outlay  at  Abbotsford  and  in  other  directions 
had  been  excessively  lavish,  and  greatly  increased  after  he  was  knighted  in  1820.  The 
crash  came  in  1825;  Constable,  the  Ballantynes,  and  Scott  went  down  together.  From  the 
age  of  fifty-five  to  sixty,  in  spite  of  breaking  health  and  failing  imagination,  he  wrought 
doggedly  with  his  pen  to  pay  off  £117.000  of  debt.  When  the  end  came  nearly  half 
the  debt  remained ;  but  this  was  extinguished  by  his  copyrights  after  his  death.  In 
any  event,  Scott's  character  would  have  lived  as  one  signally  illustrious  and  lovable :  his 
last  years  conferred  upon  it  the  quality  of  heroism.  The  real  sweep  and  variety  of  his 
genius  is  denoted  in  his  novels.  His  poetry  is,  nevertheless,  animated  and  stirring,  and 
well  exemplifies  his  power  of  delineating,  with  bold,  free  strokes,  scenic  background  and 
enterprising    action. 


From   MARMION,   CANTO  VI 

Not    far    advanced    was    morning    day 
When   Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To   Surrey's   camp  to  ride ; 
He  had  safe-conduct   for  his  band 
Beneath    the    royal    seal    and    hand, 

And    Douglas    gave    a    guide. 
The  ancient  ?arl   w^tb   stately  grace 


Would   Clara  on  her  palfrey  place. 
And    whispered    in   an   undertone, 
•  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown.' 
The  train   from  out  the  castle  drew. 
But  Marmion   stopped  to  bid  adieu : 
'  Though    something    I    might    plain." 
said. 
'  Of  eold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 


he 


579 


58o 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


While  in   Tantallon's  towers  I   stayed, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble   earl,  receive  my  hand.' — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke: —    20 
'  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be   open   at   my   sovereign's   will 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My    castles    are   my    king's    alone,  25 

From  turret  to   foundation-stone  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own, 
And  never  shall  in   friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp.' 

Burned      Marmion's      swarthy     cheek      like 
fire  30 

And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 
And — 'This  to  me!'  he  said, 
*  An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard. 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To   cleave   the    Douglas'   head !  3S 

And  first  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here. 
Although  the  meanest   in  her   state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate ; 
And,   Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here,         40 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, — 
Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord. 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword, — 

I  tell  thee,  thou  'rt  defied  I 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To   any  lord   in    Scotland   here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied !  ' 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage       50 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age : 
Fierce    he    broke    forth, — '  And    darest    thou 

then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And     hopest     thou     hence      unscathed      to 
go?—  55 

No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no! 
Up     drawbridge,     grooms  —  what,     warder, 
ho! 

Let  the  portcullis   fall, — ' 
Lord      Marmion      turned, —  well      was      his 

need, — 
And   dashed  the  rowels   in   his   steed,         60 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung ; 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars  descending  razed  his  plume. 


The   steed   along  the  drawbridge   flies 
Just   as  it   trembled  on  the   rise; 
Not    lighter    does    the    swallow    skim 


65 


Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 

And     when     Lord     Marmion     reached     his 

band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand,  70 
And   shout  of  loud  defiance  pours. 
And   shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 
'  Horse !    horse !  '    the    Douglas    cried,    '  and 

chase ! ' 
But  soon  he  reined  his   fury's  pace: 
'  A   royal  messenger  he  came,  75 

Though   most   unworthy  of   the   name. — 
A  letter  forged !   Saint  Jude  to  speed ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ?  ^ 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill 
When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill.    80 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine. 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line; 
So  swore  ],  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill. — 
Saint   Mary  mend   my   fiery  mood !  85 

Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 
'T  is  pity  of  him  too,'  he  cried: 
'  Bold  can  he  speak  and   fairly  ride, 
I   warrant   him   a   warrior   tried.'  9o 

With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls. 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

The  day  in  Marmion's  journey  wore; 
Yet,   ere  his  passion's  gust   was  o'er. 
They  crossed  the  heights  of  Stanrig-moor.  9S 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scanned, 
And   missed   the    Palmer    from   the   band. 
*  Palmer  or  not,'  young  Blount  did  say, 
'He  parted  at  the  peep  of  day; 
Good    sooth,   it   was   in   strange   array.'     100 
'In  what  array?'   said  Marmion  quick. 
'My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick; 
But  all  night  long  with  clink  and  bang 
Close  to  my  couch  did  hammers  clang; 
At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang,         105 
And   from  a  loophole  while  I  peep. 
Old  Bell-the-Cat  came  from  the  keep, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair. 
As    fearful   of  the   morning  air; 
Beneath,   when    that    was    blown   aside,      "o 
A    rusty   shirt   of   mail    I    spied, 

^  Lest  the  reader  should  partake  of  the  Karl's 
astonishiTient  and  consider  the  crime  as  incon- 
sistent with  the  manners  of  the  period,  I  have  to 
remind  him  of  tlie  numerous  forgeries  (partly 
executed  by  a  female  assistant)  devised  by  Rob- 
ert of  Artois,  to  forward  his  suit  against  tlie 
Countess  Matilda;  which,  being  detected,  occa- 
sioned his  flight  into  England,  and  proved  the 
remote  cause  of  Edward  the  Third's  memorable 
wars  in  France.  John  Harding,  also,  was  ex- 
pressly hired  by  Edward  IV  to  forge  such  docu- 
ments as  might  appear  to  establish  the  claim  of 
fealty  asserted  over  Scotland  by  the  English 
monarchs. 


MARMION 


581 


By  Archibald   won   in   bloody   work 

Against   the    Saracen    and    Turk ; 

Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall ; 

I   thought   some   marvel   would   befall.        "S 

And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 

Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  earl's  best  steed, 

A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old, 

Prompt   in  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 

I  heard  the  Sheriff  Sholto  say  120 

The  earl  did  much  the  Master  pray 

To  use  him  on  the  battle-day; 

But  he  preferred  ' — '  Nay,  Henry,  cease  ! 

Thou      sworn       horse-courser,      hold       thy 

peace. — 
Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain  —  I  pray,       i^5 
What  did  Blount  see  at  break  of  day?' 

'  In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried  — 
For  then   I  stood  by  Henry's  side  — 
The   Palmer  mount  and  outwards  ride 

Upon  the  earl's  own  favorite  steed.       uo 
All   sheathed  he  was  in  armor  bright. 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight 
Subdued   by  you   in    Cotswold   fight ; 

Lord    Angus    wished    him    speed.' — 
The   instant   that    Fitz-Eustace    spoke,        '35 
A   sudden   light   on   Marmion   broke :  — 
'  Ah  !   dastard   fool,  to  reason   lost ! ' 
He   muttered ;   '  'T  was   nor   fay  nor  ghost 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold. 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mold.  140 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton   in  the  dust. 

My  path  no  more  to  cross. — 
How  stand  we  now?  —  he  told  his  tale       MS 
To  Douglas,   and  with  some  avail ; 

'T  was     therefore     gloomed     his     rugged 
brow. — 
Will    Surrey   dare    to    entertain 
'Gainst     Marmion     charge     disproved     and 
vain? 

Small   risk  of  that,   I   trow.  150 

Yet  Clare's   sharp  questions  must  I   shun, 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  nun  — 
Oh !   what   a  tangled   web   we  weave 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive ! 
A    Palmer    too !  —  no    wonder    why  iSS 

I   felt   rebuked  beneath   his  eye ; 
I  might   have   known   there  was  but   one 
Whose  look  could  quel!  Lord  Marmion.' 

Stung    with    these    thoughts,    he    urged    to 

speed 
His  troop,  and  reached  at  eve  the  Tweed,  160 
Where  Lennel's  convent  closed  their  march. 
There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch, 
Yet  mourn   thou  not  its  cells; 


Our  time  a   fair  exchange  has  made : 
Hard   by,   in   hospitable   shade  165 

A   reverend   pilgrim   dwells, 
Well   worth  the  whole   Bcrnardine  brood 
That   e'er   wore   sandal,   frock,   or   hood. 
Yet  did    Saint   Bernard's  abbot  there 
Give    Marmion    entertainment    fair,  170 

And  lodging  for  his  train  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamped   on    Flodden   edge ; 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show  '75 

Like   remnants   of   the   winter   snow 

Along   the    dusky    ridge. 
Long     Marmion     looked :  —  at     length     his 

eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid   the   shifting   lines;  180 

The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears. 
For,   flashing  on  the  hedge  of   spears, 

The   eastern   sunbeam   shines. 
Their    front    now    deepening,    now    extend- 
ing, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending,   '85 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The   skilful   Marmion   well   could   know 
They  watched  the  motions  of   some   foe 
Who  traversed   on   the   plain   below. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge       190 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave   Barmore-wood,   their   evening   post, 
And     heedful     watched     them     as     they 
crossed 
The  Till   by  Twisel   Bridge. 

High   sight   it  is   and  haughty,   while     '95 
They   dive    into    the    deep   defile; 
Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall. 
Beneath   the  castle's   airy  wall. 
By   rock,   by   oak,   by   hawthorn-tree. 

Troop   after   troop   are   disappearing;     200 
Troop    after   troop   their    banners    rearing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see ; 
Still   pouring  down   the   rocky  den 

Where   flows   the   sullen   Till, 
And    rising    from    the    dim-wood    glen,      205 
Standards  on   standards,  men  on  men, 

In    slow    succession    still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
y\nd   pressing   on,   in   ceaseless    march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill.  210 

That   morn,   to   many  a   trumpet   clang, 
Twisel !   thy  rock's   deep  echo   rang. 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint    Helen !    at    thy    fountain    drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see  21s 
In   spring-tide   bloom   so   lavishly. 
Had  then   from  many  an  axe  its  doom. 


582 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


To   give    the    marching   columns    room. 
And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow,  22° 

Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James? 
Why   sits   that   champion   of   the   dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And    sees,   between    him   and    his    land,      2.',=; 
Pictween  him  and  Tweed's   southern   strand, 

His   host    Lord    Surrey   lead? 
What       vails       the       vain       knight-errant's 

brand  ?  — 
O    Douglas,    for   thy   leading   wand ! 

Fierce    Randolph,    for    thy    speed !  230 

Oh!    for   one   hour   of   Wallace   wight. 
Or  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight 
And  cry,  '  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right !  ' 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn. 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn,  235 
And        Flodden        had        been        Bannock- 
bourne  !  — 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain, 
Wheeling  their  march   and  circling  still 
Around    the    base    of    Flodden    hill.  240 

Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace    shouted    loud    and   high, 
'Hark!    hark!    my   lord,   an    English    drum! 
And    see    ascending    squadrons    come 

Between   Tweed's   river  and  the  hill,     245 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon !  Hap  what  hap, 
My  basnet  to  a  prentice  cap. 

Lord  Surrey  's  o'er  the  Till !  — 
Yet  more  !  yet  more  !  —  how  fair  arrayed 
They  file   from  out  the  hawthorn  shade,  250 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by ! 
With   all    their   banners   bravely    spread, 

And  all   their  armor  flashing  high. 
Saint   George   might   waken    from   the   dead. 

To  see   fair  England's   standards   fly.'— '55 
'  Stint    in    thy    prate,'    quoth    Blount,    '  thou 

'dst  best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest.' — 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said, 
'  This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed ; 
The    river    must    be    quickly    crossed,        260 
That  we  may  join  Lord   Surrey's  host. 
H   fight    King   James, —  as    well    I    trust 
That   fight   he   will,  and   fight  he   must, — 
The    Lady    Clare    behind    our    lines 
Shall    tarry   while   the   battle   joins.'  265 

Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw. 
Scarce  to  the  abbot  bade  adieu, 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer 
To    leave    behind    the    helpless    Clare. 


Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew,     270 
And  muttered  as  the  flood  they  view, 
'  The  pheasant  in  the   falcon's  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw; 
Lord   Angus  may  the  abbot  awe, 

So   Clare   shall   bide   with   me.'  275 

'Ihen  on  that  dangerous  ford  and  deep 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leat's  eddies  creep, 

He  ventured  desperately: 
And   not  a  moment  will  he  bide 
Till   squire  or  groom  before  him   ride;     280 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide. 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held   Clare  upon   her  horse, 

Old   Hubert   led   her   rein. 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course,  285 
And,     though     far     downward     driven     per- 
force. 

The  southern  bank  they  gain. 
Behind   them   straggling  came  to   shore, 

As   best   they   might,   the   train : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore,       290 

A  caution  not  in  vain ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string, 
By  wet  unharmed,   should   sharply   ring. 
A   moment   then   Lord   Marmion   stayed. 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed,  293 

Then   forward  moved  his  band. 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a   cross  of  stone, 
That  on  a  hillock  standing  lone 

Did    all   the   field   command.  300 

Hence   might   they   see   the    full    array 
Of   either   host    for   deadly    fray; 
Their    marshaled    lines    stretched    east    and 
west, 

And   fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  passed  303 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth ; 
Not   in  the  close   successive   rattle 
That    breathes    the    voice   of    modern    battle. 

But   slow  and   far  between. 
The       hillock       gained.        Lord       Marmion 
stayed:  310 

'  Here,  by  this  cross,'  he  gently  said, 

'  You   well   may   view  the  scene. 
Here   shalt  thou  tarry,   lovely  Clare: 
Oh  !  think  of   Marmion  in  thy  prayer !  — 
Thou  wilt  not?  —  well,  no  less  my  care     3i5 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare. — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard. 

To    Berwick    speed    amain. —  320 

But   if   we   conquer,   cruel   maid. 
My  spoils   shall  at  your  feet  be  laid. 

When  here   wo   nii'tt   again.' 


MARMION 


583 


He  waited  not   for  answer  there, 

And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair,  325 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  either   squire,   but   spurred   amain, 
And   dashing  through   the  battle-plain, 

His   way   to   Surrey  took. 

'  The  good  Lord  Rlarmion,  by  my  life !     33" 

Welcome  to  danger's  hour  !  — 
Short  greeting  serves  in  time  of  strife. — 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power : 
Myself    will    rule    this    central    host. 

Stout    Stanley    fronts    their    right,  335 

My  sons  conmiand  the  vaward   post. 

With   Brian   Tunstall,   stainless  knight ; 

Lord   Dacre,    with   his   horsemen   light. 

Shall   be   in   rearward  of  the  fight. 
And    succor   those   that   need   it   most.       340 

Now  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know. 

Would   gladly  to  the   vanguard   go ; 
Edmimd,   the   Admiral,   Tunstall   there. 
With   thee   their   charge   will   blithely   share ; 
The-      fight    thine    own    retainers    too        345 
Beneath    De    Burg,    thy   steward   true.' 
'Thanks,  noble   Surrey!'   Marmion   said, 
Nor   further  greeting  there  he  paid, 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt, 
First   in   the   vanguard   made   a  halt,         35° 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  'Marmion!   Marmion!'  that  the  cry, 
Up  Flodden  mountain  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the   Scottish   foes. 

Blount    and    Fitz-Eustace    rested    still        355 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill, 
On  which  —  for  far-  the  day  was  spent  — 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent ; 
The  cry  they  heard,   its  meaning  knew. 
Could  plain  their  di.stant  comrades  view:  360 

Sadly  to   Blount  did   Eustace  say, 
'  Unworthy   office   here   to   stay ! 
No   hope   of   gilded   spurs   to-day. — 
But  see !  look  up  —  on  Flodden  bent 
The    Scottish    foe   has   fired   his   tent.'       365 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From   the   sharp   ridges   of   the   hill. 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was   wreathed   in   sable   smoke. 
Volumed    and    vast,    and    rolling    far,        370 
The  cloud  enveloped   Scotland's  war 

As  down   the  hill   they  broke ; 
Nor  martial   shout,  nor   minstrel   tone. 
Announced   their   march ;   their   tread   alone. 
At   times   one   warning   trumpet   blown,     375 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King   James    did    rushing   come. 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their   foes 


Until    at    weapon-point    they    close. —        380 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With    sword-sway   and   with    lance's   thrust ; 

And   such  a  yell  was  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As    if    men    fought    upon    the    earth,  385 

And  fiends  in  upper  air : 
Oh!  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout. 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout. 

And   triumph   and  despair. 
Long    looked     the    anxious     squires ;     their 
eye  390 

Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

At   length  the   freshening  western  blast 

Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast; 

And  first  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 

Above   the   brightening  cloud   appears,       395 

And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons   flew. 

As  in  the   storm  the  white  seamew. 

Then  marked  they,   dashing  broad  and   far, 

The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 

And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave     400 

Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave; 

But    nought   distinct    they   see: 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears   shook  and    falchions   flashed   amain ; 
Fell    England's    arrow-flight    like    rain ;     405 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again. 

Wild   and   disorderly. 
Amid   the   scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly; 
And    stainless   Tunstall's   banner   white,     4io 
And   Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright. 
Still   bear  them  bravely  in  the   fight. 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one. 
And   many   a   stubborn    Badenoch-man,     415 
And  many  a  rugged  Border     clan. 

With   Huntly  and    with   Home. — 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley    broke    Lennox    and    Argyle, 
Though   there  the  western   mountaineer     420 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear. 
And  flung  the   feeble  targe  aside. 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied. 
'T  was  vain. —  But  Fortune,  on  the  right. 
With      fickle      smile      cheered      Scotland's 
fight.  4^5 

Then    fell   that  spotless  banner  white. 

The    Howard's    lion    fell ; 
Yet   still    Lord   Marmion's    falcon   flew 
With   wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell.  430 

The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky! 
A   Home !   a   Gordon  !    was   the   cry : 

Loud    were    the    clanging    blows; 


584 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


Advanced, —  forced     back, —  now     low,     now 
high, 

The    pennon    sunk    and    rose ;  435 

As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When    rent    are    rigging,    shrouds,    and    sail, 

It    wavered   mid   the    foes. 
No  longer   Blount  the  view  could  bear : 
'  By  heaven  and  all  its  saints !   I  swear     440 

I   will   not   see   it   lost! 
Fitz-Eustace,    you    with    Lady   Clare 
May  bid  your  beads  and  patter  prayer, — 

I    gallop   to   the   host.' 
And    to    the    fray    he    rode    amain,  44S 

Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The   fiery   youth,   with   desperate   charge. 
Made   for  a   space  an   opening  large, — 

The    rescued    banner    rose, — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around,  450 

Like  pine-tree  rooted   from  the  ground 

It    sank    among    the    foes. 
Then   Eustace  mounted  too, —  yet  stayed, 
As   loath   to   leave   the   helpless   maid. 

When,  fast  as  shaft' can  fly,  455 

Bloodshot   his   eyes,   his   nostrils   spread, 
The   loose   rein  dangling   from   his  head. 
Housing   and    saddle   bloody   red, 

Lord   Marmion's   steed   rushed  by: 
And   Eustace,  maddening  at  the   sight,     460 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden   feels, 

Left    in    that   dreadful    hour   alone:       465 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 

Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. — 
The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels ;  — 

She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air  470 

The    tumult    roared.  'Is    Wilton    there?' — 

They  fly,   or,   maddened   by  despair, 

Fight   but   to   die,— '  Is   Wilton   there?' 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 

Two    horsemen    drenched    with    gore,     475 
And  in  their  arms,   a   helpless   load, 

A  wounded   knight   they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand  ; 
His    arms    were    smeared    with    blood    and 

sand. 
Dragged   from   among  the  horses'   feet,     480 
With  dinted  shield  and  helmet  beat, 
The   falcon-crest   and   plumage  gone, 
Can   that    be   haughty    Marmion !     .     .     . 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 
And,    gazing   on    his   ghastly    face,  485 

Said,  '  By  Saint  George,  he  's  gone ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head! 


Good-night   to   Marmion.'— 
'  Unnurtured  Blount!  thy  brawling  cease:  49o 
He  opes  his  eyes,'  said  Eustace;  'peace!' 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt   free  air, 
Around   gan   Marmion    wildly   stare: 
'Where's       Harry       Blount?     Fitz-Eustace 

where  ? 
Linger   ye   here,   ye   hearts   of   hare!         495 
Redeem   my   pennon, —  charge   again  ! 
Cry,   '  Marmion   to  the   rescue  !  ' —  Vain  ! 
Last   of   my   race,   on   battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again !  — 
Yet  my  last  thought   is   England's  —  fly,   500 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring : 
Tell   him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie: 
Tunstall   lies  dead  upon  the  field. 
His  lifeblood  stains  the  spotless  shield;  505 
Ednumd  is  down;  my  life  is  reft; 
The   Admiral   alone   is   left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full    upon    Scotland's    central    host,  510 

Or    victory   and    England's    lost. — 
Must  I  bid  twice?  —  hence,  varlets  fly!  — 
Leave   Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die.' 
They  parted,   and   alone   he   lay; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away,  515 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan. 
And  half  he  murmured,  '  Is  there  none 

Of   all   my   halls   have   nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of    blessed    water    from    the    spring,  520 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst !  ' 

O  Woman !  in  our  hours  of  ease 

Uncertain,    coy,    and    hard    to   please, 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

By    the    light    quivering    aspen    made ;        525 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A   ministering  angel   thou  !  — 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 

When  with  the  baron's  casque  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran :  530 

Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears. 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But    in    abhorrence    backward    drew ;      535 
For,  oozing   from  the  mountain's   side 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was   curdling   in   the   streamlet   blue. 
Where    shall    she    turn?  —  behold    her    mark 

A   little  fountain  cell,  54o 

Where  water,  clear  as  diamond  spark. 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,   some   half-worn   letters   say, 


SOLDIER,  REST 


585 


Drtnh.  wcarg.  pilgrim.  J»dnft.  anD.  pra^. 
Sov.  tbe.  ftinO.  soul.  of.  SibgU  Greg. 
Mbo,  built,  tbis,  cross.  anO.  well. 

She  filled  the  helm  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A   monk  supporting   Marmion's  head; 
A    pious    man,    whom    duty   brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave  — 
'  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,'  he  said,  sss 

'Or    injured    Constance,    bathes    my    head?' 

Then,   as   remembrance   rose, — 
'Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short     space,     few     words,     are     mine     to 
spare ;  560 

Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare ! ' 

'Alas!'   she   said,    'the   while. — 
Oh!  think  of  your  immortal  weal! 
In  vain   for  Constance  is  your   zeal ! 

She  —  died    at    Holy    Isle.' —  565 

Lord   Marmion   started   from  the  ground 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound. 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 
In   torrents   from  his   wounded   side. 
'Then  it  was  truth,'  he  said — 'I  knew   570 
That   the   dark  presage   must   be   true. — 
I   would  the   Fiend,  to   whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all   her   wrongs. 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day ! 
For   wasting   fire,   and   dying   groan,  575 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone. 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be! — ^this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And   doubly   cursed   my    failing  brand !      580 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand.' 
Then  fainting  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With   fruitless   labor   Clara   bound 

And       strove       to       stanch       the       gushing 
wound :  585 

The  monk  with   unavailing  cares 

Exhausted    all    the    Church's    prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that  close  and  near, 

A    lady's   voice   was   in   his   ear, 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear ;  590 
For  that  she  ever  sung, 

'  In   the  lost   battle   borne  down   by  the   fly- 
ing. 

Where  mingles  zuar's  rattle  with  groans  of 
the  dying! ' 
So   the   notes   rung. — 

'  Avoid  thee.   Fiend  !  —  with  cruel   hand    595 

Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's   sand !  — 


Oh !   look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the   Redeemer's  grace  divine; 

Oh  !  think  on  faith  and  bliss  !  — 
By   many  a   death-bed   I   have   been,  600 

And    many    a    sinner's   parting    seen. 

But  never  aught  like  this.' 
The  war,  that    for  a  space  did   fail. 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled   the  gale, 

And   '  Stanley  !  '   was   the  cry  ;  —  605 

A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread. 

And   fired   his   glazing  eye; 
With   dying   hand   above   his   head 
He  shook  the   fragment  of  his  blade, 

And    shouted    'Victory! —  610 

Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley,  on  !  ' 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 
*     *     * 

(1808) 
SOLDIER,  REST! 

Soldier,   rest!    thy   warfare   o'er, 

Sleep  the   sleep  that   knows   not   breaking; 
Dream   of   battled   fields   no   more, 

Days   of  danger,   nights  of   waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall,  5 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch   are   strewing. 
Fairy   strains   of  music    fall. 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,   rest !   thy   warfare   o'er. 
Dream    of    fighting    fields    no    more ;  10 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows   not  breaking 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No   rude  sound   shall   reach   thine   ear. 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump   nor  pibroch   summon   here  is 

Mustering  clan   or   squadron   tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And   the   bittern   sound   his   drum. 

Booming    from    the    sedgy    shallow.  20 

Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards   nor   warders   challenge   here, 
Here 's    no    war-steed's    neigh    and    champ- 
ing, 
Shouting  clans   or   squadrons   stamping. 

Huntsman,    rest !    thy    chase    is    done ;  -5 

While   our   slumbrous    spells   assail   ye, 
Dream   not,   with   the   rising   sun. 

Bugles    here    shall    sound    reveille. 
Sleep !    the  deer   is   in  his  den ; 

Sleep!  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying:     30 
Sleep  !   nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done ; 
Think   not   of   the   rising   sun. 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye  35 

Here   no   bugles   sound   reveille. 

(1810) 


GEORGE  NOEL  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  (1788-1824) 

Byron's  father,  a  military  rake  known  as  '  mad  Jack  Byron,'  had  squandered  his  wife's 
estate  and  terminated  an  ill-spent  life  within  three  years  after  the  poet's  birth  in  a  Lon- 
don lodging  house.  His  mother  was  a  '  mad  Gordon.'  Byron  therefore  was  half  Scotch, 
iind  part  of  his  childhood  was  spent  in  Scotland.  His  early  training,  chiefly  at  the  hands 
of  nurses  and  tutors,  was  incoherent  and  '  shabby-genteel.'  When  ten  years  of  age  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  titles  and  estates  of  his  uncle,  '  the  wicked  Lord  Byron '  of  Newstead.  At 
Harrow  (lSOl-5),  in  spite  of  a  deformed  ankle  which  the  torture  of  surgeons  had  failed  to 
correct  and  which  his  pride  and  sensitiveness  converted  into  a  curse,  he  was  energetic  in 
sports  and  laid  the  basis  of  those  athletic  habits  which  remained  with  him  through  life. 
While  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  he  brought  out  his  first  volume  of  poems,  Hours  of 
Idleness  (1807).  To  the  ridicule  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  he  retorted  angrily  and  with 
some  vigor  in  his  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Revicicers  (1809),  then  left  England  for  two 
years  of  travel  in  Spain,  Greece  and  the  Levant,  and,  on  his  return,  published  the  first  two 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (1812).  The  effect  was  electrical.  Young,  proud, 
traveled,  mysteriously  unhappy,  romantically  wicked,  with  a  countenance  of  wild  insolent 
beauty,  a  poet  and  a  peer,  Byron  became  the  rage.  Under  such  circumstances  poetry  is 
not  critically  scanned  for  its  deeper  elements.  Byron's  powers  were  sufficient  for  the 
occasion.  From  the  midst  of  the  social  whirl  into  which  he  was  caught  up  he  extem- 
porized tale  after  tale.  The  Oiaour,  The  Bride  of  Abydos,  The  Vorsair,  Lara,  followed 
each  other  in  swift  succession.  Scott  seemed  local  and  tame,  Marmion  a  schoolboy.  Fash- 
ion followed  and  the  critics  fawned.  Then  came  Byron's  marriage,  and  a  year  later,  his 
separation,  and  in  '  one  of  those  periodical  spasms  of  British  morality '  his  worshippers 
suddenly  discovered  that  their  idol  had  been  a  monster.  Byron  left  England  never  to 
return  alive.  In  Switzerland  he  met  Shelley  and  the  two  poets  spent  some  mouths  together 
among  the  Alps,  an  intimacy  of  great  value  to  both,  which  they  afterward  renewed  in  Italy. 
From  this  time  Byron's  poetry,  though  still  unequal,  showed  a  deeper  quality  and  his  activity 
increased.  The  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and  many  short  pieces 
of  new  sincerity  and  strength  were  finished,  and  Manfred  begun,  in  Switzerland.  In  the 
autumn  of  181G  he  settled  at  Venice,  and,  except  for  short  tours,  remained  there  until  in 
1819  he  removed  to  Ravenna  in  order  to  be  near  the  Countess  Guiccioli.  He  became  domiciled 
with  that  lady  in  1819,  and  in  1821  they  moved  to  Pisa.  Throughout  his  Italian  residence 
Byron  had  been  greatly  interested  in  the  plans  for  Italian  independence,  and  had  constantly 
given  aid  and  comfort  to  the  Carbonari.  In  1823  he  resolved  to  devote  his  fortune  and 
services  to  the  cause  of  Greek  freedom,  and  it  was  while  assisting  in  the  organization  of 
the  patriot  forces  in  Greece,  that  he  succumbed  to  a  fever  at  Missolonghi  when  only  thirty- 
six  years  of  age.  During  his  seven  years  in  Italy  Byron  had  completed  Manfred  (1817)  and 
written  seven  other  dramas,  and  had  added  a  fourth  canto  to  Childe  Harold.  What  was 
more  important  he  had  discovered  in  Beppo  (1818)  the  serio-comic  vein  in  which  his  real 
strength  lay,  had  produced  in  The  Vision  of  Judgment  (1821)  the  sublimest  of  parodies, 
and  in  Don  Juan  (1819-23)  his  masterpiece.  Few  poets  are  so  difficult  to  represent  by 
selections  as  Byron.  His  lyrics  do  not  exhibit  him  to  advantage,  and  extracts  give  but 
a  poor  idea  of  his  variety,  sweep,  and  vitality.  Great  faults  and  great  virtues  '  antithetically 
mixed';  a  spirit  hampered  by  mal-direction,  affectation,  and  self-sophistication,  but  when 
it  gets  free,  giant  and  fine;  an  imagination  full  of  clay  and  crudities,  but  volleying  at 
times   into   prodigious  passion,   reality,   and  compass ;   this   is   Byron. 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON 

Eternal   Spirit  of  the  chainless   Mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty!   thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The    heart    which    love    of    thee    alone    can 
bind ; 


And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  con- 
signed —  5 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless 
gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  mar- 
tyrdom, 


586 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


587 


And  Freedom's   fame  finds  wings  on   every 

wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And    thy    sad    floor    an    altar  —  for    't  was 

trod,  10 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By    Bonnivard!      May    none    those    marks 

efiface ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

December  5,   1816 


From    CHILDE  HAROLD,   CANTO   HI 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine !  How  long  de- 
lighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to 
prey  s 

On  self -condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  Nature,  nor  too  somber  nor  too  gay. 
Wild  hut  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere. 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to  the 
year. 

Adieu  to  thee  again!  a  vain  adieu!  10 

There    can    be    no    farewell    to    scene    like 

thine; 
The  mind  is  colored  by  thy  every  hue; 
And  if   reluctantly  the  eyes   resign 
Their     cherished     gaze     upon     thee,     lovely 

Rhine ! 
'T  is    with    the    thankful    heart    of    parting 

praise;  is 

More  mighty  spots  may  rise,  more   glaring 

shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The    brilliant,    fair,    and    soft, —  the    glories 

of  old  days, 

The    negligently   grand,    the    fruitful    bloom 
Of      coming      ripeness,      the      white      city's 
sheen,  20 

The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom. 
The  forest's  growth  and  Gothic  walls  be- 
tween. 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  tur- 
rets been. 
In  mockery  of  man's  art ;  and  these  withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene,  25 

Whose    fertile   bounties   here   extend   to   all. 
Still   springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though   Em- 
pires near  them  fall. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls  30 


Have     pinnacled     in     clouds     their     snowy 

scalps. 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche  —  the  thunderbolt  of  snow! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls,  33 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave 

vain  man   below. 

But   ere   these   matchless  heights    I    dare   to 

scan. 
There    is    a    spot    should    not    be    passed    in 

vain, — 
Morat !   the  proud,  the   patriot  field !   where 

man  40 

May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies   of  the  slain. 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquered  on  that 

plain ; 
Here     Burgundy    bequeathed     his     tombless 

host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain. 
Themselves    their    monument ;    the    Stygian 

coast  45 

Unsepulchered    they    roamed,    and    shrieked 

each  w-andering  ghost. 

While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
Morat     and     Marathon     twin     names     shall 

stand ; 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories. 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand  50 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band. 
All     unbought     champions     in    no    princely 

cause 
Of  vice-entailed  Corruption ;  they  no  land 
Doomed  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings'   rights  divine,  by  some  Dra- 
conic  clause.  55 

By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 

A  gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days: 

'T  is    the    last    remnant    of    the    wreck    of 

years. 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewildered  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze,         60 
Yet    still    with    consciousness ;    and   there    it 

stands 
Making  a  marvel   that   it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands. 
Leveled  Adventicum  hath  strewed  her  sub- 
ject  lands. 

And    there  —  oh !    sweet   and    sacred   be   the 
name !  —  65 

Julia  —  the  daughter,  the  devoted  —  gave 
Her   youth   to    Heaven;    her    heart,    beneath 
a   claim 


s88 


LORD  BYRON 


Nearest   to   Heaven's,  broke   o'er   a   father's 

grave. 
Justice    is    sworn     'gainst     tears,    and    hers 

would   crave 
The   life    she   lived    in;    but   the   judge    was 

just,  70 

And   then   she    died   on   him    she    could   not 

save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And   held   within   their   urn   one    mind,    one 

heart,   one   dust. 

But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass 

away. 
And    names    that    must    not    wither    though 

the  earth  75 

Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay, 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death 

and    birth; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe. 
And    from    its    immortality   look    forth       80 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow, 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face. 
The    mirror    where    the    stars    and    moun- 
tains view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace  §5 
Its    clear    depth    yields    of   their    far    height 

and  hue; 
There   is   too    much   of   man    here,    to    look 

through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts   hid,   but   not   less   cherished   than 
of  old,  90 

Ere    mingling    with    the    herd    had    penned 
me  in  their   fold. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind : 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in   its    fountain,  lest  it  overboil         95 
In    the    hot   throng,    where    we    become    the 

spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 
In     wretched     interchange     of     wrong     for 

wrong 
Midst    a   contentious    world,    striving   where 

none  are  strong.  100 

There,    in    a    moment    we    may    plunge    our 

years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of    our    own    soul    turn    all    our    blood    to 

tears, 


And    color    things    to    come    with    hues    of 

Night ; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To    those    who    walk    in    darkness :    on    the 
sea  106 

The  boldest  steer  but   where  their  ports   in- 
vite ; 
Rut   there   are   wanderers   o'er   Eternity 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchored 
ne'er   shall   be. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone,  no 

And  love  Earth   only   for  its  earthly  sake? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone, 
Or   the    pure    bosom   of    its   nursing   lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care,  I'S 
Kissing    its    cries    away   as    these    awake;  — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear. 
Than    join   the  crushing   crowd,   doomed  to 
inflict  or  bear? 

I   live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me;  and  to  me     120 
High  mountains  are  a   feeling,  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture:  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain. 
Classed  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can 

flee,  125 

And    with    the    sky,    the    peak,    the    heaving 

plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and   not  in 

vain. 

And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is  life: 
I   look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife,  ^3° 

Where,   for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was  cast. 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion  ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous  as  the 

blast 
Which    it    would    cope    with,    on    delighted 

wing,  135 

Spurning  the   clay-cold   bonds   which   round 

our  being  cling. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all 

free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form. 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm  —  '4° 
When    elements    to    elements    conform, 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The    bodiless    thought?    the    Spirit    of    each 

spot? 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


589 


Of  which,  even   now,   I   share  at  times  the 
immortal   lot?  '45 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a 

part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in   my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  contemn 
All    objects,    if    compared    with    these?    and 

stem  ISO 

A   tide  of   suffering,   rather  than   forego 
Such    feelings    for    the    hard    and    worldly 

phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turned  below, 
Gazing     upon     the     ground,     with     thoughts 

which   dare   not   glow? 

But  this  is  not  my  theme;  and  I  return  155 
To   that   which   is   immediate,   and   require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn. 
To  look  on   One,  whose  dust  was  once  all 

fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire       '59 
The  clear  air  for  a  while  —  a  passing  guest 
Where   he   became   a   being, —  whose   desire 
Was  to  be  glorious ;  't  was  a  foolish  quest, 
The   which   to   gain  and  keep,  he   sacrificed 

all  rest. 

Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild   Rous- 
seau, 
The  apostle  of  aiifliction,  he  who  threw  '65 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and   from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched ;   yet 

he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful   and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly 
hue  170 

Of  words,   like   sunbeams,  dazzling   as   they 

past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feel- 
ingly  and    fast. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence :  —  as  a  tree 
On   fire   by   lightning,   with   ethereal   flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted;  for  to  be      '75 
Thus,  and  enamored,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame. 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems  180 
Along  his  burning  page,  distempered  though 
it  seems. 

This  breathed   itself  to  life   in   Julie,   this 
Invested  her  with  all  that 's  wild  and  sweet ; 
This    hallowed,    too,    the    memorable    kiss 


Which    every    morn    his    fevered    lip    would 

greet,  185 

From    hers,    who    but    with    friendship    his 

would    meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch  through  brain  and 

breast 
Flashed    the    thrilled    spirit's    love-devouring 

heat ; 
In     that     absorbing     sigh     perchance     more 

blest 
Than    vulgar    minds    may    be    with    all    they 

seek  possest.  190 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought 

foes. 
Or    friends    by    him    self-banished;    for    his 

mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose. 
For  its  own  cruel   sacrifice,  the   kind, 
'Gainst   whom   he    raged    with    fury   strange 

and   blind.  195 

But  he  was  phrensied, —  wherefore,  who  may 

know  ? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never 

find; 
But  he  was  phrensied  by  disease  or   woe. 
To    that    worst    pitch    of    all,    which    wears 

a  reasoning  show. 

For   then   he    was    inspired,    and    from    him 
came,  200 

As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  of  yore. 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame. 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no 

more: 
Did  he  not  this  for  France?  which  lay  be- 
fore 
Bowed  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years?  205 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers 
Roused   up  to   too  much   wrath,   which    fol- 
lows o'ergrown  fears? 

They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument  ! 

The   wreck   of  old   opinions  — things   which 

grew,  210 

Breathed   from   the  birth  of  time:   the   veil 

they   rent, 
And    what    behind    it    lay,    all    earth    shall 

view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew, 
Leaving   but    ruins,    wherewith    to   rebuild 
Upon    the   same    foundation,    and    renew  215 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour 

refilled, 
As    heretofore,    because   ambition    was    self- 
willed. 


590 


LORD  BYRON 


But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made 

it   felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigor,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another;  pity  ceased  to  melt         222 
With  her  once  natural  charities.     But  they 
Who    in    oppression's    darkness    caved    had 

dwelt, 
They   were   not   eagles,    nourished   with   the 
day;  225 

What    marvel    then,    at   times,    if   they   mis- 
took   their    prey? 

What    deep    wounds   ever   closed   without    a 

scar? 
The  heart's   bleed  longest,   and  but  heal  to 

wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With     their     own     hopes,     and     have     been 

vanquished,   bear  230 

Silence,    but    not    submission:    in    his    lair 
Fixed    Passion    holds    his    breath,    until    the 

hour 
Which    shall    atone    for    years;    none    need 

despair: 
It    came,    it    cometh,    and    will    come, —  the 

power 
To  punish  or   forgive  —  in  one  we  shall  be 

slower.  235 

Clear,   placid   Leman !    thy  contrasted   lake. 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  for- 
sake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This   quiet   sail   is   as   a   noiseless   wing     240 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I  loved 
Torn    ocean's    roar,    but    thy    soft    murmur- 
ing 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have 
been  so  moved. 

'  It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between  245 
Thy   margin   and   the    mountains,    dusk,   yet 

clear. 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  ap- 
pear 
Precipitously   steep ;    and   drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the 
shore,  250 

Of    flowers    yet    fresh    with    childhood ;    on 

the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or   chirps    the    grasshopper    one    good-night 
carol  more ; 


He   is  an   evening   reveler,   who   makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill;     25s 
/u:  intervals,  .some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But   that   is    fancy,    for   the    starlight   dews 
All    silently   their   tears   of   love   instil,       260 
Weeping  themselves  away,   till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her 
hues. 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the 

fate 

Of  men  and  empires, —  'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That   in   our   aspirations   to   be   great,         266 
Our    destinies    o'erleap    their    mortal    state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are        d 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create  1 

In  us  such  love  and  reverence   from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named 

themselves  a  star.  271 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  —  though  not 

in  sleep. 
But    breathless,    as    we    grow    when    feeling 

most; 
And    silent,    as    we    stand    in    thoughts    too 

deep:  — 
All    heaven   and   earth  are  still :     From  the 
high   host  275 

Of   stars,   to   the   lulled   lake   and   mountain 

coast. 
All  is  concentered  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost. 
But   hath   a   part   of  being,   and  a   sense 
Of    that    which    is    of   all    Creator   and    de- 
fence. 280 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth 

melt. 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone. 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes 

known  285 

Eternal   harmony,   and   sheds   a  charm 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone. 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty: —  't  would 

disarm 
The  specter  Death,  had  he  substantial  power 

to  harm. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make     290 
His  altar  the  high   places,   and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A    fit   and   unwalled    temple,   there   to    seek 
The     Spirit,    in     whose    honor     shrines    arc 
weak. 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


591 


Upreared  of  human  hands.  Come,  and 
compare  ^95 

Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 

With  Nature's  reahns  of  worship,  earth  and 
air, 

Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy 
prayer ! 

The  sky  is  changed  !  —  and  such  a  change ! 

Oh,  night. 
And   storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous 


strong. 


300 


Yet,  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !     Far  along, 
From     peak    to    peak,     the     rattling     crags 

among 
Leaps    the    live    thunder!     Not    from    one 

lone  cloud, 
But    every    mountain    now    hath     found    a 

tongue,  30s 

And     Jura     answers,     through     her     misty 

shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her 

aloud! 

And   this   is   in   the   night:  —  Most   glorious 

night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and   far  delight, — 310 
I     A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee! 
!|     How  the  lit   lake   shines,  a  phosphoric   sea, 
i     And    the    big    rain    comes    dancing    to    the 
earth! 
And   now   again   't  is   black  —  and   now,   the 
glee 

I     Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain- 
mirth,  315 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earth- 
quake's   birth. 

Now,    where    the    swift    Rhone    cleaves    his 

way  between 
Heights   which   appear   as   lovers   who   have 

parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken- 
hearted; 320 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other 

thwarted. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the   fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then 

departed : 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them   an  age 
Of    years    all    winters, —  war    within    them- 
selves to  wage :  3-^5 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft 
his  way. 


The  mightiest  of  the   storms  hath  ta'en  his 

stand : 
For    here,    not    one,    but    many,    make    their 

play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to 

hand. 
Flashing  and  cast  around;  of  all  the  band, 
The    brightest    through    these    parted    hills 

hath  forked  33' 

His  lightnings, —  as  if  he  did  understand. 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worked. 
There  the   hot   shaft   should   blast   whatever 

therein  lurked. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  light- 
nings !  ye!  335 

With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a 
soul 

To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may 
be 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;  the 
far  roll 

Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 

Of  what  in  me  is   sleepless, —  if   I   rest.  34o 

But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests!   is  the  goal? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 

Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some 
high  nest? 

Could   I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That    which    is    most    within    me, —  could    I 

wreak  34S 

My    thoughts    upon    expression,    and    thus 

throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,   feelings,  strong 

or  weak. 
All    that    I    would    have    sought,    and    all    I 

seek. 
Bear,    know,    feel,    and    yet    breathe  —  into 

one  word. 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would 

speak ;  35o 

But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With    a    most    voiceless    thought,    sheathing 

it  as  a  sword. 

The  morn   is  up  again,  the   dewy  morn. 
With  breath  all  incense,  and   with  cheek  all 

bloom. 
Laughing    the     clouds    away    with     playful 

scorn,  355 

And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day :   we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence:   and  thus  I. 
Still   on   thy   shores,   fair   Leman !   may  find 

room 
And    food    for   meditation,   nor  pass  by    360 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered 

fittingly. 


592 


LORD  BYRON 


Clarens!    sweet    Clarens,   birthplace   of   deep 

Love ! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate 

thought ; 
Thy    trees    take    root    in    Love;    the    snows 

above 
The  very   Glaciers   have  his   colors   caught, 
And      sunset      into      rose-hues      sees     them 

wrought  366 

By    rays    which    sleep    there    lovingly ;    the 

rocks, 
The    permanent    crags,    tell    here    of    Love, 

who   sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 
Which    stir    and    sting    the    soul    with    hope 

that  woos,  then  mocks.  37° 

Clarens!    by    heavenly    feet    thy    paths    are 

trod,— 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To   which   the    steps   are   mountains ;   where 

the  god 
Is   a   pervading   life   and   light, —  so   shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone  375 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest;  o'er  the  flower 
His   eye   is    sparkling,   and   his   breath   hath 

blown. 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender 

power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most 

desolate  hour. 

All  things  are  here  of  him;  from  the  black 


pmes, 


380 


Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud 

roar 
Of    torrents,    where    he    listeneth,    to    the 

vines 
Which    slope   his   green   path   downward    to 

the  shore. 
Where    the    bowed    waters    meet    him,    and 

adore. 
Kissing    his    feet    with    murmurs;    and    the 

wood,  38s 

The    covert    of    old    trees,    with    trunks    all 

hoar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where 

it  stood. 
Offering     to     him,     and     his,     a     populous 

solitude ; 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-formed  and  many  colored  things, 
Who    worship    him    with    notes    more    sweet 

than  words,  391 

And  innocently  open   their  glad  wings, 
Fearless    and    full    of    life:     the    gush    of 

springs, 


And   fall  of  lofty   fountains,  and  the  bend 

Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which 
brings  395 

The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  ex- 
tend. 

Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one 
mighty  end. 

He   who   hath   loved  not,  here   would   learn 

that   lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit ;  he  who  knows 
That   tender   mystery,   will   love   the   more; 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's 

woes,  401 

And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far 

from    those, 
For  't   is  his   nature  to  advance  or  die ; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into   a   boundless   blessing,   which   may   vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity !  406 

'T  was  not   for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this 

spot. 
Peopling  it   with   affections ;   but   he    found 
It  was  the  scene  which   Passion  must  allot 
To   the   mind's   purified   beings;    't   was   the 
ground  4io 

Where    early   Love    his    Psyche's    zone    un- 
bound, 
And   hallowed   it   with   loveliness;    'tis   lone. 
And     wonderful,     and     deep,     and    hath     a 

sound. 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness;  here  the 

Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have 
reared  a  throne.  41s 

Lausanne !    and    Ferney !   ye   have    been    the 

abodes 
Of    names    which    unto    you    bequeathed    a 

name ; 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  danger- 
ous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame: 
They  were  gigantic   minds,  and   their   steep 

aim  420 

Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts   which   should  call  down  thunder, 

and  the  flame 
Of    Heaven    again    assailed,    if    Heaven    the 

while 
On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do 

more   than    smile. 

The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child    425 
Most  mutable  in   wishes,  but  in   mind 
A     wit    as    various, —  gay,    grave,    sage,    or  , 
wild, —  ^ 

Historian,    bard,    philosopher,    combined; 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


593 


He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents:     But  his  own 
Breathed    most    in    ridicule, —  which,    as    the 

wind,  431 

Blew     where     it    listed,     laying     all     things 

prone, — 
Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake 

a    throne. 

The     other,     deep     and     slow,     exhausting 

thought. 
And     hiving    wisdom     with     each     studious 

year,  43S 

In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer; 
The  lord  of  irony, — 'that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew 

from   fear,  440 

And  doomed  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts   so  eloquently 

well. 

Yet,    peace    be    with    their    ashes, —  for    by 

them, 
n   merited,   the  penalty  is  paid; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge, —  far  less  condemn; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall 

be  made  446 

Known  unto  all,  or  hope  and  dread  allayed 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow  in  the  dust, 
Which,    thus    much    we    are    sure,    must    lie 

decayed ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'T  will  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is 

just.  451 

But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His    Maker's,    spread   around   me,    and    sus- 
pend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until   it   seems  prolonging  without   end.  4SS 
The    clouds    above    me    to    the    white    Alps 

tend. 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To    their    most    great    and    growing    region, 

where 
The    earth    to    her    embrace    compels    the 
powers  of  air.  460 


I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the .  world 

me; 
I    have    not    flattered    its    rank    breath,    nor 

bowed 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, 
Nor  coined   my  cheek  to    smiles,   nor  cried 

aloud 
38 


In  worship  of  an  echo;  in  the  crowd      465 
They   could   not   deem  me   one    of    such;    I 

stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts, 

and    still    could, 
Had  I  not  filled  my  mind,  which  thus  itself 

subdued. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world 

me, — .  470 

But  let  us  part   fair  foes;  I  do  believe. 
Though   I  have   found  them  not,  that  there 

may  be 
Words   which   are  things,  hopes  which   will 

not  deceive. 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor   weave 
Snares     for     the     failing;     I     would     also 

deem  475 

O'er     others'     griefs     that     some     sincerely 

grieve; 
That    two,    or    one,    are    almost    what    they 

seem. 
That   goodness   is   no   name,   and   happiness 

no  dream 

*    *    * 

(1817) 


From    CHILDE  HAROLD,   CANTO   IV 

Oh  Rome!  my  country!     City  of  the  soul! 
The    orphans    of    the    heart    must    turn    to 

thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?     Come 

and  see  5 

The  cypress,   hear  the  owl,   and   plod   your 

way 
O'er   steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples, 

Ye! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A   world   is   at  our   feet  as   fragile  as   our 

clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands        'o 
Childless    and    crownless,    in    her    voiceless 

woe ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands. 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchers  lie  tenantless  'S 

Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her 

distress. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian.  Time,  War,  Flood, 
and  Fire, 


594 


LORD  BYRON 


Have     dealt     upon     the     seven-hilled     city's 

pride ;  2° 

She  sav^  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  nionarchs   ride, 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  Capitol ;  far  and 

wide 
Temple   and   tower   went   down,   nor   left    a 

site  : 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void,  25 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And    say,    '  here    was,    or    is,'    where    all    is 

doubly  night? 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and 

wrap 
All  round  us ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err :  30 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map. 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample 

lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling    o'er    recollection ;    now    we    clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  '  Eureka! '  it  is  clear  — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises 

near.  36 

Alas!  the  lofty  city!  and  alas! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  and  the  day 
When   Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  sur- 
pass 
The    conqueror's    sword    in    bearing    fame 
away !  4° 

Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And   Livy's   pictured   page!    but   these   shall 

be 
Her  resurrection;  all  beside  —  decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when 
Rome  was   free  !  4S 

Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  rolled  on  Fortune's 

wheel. 
Triumphant  Sylla!    Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's   foes  ere  thou  wouldst  pause 

to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the 

due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er   prostrate   Asia;  —  thou,   who   with   thy 

frown  51 

Annihilated  senates  —  Roman,  too. 
With  all  thy  vices,   for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a  more  than  earthly 

crown  — 

The  dictatorial  wreath  —  couldst  thou  divine 

To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which 

made  56 


Thee  more  than  mortal?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than  Romans,  Rome  should  thus  be 

laid? 
She  who  was  named   Eternal,  and  arrayed 
Her    warriors    but    to    conquer  —  .she    who 
veiled  60 

Earth    with   her   haughty   shadow,   and    dis- 
played. 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon   failed, 
Her  rushing  wings  —  Oh!  she  who  was  Al- 
mighty hailed. 

Sylla  was   first   of   victors;   but   our  own. 
The   sagcst   of   usurpers,   Cromwell!  —  he   65 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hewed  the 

throne 
Down  to  a  block  —  immortal  rebel !     See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free, 
And  famous  through  all  ages !  but  beneath 
His   fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny;  7» 

His  day  of  double  victory  and   death 
Beheld   him   win   two    realms,   and   happier, 

yield  his  breath. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former 

course 
Had  all  but  crowned  him,  on  the  selfsame 

day 
Deposed    him    gently    from    his    throne    of 

force,  75 

And    laid    him    with    the    earth's    preceding 

clay. 
And  showed  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and 

sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous 

way. 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb? 
Were   they  but   so   in  man's,   how   different 

were  his  doom  !  81 

And  thou,  dread  statue?  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty. 
Thou  who  beheldest,  'mid  the  assassin's  din. 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie,  85 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity. 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of   gods   and   men,   great   Nemesis!   did   he 

die. 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a 

scene?  90 

And    thou,    the    thunder-stricken    nurse    of 

Rome ! 
She-wolf!  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The   milk  of  conquest   yet   within   the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art. 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


595 


Thou     standest :  —  Mother     of     the     mighty 

heart,  9S 

Which  the  great   founder  sucked   from  thy 

wild  teat, 
Scorched  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart, 
And   thy   limbs   black   with    lightning  —  dost 

thou  yet 
Guard   thine    immortal    cubs,    nor   thy    fond 

charge  forget? 

Thou    dost ;    but    all    thy    foster-babes    are 

dead—  io° 

The  men  of  iron  ;  and  the  world  hath  reared 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchcrs :  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  feared, 
And    fought   and   conquered,   and  the   same 

course  steered, 
At  apish  distance:  but  as  yet  none  have,  los 
Nor     could,     the     same     supremacy     have 

neared. 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave. 
But,  vanquished  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves 

a  slave  — 

The  fool  of  false  dominion  —  and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Csesar,  following  him  of  old  no 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modeled  in  a  less  terrestrial  mold, 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeemed 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold,  "5 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seemed 
At  Cleopatra's  feet, —  and  now  himself  he 
beamed, 

j         And  came  —  and  saw  —  and  conquered  !    But 

I  the  man 

I         Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to 

i  flee, 

i         Like  a  trained  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van,  120 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory, 
With  a  deaf  heart,  which  never  seemed  to 

be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness  —  vanity. 
Coquettish  in  ambition,  still  he  aimed —  125 
At  what?  can  he  avouch  or  answer  what  he 
claimed? 

And   would   be   all   or   nothing  —  nor   could 

wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him;  few  years 
Had  fixed  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate, 
On  whom  we  tread :     For  this  the  conqueror 

rears  130 

The  arch  of  triumph;  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth    flow   on   as   they   have 

flowed, 


An  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  rcflow !     Renew  thy  rain- 
bow, Godl  135 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail. 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the 

deep, 
And  all  things  weighed  in  custom's   falsest 

scale ; 
Opinion   an   omnipotence, —  whose   veil        140 
AL-mtles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And    wrong   are    accidents,    and    men    grow 

pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too 

bright. 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth 

have  too  much  light. 

And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery,     mv 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their   hereditary   rage 
To    the    new    race    of    inborn    slaves,    who 

wage 
War    for   their   chains,   and   rather   than   be 

free,  150 

Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the 

same  tree. 

I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds  —  they  rest  be- 
tween 
Man    and    his    Maker  —  but    of    things    al- 
lowed, 
Averred,    and     known,     and     daily,     hourly 
seen —  ,55 

The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bowed, 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avowed. 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The    apes    of    him    who    humbled    once    the 
proud,  160 

And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the 

throne ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm 
had  done. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquered  be, 
And    Freedom    find    no    champion    and    no 

•child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she       i6s 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  armed  and  undef^led  ? 
Or    must   such   minds   be   nourished    in   the 

wild. 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 


596 


LORD  BYRON 


On     infant     Washington?     Has  earth     no 

more  '7o 

Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no 
such   shore  ? 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit 

crime, 
And   fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime ; 
Because    the    deadly    days    which    we    have 

seen,  '75 

And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man   and  his   hopes  an   adamantine   wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which    nips    life's    tree,    and    dooms    man's 

worst  —  his  second  fall.  i8o 

Yet,    Freedom !    yet    thy    banner,    torn,    but 

flying, 
Streams,  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the 

wind ; 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and 

dying. 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind ; 
Thy    tree    hath    lost    its    blossoms,    and    the 

rind,  'Ss 

Chopped  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little 

worth. 
But    the    sap    lasts, —  and    still   the    seed   we 

find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North ; 
So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring 

forth. 

There    is    a    stern    round    tower    of    other 

days,  "90 

Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays. 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave  '95 
The    green    leaves    over    all    by    time    o'er- 

thrown :  — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength?  within  its 

cave 
What   treasure   lay  so   locked,   so  hid?  —  A 

woman's  grave. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tombed  in  a  palace?     Was  she  chaste  and 

fair?  200 

Worthy  a  king's  or  more  —  a  Roman's  bed? 
What    race    of    chiefs    and    heroes    did    she 

bear? 
What    daughter    of    her    beauties    was    the 

heir? 
How  lived,  how  loved,  how  died  she?     Was 

she  not 


So  honored  —  and  conspicuously  there,      205 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to   rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal 
lot? 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or 

they 
Who   love  the   lords  of   others?    such   have 

been 
Even    in    the    olden    time,    Rome's    annals 

say.  2'° 

Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien. 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen. 
Profuse  of  joy  —  or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue?     Did  she  lean 
To    the    soft    side    of    the   heart,    or    wisely 

bar  ^'S 

Love  from  amongst  her  griefs?  —  for  such 

the  affections  are. 

Perchance    she    died    in    youth :    it    may    be 

bowed 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous 

tomb 
That  weighed  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might     gather     o'er     her     beauty,     and     a 
gloom  220 

In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favorites  —  early  death ;  yet 

shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With    hectic    light,    the    Hesperus    of    the 

dead, 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf- 
like red.  225 

Perchance  she  died  in  age  —  surviving  all. 
Charms,   kindred,  children  —  with   the   silver 

gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 
It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day- 
When    they    were    braided,    and    her    proud 

array  230 

And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and 

eyed 
By   Rome  —  But   whither   would    Conjecture 

stray  ? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died. 
The    wealthiest    Roman's    wife:    Behold    his 

love  or  pride ! 

I    know    not    why  —  but    standing    thus    by 

thee  235 

It   seems  as   if   I   had  thine  inmate  known, 

Thou  Tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  to 

me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  a  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind;     240 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


597 


Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin 
leaves  behind ; 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shattered  o'er  the 

rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks  246 
Of    the    loud    breakers,    and    the    ceaseless 

roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  foundered  that  was  ever  dear : 
But    could    I    gather    from    the    wave-worn 

store  250 

Enough   for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I 

steer? 
There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save 

what  is  here. 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on!  their  har- 
mony 

Shall  henceforth  by  my  music,  and  the 
night 

The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets' 
cry,  ^55 

As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 

Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
[         Answering  each  other  on  the   Palatine, 

With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray 
and  bright. 

And  sailing  pinions. —  Upon  such  a  shrine 

What  are  our  petty  griefs  ?  —  let  me  not 
number  mine.  261 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  massed  together,  hillocks  heaped 
On     what     were     chambers,     arch     crushed, 

column  strown 
In   fragments,   choked   up   vaults,  and    fres- 
coes steeped  265 
In     subterranean     damps,     where     the     owl 

peeped. 
Deeming  it  midnight :  —  Temples,  baths,  or 

halls? 
Pronounce  who  can ;   for  all  that  Learning 

reaped 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are 

walls  — 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount!    'tis  thus  the 

mighty  falls.  270 

There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales; 
'T  is  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past, 
First  Freedom  and  then  Glory  — when  that 

fails, 
Wealth,      vice,      corruption, —  barbarism      at 

last. 
And  history,  with  all  her  volimies  vast,  273 


Hath  but  one  page  — 't  is  better  written  here, 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amassed 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear, 
Heart,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  ask  —  Away 
with  words!  draw  near. 

Admire,    exult,    despise,    laugh,    weep, —  for 

here  280 

There    is    such    matter    for    all    feeling:  — 

Man ! 
Thou   pendulum   betwixt   a   smile   and   tear. 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This   mountain,   whose   obliterated   plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled,  285 

Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  rays   with  added  flame  were 

filled! 
Where   are   its   golden   roofs?   where  those 

who  dared  to  build? 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou, 

Thou     nameless     column    with    the    buried 

base !  290 

What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Caesar's  brow? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's?  No— 'tis  that  of  Time; 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace  295 
Scoffing;  and  apostolic  statues  climb 
To    crush    the    imperial    urn,    whose    ashes 

slept  sublime. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 
And   looking   to   the    stars:   they   had   con- 
tained 
A    spirit    which    with    these    would    find    a 
home,  300 

The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth 

reigned, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustained. 
But   yielded    back    his    conquests: — he    was 

more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstained 
With    household   blood    and    wine,    serenely 
wore  30s 

His    sovereign    virtues  —  still    we    Trajan's 
name  adore. 


Arches  on  arches!  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line. 
Would    build    up    all    her    triumphs    in    one 

dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  't  were  its  natural  torches,  for  divine    3" 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to 

illume 
This     long-explored     but     still     exhaustless 


598 


LORD  BYRON 


Of  contemplation;   ami   the  azure  gloom 
Of   an    Italian   night,   where   the   deep   skies 
assume  3iS 

Hues   which   have   words,  and   speak   to   ye 

of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and   wondrous   monu- 
ment, 
And    shadows    forth    its    glory.     There    is 

given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath 

bent, 
A  spirit's   feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there   is  a 
power  ^~' 

And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement. 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are 
its  dower. 

Oh,  Time!  the  beautif^er  of  the  dead,  32s 

Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled; 
Time!   the   corrector   where   our   judgments 

err. 
The  test  of  truth,  love  —  sole  philosopher,  3^9 
For  all  beside  are  sophists  —  from  thy  thrift. 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,   the   avenger  I   unto  thee   I   lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of 

thee  a  gift : 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a 

shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate,  335 

Among    thy     mightier     offerings    here    are 

mine, 
Ruins  of  years,  though  few,  yet  full  of  fate : 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate. 
Hear  me  not;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,    and    reserved    my    pride    against    the 

hate  340 

Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have 

worn 
This   iron   in   my   soul   in   vain  —  shall    they 

not  mourn? 

And   thou,   who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis! 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage 

long—  345 

Thou,   who  didst  call   the   Furies   from   the 

abyss. 
And    round    Orestes    bade    them    howl    and 

hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution  —  just. 
Had    it    but   been    from    hands    less   near  — 

in  this 


Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 

Dost    thou    not    hear    my    heart?  —  Awake! 

thou  shalt,  and  must.  351 


It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurred 
I'or  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 
I  bleed  withal,  and  had  it  been  conferred 
With    a    just    weapon,    it    had    flowed    un- 
bound ;  355 
But    now    my   blood    shall    not    sink    in    the 

ground : 
To  thee  I  do  devote  it  — thou  shalt  take 
The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and 

found 
Which  if  /  have  not  taken  for  the  sake  — 
But  let  that  pass  —  I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet 
awake.  360 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  't  is  not  that 

now 
I    shrink    from    what    is    suffered :    let    him 

speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow. 
Or     seen    my    mind's    convulsion     leave    it 

weak ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek.  36s 

Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 
Though    I     be    ashes ;     a     far    hour     shall 

wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountains  of 

my  curse! 

That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness,—  Have  I 
not  —  370 

Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth !  behold  it, 
Heaven !  — 

Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot? 

Have  I  not  suffered  things  to  be  forgiven? 

Have  I  not  had  my  brain  seared,  my  heart 
riven, 

Hopes  sapped,  name  blighted,  Life's  life  lied 
away?  375 

And  only  not  to  desperation  driven. 

Because   not   altogether   of   such   clay 

As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  sur- 
vey. 


From   mighty   wrongs   to   petty  perfidy 
Have   I   not   seen   what  human   things  could 

do  ?  380 

From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the   small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry   few. 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning    to    lie    with    silence,    would    seem 

true,  385 


CHILDE  HAROLD 


599 


And    without   utterance,    save   the    shrug    or 

sigh, 
Deal    round    to    happy    fools    its    speechless 

obloquy. 

Cut  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain : 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its 

fire, 
And   my    frame   perish    even    in   conquering 

pain ;  390 

But    there    is    that    within    me    which    shall 

tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  ex- 
pire; 
Something  unearthly,   which  they  deem   not 

of. 
Like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall    on    their    softened    spirits    sink,    and 

move  395 

In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of 

love. 

The  seal  is  set. —  Now  welcome,  thou  dread 

power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walkest  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls 
rear  401 

Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been,  . 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  un- 
seen. 405 

And     here     the     buzz     of     eager     nations 

ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered?  wherefore,  but 

because 
Such  were   the   bloody   Circus'   genial   laws. 
And     the     imperial     pleasure. —  Wherefore 

not?  411 

What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms. —  On  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theaters  where  the  chief  actors 

rot. 

I  see  before  mc  the  Gladiator  lie:  41s 

He   leans   upon   his   hand  —  his   manly   brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing 

slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like    the    first    of    a    thunder-shower;    and 

now  4-' I 

The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone, 


Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed 
the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 
He    recked    not    of    the    life    he    lost    nor 

prize,  426 

But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother  — he,  their 

sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday —    430 
All   this   rushed   with   his   blood  —  Shall   he 

expire 
And  unavenged?     Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut 

your   ire ! 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody 

steam ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the 

ways, 
And   roared  or  murmured   like  a   mountain 

stream  435 

Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,   where  the  Roman  millions'  blame  or 

praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars' 

faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crushed  —  walls 

bowed  —  440 

And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes 

strangely  loud. 

A    ruin  —  yet    what    ruin  !  —  from    its    mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared; 
Yet   oft   the   enormous   skeleton   ye   pass, 
And    marvel    where    the    spoil    could    have 

appeared.  445 

Hath     it    indeed    been    plundered,    or    but 

cleared  ? 
Alas !  developed,  opens  the  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared: 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day. 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all,  years,  man 

have  reft  away.  450 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When   the   stars  twinkle   through   the   loops 

of  time. 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the 

air 
The    garland-forest,    which    the    gray    walls 

wear,  4SS 

Like     laurels     on     the     bald     first     Caesar's 

head ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not 

glare, 


6oo 


LORD  BYRON 


Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes   have   trod   this   spot— 'tis   on   their 
dust  ye  tread. 

'  While    stands    the    Coliseum,    Rome    shall 

stand ;  460 

When   falls  the   Coliseum,  Rome  shall    fall, 
And      when      Rome      falls  — the      World.' 

From  our  own  land 
Thus    spake    the    pilgrims    o'er   this    mighty 

wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are 

still  465 

On  their   foundations,  and  unaltered   all ; 
Rome     and    her     Ruin     past     Redemption's 

skill, 
The  world,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves, 

or  what  ye  will. 

=K       *       * 

(1818) 

From  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT 

In     the     first     year     of     freedom's     second 
dawn 
Died     George     the     Third;     although    no 
tyrant,  one 
Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  with- 
drawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun; 
A    better    farmer    ne'er    brushed    dew    from 
lawn,  5 

A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone ! 
He  died  —  but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 
One  half  as  mad  —  and  t'other  no  less  blind. 

He  died!   his  death  made  no  great  stir  on 

earth : 
His    burial    made    some    pomp;    there    was 

profusion  '° 

Of     velvet,    gilding,    brass,    and    no    great 

dearth 
Of  aught  but  tears  —  save  those  shed  by 

collusion. 
For    these    things    may   be    bought    at    their 

true  worth  ; 
Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion  — 
Bought    also ;    and    the    torches,    cloaks    and 

banners,  '5 

Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners. 

Formed  a  sepulchral  nielodrame.     Of  all 

The  fools  who  flocked  to  swell  or  see  the 

show. 

Who  cared  about  the  corpse?     The   funeral 

Made    the    attraction,    and    the    black    the 

woe.  ^° 


There  throbbed  not  there  a   thought   which 
pierced  the  pall ; 
And    when    the   gorgeous    coffin    was   laid 
low, 
It  seemed  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !     It  might  ^s 
Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 

The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 
Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air; 

But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 
What   nature   made    him   at   his   birth,   as 
bare  3o 

As    the    mere    million's    base    unmummied 
clay  — 

Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

He  's  dead  —  and  upper  earth  with  him  has 
done; 
He  's  buried ;  save  the  undertaker's  bill. 
Or   lapidary   scrawl,  the  world  is  gone       35 
For   him,   unless  he   left   a   German   will; 
But   where 's   the  proctor  who   will   ask  his 
son? 
In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still, 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncom- 
mon. 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman.        4o 

'  God   save  the  king ! '     It  is  a  large  econ- 
omy 

In  God  to  save  the  like ;  but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better;   for  not  one  am  I 

Of  those  who  think  damnation  better  still: 
I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I  45 

In   this  small  hope  of  bettering   future   ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restric- 
tion, 
The  eternity   of  hell's   hot  jurisdiction, 

I   know  this   is   unpopular ;   I   know 
'T  is    blasphemous ;    I    know    one    may   be 
damned  5° 

For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so; 
I    know    my    catechism ;    I    know    we  've 
crammed 
With   the  best   doctrines  till   we  quite   o'er- 
flow ; 
I    know    that    all    save    England's    church 
have   shammed. 
And    that    the    other    twice    two    hundred 
churches  55 

And   synagogues  have  made  a  damned  bad 
purchase. 

God  help  us  all !  God  help  me  too !     I  am, 
God   knows,   as   helpless   as  the  devil   can 
wish. 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT 


60 1 


And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn, 
Than    is   to   bring  to   land   a   late-hooked 
fish,  60 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb; 
Not   that    I  'm   fit   for   such   a   noble   dish, 

As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 

Of  almost  everybody  born  to  die. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate,  65 

And  nodded  o'er  his  keys ;  when,  lo !  there 
came 
A    wondrous    noise    he    had    not    heard    of 
late  — 
A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream  and 
flame; 
In  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great. 
Which    would    have    made    aught    save    a 
saint  exclaim ;  70 

But  he,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink, 
Said,    '  There 's    another    star    gone    out,    I 
think!' 

But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 
A  cherub  flapped  his  right  wing  o'er  his 
eyes  — 
At  which  St.  Peter  yawned,  and  rubbed  his 
nose:  75 

'  Saint    porter,'    said    the    angel,    '  prithee 
rise! ' 
Waving   a   goodly   wing,    which    glowed,    as 
glows 
An    earthly   peacock's    tail,    with   heavenly 
\  dyes : 

j      To   which   the    saint   replied,   '  Well,   what 's 
I  the  matter? 

Is   Lucifer  come   back  with   all  this   clat- 
I  ter?'  80 

*  No,'  quoth  the  cherub ;  '  George  the  Third 

is  dead.' 
*  And  who  is  George  the  Third  ? '  replied 

the  apostle: 
'What    George r   what    Third?'    'The    king 

of  England,'  said 
The  angel.     '  Well !  he  won't  find  kings  to 

jostle 
Him    on    his    way;    but    does    he    wear    his 

head?  8s 

Because    the    last    we    saw    here    had    a 

tussle. 
And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's  good 

graces, 
Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 

'He  was,   if   I   remember,  king  of   France; 

That   head  of  his,   which  could   not   keep 

a  crown  90 

On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  ad- 
vance 


A    claim    to    those    of    martyrs  —  like    my 
own ; 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 

When  I  cut  ears  off,  I  had  cut  him  down; 

But     having    but    my     keys,    and     not    my 

brand,  9S 

I  only  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

'  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl, 
That    all    the    saints    came    out    and    took 
him  in ; 
And    there    he    sits    by    St.    Paul,    cheek   by 
jowl ; 
That     fellow    Paul  —  the    parvenii !      The 
skin  100 

Of  St.  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 
In   heaven,   and  upon   earth   redeemed  his 
sin, 
So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 
Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 

'  But   had   it   come  up   here  upon   its   shoul- 
ders, los 
There  would  have  been  a  different  tale  to 
tell: 
The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints'  beholders 

Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell. 
And     so     this     very     foolish     head     heaven 
solders 
Back  on  its  trunk:  it  may  be  very  well,  ^^° 
And  seems  the  custom  here,  to  overthrow 
Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below.' 

The  angel  answered,  '  Peter !  do  not  pout : 
The    king    who    comes    has    head    and    all 
entire, 
And     never     knew     much     what     it     was 
about —  115 

He  did  as  doth  the  puppet  —  by  its  wire. 
And    will    be    judged    like    all    the    rest,    no 
doubt : 
My  business  and   your   own  is   not   to   in- 
quire 
Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue  — 
Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do.'       1^0 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 

Arriving   like   a   rush   of   mighty   wind, 
Cleaving    the    fields    of    space,    as    doth    the 
swan 
Some  silver  stream    (say  Ganges,  Nile  or 
Inde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  'midst  them  an 
old  man  1^5 

With    an    old    soul,    and    both    extremely 
blind. 
Halted   before   the  gate,  and   in   his   shroud 
Seated  their   fellow  traveler  on  a  cloud. 


6o2 


LORD  BYRON 


But    bringing    up    the    rear    of    this    bright 
host 
A  Spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved     130 
His  wings,   like  thunder-clouds   above   some 
coast 
Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks 
is  paved ; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest- 
tossed  ; 
Fierce    and     unfathomable    thoughts     en- 
graved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face,  '35 

And    zvhcrc    he    gazed    a    gloom    pervaded 
space. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 
Ne'er  to  be  entered  more  by  him  or  Sin, 

With  such  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate, 
As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within; 

He  pattered  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate, 
And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin  : 

Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor,  14*3 

Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together,     i4S 
Like    birds    when    soars    the    falcon ;    and 
they  felt 
A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 

And   formed  a  circle  like  Orion's  belt 
Around   their  poor  old  charge ;   who  scarce 
knew  whither 
His    guards    had    led    him,    though    they 
gently  dealt  150 

With  royal  manes  (for  by  many  stories. 
And    true,     we     learn    the    angels    all    arc 
Tories). 

As    things    were    in    this    posture,    the    gate 
flew 
Asunder,   and   the   flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over   space   an   universal   hue  i5S 

Of  many-colored  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reached  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made 
a  new 
Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the  North   Pole ;  the  same  seen,  when 

ice-bound. 
By    Captain     Parry's    crew,    in    *  Melville's 
Sound.'  160 

And    from    the    gate    thrown    open    issued 
beaming 
A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light, 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 
Victorious   from   some   world-o'erthrowing 
fight : 
My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 
With     earthly     likenesses,     for     here     the 
night  166 


Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,   sav- 
ing 
Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

'T  was  the  archangel  Michael ;  all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 

There 's   scarce   a   scribbler  has   not   one  to 
show,  171 

From    the    fiends'    leader    to    the    angels' 
prince ; 

There   also   are   some  altar-pieces,  though         | 
1    really  can't  say  that  they  much  evince       1 

One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits;  '75 

lUit  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good; 
A    goodly   work   of   him    from    whom   all 
glory 
And  good  arise;  the  portal  past  —  he  stood; 
Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints 
hoary —  180 

(I   say  young,  begging  to   be  understood 
By  looks,  not  years;  and  should  be  very 
sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  St.  Peter, 
But     merely      that     they     seemed     a     little 
sweeter). 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bowed  down  be- 
fore 18s 

That  arch-angelic  hierarch,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a  god ;  but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  for  his  Master's  service, 
durst  190 

Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

He  and  the  somber,  silent  Spirit  met  — 
They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and 
ill; 
Such    was    their   power,    that   neither    could 
forget  J95 

His    former    friend    and    future    foe;    but 
still  m 

There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  regret       "^ 

In  cither's  eye,  as  if  't  were  less  their  will 
Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 
Their  date  of  war,  and  their  '  champ  clos ' 
the  spheres.  200 

But    here    they    were    in    neutral    space :    we 
know 
From  Job,  that   Satan  hath  the  power  to 

pay 

A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so; 
And    that    the    '  sons    of    God,'    like   those 
of  clay. 


I 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT 


603 


Must   keep  him   company ;   and   we  might 

show  20s 

From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of   Good    and    Evil  — but    'twould    take   up 
hours. 

And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 
To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic, 

If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact,  211 

But  a  true  narrative;  and  thus  I  pick 

From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  an 
act 
As    sets    aside    the    slightest    thought    of 
trick. 

'Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion,     2' 5 

And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral   space,  before 
The  gate  of  heaven ;   like  eastern  thresh- 
olds is 
The    place    where    Death's    grand    cause    is 
argued  o'er, 
And  souls  despatched  to  that  virorld  or  to 
this;  220 

And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 
A  civil  aspect :  though  they  did  not  kiss. 
Yet     still     between    his    Darkness    and    his 

Brightness 
There    passed    a    mutual    glance    of    great 
politeness. 

The   Archangel    bowed,    not    like    a   modern 
beau,  --S 

But  with  a  graceful  Oriental  bend, 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 
The    heart    in    good    men    is    supposed    to 
tend ; 
He  turned  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low, 

But  kindly ;  Satan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With     more     hauteur,     as     might     an     old 
Castiiian  231 

Poor  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 


He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

An  instant ;  and  then   raising  it,  he  stood 

In    act    to    assert    his    right    or    wrong,    and 

show  235 

Cause    why    King    George    by    no    means 

could  or  should 

Make   out   a   case   to  be   exempt    from   woe 

Eternal,    more   than   other   kings,    endued 

With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history 

mentions. 
Who  long  have  '  paved  hell  with  their  good 
intentions.'  240 


Michael    began :    '  What    wouldst    thou    with 
this  man. 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord? 
What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  be- 
gan, 
That  thou  canst  claim  him  ?     Speak !  and 
do  thy  will, 
If  it  be  just:  if  in  this  earthly  span  245 

He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 
His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say, 
And  he  is  thine;  if  not,  let  him  have  way.' 

'  Michael ! '  replied  the  Prince  of  Air,  '  even 
here, 

Before  the  Gate  of  him  thou  servest,  must 
I   claim  my  subject:   and   will   make   appear 

That  as  he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust. 
So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear       253 
To    thee   and    thine,    because    nor    wine   nor 

lust 
Were  of  his  weaknesses ;  yet  on  the  throne 
He  reigned  o'er  millions  to  serve  me  alone. 

'  Look    to    our    earth,    or.    rather    mine ;    it 
was. 
Once,  more  thy   Master's :   but    I   triumph 
not 
In  this  poor  planet's  conquest ;  nor,  alas ! 
Need     he     thou     servest     envy     me     my 
lot :  260 

With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which 
pass 
In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  for- 
got 
Von   weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things: 
I    think    few    worth    damnation    save    their 
kings, — 

'  And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to  265 

Assert  my  right  as  lord :  and  even  had 
I  such  an  inclination,  it  were   (as  you 

Well  know)    superfluous;  they  are  grown 
so    bad, 
That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 
Than  leave  them  to  themselves :  so  much 
more  mad  270 

And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse. 
Heaven    cannot    make    them    better,    nor    I 
worse. 

'  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again : 
When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak, 
poor  worm 
Began    in   youth's   first   bloom   and   flush    to 
reign,  275 

The   world  and  he  both  wore  a  different 
form. 


I 


6o4 


LORD  BYRON 


And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 
Of  ocean  called  him  king:  through  many 
a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time; 
For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them   for  their 
1-  280 

clime. 

'He  came  to  his  scepter  young;  he  leaves  it 
old: 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he   found  his 
realm, 
And  left  it;  and  his  annals  too  behold, 

How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm; 
How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold, 
The    beggar's    vice,    which    can    but    over- 
whelm ^^^ 
The  meanest  hearts;  and   for  the  rest,  but 

glance 
Thine  eye  along  America  and  France. 

"Tis  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  last 

(I  have  the  workmen  safe),  but  as  a  tool 
So    let    him    be    consumed.     From    out    the 
past  ^91 

Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the 
rule 
Of      monarchs  —  from     the      bloody      rolls 
amassed 
Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the   Caesar's 
school, 
Take  the  worst  pupil ;  and  produce  a  reign 
More   drenched   with   gore,   more  cumbered 
with   the   slain.  296 

*  He  ever  warred  with  freedom  and  the  free : 
Nations    as    men,    home    subjects,    foreign 
foes, 
So  that  they  uttered  the  word  '  Liberty ! ' 
Found    George    the    Third   their    first    op- 
ponent.    Whose  300 
History  was  ever  stained  as  his  will  be 

With  national  and  individual   woes? 
I  grant  his  household  abstinence;  I  grant 
His   neutral   virtues,   which   most   monarchs 
want; 

'I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort;  own  305 
He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middli..j  lord. 

All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne ; 
As  temperance,   if   at   Apicius'   board, 

Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 
I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord;  S'o 

And    this    was    well    for    him,    but    not    for 
those 

Millions    who    found    him    what    oppression 
chose. 


'The    New   World   shook   him   off;    the   Old 
yet   groans 
Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed :  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 
To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot     316 
Compassion     for     him  —  his    tame     virtues; 
drones 
Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  for- 
got 
A    lesson    which    shall    be    re-taught    them, 

wake 
Upon    the   thrones    of    earth;    but    let   them 
quake !  320 

'  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who   hold 
The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth 
implored 
A  part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old,— 
Freedom    to    worship  —  not    alone    your 
Lord. 
Michael,    but    you,    and    you.    Saint    Peter! 
cold  325 

Must    be    your    souls,    if    you    have    not 
abhorred 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

'  True !  he  allowed  them  to  pray  God ;  but 
as 
A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 
Which    would   have    placed   them   upon    the 
same  base  33 1 

With   those   who   did   not  hold   the   saints 
in  awe.' 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place. 
And  cried,   '  You  may  the  prisoner  with- 
draw: 
Ere    heaven    shall    ope    her    portals    to    this 
Guelph,  335 

While  I   am  guard,  may  I  be  damned  my- 
self! 

'  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 
The    azure    fields    of    heaven,    of    that   be 
sure !  '  34o 

'  Saint ! '    replied    Satan,    '  you    do    well    to 
avenge 
The   wrongs   he   made   your   satellites   en- 
dure; 
And    if    to    this    exchange    you    should    be 

given, 
I  '11  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven!  ' 

Here  Michael  interposed  :  '  Good  saint !  and 
devil  I  345 


DON  JUAN 


605 


Pray,   not   so   fast;   you   both   outrun   dis- 
cretion. 
Saint    Peter !    you    were    wont    to    be    more 
civil ! 
Satan,  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expres- 
sion, 
And   condescension   to  the   vulgar's   level ; 
Even    saints    sometimes    forget   themselves 
in  session.  35o 

Have    you    got    more    to    say  ? ' — '  No.' — 
'  If  you  please, 
I  '11  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses.' 

(1822) 


From  DON  JUAN,  CANTO  III 

[  THE    ISLES    OF    GREECE 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning   Sappho  loved  and   sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and   Phcebus  sprung ! 
Eternal   summer  gilds  them  yet,  S 

But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
'  The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

i       Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
I  Their  place  of  birth  alone   is  mute         1° 

I       To  sounds  which  echo   further  west 

Than  your  sires'  '  Islands  of  the  Blest.' 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone,  15 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For   standing   on   the    Persian's   grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks   o'er   sea-born   Salamis;       20 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations  ;  —  all  were  his  ! 
'       He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 
I       And  when  the   sun   set,  where  were  they? 

I       And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou,  25 
I  My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The   heroic   lay   is   tuneless   now  — 
\  The  heroic  bosom   beats  no   more ! 

i       And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
I       Degenerate  into  hands   like  mine?  3° 

!       'T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 

Though  linked  among  a   fettered  race, 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I   sing,   suffuse   my   face; 


For   what   is   left   the   poet   here?  3S 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for   Greece   a  tear. 

Must   we   but    weep   o'er   days    more    blest? 

Must  tvc  but  blush?  — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth !   render  back   from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead!  40 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 

What,    silent    still?   and    silent   all? 

Ah!  no;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound   like  a  distant  torrent's   fall,  45 

And  answer,  '  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, —  we  come,  we  come  !  ' 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In    vain  —  in    vain :    strike    other    chords : 
Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine!        5° 

Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 

Hark !   rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 

How  answers  each  bold   Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet :  ss 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave?  60 

Fill  high  the  bowl   with   Samian   wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine ; 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then  65 

Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was   freedom's  best  and  bravest   friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 

Oh !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend  70 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill   high  the  bowl  with   Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line  75 

Such  as  the   Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown. 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks. 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells ;     80 
In  native  swords  and  native  ranks. 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  : 
But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud. 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 


6o6 


LORD  BYRON 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine!         8s 
Our  virgins  dance  beneath   the   shade  — 

I    see   their   glorious   black   eyes   shine; 
But  gazing  on   each  glowing  maid, 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To   think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on   Sunium's  marbled  steep,         9' 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual   murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine —      95 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Thus    sung,   or   would,   or   could,   or   should 
have  sung. 
The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse: 
If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece  was 
young. 
Yet    in    these   times   he   might   have   done 
much  worse:  ^°° 

His  strain  displayed  some  feeling  —  right  or 
wrong; 
And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 
Of  others'  feeling;  but  they  are  such  liars. 
And    take    all    colors  — like    the    hands    of 
dyers. 

But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop  of 
ink,  los 

Falling    like    dew,    upon    a    thought,    pro- 
duces 

That  which   makes  thousands,  perhaps  mil- 
lions, think; 
'T  is  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man 
uses 

Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 
Of    ages ;    to    what    straits    old    Time    re- 
duces 1'° 

Frail    man    when    paper  —  even    a    rag    like 
this, 

Survives   himself,    his   tomb,   and   all   that's 
his! 

And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a 
blank. 

His   station,  generation,  even  his  nation. 
Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank' '5 

In   chronological   commemoration. 
Some   dull    MS.   oblivion   long  has   sank. 

Or    graven    stone    found    in    a    barrack's 
station 
In  digging  the   foundation  of  a  closet, 
May  turn  his  name  up,  as  a  rare  deposit,  '-o 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile ; 
'T  is     something,     nothing,     words,     illusion 
wind  — 


Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 
Than    on    the    name   a   person    leaves   be- 
hind: 
Troy  owes   to   Homer   what  whist  owes   to 
Hoyle:  J^s 

The   present   century   was   growing   blind 
To  the  great   Marlborough's   skill   in  giving 

knocks. 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

Milton's  the  prince  of  poets  —  so  we  say; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine:  130 

An  independent  being  in  his  day  — 

Learned,    pious,    temperate    in    love    and 
wine ; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 
We  're  told   this  great   high  priest   of   all 
the  Nine 
Was   whipt  at  college  —  a  harsh   sire  —  odd 
spouse,  135 

For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

All  these  are,  certcs,  entertaining  facts. 
Like     Shakspere's     stealing     deer,     Lord 
Bacon's  bribes; 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest  acts ; 
Like    Burns    (whom    Doctor    Currie    well 
describes)  ;  140 

Like     Cromwell's     pranks: — but     although 
truth   exacts 
These     amiable     descriptions     from     the 
scribes. 
As   most   essential   to  their  hero's   story, 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 

He  prated  to  the  world  of  '  Pantisocracy :  ' 
Or    Wordsworth    unexcised,    unhired,    who 
then  147 

Seasoned  his  peddler  poems  with  democ- 
racy; 
Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 

Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy; 

When  he  and   Southey,   following  the  same 

path,  151 

Espoused  two  partners   (milliners  of  Bath). 

Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure, 
The   very    Botany   Bay    in    moral    geogra- 
phy: 
Their    royal    treason,    renegado    rigor,        "55 
Are    good    manure    for    their    more    bare 
biography. 
Wordsworth's    last    quarto,    by    the    way,    is 
bigger 
Than   any   since   the   birthday   of   typogra- 
phy: 


DON  JUAN 


607 


A  drowsy  frowzy  poem,  called  the  '  Excur- 
sion,' 
Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion.      160 

I  *     *     * 

j     T'  our  tale. —  The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves 

I  gone, 

j         The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  re- 

1  tired : 

1     The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 

I         And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired; 

j     The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone.  '6s 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight's  sky  admired : 
Ave  Maria !   o'er  the  earth  and   sea, 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worth- 
iest thee! 

I     Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so 
oft  170 

Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 
Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 
While    swung   the    deep   bell    in    the   distant 
tower, 
Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And    yet    the    forest    leaves    seemed    stirred 
with  prayer.  176 

Ave  Maria!   't  is  the  hour  of  prayer! 

Ave  Maria!  't  is  the  hour  of  love! 
Ave  Maria !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above ! 
Ave  Maria!  oh,  that   face  so  fair!  181 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty 
dove  — 
What    though    't    is    but    a    pictured    image 

strike. 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  —  't  is  too  like. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to   say. 
In    nameless    print  —  that    I    have   no    de- 
votion; 186 
But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray, 
I         And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  properest 
i                notion 

1     Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way; 
j         My    altars    are    the    mountains    and    the 
I  ocean,  190 

j     Earth,  air,  stars, —  all  that  springs  from  the 
great  Whole, 
Wlio    hath    produced,    and    will    receive    the 
I  soul. 


1      Sweet   hour   of   twilight!  —  in   the    solitude 
j      Of  the  pine  forest  and  the  silent  shore 
j      Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Rooted     where     once     the     Adrian     wave 
flowed  o'er,  ^96 


To  where  the  last  Caesarean   fortress  stood. 

Evergreen   forest !  which  Boccaccio's  lore 
And   Dryden's   lay  made  haunted  ground  to 

me. 
How   have    I    loved    the   twilight    hour    and 
thee !  200 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine. 

Making  their   summer   lives  one  ceaseless 
song. 
Were  the  sole  echoes,   save  my  steed's  and 
mine. 
And    vesper    bell's    that    rose    the    boughs 
along; 
The  specter  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line,     205 
His    hell-dogs,    and    their    chase,    and    the 
fair  throng 
Which    learned    from    this    example    not    to 

fly 
From  a  true  lover,  shadowed  my  mind's  eye. 

O  Hesperus !  thou  bringest  all  good  things  — 
Home     to     the     weary,     to     the     hungry 
cheer,  210 

To    the    young    bird    the    parent's    brooding 
wings. 
The     welcome     stall     to     the     o'erlabored 
steer ; 
Whate'er    of    peace    about    our    hearthstone 
clings, 
Whate'er   our   household   gods   protect   of 
dear,  214 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest; 
Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's 
breast. 

Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts 
the  heart 
Of  those  who   sail   the   seas,  on  the  first 
day 
When    they    from    their    sweet    friends    are 
torn  apart ;  219 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the   far  bell   of   vesper  makes  him   start. 
Seeming  to   weep   the   dying   day's   decay; 
Is  this  a   fancy  which  our   reason   scorns? 
Ah !     surely     nothing     dies     but     something 
mourns ! 

When  Nero  perished  by  the  justest  doom  225 
Which   ever   the  destroyer  yet   destroyed. 
Amidst  the   roar  of   liberated   Rome, 

Of    nations    freed,    and    the    world    over- 
joyed, 
Some    hands    unseen    strewed    flowers    upon 
his  tomb:  229 

Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 


6o8 


LORD  BYRON 


Of    feeling    for    some   kindness   done,    when 

power 
Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorruptcd  hour. 

But     I'm     digressing;     what    on     earth     has 
Nero, 
Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons, 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero,  ^35 
More    than    such    madmen's    fellow    man 
—  the  moon's?  ^35 

Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero; 
And     I     grown     one     of     many    '  wooden 
spoons  ' 
Of  verse   (the  name  with  which  we  Canta1)s 

please 
To  dub  the  last  of  honors  in  degrees).      240 
*     *     * 


DON  JUAN,  CANTO  IV 

Nothing  so  difficult  as  a  begmning 
In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end; 
For   oftentimes,    when    Pegasus    seems    win- 
ning 
The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we 
tend. 
Like  Lucifer,  when  hurled  from  heaven  for 
sinning;  S 

Our    sin    the    same,    and    hard    as    his    to 
mend. 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to   soar 

too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness   shows  us   what  we 
are. 

But  Time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their 
level. 
And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teach  at  last  'o 
Man,  and  —  as  we  would  hope  —  perhaps  the 
devil. 
That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast: 
While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins 
revel. 
We   know   not   this  —  the   blood   flows   on 
too  fast ; 
But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean, 
We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion.  16 

As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow, 
And    wished    that    others    held    the    same 
opinion ; 
They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more 
mellow, 
And    other    minds    acknowledged    my    do- 
minion : 
Now  my  sere  fancy  '  falls  into  the  yellow 
Leaf,'  and  Imagination  droops  her  pinion. 


And    the    sad    truth    which    hovers    o'er    my 

desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 

And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing,  2s 

'T  is  that  I  may  not  weep;  and  if  I  weep, 

'T   is   that   our   nature   cannot   always   bring 
Itself    to    apathy,    for    we    must    steep 

Our    hearts    first    in    the    depth    of    Lethe's 
spring, 
Ere    what    we    least    wish    to   behold    will 
sleep :  30 

Thetis  baptized  her  mortal   son  in   Styx ; 

A    mortal    mother    would    on    Lethe    fix. 

Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 
Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land. 

And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line :  33 

I   don't   pretend   that    I    quite   understand 

My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine ; 
But  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  nothing  planned 

Unless   it   were  to   be  a  moment  merry, 

A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary.  40 

To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime. 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic : 

Pulci  was   sire   of  the  half-serious   rhyme. 
Who  sang  when  chivalry  was  more  Quix- 
otic, 

And  reveled  in  the  fancies  of  the  time,      45 
True   knights,   chaste  dames,   huge   giants, 
kings    despotic ; 

But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

I  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 

How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know ; 

Perhaps  no  better  than  they  have  treated 
me  50 

Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 
Not  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  wished 
to    see : 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so ; 
This    is    a   liberal    age,    and   thoughts    are 
free: 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me   by  the  ear,  ss 
And   tells   me   to   resume   my   story   here. 


Now    pillowed    cheek    to    cheek,    in    loving 
sleep, 
Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 
A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep. 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook      60 
Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his   frame  would 
creep ; 
And  Haidee's  sweet  lips  murmured  like  a 
brook 


DON  JUAN 


A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirred  with  her  dream,  as  rose-leaves  with 
the  air; 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream  6s 
Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 

Walks  o'er  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream. 
The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind  — 

O'erpowering  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 
Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can 
bind ;  70 

Strange  state  of  being!   (for  'tis  still  to  be) 

Senseless   to    feel,    and   with    sealed    eyes    to 
see. 

She    dreamed    of    being    alone    on    the    sea- 
shore, 
Chained  to  a  rock ;  she  knew  not  how,  but 
stir 

She  could  not   from  the  spot,  and  the  loud 
roar  75 

Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threat- 
ening her ; 

And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seemed  to  pour, 
I  Until  she  sobbed  for  breath,  and  soon  they 

were 

Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,   so   fierce   and 
high  — 

Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not 
die.  80 

Anon  —  she    was    released ;    and    then    she 
strayed 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding 
feet, 
And  stumbled  almost  every  step   she  made : 
And    something    rolled    before    her    in    a 
sheet, 
Which  she  must  still  pursue,  howe'er  afraid  ; 
'T   was   white   and   indistinct,   nor   stopped 
to  "meet  86 

Her  glance  or  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and 

grasped, 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasped. 


The  dream  changed :  —  in  a  cave  she  stood, 
its  walls 
Were  hung  with  marble  icicles :  the  work 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls,  91 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might 
breed  and  lurk; 
Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 
Of  her  black  eyes  seemed  turned  to  tears, 
and  mirk 
The    sharp    rocks    looked    below    each    drop 
they  caught,  95 

Which     froze    to    marble    as    it     fell  —  she 
thought. 


I 


And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless,  at  her  feet. 
Pale  as  the  foam  that  frothed  on  his  dead 
brow. 
Which    she   essayed   in   vain    to   clear    (how 
sweet 
Were    once    her    cares,    how    idle    seemed 
they  now!)  100 

Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 
Of  his  quenched  heart;  and  the  sea-dirges 
low 
Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song, 
And   that   brief   dream   appeared   a   life   too 
long. 

And    gazing   on    the   dead,    she    thought    his 
face  10s 

Faded,  or  altered  into  something  new  — 
Like  to  her  father's   features,  till  each  trace 
More    like    and    like    to    Lambro's    aspect 
grew  — 
With    all    his    keen    worn    look   and    Grecian 
grace ; 
And  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view? 
O   Powers  of  Heaven  !  what  dark  eye  meets 
she  there?  m 

'T  is  — 't  is     her     father's  —  fixed     upon     the 
pair! 


Then    shrieking,    she    arose,    and    shrieking 
fell, 
With   joy   and   sorrow,   hope   and   fear,   to 
see 
Him    whom    she    deemed    a    habitant    where 
dwell  115 

The  ocean  buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 
Perchance     the     death     of     one     she     loved 
too  well : 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 
It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind  — 
I    have    seen    such  —  but    must    not    call    to 
mind.  120 

Up  Juan  sprang  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 
And    caught    her    falling,    and    from    off 
the  wall 
Snatched   down    his    sabre,    in    hot   haste   to 
wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of 
all; 
Then    Lambro,    who    till    now    forbore    to 
speak,  125 

Smiled   scornfully,   and   said,   'Within   my 
call, 
A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word ; 
Put    up,    young    man,    put    up    your    silly 
sword.' 


6io 


LORD  BYRON 


And     Haidee     cluny     around     liim :      'Juan, 
't  is  — 
'T  is  Lanibro  — 't  is  my  father  !     Kneel  with 
me—  '30 

He    will     forgive    us  —  yes  —  it    must    be  — 
yes, 
Oh,   dearest    father,   in   this   agony 
Of  pleasure  and  of  pain  —  even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can   it 
be 
That    doubt    should    mingle    with    my    filial 
joy?  '35 

Deal   with   me   as   thou   wilt,   but    spare   this 
boy.' 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood. 
Calm    in    his    voice,    and    calm    within    his 
eye  — 
Not     always     signs     with     him     of     calmest 
mood  . 
He  looked  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply; 
Then    turned    to   Juan,    in    whose   cheek   the 
blood  '41 

Oft   came   and   went,   as  there   resolved    to 
die 
In  arms,  at  least,  he   stood  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first   foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might 
bring. 

'  Young  man,  your  sword  !  '  So  Lambro  once 
more  said ;  '45 

Juan     replied,     '  Not     while     this     arm     is 
free ! ' 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with 
dread. 
But  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 
Replied,   '  Your  blood  be  then   on  your  own 
head.' 
Then    looked    close    at    the    flint,    as    if    to 
see  '5° 

'T  was    fresh  — •  for    he   had    lately   used    the 

lock  — 
And   next   proceeded   quietly  to  cock. 

It  has  a  strange,  quick  jar  upon  the  ear. 
That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 

A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 
Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  so ; 

A   gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near. 

If  you  have  got  a  former  friend   for  foe; 

But  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice,  '59 

The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice, 

Lambro   presented,   and   one    instant    more 
Had    stopped    this   canto,   and    Don   Juan's 
breath. 

When    Haidee    threw    herself    her    boy    be- 
fore. 


Stern    as    her    sire :      '  On    me,'    she   cried, 
'let   death 
Descend  —  the     fault     is     mine;     this     fatal 
shore  165 

He      found  —  but      sought      not.     I      hava 
pledged  my  faith ; 
I  love  him  —  T  will  die  with  him:   I  knew 
Your  nature's  firmness  —  know  your  daugh- 
ter's too.' 

A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears, 
And  tenderness,  and  infancy;  but  n(nv   '7° 

She    stood   as   one    who   championed    human 
fears  — 

Pale,    statue-like,   and    stern,   she   wooed   the 
blow ; 

And    tall    beyond    her    sex,    and    their    com- 
peers. 
She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 

A  fairer  mark ;  and  with  a  fixed  eye  scanned 

Her    father's    face — ^but    never    stopped    his 
hand.  176 

He   gazed   on   her,   and    she   on   him ;    't  was 
strange 
How  like  they  looked  !  the  expression  was 
the  same ; 
Serenely   savage,   with   a   little   change 

In     the     large    dark     eye's     mutual-darted 

flame;  '80 

For  she,  too,  was  as  one  who  could  avenge. 

If    cause    should    be  —  a    lioness,    though 

tame : 

Her   father's  blood,  before  her   father's   face 

Boiled  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and  '85 
Their    stature    differing    but    in    sex    and 
years ; 
Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand 

There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood 
wears ; 
And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 

In  fixed  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears,       '9o 
And     sweet     sensations,     should     have     wel- 
comed both. 
Show    what    the    passions    are    in    their    full 
growth. 

The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 
His    weapon,    and    replaced    it;    but    stood 
still, 
And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 
■  Not  /,'  he  said,   "  have  sought  this   stran- 
ger's ill;  '96 
Not  /  have  made  this  desolation  ;   few 

Would   bear  such   outrage,  and   forbear  to 
kill; 


DON  JUAN 


6ii 


But  I  must  do  my  duty  —  how  thou  hast 
Done    thine,    the    present    vouches    for    the 
past.  200 

*  Let  him  disarm ;   or,  by  my  father's  head, 
His    own    shall    roll    before    you    like    a 
ball !  ' 
He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said, 

And  blew,  another  answered  to  the  call, 
And,  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led,      205 
And  armed  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and 
all. 
Some    twenty    of    his    train    came,    rank    on 

rank ; 
He    gave    the    word — 'Arrest    or    slay    the 
Frank ! ' 

Then,    with    a    sudden    movement,    he    with- 
drew 
His    daughter;    while    compressed    within 
his  clasp,  210 

'Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew; 
In    vain     she     struggled     in    her     father's 
grasp  — 
His    arms    were    like   a    serpent's   coil :    then 
flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 
The  file  of  pirates;   save  the   foremost,  who 
Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  cut 
through.  21C 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open ;  but 

The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 
The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 
His  own   well   in:    so   well,   ere  you   could 
look,  2J0 

His    man    was    floored,    and    helpless    at    his 
foot, 
With     the     blood     running     like     a     little 
brook. 
From    two    smart    sabre    gashes,    deep    and 

red  — . 
One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 

And    then    they    bound    him    where    he    fell, 
I  and  bore  ^^s 

Juan  from  the  apartment :  with  a  sign. 
Old    Lambro    bade    them    take    him    to    the 
shore, 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail 
at  nine. 
They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until    they    reached   some    galliots,    placed 
in   line  ;  230 

On     board     of     one     of    these,     and     under 

hatches, 
They  stowed  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the 
watches. 


The  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes, 
And    here    was    one    exceedingly    unpleas- 
ant : 
A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods, 
Handsome    and    young,    enjoying    all    the 
present,  236 

Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On     such     a     thing,     is     suddenly     to     sea 
sent, 
Wounded    and    chained,    so    that    he    cannot 

move, 
And  all  because  a  lady   fell   in  love.  240 

Here  I  must  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 
Moved    by    the    Chinese    nymph    of    tears, 
green    tea ! 
Than   whom   Cassandra  was   not   more   pro- 
phetic; 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 
I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic.       245 
That   I   must  have   recourse  to  black   Bo- 
hea : 
'T  is  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious. 
For    tea    and    coffee    leave    us    much    more 
serious. 

Unless  when  qualified  with  thee.  Cognac ! 
Sweet   Naiad   of   the   Phlegethontic   rill! 
Ah,    why   the   liver   wilt   thou   thus   attack. 
And   make,   like  other  nymphs,   thy   lovers 
ill? 
I    would    take    refuge    in    weak    punch,    but 
rack 
(In   each   sense  of  the   word),  whene'er  I 
fill  254 

My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim, 
Wakes   me  next  morning  with   its   synonym. 

I    leave    Don    Juan    for   the    present,    safe  — 
Not     sound,     poor     fellow,     but     severely 
wounded ; 
Yet    could    his    corporal    pangs    amount    to 
half 
Of   those   with   which   his  Haidee's   bosom 
bounded !  260 

She    was    not   one    to    weep,    and    rave,    and 
chafe. 
And  then  give  way,  subdued,  because  sur- 
rounded ; 
Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 
Where  all   is   Eden,  or   a   wilderness. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 

In  marble  fonts;  there  grain,  and  flower, 

and  fruit,  266 

Gush    from    the   earth,    until    the    land    runs 

o'er : 

But    there,    too,    many   a    poison    tree    has 

root. 


6l2 


LORD  BYRON 


And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 
And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's 
foot,  270 

Or  heaving,  whelm  the  helpless  caravan: 
And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 

Her  human  clay  is  kindled :  full  of  power 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth. 
The   Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's 
hour, 
And    like    the    soil    beneath,    it    will    bring 
forth : 
Beauty  and   love  were  Haidee's  mother's 
dower; 
But  her  large  dark  eye  showed  deep   Pas- 
sion's force,  279 
Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a  milder  ray. 
Like   summer's   clouds   all    silvery   smooth 
and    fair, 
Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder,  they  dis- 
play 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air. 
Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way, 
But,    overwrought    with    passion    and    de- 
spair, 286 
The    fire    burst    forth    from    her    Numidian 

veins. 
Even    as    the    Simoom   sweeps   the    blasted 
plains. 

The   last   sight   which   she   saw  was   Juan's 
gore, 
And    he    himself    o'ermastered,    and    cut 
down ;  290 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor, 
Where    late    he    trod,    her    beautiful,    her 
own ; 
Thus  much   she  viewed  an   instant,  and  no 
more  — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive 
groan ; 
On  her  sire's  arm,  which,  until  now,  scarce 
held  295 

Her,  writhing,  fell  she,  like  a  cedar  felled. 

A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure 
dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which 
ran  o'er ; 
And  her  head  drooped,  as  when  the  lily  lies 
O'ercharged     with     rain :     her    summoned 
handmaids  bore  300 

Their  lady  to  her  couch,  with  gushing  eyes ; 
Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their 
store. 


But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 
Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  de- 
stroy. 

Days     lay    she     in     that    state,    unchanged. 

though   chill  —  305 

With    nothing    livid,    still    her    lips    were 

red  : 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seemed  absent 

still; 
No    hideous    sign    proclaimed    her    surely 

dead; 
Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All   hope ;   to   look  upon   her   sweet    face, 

bred  310 

New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seemed  full  of 

soul  — 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the 

whole. 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When   exquisitely  chiseled,   still  lay  there. 

But    fixed     as     marble's    unchanged     aspect 
throws  31S 

O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  forever  fair; 

O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes. 
And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air. 

Their  energy,  like  life,  forms  all  their  fame. 

Yet    looks    not    life,    for   they   are    still    the 
same. 

She    woke    at    length,    but    not   as    sleepers 
wake,  320 

Rather  the  dead,   for   life   seemed   some- 
thing new, 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 

Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 

Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 

Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat,  still 

true,  325 

Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the 

cause. 
For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

She    looked   on    many   a    face    with    vacant 

eye. 
On  many  a  token,  without  knowing  what ; 
She    saw    them    watch    her,    without    asking 

why,  330 

And    recked    not   who   around   her    pillow 

sat: 
Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not;  not  a 

sigh 
Relieved    her    thoughts;    dull    silence    and 

quick  chat 
Were   tried    in   vain    by   those   who    served ; 

she  gave 
No    sign,    save    breath,    of    having    left    the 

grave.  335 


DON  JUAN 


613 


Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 

Her   father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes 
away; 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot. 

However  dear,  or  cherished  in  their  day; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all 
forgot,  340 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay; 

At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain 
be  weaning 

Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful 
meaning. 

And  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp; 

The   harper   came    and   tuned    his    instru- 
ment. 345 
At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp. 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent. 
Then  to  the  wall   she  turned,  as  if  to  warp 

Her   thoughts    from    sorrow    through    her 
heart  re-sent ;  349 

And   he   began   a   long   low   island    song 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall, 
In  time  to  his  old  tune:  he  changed  the 
theme, 
And   sung  of  love;   the   fierce   name   struck 
through  all  3S4 

Her  recollection ;  on  her  flashed  the  dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 

To  be  so  being:  in  a  gushing  stream 
The  tears  rushed  forth  from  her  o'erclouded 

brain, 
Like  mountain  mists,  at  length  dissolved  in 
rain. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief!  —  thought  came 
too  quick,  360 

And   whirled   her   brain   to   madness ;    she 
arose. 
As    one    who    ne'er    had    dwelt    among    the 
sick. 
And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes; 
But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek. 
Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its 
close :  —  365 

Hers  was  a  frenzy  which  disdained  to  rave, 
i       Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to 
save. 

Yet  she  betrayed  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense; 
Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father's 
face. 

Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  in- 
tense 370 


She   gazed,   but   none    she    ever   could   re- 
trace. 
Food  she  refused,  and  raiment ;  no  pretence 
Availed     for    either;    neither    change    of 
place. 
Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give 

her 
Senses    to    sleep  —  the    power    seemed    gone 
forever.  37s 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus; 
at   last, 
Without   a   groan,   or   sigh,   or   glance,   to 
show 
A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  past: 
And  they  who  watched  her  nearest,  could 
not  know  379 

The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her    sweet    face    into    shadow,    dull    and 
slow, 
Glazed    o'er    her    eyes  —  the    beautiful,    the 

black  — 
Oh!  to  possess  such  luster  —  and  then  lack! 

Thus  lived  —  thus  died  she;  never  more  on 

her 
Shall    sorrow    light,    or    shame.     She    was 

not  made  385 

Through  years   or  moons  the   inner   weight 

to  bear. 
Which  colder  hearts   endure  till   they  are 

laid 
By    age    in    earth ;    her    days    and    pleasures 

were 
Brief    but    delightful  —  such    as    had    not 

stayed  389 

Long  with  her  destiny;  but  she  sleeps  well 
By    the    sea-shore,    whereon    she    loved    to 

dwell. 

The  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare. 
Its    dwellings    down,    its    tenants    passed 
away ; 
None   but    her   own   and    father's   grave    is 
there,  394 

And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay: 
Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair. 
No  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to 
say 
What    was :    no    dirge,    except    the    hollow 

sea's, 
^lourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades.    399 


(1821) 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  (1792-1822) 

Shelley  was  the  son  of  a  eoiiutry  squire  of  large  means  wliose  utter  inability  to 
comprehend  the  nature  of  his  son's  convictions  was  an  imi)ortant  factor  in  the  hitter's 
history.  At  lilton  '  mad  Shelley  '  became  unpopular  with  the  older  boys  for  heading  an 
insurrection  against  the  school  system  of  '  fagging,'  and  he  had  not  been  long  at  Uni- 
versity College,  Oxford,  when  he  was  expelled  for  circulating  a  revolufionary  tract  entitled 
The  A'ecessity  of  Atheism.  He  was  only  nineteen  when  out  of  fancied  chivalry  he  married 
Harriet  Westbrooke,  a  school  girl  of  sixteen,  much  below  him  in  social  station.  Angered 
by  the  first  indiscretion,  his  father  was  permanently  estranged  by  the  second.  These  two 
children  set  off  for  Dublin,  Shelley  writing  to  a  friend,  '  We  go  to  forward  as  much 
as  we  can  the  Catholic  Emancipation.'  Before  setting  out  for  the  scene  of  destiny  he  had 
printed  an  Address  to  the  Irish  People,  which  he  now  published  by  dropping  it  from 
windows  upon  such  passers-by  as  '  looked  likely.'  Shelley's  ingenuous  faith  that  men 
needed  only  to  be  shown  the  truth  in  order  to  follow  it  was  doomed  to  cruel  disillusion. 
For  two  or  three  years  he  wandered  about  the  British  Isles  pushing  his  propaganda  of 
freedom,  and  prosecuting  irregular  studies  in  philosophy  and  literature.  Ilis  friend  Hogg 
declared  that  a  splendid  library  might  have  been  formed  out  of  the  books  which  Shelley 
left  scattered  about  the  three  kingdoms.  In  1814,  he  separated  from  Harriet  and.  soon  after, 
be  fell  passionately  in  love  with  Mary  Godwin,  daughter  of  the  author  of  Political  Jus- 
tice. The  feeling  was  returned  and  consistently  with  the  tenets  of  all  concerned,  except 
Harriet  and  Shelley's  father,  Mary  became  his  mate.  Two  years  later,  the  wife  whom 
he  had  abandoned  ended  her  life  by  drowning.  How  far  Shelley  should  be  held  culpable 
for  this  unhappy  event  is  a  moot  point  with  his  biographers.  In  1818,  he  permanently 
left  England  for  Italy,  partially  on  account  of  his  health  and  partially  out  of  a  fear 
lest  the  Lord  Chancellor,  who  had  already  removed  from  his  custody  the  children  of  his 
first  marriage,  might  pass  a  similar  judgment  in  regard   to  those  of   the  second. 

In  Italy,  for  more  reasons  than  one  can  pause  to  enumerate,  Shelley's  genius  flowered; 
but  only  four  years  of  it  remained.  Setting  out  in  a  small  sailing  boat  he  was  overtaken 
by  a  squall  in  the  bay  of  Lerici.  A  few  days  later  his  body  was  found  imbedded  in 
the  sand  of  the  shore.  In  one  pocket  of  his  jacket  was  a  volume  of  Sophocles  and  in  the 
other  a  volume  of  Keats,  '  doubled  back  as  if  the  reader,  in  the  act  of  reading,  had  hastily 
thrust  it  away.'  A  narration  of  the  bare  acts  of  Shelley's  life  leaves  an  impression  of 
waywardness  which  is  not  altogether  misleading.  Those  who  were  competent  to  judge 
agreed  that  his  impulses  were  noble  and  high,  that  a  purer  spirit  never  breathed ;  but 
he  suffered  and  made  others  suffer  because  he  would  not  bind  himself  to  the  code  by 
which  society  lives.  To  the  common  run  of  his  contemporaries  he  was  a  fanatical  monster; 
to  many  since  it  has  seemed  that  his  sufferings  and  errors  were  the  fault  of  an  irrationally 
organized  world  and  that  he  himself  belonged  to  a  'crowning  race'  of  which  he  was  'a 
noble  type,  appearing  ere  the  time  was  ripe.' 

All  of  Shelley's  poetry  of  importance  was  written  after  he  met  Mary  Godwin.  Queen 
Mab  (1813)  was  a  frantic  poetical  drama  interesting  only  for  its  revolutionary  doctrines. 
His  genius  first  declared  itself  in  Alastor  (1815),  and  passages  of  great  promise  are 
scattered  through  his  enormous  revolutionary  document.  The  Revolt  of  Islam  (1817).  But 
in  Italy  he  matured  with  astonishing  rapidity.  To  the  year  1819  belonged  Prometheus 
Unbound,  his  totally  different  Ccnci  which  some  critics  regard  as  the  most  distinguished 
poetical  tragedy  since  the  Elizabethans,  and  numerous  fine  lyrics,  including  the  Ode  to  the 
West  Wind.  The  year  1820  was  notable  chiefly  for  its  lyrics.  To  a  Skylark  among  them. 
In  1821,  besides  Epipsychidiow,  Adonais,  and  Hellas,  came  some  of  the  most  poignant  of 
the  short  lyrics.  The  Triumph  of  Life  was  uncompleted  when  Shelley  set  out  to  sea  on 
Monday,  July  8,   1822. 

No  one  can  estimate  Shelley  for  us  but  ourselves.  This  is  true  of  all  poetry,  but  preemi- 
nently so  of  Shelley's  because  it  is  so  preeminently  poetical.  When  it  is  best  it  has 
little  intellectual  content.  We  do  not,  narrowly  speaking,  learn  anything  from  Shelley;  we 
surrender  to  an  element. 

614 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY 


615 


HYMN   TO   INTELLECTUAL   BEAUTY 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  amongst  us, —  visit- 
ing 
This    various    world    with    as    inconstant 
wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to 

flower;  — 
Like    moonbeams    that    behind    some    piny 
mountain   shower,  5 

It  visits   with   inconstant  glance 
'  Each  human  heart  and  countenance ; 

Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, — • 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, —  10 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine 

upon 
Of  human   thought   or   form, —  where   art 
thou  gone?  15 

Why   dost   thou   pass   away  and   leave   our 

state, 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  deso- 
late? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves    rainbows    o'er    yon    mountain 
river. 
Why  aught  should   fail  and  fade  that  once 
is  shown,  20 

Why    fear    and    dream    and    death    and 

birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such    gloom, —  why    man    has    such    a 
scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope? 

No  voice   from   some   sublimer   world   hath 
ever  25 

To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  — 
Therefore   the   names    of   Daemon,    Ghost, 
and  Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor. 
Frail    spells  —  whose    uttered    charm    might 
not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see,        30 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone  —  like  mist  o'er  mountains 
driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent. 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument. 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream,    35 
Gives    grace    and    truth    to    life's    unquiet 
dream. 


Love,    Hope,    and    Self-esteem,    like    clouds 
depart 
And   come,    for   some   uncertain   moments 

lent, 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst    thou,    unknown    and    awful    as    thou 
art,  40 

Keep    with    thy    glorious    train    firm    state 
within   his   heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes  — 
Thou  —  that  to  human  thought  art  nourish- 
ment. 
Like    darkness    to    a    dying   flame!       45 
Depart    not    as    thy    shadow    came, 
Depart   not  — lest   the   grave   should   be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought   for  ghosts,   and 
sped 
Through   many  a  listening  chamber,   cave 
and  ruin,  50 

And    starlight    wood,    with    fearful    steps 
pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our 
youth  is  fed; 
I  was  not  heard  —  I  saw  them  not  — 
When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot  55 

Of  life,  at  the  sweet  time  when  winds  are 
wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 
Sudden,    thy    shadow    fell    on    me ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy ! 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine  — have  I  not  kept  the 
vow  ?  62 

With    beating    heart    and    streaming    eyes, 
even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each    from    his   voiceless   grave:    they   have 
in  visioned  bowers  65 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night  — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 
Unlinked   with   hope  that   thou   wouldst 

free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery,       70 
That  thou  — O  awful   Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give   whate'er  these   words  cannot 
express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past  —  there  is  a  harmony 
In    autumn,    and    a    luster    in    its    sky,     75 


6i6 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or 

seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been ! 
Thus    let    thy    power,    which    like    the 

truth 
Of   nature   on    my   passive   youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply         80 
Its  calm  —  to   one   who   worships  thee. 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,   Spirit   fair,  thy  spells  did   bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 

(1819) 

OZYMANDIAS 

I   met   a   traveler    from   an   antique   land 
Who    said :    Two    vast    and    trunkless    legs 

of  stone 
Stand    in    the    desert.     Near    them,    on    the 

sand. 
Half   sunk,   a   shattered   visage   lies,   whose 

frown. 
And   wrinkled   lip,  and   sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand, s 
Tell    that    its    sculptor    well   those   passions 

read 
Which  yet  survive,    (stamped  on  these  life- 
less things,) 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 

that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings;  1° 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair !  ' 
Nothing  beside  remains.  Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch   far  away. 

(1819) 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR    NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing   fast  and  bright. 

Blue    isles    and    snowy    mountains    wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might. 
The   breath   of  the  moist   earth  is  light,  5 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds : 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight. 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods. 

The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor  1° 

With  green  and  purple   seaweeds  strown : 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 
Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers, 
thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 


The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean  '5 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises   from  its  measured  motion. 
How    sweet !    did   any   heart   now    share   in 
my  emotion. 

Alas !     I  have  nor  hope  nor  health. 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around,  1° 
Nor   that    content    surpassing   wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found. 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround —  25 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure;  — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child,  30 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which   I   have  borne   and  yet   must  bear. 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea       35 

Breathe     o'er     my     dying     brain     its     last 
monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that   I  were  cold. 
As,  I  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone. 

Which  my  lost  heart,  too   soon  grown  old, 
Insults  with  this  untimely  moan;  40 

They  might  lament  —  for  I  am  one 

Whom   men   love  not, —  and  yet   regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall   on   its   stainless   glory  set. 

Will    linger,    though    enjoyed,    like    joy    in 
memory  yet.  45 

(1842) 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND, 
ACT  IV 

Scene,  a  Part  of  the  Forest  Near  the 
Cave  of  Prometheus.  Panthea  and 
loNE  are  sleeping.  They  awaken  gradually 
during  the  first  song. 

Voice  of  Unseen  Spirits 
The  pale  stars  are  gone ! 
For  the   sun,  their  swift   shepherd. 
To   their    folds   them   compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn. 
Hastes,  in   meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they 
flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling. 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard. 
But  where  are  ye? 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


617 


A  train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes 

They   shake    with    emotion, 

by   confusedly,   singing. 

They  dance  in  their  mirth. 

Here,   oh,   here: 

But   where   are  ye? 

We  bear  the  bier 

10 

Of  the  Father  of  many  a  canceled  year! 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing. 

Specters  we 

Old  songs   with   new  gladness,              50 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be, 

The   billows   and    fountains 

We    bear   Time    to    his    tomb    in    eternity 

Fresh  music  are  flinging. 
Like   the  notes   of   a   spirit    from    land   and 

Strew,  oh,  strew 

IS 

from  sea ; 

Hair,  not  yew  ! 

The   storms   mock   the   mountains 

Wet  the  dusty  pall   with  tears,  not  dew 

With  the  thunder  of  gladness.                55 

Be  the   faded  flowers 

But  where  are  ye? 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 

Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours ! 

lone.    What  charioteers  are  these? 

Panthea.                              Where  are  their 

Haste,  oh,  haste! 

21 

chariots? 

As  shades  are  chased, 

Trembling,     by     day,     from     heaven's     bl 

ue 

Semichorus  of  Hours 

waste. 

The    voice   of    the    Spirits    of   Air    and    of 

We   melt  away, 

Earth 

Like  dissolving  spray. 

25 

Have   drawn   back  the   figured  curtain   of 

From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

sleep                                                           60 

With  the  lullaby 

Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened  our 

Of  winds  that  die 

birth 

On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony! 

In  the  deep. 

lone 

A  Voice 

What  dark  forms  were  they? 

30 

In  the  deep? 

Panthea 

Semichorus  II 

The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray. 

Oh!  below  the  deep. 

With   the   spoil   which   their   toil 

Raked  together 

Semichorus  I 

From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

An  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept           65 

Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 

lone 

And    each    one    who    waked    as    his    brother 

Have  they  past? 

35 

slept, 
Found  the  truth  — 

Panthea 

They  have  past; 

Semichorus  II 

They  outspeeded  the  blast, 

Worse  than  his  visions  were! 

While  'tis  said,  they  are  fled: 

Semichorus  I 

lone 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep; 

Whither,    oh,    whither  ? 

We    have    known    the    voice    of    Love    in 
dreams,                                                      7' 

Panthea 

We    have    felt    the    wand    of    Power,    and 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

40 

leap  — 

Voice  of  Unseen  Spirits 

Semichorus  I 

Bright    clouds    float    in    heaven. 
Dew-stars  gleam  on   earth, 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams ! 

Waves  assemble  on  ocean. 

They  are  gathered  and  driven 

Chorus 

By  the    storm    of   delight,   by   the   panic 

of 

Weave     the     dance     on     the     floor     of     the 

glee! 

45 

breeze, 

Gil 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Pierce   with   song   heaven's   silent   light, 
Enchant   the  day  that  too   swiftly  flees,     76 
To     check     its     flight     ere     the     cave    of 
night. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 
Which    chased    the    day    like    a    bleeding 
deer, 
And    it    limped    and    stumbled    with    many 
wounds  80 

Through    the    nightly   dells    of    the    desert 
year. 

But  now,  oh,  weave  the  mystic  measure 
Of  music  and  dance,  and  shapes  of  light. 

Let    the    Hours,    and    the    spirits    of    might 
and  pleasure. 
Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite.      85 

A  Voice 

Unite ! 
Panthea.     See,    where    the    spirits    of    the 
human   mind 
Wrapt  in   sweet   sounds,  as   in  bright   veils, 
approach. 

Chorus  of  Spirits 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and   the   song,  90 

By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along: 

As  the  flying-fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep. 
And   mix   with    the    sea-birds,    half    asleep. 

Chorus  of  Hours 
Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet,       95 
For  sandals  of   lightning  are  on  your   feet, 
And    your    wings    are    soft    and    swift    as 

thought. 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled 
not? 

Chorus  of  Spirits 
We  come  from  the  mind 
Of  human  kind  loo 

Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene,  and 
blind. 
Now  't  is  an  ocean 
Of    clear    emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion; 

From  that  deep  abyss  los 

Of  wonder  and  bliss. 
Whose   caverns   are   crystal   palaces; 

From  these  skiey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hours! 


From  the  dim  recesses  'i' 

Of  woven  caresses. 
Where     lovers     catch     ye     by     your     loose 
tresses ; 

From   the   azure   isles ; 

Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles,  "5 

Delaying   your   ships   with   her   siren   wiles. 

From   the   temples   high 

Of   Man's   ear  and  eye. 
Roofed  over   Sculpture  and   Poesy; 

From   the   murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed   springs  J21 

Where   Science  bedews  his   Daedal   wings. 

Years   after  years. 
Through    blood   and   tears, 
And    a    thick    hell    of    hatreds,    and    hopes, 
and    fears;  125 

We    waded    and    flew 
And   the   islets   were   few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happiness 
grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm. 

Are  sandaled  with  calm,  130 

And    the    dew    of    our    wings    is    a    rain    of 
balm ; 

And,  beyond  our  eyes, 

The   human    love   lies 
Which   makes   all    it   gazes   on    Paradise. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  and  Hours 
Then     weave     the     web     of     the     mystic 
measure;  i35 

From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends  of 
the  earth, 
Come,    swift    Spirits    of    might    and    of 
pleasure. 
Fill    the    dance    and   the    music   of    mirth. 
As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush 
by  139 

To  an  ocean  of   splendor  and  harmony! 

Chorus  of  Spirits 

Our  spoil  is  won. 

Our  task  is  done. 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run; 

Beyond   and   around, 

Or  within  the  bound  '45 

Which  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We  '11  pass  the  eyes 

Of  the  starry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize: 

Death,  Chaos,  and  Night,  >so 

From  the  sound  of  our  flight. 
Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's  might. 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


619 


And  Earth,  Air,  and   Light, 

And    the    Spirit    of    Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fiery- 
flight;  '55 

And  Love,  Thought,  and   Breath, 

The   powers   that   quell    Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall   assemWe  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 
In  the  void's  loose  field  160 

A    world     for    the    Spirit    of    Wisdom    to 
wield; 
We  will  take  our  plan 
From  the  new  world  of  man. 
And    our    work    shall    be    called    the    Pro- 
methean. 

Chorus  of  Hours 
Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song;       165 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

Semichorus  I 
We,  beyond   heaven,  are  driven   along! 

Semichorus  II 
Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain; 

Semichorus  I 
Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce  and  free, 
With   the   Spirits   which  build   a  new   earth 

and  sea,  17° 

And    a    heaven    where    yet    heaven    could 

never  be. 

Semichorus  II 
Solemn,  and   slow,   and   serene  and  bright, 
Leading  the  Day  and  outspeeding  the  Night, 
With    the    powers    of    a    world    of    perfect 
light. 

Semichorus  I 

We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gather- 
ing sphere,  ^^i 

Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  clouds 
appear 

From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not 
fear. 

Semichorus  II 
We    encircle    the    ocean    and    mountains    of 
earth,  178 

And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 

Chorus  of  Hours  and  Spirits 
Break   the   dance,   and   scatter   the   song. 


Let   some   depart,   and   some   remain. 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along, 
In   leashes,   like   starbeams,   soft  yet   strong. 

The    clouds    that    are    heavy    with    love's 
sweet  rain.  185 

Panthea.     Ha!  they  are  gone! 
lone.  Yet    feel    you   no   delight 

From  the  past  sweetness? 

Panthea.  As  the  bare  green  hill 

When    some    soft   cloud    vanishes   into    rain. 

Laughs    with    a    thousand    drops    of    sunny 

water  191 

To  the  unpavilioned  sky ! 

lone.  Even  whilst  we  speak 

New     notes     arise.     What     is     that     awful 
sound  ? 
Panthea.     'T  is  the  deep  music  of  the  roll- 
ing world 
Kindling    within    the    strings    of    the    waved 
air,  196 

^olian  modulations. 

lone.  Listen  too, 

How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under  notes. 
Clear,    silver,    icy,    keen,    awakening    tones. 
Which    pierce    the    sense,    and    live    within 
the   soul,  201 

As    the    sharp    stars    pierce    winter's    crystal 

air 
And  gaze   upon   themselves   within   the    sea. 
Panthea.     But     see     where     through     two 
openings    in   the    forest 
Which   hanging  branches  overcanopy,         205 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss  violet-inwoven. 
Have     made     their    path     of     melody,     like 

sisters 
Who    part    with    sighs   that    they  may   meet 

in    smiles, 
Turning  their  dear  disunion   to  an   isle  210 
Of    lovely    grief,    a    wood    of    sweet    sad 

thoughts ; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 
The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound. 
Which    flows    intenser,    keener,    deeper    yet 
Under   the   ground   and   through   the   wind- 
less air,  215 
lone.     I    see    a    chariot    like   that   thinnest 
boat, 
In  which  the  mother  of  the  months  is  borne 
By   ebbing    night    into    her    western    cave. 
When      she      upsprings      from      interlunar 
dreams,                                                219 
O'er    which    is    curved    an    orblike    canopy 
Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil. 
Regard  like  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass ; 
Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold. 


620 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunderstorm      225 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 
When    the    sun    rushes    under    it ;    they   roll 
And    move    and    grow    as    with    an    inward 

wind  ; 
Within   it   sits   a   winged   infant,   white 
Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright 
snow,  230 

Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost. 
Its    limbs    gleam    white,    through    the    wind 

flowing  folds 
Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 
Its    hair   is    white,   the   brightness    of    white 

light 
Scattered    in    strings;   yet   its   two   eyes   are 
heavens  235 

Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 
Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  poured 
From    jagged    clouds,    out    of   their    arrowy 

lashes. 

Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around, 

With    fire    that    is    not    brightness :     in    its 

hand  240 

It  sways  a  quivering  moonbeam,  from  whose 

point 
A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 
Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they  roll 
Over    the    grass,    and    flowers,    and    waves, 

wake  sounds. 

Sweet    as    a    singing    rain    of    silver    dew. 

Panthea.     And  from  the  other  opening  in 

the  wood  246 

Rushes,   with   loud   and   whirlwind  harmony, 

A     sphere,     which     is     as     many     thousand 

spheres. 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,    as    through    empty   space,    music    and 
light :  250 

Ten   thousand   orbs   involving   and   involved. 
Purple    and    azure,    white,    and    green,    and 

golden. 
Sphere  within   sphere;  and  every  space  be- 
tween 
Peopled    with    unimaginable    shapes, 
Such   as   ghosts   dream   dwell    in   the   lamp- 
less  deep,  25s 
Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  they  whirl 
Over   each   other   with   a   thousand   motions. 
Upon    a   thousand    sightless    axles    spinning. 
And  with  the  force  of  self-destroying  swift- 
ness. 
Intensely,    slowly,    solemnly    roll    on,        260 
Kindling    with    mingled    sounds,    and    many 

tones. 
Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 
With    mighty    whirl    the    multitudinous    orb 
Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure  mist 


Of   elemental    subtlety  ;    like    light :  265 

And   the   wild   odor   of   the    forest   flowers, 
The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air. 
The   emerald    light   of    leaf-cntangled   beams 
Round   its   intense  yet   self-conflicting  speed. 
Seem   kneaded   into   one   aerial   mass         270 
Which    drowns   the    sense.     Within   the   orb 

itself. 
Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 
Like  to  a  child  o'erwearied  with  sweet  toil, 
On   its  own   folded  wings,  and  wavy  hair. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep,     275 
And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving. 
Amid     the    changing    light     of    their    own 

smiles. 
Like    one    who    talks    of    what   he    loves    in 
dream. 
lone.     'T  is  only  mocking  the  orb's  har- 
mony. 
Panthea.     And  from  a  star  upon  its  fore- 
head, shoot,  280 
Like  swords  of  azure  fire,  or  golden  spears 
With    tyrant-quelling    myrtle    overtwined. 
Embleming    heaven    and    earth    united    now. 
Vast    beams    like    spokes    of    some    invisible 

wheel 
Which  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than 
thought,  28s 

Filling  the   abyss   with   sun-like   lightenings. 
And    perpendicular    now,    and    now    trans- 
verse. 
Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and 

pass. 
Make  bare  the   secrets   of  the   earth's  deep 

heart ; 
Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold,  290 

Valueless    stones,    and    unimagined   gems, 
And  caverns  on  crystalline  columns  poised 
With   vegetable   silver   overspread ; 
Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water  springs 
Whence   the   great   sea,    even   as   a   child   is 
fed,  295 

Whose  vapors  clothe  earth's  monarch  moun- 
tain-tops 
With     kingly     ermine     snow.     The     beams 

flash  on 
And    make    appear    the    melancholy    ruins 
Of     canceled     cycles ;     anchors,     beaks     of 

ships ; 
Planks    turned    to    marble;    quivers,    helms, 
and  spears,  300 

,And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 
Of   scythed  chariots   and  the  emblazonry 
Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts. 
Round     which     death     laughed,     sepulchred 

emblems 
Of   dead   destruction,    ruin   within    ruin!  305 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


621 


The    wrecks    beside    of    many   a   city   vast, 
Whose    population    which    the    earth    grew 

over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human;  see,  they  lie, 
Their      monstrous      works,      and      uncouth 

skeletons. 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes:  prodigious 

shapes  310 

Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split, 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  black  deep;  and  over 

these. 
The  anatomies  of  unknown  winged  things, 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust  316 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last 

pangs 
Had  crushed  the  iron  crags :  and  over  these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 
Of    earth-convulsing   behemoth,   which   once 
Were    monarch    beasts,    and    on    the    slimy 

shores,  321 

And   weed-overgrown   continents   of   earth, 
Increased      and      multiplied      like      summer 

worms 
On  an  abarrdoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 
Wrapt    deluge    round    it    like    a    cloak,    and 

they  32s 

Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished;  or  some 

God 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  passed,  and 

cried. 
Be  not !     And  like  my  words  they  were  no 

more. 

The  Earth 
The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  mad- 
ness ! 
The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting  glad- 
ness, 330 
The    vaporous    exultation    not    to    be    con- 
fined ! 
Ha !    ha !    the    animation    of    delight 
Which     wraps    me,     like    an     atmosphere 
of  light. 
And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its  own 
wind. 

The  Moon 
Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer,  335 

Happy  globe  of  land  and  air. 
Some    Spirit    is    darted    like    a    beam    from 
thee. 
Which   penetrates  my  frozen    frame. 
And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
With   love,  and   odor,  and   deep   melody  340 
Through  me,  through  me! 


The  Earth 
Ha !     ha !     the     caverns     of     my     hollow 

mountains. 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting  foun- 
tains. 
Laugh    with    a    vast    and    inextinguishable 
laughter. 
The    oceans,    and    the    deserts,    and    the 
abysses,  345 

And    the    deep    air's    unmeasured    wilder- 
nesses, 
Answer    from   all   their   clouds   and   billows, 
echoing  after. 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.     Sceptered  curse. 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  mufifle  round  with  black  de- 
struction,   sending  3So 
A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunderstones. 
And    splinter    and    knead    down    my    chil- 
dren's  bones. 
All    I   bring    forth,    to   one   void   mass,   bat- 
tering and  blending. 

Until    each    crag-like    tower,    and    storied 
column,  354 

Palace,    and    obelisk,   and   temple    solemn. 
My  imperial  mountains  crowned  with  cloud, 
and   snow,   and  fire ; 

My  sea-like  forests,  every  blade  and  blos- 
som 

Which    finds    a    grave    or    cradle    in    my 
bosom, 
Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a  life- 
less mire. 

How  art  thou   sunk,   withdrawn,   covered, 
drunk  up  360 

By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the  brackish  cup 
Drained  by  a  desert-troop,  a  little  drop  for 
all; 
And  from  beneath,  around,  within,  above, 
Filling    thy  void    annihilation,    love 
Burst  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven  by  the 
thunder-ball  365 

The  Moon 
The   snow   upon   my  lifeless   mountains 
Is  loosened  into  living  fountains, 
My  solid  oceans  flow,  and  sing,  and  shine: 
A  spirit  from  my  heart  bursts  forth. 
It  clothes   with   unexpected   birth  370 

My  cold  bare  bosom :  Oh !  it  must  be  thine 
On   mine,  on   mine ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know 
Green     stalks     burst     forth,     and     bright 
flowers    grow, 


622 


PERCY  BYSSIIE  SHELLEY 


And   living  shapes  upon  my  bosom   move  : 
Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air,  376 

Winged   clouds   soar   here   and   there, 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dreaming 
of: 

'T  is   love,   all    love  ! 

The  Earth 

It    interpenetrates    my    granite    mass,  380 

Through    tangled    roots    and    trodden    clay 

doth   pass, 

Into  the  utmost  leaves  and  delicatest  flowers ; 

Upon    the    winds,    among   the    clouds    't  is 

spread. 
It   wakes   a  life  in   the   forgotten   dead. 
They  breathe  a  spirit  up  from  their  obscurest 
bowers,  38s 


And    like    a    storm    bursting    its    cloudy 
and    with    whirlwind,    has 
caves    of   unimagined 


prison 
With    thund 


arisen 
Out    of    the    lamplei 
being: 
With     earthquake     shock     and     swiftness 

making  shiver 
Thought's   stagnant  chaos,  unremoved   for 
ever,  39° 

Till    hate,    and    fear,    and    pain,    light-van- 
quished  shadows,  fleeing, 

Leave   Man,   who  was  a  many-sided   mir- 
ror, 

Which  could  distort  to  many  a  shape  of 
error, 
This   true    fair   world   of   things,   a    sea    re- 
flecting love ; 

Which    over    all    his    kind    as    the    sun's 
heaven  395 

Gliding    o'er    ocean,    smooth,    serene    and 
even 
Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and  life, 
doth  move,  ' 

Leave  Man,  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  left, 

Who   follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm 
cleft 
Of  rocks,  through  which  the  might  of  heal- 
ing springs  is  poured  ;  400 

Then    when    it    wanders    home    with    rosy 
smile. 

Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 
It  is  a  spirit,  then,   weeps  on  her  child  re- 
stored — 

Man,    oh,    not    men !    a    chain    of    linked 

thought. 
Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not,    405 


Compelling    the    elements    with    adamantine 
stress  ; 
As    the    sun    rules,    even    with    a    tyrant's 

gaze, 
The   unquiet   republic   of  the   maze 
Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  towards  heaven's 
free  wilderness  — 

Man,    one    harmonious    soul    of    many    a 
soul,  410 

Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the 
sea ; 
Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love ; 
Labor,  and  pain,  and  grief,  in  life's  green 
'  grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts,  none  knew  how  gentle 
they  could   be!  4>5 

His  will,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  de- 
lights, 

And     selfish     cares,     its    trembling     satel- 
lites, 
A    spirit    ill   to   guide,   but    mighty   to   obey. 

Is   as   a  tempest-winged   ship   whose   helm 

Love  rules,  through  waves  which  dare  not 
overwhelm,  4-0 

Forcing    life's    wildest    shores    to    own    its 
sovereign   sway. 

All  things  confess  his  strength.     Through 

the  cold  mass 
Of  marble  and  of  color  his  dreams  pass; 
Bright    threads    whence    mothers    weave    the 
robes    their    children    wear ;  4^5 

Language  is  a  perpetual  orphic  song. 
Which  rules  with  Daedal  harmony  a  throng 
Of   thoughts   and    forms,   which   else   sense- 
less and  shapeless  were. 

The   lightning   is    his    slave;   heaven's    ut- 
most deep 

Gives   up   her   stars,   and   like   a   flock   of 
sheep  430 

They  pass    before   his   eyes,   are   numbered, 
and  roll  on ! 

The   tempest   is   his   steed,   he    strides   the 
air; 

And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth  laid 
bare, 
Heaven,    hast    thou    secrets?     Man    unveils 
me;  I  have  none. 

The   Moon 
The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past    435 
From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep; 
And    through    my    newly-woven    bowers, 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 


623 


Wander   happy   paramours, 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who  keep 
Thy  vales  more  deep.  441 

The  Earth 
As   the   dissolving   warmth   of   dawn   may 

fold 
A    half    unfrozen    dew-globe,    green    and 
gold, 
And    crystalline,    till    it    becomes    a    winged 
mist. 
And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue  day, 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the   sun's   last 


ray 


446 


Hangs    o'er    the    sea,    a    fleece    of    fire    and 
amethyst. 

The  Moon 
Thou   art    folded,   thou   art   lying 
In   the   light   which   is  undying. 
Of  thine  own  joy,  and  heaven's  smile  divine; 
All  suns  and  constellations  shower  451 

On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere;  thou  poorest 
thine 

On  mine,  on  mine! 

The  Earth 
'        I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night, 

Which   points   into  the   heavens   dreaming 

delight. 

Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted 

sleep;  457 

As  a  youth   lulled  in   love-dreams   faintly 

sighing, 
Under   the    shadows    of   his   beauty   lying, 
Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and 
warmth  doth  keep.  460 

The  Moon 
As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse, 
When    soul    meets    soul    on    lovers'    lips. 
High    hearts    are    calm,    and    brightest    eyes 
are  dull ; 
So    when    thy    shadow    falls   on   me. 
Then   am    I    mute   and    still,   by   thee    46s 
Covered :    of   thy   love,   Orb   most  beautiful. 
Full,  oh,  too  full! 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun, 

Brightest  world  of  many  a  one; 

Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest  47° 

With  a  light  which  is  divinest 

Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 

To  whom  light  and  life  is  given; 

I,  thy  crystal  paramour, 

Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power  475 


Like  the  polar  Paradise, 

Magnet-like    of    lovers'    eyes; 

L  a  most  enamored  maiden 

Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 

With  the  pleasure  of  her  love,  480 

Maniac-like  around   thee  move 

Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride, 

On  thy  form   from  every  side 

Like  a  Maenad,  round  the  cup 

Which   Agave   lifted   up  48s 

In  the  weird  Cadmeian   forest. 

Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 

I  must  hurry,  whirl  and   follow 

Through   the  heavens   wide  and   hollow. 

Sheltered   by   the   warm   embrace  490 

Of  thy  soul   from  hungry  space. 

Drinking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

Beauty,  majesty,  and  might. 

As  a  lover  or  chameleon 

Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon,  495 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Glows    like    solid   amethyst  soo 

Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds. 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

The   Earth 
And  the  weak  day  weeps 

That  it  should  be   so.  5os 

Oh,  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  light 
Soothing    the    seaman,    borne    the    summer 
night. 
Through  isles   for   ever  calm ; 
Oh,      gentle     Moon,     thy     crystal      accents 
pierce  5«o 

The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 
Charming   the   tiger   joy,    whose   tramplings 
fierce 
Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 
Panthea.     I  rise  as  from  a  bath  of  spark- 
ling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks,  51s 
Out   of   the   stream   of   sound. 

lone.  Ah   me !    sweet   sister, 

The  stream  of  sound  has  ebbed  away  from 

us. 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave. 
Because  your  words   fall  like  the  clear,  soft 
dew  5^0 

Shaken  from  a  bathing  wood-nymph's  limbs 
and  hair. 
Panthea.     Peace !  peace !     A  mighty  Pow- 
er, which  is  as  darkness. 
Is  rising  out  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky 


624 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Is  showered  like  night,  and   from  within  the 
air 

Bursts,    like    eclipse    which    had    been    gath- 
ered  up  525 

Into   the   pores   of   sunlight:    the   bright   vis- 
ions, 

Wherein  the  singing  spirits  rode  and  shone, 

Gleam   like  pale   meteors   through   a   watery 
night. 
lone.     There    is    a    sense    of    words    upon 

mine  ear. 
Panthca.     An  universal  sound  like  words: 
Oh,  list!  530 

Dcmogorgon 
Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul, 

Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and   harmonies, 
Beautiful  orb!  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 
The   love  which  paves  thy  path   along  the 
skies :  S34 

The  Earth 
I  hear:  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 

Demogorgon 
Thou,    Moon,    which    gazest    on   the   nightly 
Earth 
With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee  ; 
Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the  swift 
birth 
Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony: 

The   Moon 
I  hear:    I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee!     540 

Demogorgon 
Ye   kings   of    suns   and   stars.    Demons    and 
Gods, 
Ethereal   Dominations,   who   possess 
Elysian,   windless,    fortunate   abodes 
Beyond   Heaven's  constellated  wilderness : 

A    Voice    from    above 
Our   great    Republic    hears,    we   are   blest, 
and  bless. 

Deynogorgon 
Ye   happy   dead,    whom    beams   of   brightest 
verse 
Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colors  to  portray. 
Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 
Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered  — 

A   Voice  from   beneath 

Or    as    they 

Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass 

away.  551 


Demogorgon 
Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 
From   man's  high  mind   even   to  the   cen- 
tral stone 
Of   sullen   lead;    from   PIcaven's   star-fretlcd 
domes 
To  the  dull   weed   some   sea-worm  battens 
on :  5.S.S 

A   confused   Voice 
We  hear  :   thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

Demogorgon 
Spirits,    whose    homes    are    flesh :    ye    beasts 
and  birds, 
Ye   worms,  and   fish  ;   ye  living  leaves  and 
buds ; 
Lightning     and     wind ;     and     ye     untamable 
herds, 
Meteors    and    mists,    which    throng    air's 
solitudes: —  560 

A   Voice 
Thy    voice    to    us    is    wind    among    still 
woods. 

Demogorgon 
Man,  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave;         j 
A  dupe  and  a  deceiver;  a  decay;  ' 

A  traveler  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
Through   the   dim   night  of  this  immortal 
day:  565 

All 
Speak;  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass 
away. 

Demogorgon 
This    is    the    day,    which    down    the    void 

abysm 
At      the      Earth-horn's      spell      yawns      for 

Heaven's  despotism. 
And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through 

the  deep: 
Love,     from    its    awful    throne    of    patient 

power  570 

In    the    wise    heart,     from    the    last    giddy 

hour 
Of    dead    endurance,    from    the    slippery, 

steep,  \ 

And     narrow     verge     of     crag-like     agony, 

springs 
.\nd   folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,    Virtue,     Wisdom,    and     Endur- 
ance, 575 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


625 


These   are   the   seals   of   that   most   firm   as- 
surance 
Which    bars    the    pit    over    Destruction's 
strength  ; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother    of    many    acts    and    hours,    should 
free 
The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with  his 
length ;  580 

These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 

To    forgive    wrongs    darker    than    death    or 
night ; 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ; 

To   love,  and  bear;   to  hope  till   Hope   cre- 
ates 586 

From   its   own   wreck   the   thing   it   contem- 
plates ; 
Neither    to    change,    nor    falter,    nor    re- 
pent ; 

This,  like  thy  glory.  Titan,  is  to  be 

Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and   free; 

This   is   alone   Life,  Joy,   Empire,   and   Vic- 
tory. 591 
(1820) 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


O,  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 
fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes :  O,  thou,  5 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

[    Her    clarion    o'er    the    dreaming    earth,    and 
fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to   feed   m 

air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill : 


1     Wild   Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
)    Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  O,  hear! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's 
conmiotion,  15 

T.oose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are 
shed. 

Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven 
and    Ocean, 

Angels    of    rain    and    lightning :    there    are 

spread 
On   the  blue   surface   of   thine   airy   surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 
verge  21 

Of  the  horizon   to  the  zenith's  height 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou 
dirge 

Of    the    dying   year,    to    which    this    closing 

night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulcher,  25 

\'aulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  O, 

hear! 

Ill 
Thou    who    didst    waken    from    his    summer 

dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,       30 
Lulled     by     the     coil     of     his     crystalline 

streams. 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day. 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flow- 
ers 35 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them ! 
Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave    themselves    into    chasms,    while    far 

below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which 

wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know      40 

Thy    voice,    and    suddenly    grow    gray    with 

fear, 
And    tremble    and    despoil    themselves:    O, 

hear! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 


626 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 
share  45 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than   thou,   O,    uncontrollable!     If   even 
1  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven. 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skicy  speed  5" 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision ;  I  would  ne'er  have 
striven 

As    thus    with    thee    in    prayer    in    my    sore 

need. 
Oh!  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I   fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!     I   bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 
bowed  55 

One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and 
proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the   forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The   tumult   of  thy   mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone. 
Sweet    though    in    sadness.     Be    thou,    spirit 
fierce,  6i 

My   spirit !     Be   thou   me,   impetuous   one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like    withered    leaves    to    quicken    a    new 

birth ! 
And,   by  the   incantation   of   this   verse,       65 

Scatter,   as    from    an    unextinguished   hearth 
Ashes   and    sparks,    my   words    among   man- 
kind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !     O,  wind, 
If    Winter    comes,    can    Spring    be    far    be- 
hind ?  70 
(1820) 


THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 

And  the  stars  arc  shining  bright : 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  5 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Hath   led   me  —  who  knows  how? 

To  thy  chamber  wmdow.  Sweet ! 


The  wandering  airs  they   faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
The   Cbami)ak   odors   fail 
Like   sweet   ihoughls   in   a   dream; 
The   nightingale's   complaint. 
It  dies  upon   her  heart;  — 
As   I   must  on  thine, 
O!  beloved  as  thou  art  I 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

1  die!     I   faint!     I   fail! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and   white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ;  — 
Oh !  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

(1822) 


THE  CLOUD 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flow- 
ers. 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In   their   noon-day  dreams. 
From   my   wings   are   shaken   the   dews   that 
waken  5 

The   sweet  buds  every  one. 
When     rocked    to    rest    on     their    mother's      ^ 
breast,  | 

As   she   dances   about   the   sun.  ' 

I   wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,         10 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And   their   great   pines   groan   aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,         '5 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime    on   the    towers   of   my   skiey   bow- 
ers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, — 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion. 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains.  -6 

Wherever    he    dream,    under    mountain    or 
stream. 

The   Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And    I   all   the   while   bask   in    heaven's   blue 
smile, 


TO  A  SKYLARK 


627 


Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  3° 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  3S 

Which    an    earthquake    rocks    and    swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit 
sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  4° 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden,  4S 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the   midnight  breezes   strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen   feet. 

Which   only   the   angels   hear,  so 

May    have    broken    the    woof    of    my    tent's 
thin   roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden   bees, 
When    I    widen    the    rent    in    my    wind-built 
tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on 
high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;  6° 

The  volcanoes   are   dim,   and   the   stars   reel 

and  swim, 

When   the   whirlwinds   my  banner   unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
j      The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 
With   hurricane,   fire,   and   snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to 
my  chair, 
Is   the   million-colored   bow ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove. 
While   the   moist   earth   was   laughing  be- 
low. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores ;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 


For  after  the  rain  when,  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  con- 
vex gleams 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  ram. 
Like   a   child    from  the   womb,   like   a  ghost 
from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

(1820) 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird   thou    never   wert. 
That   from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest   thy   full   heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.     S 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From   the   earth    thou    springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever 
singest.  10 

In   the  golden   lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  be- 
gun. IS 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In   the   broad   day-light 
Thou   art  unseen,   but  yet   I   hear  thy  shrill 
delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air  ^6 

With   thy   voice   is   loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From    one    lonely   cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 
is  overflowed.  30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 
What    is    most    like   thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 


628                                         PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

As    from    thy    presence    showers    a    rain    of 

Languor  cannot  be  — 

melody.                                              35 

Shadow    of   annoyance 
Never   came    near   thee: 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

Thou    lovest  —  but    ne'er    knew    love's    sad 

In  the   hght  of  thought, 

satiety. 

80 

Singing  hymns   unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 

Waking  or  asleep. 

To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 

not :                                                      40 

Things   more   true  and   deep 
Than    we    mortals    dream, 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such 

a  crys- 

In  a  palace  tower, 

tal  stream? 

85 

Soothing   her    love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

We  look  before  and  after 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 

And  pine   for  what  is  not: 

her  bower:                                       45 

Our  sinccrest  laughter 

With   some  pain   is   fraught ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

Our    sweetest    songs   are   those   that 

tell    of 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 

saddest   thought. 

90 

Scattering    unbeholden 

Its  aerial   hue 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen 

Hate,    and   pride,   and    fear; 

it   from  the   view:                            so 

If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear. 

Like  a   rose   embowered 

I    know    not    how    thy   joy    we    ever 

should 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 

come  near. 

95 

By  warm  winds  deflowered. 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Better  than  all  measures 

Makes    faint    with    too    much    sweet    these 

Of   delightful   sound  — 

heavy-winged    thieves.                   55 

Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are   found  — 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner 

of  the 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 

ground ! 

100 

Rain-awakened  flowers. 

All    that    ever   was 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth 

That  thy  brain  must  know. 

surpass.                                              60 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 

Teach  us,   sprite  or  bird, 

The  world  should  listen  then  —  as  I 

am  lis- 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 

tening  now. 

105 

I   have    never   heard 

(1820) 

Praise  of   love  or   wine 

That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  di- 

vine :                                                  6s 

Chorus  Hymenaeal, 

A  LAMENT 

Or    triumphal    chaunt. 

Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 

0  world!  0  life!  0  time! 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hid- 

On whose  last  steps  I  climb 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  be- 

den  want.                                         70 

fore ; 

When  will  return  the  glory  of  your 

prime? 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

No  more  —  Oh,  never  more  ! 

5 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 

What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

Out   of   the   day   and   night 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 

A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 

What   love  of  thine  own  kind?   what  igno- 

Fresh   spring,    and    summer,    and 

winter 

rance  of  pain?                                75 

hoar. 

ADONAIS 


629 


Move   my   faint   heart   with   grief,  but   with 
delight 
No  more  —  Oh,  never  more!  10 

(1824) 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates   in  the  memory  — 
Odors,   when   sweet  violets   sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken, 

Rose   leaves,   when  the   rose   is   dead,  5 

Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone. 
Love   itself   shall    slumber   on. 

(1824) 

ADONAIS 

I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead! 

O,  weep  for  Adonais !  though  our  tears 

Thaw  not  the   frost  which  binds  so  dear 

a  head ! 
And    thou,    sad    Hour,    selected    from    all 

years 
To    mourn    our    loss,    rouse    thy    obscure 

compeers,  5 

And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow !     Say  : 

'  With  me 
Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and   fame  shall 

be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity ! ' 

Where  wert   thou,   mighty   Mother,   when 

he  lay,  10 

When  thy   Son   lay,  pierced  by  the   shaft 

which  flies 
In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She   sate,  while  one,  with   soft  enamored 

breath,  'S 

Rekindled   all    the    fading   melodies. 
With    which,    like   flowers   that    mock    the 

corse  beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of 

death. 

O,  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead ! 
Wake,     melancholy     Mother,     wake     and 

weep !  20 

Yet     wherefore?     Quench      within     their 

burning  bed 
Thy   fiery   tears,    and    let    thy    loud    heart 

keep 


Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 

For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and 
fair 

Descend ;  —  oh,  dream  not  that  the  amor- 
ous  Deep  25 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death   feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs 
at  our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again! 
Lament    anew,    Urania !  —  He    died, — 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain. 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's 

pride,  31 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide. 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed 

rite 
Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  unterrified. 
Into    the    gulph    of    death ;    but    his    clear 

Sprite  35 

Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the 

sons  of  light. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Not    all    to    that    bright    station    dared    to 

climb ; 
And    happier    they    their    happiness    who 

knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night 

of  time  40 

In  which  suns  perished;  others  more  sub- 
lime. 
Struck  by  the   envious   wrath   of   man   or 

God, 
Have     sunk,     extinct    in     their     refulgent 

prime ; 
And    some    yet    live,    treading    the    thorny 

road. 
Which     leads,    through    toil     and    hate,    to 

Fame's   serene  abode.  45 

But   now,   thy   youngest,    dearest    one   has 

perished, 
The    nursling    of    thy     widowhood,    who 

grew. 
Like   a   pale   flower   by   some    sad   maiden 

cherished. 
And   fed  with  true  love  tears,  instead  of 

dew ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew !  so 
Thy   extreme   hope,   the   loveliest   and  the 

last. 
The    bloom,    whose    petals,    nipped    before 

they  blew. 
Died    on    the    promise    of    the     fruit,    is 

waste ; 
The    broken    lily    lies  —  the    storm    is    over- 
past. 


630 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


To     that     high      Capital,     where     kingly 
Death  ss 

Keeps   his   pale   court    in   beauty   and    de- 
cay, 
He  came ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest 

breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. —  Come  away! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay;  6' 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

He     will     awake     no     more,     oh,     never 

more !  — 
Within     the     twilight     chamber     spreads 


apace, 


6s 


The   shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the 

door 
Invisible   Corruption   waits  to  trace 
His    extreme    way    to    her    dim    dwelling- 
place  ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  de- 
face 70 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of   change,   shall   o'er   his   sleep  the  mortal 
curtain  draw. 

O,      weep      for      Adonais !  —  The      quick 

Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought. 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  liv- 
ing streams  7S 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he 

taught 
The    love    which    was    its    music,    wander 

not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to 

brain. 
But    droop    there,    whence    they    sprung; 

and  mourn  their  lot 
Round   the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their 

sweet  pain,  ^0 

They   ne'er   will   gather  strength,  or   find   a 

home  again. 

And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his 

cold  head. 
And   fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings, 

and  cries : 
*  Our   love,   our  hope,  our   sorrow,   is   not 

dead ;  84 

See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his 

brain.' 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise! 


She  knew  not  't  was  her  own  ;  as  with  no 
stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud   which  had  outwept 
its   rain.  9o 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed   his    light   limbs   as    if   embalming 

them ; 
Another    clipped    her    profuse    locks,    and 

threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which   frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  be- 
gem ;  95 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more 
weak; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his   frozen 
cheek. 

Another   Splendor  on   his  mouth   alit,     100 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw 

the  breath 
Which    gave    it    strength    to    pierce    the 

guarded  wit, 
And   pass   into   the   panting  heart   beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music :  the  damp 

death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips ;     los 
And,  as  a  dymg  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold  night 

clips, 
It     flushed     through     his     pale     limbs,    and 

passed  to  its  eclipse. 

And     others     came     .     .     .     Desires     and 

Adorations, 
Winged   Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendors,    and    Glooms,    and    glimmering 
Incarnations  m 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phanta- 
sies ;  ' 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs,       I 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the 

gleam  , 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp ;  —  the  moving  pomp   | 
might  seem  116 

Like    pageantry    of    mist    on    an    autumnal 
stream. 


All 


mto 


he     had      loved,     and      molded 

thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and  sweet 

sound, 
Lamented   Adonais.     Morning  sought     «2o 
Her    eastern    watch-tower,    and    her    hair 

unbound. 


ADONAIS 


631 


Wet   with    the   tears    which    should   adorn 

the  ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay,         125 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in 

their  dismay. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  moun- 
tains, 

And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered 
lay, 

And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  foun- 
tains. 

Or  amorous  birds  perched   on  the  young 
green  spray,  ^i° 

Or    herdsman's    horn,    or    bell    at    closing 
day; 

Since    she   can    mimic   not   his    lips,   more 
dear 

Than  those   for  whose  disdain   she  pined 
away 

Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds;  —  a  drear 
Murmur,    between    their    songs,    is    all    the 
woodmen  hear.  i35 

Grief   made   the   young    Spring   wild,   and 

she  threw   down 
Her    kindling    buds,    as    if    she    Autumn 
were, 
i  Or  they  dead  leaves ;  since  her  delight  is 

i  flown, 

,  For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sul- 

len year? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear    140 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
I  Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth. 

With  dew  all  turned  to  tears;  odor,  to  sigh- 
ing ruth. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious 
pain;  146 

I  Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 

j  Heaven,    and    could   nourish    in    the    sun's 

I  domain 

I  Her    mighty    youth    with    morning,    doth 

!  complain, 

,  Soaring  and   screaming   round   her   empty 

I  nest,  150 

'  As   Albion   wails   for  thee:   the  curse   of 

!  Cain 

I  Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  inno- 

I  cent  breast. 

And    scared    the    angel    soul    that    was    its 
earthly  guest ! 


Ah,    woe    is    me !     Winter    is    come    and 

gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous 

tone;  >56 

The    ants,    the    bees,    the    swallows    reap- 
pear; 
Fresh    leaves   and    flowers   deck   the    dead 

Seasons'  bier ; 
The    amorous    birds    now    pair    in    every 

brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and 

brere;  160 

And    the    green    lizard,    and    the    golden 

snake, 
Like     unimprisoned     flames,     out     of     their 

trance  awake. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and 
hill   and   Ocean 

A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart 
has   burst, 

As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  mo- 
tion 165 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world 
when  first 

God  dawned  on  Chaos ;  in  its  stream  im- 
mersed 

The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 
light; 

All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred 
thirst; 

DifiFuse  themselves;  and  spend  in  love's 
delight  170 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 
might. 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit 

tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splen- 
dor 
Is    changed    to    fragrance,    they    illumine 

death  17s 

And    mock    the    merry   worm    that    wakes 

beneath ; 
Naught   we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone 

which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning? —  the  intense  atom 

glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold 

repose.  180 

Alas!  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal!     Woe  is  me! 


632 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Whence    are    we,    and    why    are    we?    of 

what  scene 
The     actors     or     spectators?     Great     and 

mean  '^s 

Meet    massed    in    death,    who    lends    what 

life   must   borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are 

green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the 

morrow, 
Month    follow    month    with    woe,    and    year 

wake  year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 
'  Wake     thou,'     cried     Misery,     '  childless 

Mother,  rise  '9i 

Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's 

core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears 

and   sighs.' 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's 

eyes, 
And    all    the    Echoes    whom   their    sister's 

song  "95 

Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried :   '  Arise !  ' 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory 

stung. 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the   fading  Splen- 
dor sprung. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that 
springs 

Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and 
drear  200 

The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 

Even    as    a    ghost    abandoning    a    bier, 

Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.  Sorrow 
and    fear 

So   struck,    so   roused,    so   rapt   Urania ; 

So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmos- 
phere 20s 

Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais 
lay. 

Out   of   her   secret    Paradise   she   sped, 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with 
stone  and  steel, 

And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery 
tread  210 

Yielding  not,   wounded   the   invisible 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they 
fell: 

And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more 
sharp  than   they, 

Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  re- 
pel, 

Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears 
of  May,  215 


Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving 
way. 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment 
Death, 

Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living 
Might, 

Blushed    to   annihilation,    and   the   breath 

Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 

Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her 
dear  delight.  221 

'  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  com- 
fortless, 

As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless 
night ! 

Leave  me  not ! '  cried  Urania :  her  distress 

Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and 

met  her  vain  caress.  225 

'  Stay  yet  awhile !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 
And   in   my  heartless   breast  and   burning 

brain 
That    word,    that    kiss    shall    all    thoughts 

else   survive,  229 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais!     I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But    I    am    chained    to    Time,    and    cannot 

thence  depart ! 

'  Oh  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert. 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of 

men  236 

Too   soon,    and   with   weak  hands   though 

mighty  heart 
Dare  the   unpastured  dragon   in  his   den  ? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was 

then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the 

spear?  240 

Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit   should  have  filled  its  crescent 

sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from 

thee  like  deer. 

'  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The    obscene    ravens,    clamorous    o'er    the 

dead;  245 

The    vultures    to    the    conqueror's    banner 

true. 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And   whose  wings   rain   contagion  ;  —  how 

they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow. 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped  250 


ADONAIS 


633 


And     smiled !  —  The     spoilers     tempt     no 
second    blow ; 
They    fawn    on    the    proud    feet    that    spurn 
them   lying  low. 

'  The  sun  comes   forth,  and  many  reptiles 

spawn ; 
He   sets,   and   each   ephemeral   insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn,  ^ss 
And   the   immortal   stars   awake   again ; 
So   is  it   in   the  world  of   living  men : 
A  godlike  mind  soars   forth,  in  its  delight 
Making    earth    bare    and    veiling    heaven, 

and  when 
It    sinks,    the    swarms    that    dimmed    or 

shared  its  light  -6° 

Leave    to     its     kindred     lamps    the     spirit's 

awful    night.' 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain  shep- 
herds came. 
Their  garlands   sere,   their   magic   mantles 

rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent. 
An  early  but   enduring  monument,         266 
Came,    veiling    all    the    lightnings    of    his 

song 

In    sorrow :    from    her    wilds    lerne    sent 

The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 

I        And    love    taught    grief    to    fall    like    music 

I  from  his  tongue.  270 

1 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one   frail 

Form, 
A  phantom  among  men,  companionless 
As  the   last  cloud   of  an  expiring   storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess. 
Had  gazed   on   Nature's   naked   loveliness, 
Actason-like,    and    now    he    fled    astray  -76 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilder- 
ness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged 
way. 
Pursued,    like    raging    hounds,    their    father 
and  their  prey. 

A  pardlikc  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 280 

A  Love  in  desolation  masked;  —  a  Power 

Girt   round   with   weakness ;  —  it   can    scarce 

uplift 

The  weight  of  the   superincumbent   hour ; 

.    It   is    a   dying   lamp,    a    falling    shower, 

A     breaking     billow ;  —  even     whilst     we 

speak  285 

Is     it     not     broken  ?     On     the     withering 

flower 
The    killing    sun    smiles    brightly ;    on    a 
cheek 


The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the 
heart  may  break. 

His    head    was   bound    with   pansies   over- 
blown, 
And    faded    violets,    white,    and    pied,    and 

blue ;  290 

And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress 

cone. 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses 

grew 
Yet    dripping    with    the    forest's    noonday 

dew. 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it;  of 

that  crew  295 

He   came   the   last,   neglected   and   apart ; 
A     herd-abandoned     deer,     struck     by     the 

hunter's  dart. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled    through    their    tears ;    well    knew 

that  gentle  band  299 

Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own ; 
As,  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land. 
He  sung  new  sorrow ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The     Stranger's     mien,     and     murmured : 

'  Who    art    thou  ? ' 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made   bare   his   branded   and    ensanguined 

brow,  305 

Which    was    like    Cain's    or    Christ's  — Oh! 

that  it  should  be  so! 

What    softer    voice    is    hushed    over    the 

dead? 
Athwart   what   brow    is   that   dark   mantle 

thrown  ? 
What    form    leans    sadly    o'er    the    white 

death-bed. 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone,  310 

The     heavy     heart     heaving     without     a 

moan  ? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,    soothed,    loved,    honored    the   de- 
parted   one. 
Let  me  not   vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The     silence     of     that     heart's     accepted 
sacrifice.  315 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison  —  oh  ! 

What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 
crown 

Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of 
woe? 

The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  dis- 
own : 

It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone  320 


634 


PERCY  BYSSHK  SHELLEY 


Whose    prelude    held    all    envy,    hate,    and 

wrong. 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent    with    expectation   of   the   song. 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,   whose   silver 

lyre    unstrung. 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame! 
Live!    fear  no  heavier  chastisement   from 


me, 


3_.6 


Thou     noteless     blot     on     a     remembered 

name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
And    ever    at    thy    season    be   thou    free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'er- 

flow:  330 

Remorse  and  Self -contempt  shall  cling  to 

thee; 
Hot    Shame    shall    burn    upon    thy    secret 

brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt 

— ^as   now. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far   from  these  carrion  kites  that   scream 

below;  335 

He    wakes    or    sleeps    with    the    enduring 

dead ; 
Thou   canst   not   soar  where  he  is   sitting 

now. — ■ 
Dust  to  the  dust!  but  the  pure  spirit  shall 

flow 
Back  to   the   burning   fountain   whence   it 

came, 
A    portion    of    the    Eternal,    which    must 

glow  340 

Through   time   and   change,    unquenchably 
the    same. 
Whilst    thy    cold    embers    choke    the    sordid 
hearth    of    shame. 

Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not 

sleep  — 
He    hath    awakened    from    the    dream    of 

life  — 
'T  is  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife,  346 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's 

knife 
Invulnerable   nothings. —  IVe  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And   cold   hopes   swarm   like   worms   within 

our  living  clay.  351 

He    has    outsoared    the    shadow    of    our 

night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and   pain, 


And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  de- 
light. 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow 
stain  356 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in 
vain  ; 

Nor,   when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to 
burn. 
With    sparklcss    ashes    load    an    unlamentcd 
urn.  360 

He   lives,  he  wakes  —  'tis   Death   is  dead, 

not  he ; 
Alourn    not    for    Adonais.  —  Thou    young 

Dawn, 
Turn    all   thy   dew   to    splendor,    for    from 

thee 
The    spirit    thou    lamentest    is    not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  I 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and 

thou   Air,  366 

Which    like    a    mourning    veil    thy    scarf 

hadst    thrown 
O'er   the   abandoned    Earth,   now   leave   it 

bare 
Even    to    the    joyous    stars    which    smile   on 

its  despair! 

He    is    made    one    with    Nature :    there    is 

heard  37o 

His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet 

bird; 
He   is   a   presence   to  be    felt   and   known 
In   darkness   and  in  light,   from  herb  and 

stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may 

move  375 

Which    has    withdrawn    his    being    to    its 

own; 
Which     wields     the     world     with     never 

wearied   love. 
Sustains    it    from    beneath,    and    kindles    it 

above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 

Which  once  he  made  more  lo  ely :  he  doth 
bear  380 

His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic 
stress 

Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  com- 
pelling   there 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they 
wear ; 

Torturing  the  unwilling  dross  that  checks 
its    flight 


ADONAIS 


635 


To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may- 
bear;  38s 

And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 
Heaven's  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they 

climb  390 

And    death    is   a    low    mist    which    cannot 

blot 
The  brightness   it  may  veil.     When    lofty 

thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall   be   its   earthly   doom,   the   dead   live 

there  395 

And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and 

stormy    air. 

The   inheritors  of  unfulfilled   renown 
Rose     from    their    thrones,    built    beyond 

mortal    thought. 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his   solemn  agony  had   not  400 
Yet     faded     from     him ;     Sidney,     as     he 

fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved. 
Sublimely  mild,   a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved : 
Oblivion,  as  they  rose,  shrank  like   a  thing 

reproved.  405 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on   Earth 

are  dark 
But    whose    transmitted    effluence    cannot 

die 
So    long   as   fire   outlives   the   parent    spark. 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
'  Thou    art    become    as    one    of    us,'    they 

cry,  410 

'  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has 

long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent   alone  amid  an   Heaven   of    Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of 

our  throng! ' 

Who    mourns     for     Adonais?     oh,     come 

forth,  415 

Fond  wretch!  and  know  thyself  and  him 

aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendu- 
lous Earth ; 
As  from  a  center,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference:  then 
shrink  4^o 


Even    to    a    point    w'ithin     our    day    and 

night ; 
And    keep    thy    heart    light,    lest    it    make 

thee  sink. 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee 

to   the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulcher, 
O,    not    of    him,    but    of    our    joy:    'tis 

naught  4^5 

That  ages,   empires,  and   religions  there 
Lie     buried     in     the     ravage     they     have 

wrought ; 
For    such    as   he    can    lend, —  they   borrow 

not 
Glory    from    those    who    made    the    world 

their  prey; 
And    he    is    gathered    to    the    kings    of 

thought  430 

Who    waged    contention    with    their    time's 

decay. 
And    of   the   past    are    all    that   cannot   pass 

away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, —  at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the   wilderness ; 
And     where     its     wrecks     like     shattered 

mountains  rise  435 

And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses 

dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,    till    the    Spirit    of    the    spot    shall 

lead 
Thy   footsteps  to  a   slope  of  green  access 
Where,    like    an    infant's    smile,    over    the 

dead,  44° 

A  light  of  laughing  tiowers  along  the  grass 

is    spread. 

And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 

dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand; 
And   one  keen  pyramid   with   wedge   sub- 
lime, 444 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This   refuge    for   his   memory,   doth    stand 
Like    flame    transformed    to    marble;    and 

beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have     pitched     in     Heaven's     smile    their 
camp   of   death. 
Welcoming    him    we    lose    with    scarce    ex- 
tinguished breath.  450 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too 
young  as  yet 

To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  con- 
signed 


636 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 

Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning 
mind. 

Break  it  not  thou !  too  surely  shalt  thou 
find  455 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest 
home. 

Of  tears  and  gall.  From  the  world's  bit- 
ter  wind 

Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 

The   One   remains,   the   many  change   and 

pass ;  _  460 

Heaven's     light     forever     shines.     Earth's 

shadows  fly; 
Life,   like   a   dome  of   many-colored   glass. 
Stains    the    white    radiance    of    Eternity, 
Until   Death   tramples   it    to    fragments. — 

Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou 

dost  seek!  465 

Follow  where  all  is  fled  !  —  Rome's  azure 

sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are 

weak 
The   glory  they  transfuse   with   fitting  truth 

to  speak. 

Why   linger?   why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 

my  Heart? 
Thy    hopes    are    gone    before :     from    all 

things   here  470 

They   have   departed ;   thou   shouldst   now 

depart ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and   woman ;   and  what  still  is 

dear 
Attracts    to    crush,    repels    to    make    thee 

wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, —  the  low  wind  whis- 
pers near;  475 
'T  is   Adonais  calls !   oh,   hasten   thither. 
No    more    let    Life   divide    what    Death    can 

join   together. 

That     Light     whose     smile     kindles     the 

Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and 

move, 
That     Benediction     which     the     eclipsing 

Curse  480 

Of   birth   can   quench   not,   that   sustaining 

Love 
Which,  through  the  web  of   being  blindly 

wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and 

sea. 


Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors 

of 
'i'iie   fire    for  which   all   thirst,   now  beams 
on    me,  485 

Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath   whose   might   I  have   invoked 

in    song 
Descends     on     me ;     my     spirit's     bark     is 

driven, 
Far    from   the   shore,    far   from   the   trem- 
bling throng 
Whose    sails    were    never    to    the    tempest 

given ;  49° 

The    massy    earth    and    sphered    skies    are 

riven  ! 
I    am   borne   darkly,    fearfully,   afar: 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of 

Heaven, 
The   soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal 

are.  495 

(1821) 


FINAL  CHORUS  FROM  HELLAS 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew. 

The    golden    years    return. 
The    earth    doth    like    a    snake    renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn : 
Heaven     smiles,     and     faiths     and     empires 
gleam,  S 

Like    wrecks    of    a    dissolving    dream. 

A    brighter    Hellas    rears   its   mountains 

From  waves  serener  far; 
A    new    Peneus    rolls    his    fountains 

Against   the   morning-star.  1° 

Where  fairer  Tenipes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a   sunnier  deep. 

A    loftier    Argo    cleaves    the    main. 

Fraught   with   a   later   prize ; 
Another   Orpheus   sings   again,  'S 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso    for    his    native    shore. 

O,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 

If    earth    Death's    scroll    must   be!  2° 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which   dawns   upon   the   free : 

Although  a   subtler   Sphinx   renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise,  ^5 

And  to  remoter  time 


WITH  A  GUITAR,  TO  JANE 


637 


Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies. 

The   splendor   of   its   prime ; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or   Heaven  can   give.  30 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall    burst,    more    bright    and    good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued  : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers,      3S 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease!  must  men  kill  and  die? 
Cease!  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy.  40 

The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last! 

(1822) 


TO  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave. 
Spirit  of  Night! 
Out   of   the   misty   eastern   cave, 
Where    all    the    long    and    lone    daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and   fear,         s 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 
Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap    thy    form    in    a    mantle    gray. 

Star  in-wrought! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day;     1° 
Kiss   her   until    she   be   wearied   out ; 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and   sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long  sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn,  15 

I  sighed  for  thee ; 
When    light    rode    high,    and    the    dew    was 

gone. 
And    noon    lay   heavy    on    flower    and    tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest. 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest,  20 

I    sighed    for    thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me? 
Thy   sweet   child    Sleep,   the   filmy-eyed. 
Murmured  like  a  noon-tide  bee,  25 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst   thou    me?  —  And    I    replied. 
No,  not  thee ! 

Death   will   come   when   thou   art   dead, 
Soon,  too  soon  — 


Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift    be    thine    approaching    flight, 
Come  soon,  soon ! 


(1824) 


TO- 


One   word   is   too   often    profaned 

For   me   to    profane    it. 
One   feeling  too   falsely  disdained 

For   thee   to   disdain   it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother. 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than    that    from    another. 

I   can   give   not   what   men   call   love, 

But   wilt  thou   accept   not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not. 
The  desire  of  the  moth   for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From   the    sphere    of    our    sorrow? 
(1824) 


WITH  A  GUITAR,  TO  JANE 

Ariel  to  Miranda. —  Take 

This   slave  of   Music,   for  the   sake 

Of  him   who  is  the  slave  of  thee. 

And   teach   it   all   the   harmony 

In    which    thou    canst,    and    only    thou. 

Make    the    delighted    spirit    glow, 

Till    joy    denies    itself    again, 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain  ; 

For   by  permission   and  command 

Of  thine  own   Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of   more   than   ever  can  be  spoken; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who. 

From   life  to   life,  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness  ;  —  for  thus  alone 

Can    Ariel    ever    find    his    own. 

From    Prospero's   enchanted   cell, 

As   the   mighty   verses    tell, 

To   the   throne   of    Naples,   he 

Lit  you   o'er  the  trackless   sea. 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like    a    living   meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 

In   her   interlunar   swoon. 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 


638 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


When  you  live  again  on   earth, 

Like  an   unseen  star  of  birth, 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of    life    from    your    nativity.  30 

Many  changes  have  been  run, 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has    tracked    your    steps,    and    served    your 

will; 
Novir,  in  humbler,  happier  lot,  3S 

This  is  all  remembered  not; 
And  now,  alas !  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his, 
In   a  body   like  a  grave;  — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave,  4o 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep  45 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep. 

Rocked    in    that    repose    divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 

And   some   of   Spring   approaching    fast,     so 

And    some   of   April   buds    and    showers. 

And    some    of    songs    in   July   bowers. 

And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree, — 

Oh,  that  such  our  death  may  be !  — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain,  55 

To  live  in  happier   form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star. 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 

And   taught   it   justly   to   reply. 

To   all   who  question   skilfully,  60 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 

Whispering    in    enamored    tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 

For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies  65 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies. 

Of   the    forests   and    the   mountains, 

And    the    many-voiced    fountains; 

The   clearest   echoes   of   the   hills. 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills,  7° 

The    melodies    of    birds    and    bees. 

The   murmuring   of    summer   seas. 

And    pattering    rain,    and    breathing   dew 

And   airs   of   evening ;    and   it   knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound,  75 

Which,    driven    on    its    diurnal    round. 

As    it    floats    through    boundless    day. 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  — 

All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well  80 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before. 


By  those   who   tempt   it   to  betray  85 

These    secrets    of    an    elder   day: 
But   sweetly  as   its   answers  will 
Flatter    hands   of    perfect    skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest,   holiest   tone 
For   our   beloved   Jane   alone.  90 

(1832-1833) 

LINES:    WHEN   THE  LAMP   IS 
SHATTERED 

When    the    lamp    is    shattered 
The  light   in   the  dust   lies   dead  — 

When   the   cloud   is   scattered 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken,  5 

Sweet   tones   are   remembered  not ; 

When    the    lips   have   spoken. 
Loved    accents    are    soon    forgot. 

As   music   and   splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute,  «o 

The    heart's    echoes    render 
No   song  when   the   spirit    is   mute :  — 

No    song    but    sad    dirges. 
Like   the   wind   through   a   ruined   cell. 

Or  the  mournful  surges  '5 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When    hearts    have    once    mingled 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest. 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possessed.  20 

O  Love !  who  bewailest 
The    frailty    of    all    things    here, 

Why  choose  you   the   frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 

Its  passions  will   rock  thee  -^s 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee. 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From   thy  nest   every   rafter 
Will   rot,   and   thine   eagle   home  3o 

Leave    thee    naked   to    laughter, 
When  leaves   fall  and  cold   winds  come. 

(1824) 

A  DIRGE 

Rough  wind,  that   meanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad   for   song; 
Wild   wind,   when    sullen   cloud 

Knells    all    the    night    long; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain,  5 

Bare  woods,  whose  branches  strain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong ! 

(1824) 


JOHN  KEATS   (1795-1821). 

Tbe  parents  of  John  Keats  were  living,  at  the  time  of  his  birth,  at  the  Swan-and-Hoop 
stable  iu  Finsbury,  London.  As  a  boy  Keats  was  a  sturdy  fellow,  with  a  hoi  temper,  loud 
of  lighting,  fond  of  'gold-finches,  tomtits,  minnows,  mice,  tickle-backs,  dace,  cock-salmons, 
and  all  the  whole  tribe  of  the  bushes  and  the  brooks.'  It  was  toward  the  end  of  his  school- 
days that  he  was  set  dreaming  by  Spenser's  Faery  Queen.  He  persevered,  however, 
in  his  medical  studies,  passed  his  surgeon's  examination  with  credit  in  1815,  and 
proved  a  skilful  operator.  But  he  was  excessively  sensitive  to  the  nervous  strain  incident 
to  surgery  and,  also,  he  was  pining  for  a  poetic  career,  '  Like  a  sick  eagle  looking  at  tin- 
sky.'  Early  in  1816  he  met  Leigh  Hunt  and  through  him  numerous  poets  and  artists,  includ- 
ing Shelley,  Wordsworth,  and  the  painter  Haydon.  Shelley  took  a  lively  interest  in  him 
and  attempted  to  show  him  hospitality.  Wordsworth,  whom  he  admired  highly,  is  said  to 
have  chilled  him  by  remarking  after  Keats  had  recited  his  Hymn  to  Pan  for  the  benelit 
of  a  company:  'A  pretty  piece  of  Paganism!'  To  Haydon  he  owed  something  of  an 
initiation  into  art  and  an  opportunity  to  lend  thirty  pounds.  In  May,  1810,  Hunt  pub- 
lished in  his  Examiner  the  sonnet  '  O  Solitude !  If  I  with  thee  must  dwell.'  and  Keats 
had,  so  to  speak,  his  first  taste  of  blood.  He  now  gave  himself  with  increasing  constancy 
to  composition.  His  first  volume  came  in  March,  1817,  and  a  year  later  Endymion.  Chielly 
because  of  Keats's  friendship  with  Hunt,  who  was  hated  for  his  political  opinions,  these 
earlier  volumes  were  sneeringly  reviewed.  Though  Keats  was  indignant,  it  was  by  no 
means,  '  The  Quarterly,  so  savage  and  tartarly  '  that  killed  him.  Partially  from  nursing 
his  brother  Tom  through  his  last  illness  and  partially,  perhaps,  from  inherited  susceptibility 
he  became  a  victim  of  consumption.  A  few  months  snatched  from  the  grave,  harassed  by 
insufficient  means,  '  the  law's  delay,'  and  '  the  pangs  of  disprized  love,'  produced  the  more 
mature  and  discreet  work  which  lies  between  Endymion  and  his  last  sonnet  ('  Bright  Star  would 
I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art'),  composed  on  shipboard  as  he  was  leaving  for  Italy  to  die. 
Brief  as  was  Shelley's  career,  all  his  poems  of  real  importance  were  written  between  his 
twenty-sixth  and  thirtieth  years;  the  corresponding  years  Keats  never  knew.  Yet  his  poetry 
is  far  more  than  the  poetry  of  promise.     Some  of  it  is  '  as  final  as   Shakspere.' 


KEEN,    FITFUL    GUSTS    ARE    WHIS- 
PERING HERE  AND  THERE 

Keen,   fitful   gusts  are  whispering  here  and 

there 
Among  the  bushes  half  leafless,  and  dry; 
The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air,  5 

Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily, 
Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  high. 
Or    of    the    distance    from    home's    pleasant 

lair : 
For  I   am  brimful  of  the   friendliness 
That  in  a  little  cottage   I   have   found  ;       'o 
Of    fair-haired   Milton's  eloquent   distress. 
And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid  drowned ; 
Of   lovely    Laura   in   her    light   green   dress. 
And    faithful    Petrarch    gloriously    crowned. 

Ci8i6) 


ON     FIRST     LOOKING     INTO     CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER 

Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  gold. 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 
Round   many   western   islands   have   I   been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  5 
That  deep-browed   Homer   ruled   as  his  de- 
mesne ; 
Yet    did    I    never    breathe    its    pure    serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 
Then   felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims   into  his  ken;'o 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when   with  eagle  eyes 
He   stared  at  the   Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Looked    at    each    other    with   a    wild    sur- 
mise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in   Darien. 

(i8i6) 


639 


640 


JOHN  KEATS 


From  ENDYMION.  BOOK  I 


A  thing  of  beauty   is  a  joy   for  ever : 
Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness;   but   still  will   keep 
A  bower  quiet   for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet 

breathing.  5 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreath- 
ing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
Spite     of     despondence,     of     the     inhuman 

dearth 
Of   noble   natures,   of   the   gloomy   days, 
Of     all     the     unhealthy     and     o'cr-darkencd 

ways  '0 

Made    for    our    searching:    yes,    in    spite    of 

all. 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From   our   dark   spirits.     Such  the   sun,  the 

moon. 
Trees    old    and    young,    sprouting    a    shady 

boon 
For  simple  sheep:  and  such  are  daffodils     '5 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in ;  and  clear 

rills 
That   for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst     the     hot     season;     the     mid-forest 

brake, 
Rich    with    a    sprinkling    of    fair    musk-rose 

blooms : 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead;     -' 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read : 
An  endless   fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences      25 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The    passion    poesy,    glories    infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light  30 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast. 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'er- 

cast. 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion.  35 

The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys:   so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ;       40 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 


And   run   in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old   forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Pifing  home   increase  of   milk.     And,   as  the 
year  45 

Crows    lush    in    juicy    stalks,    I  'II    smoothly 

steer 
My  little  boat,   for  many  quiet  hours. 
With  streams  that  deepen   freshly  into  bow- 
ers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before    the    daisies,    vermeil     rimmed    and 
white,  so 

Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary. 
See  it  half  finished;  but  let  Autumn  bold,  55 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold. 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,   I   send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness : 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My   uncertain   path   with   green,   that   1   may 
speed  61 

Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

(1818) 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The     hare     limped     trembling     through     the 

frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb    were    the    Beadsman's    fingers,    while 

he  told  5 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed   taking  flight   for  heaven,  without   a 

death, 
Past    the    sweet   Virgin's   picture,    while   his 

prayer  he  saith.  10 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man 
Then    takes   his    lamp,   and    riseth    from    his 

knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meager,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The   sculptured  dead,  on  each   side,  seem  to 

freeze,  15 

Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think   how   they  may  ache   in   icy   hoods 

and  mails. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 


641 


Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
i  And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden 
:  tongue  -' 

I      Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
j      But  no  —  already  had  his  deathbell  rung; 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung: 
I  His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
I  Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  26 
!  Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
I  And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake 
i  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude 
j  soft; 

And    so   it   chanced,    for   many   a   door   was 
wide,  30 

j     From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide: 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed,  35 

Stared   where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 

rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise  on   their   breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily       40 
The   brain,  new   stuffed,   in  youth,   with   tri- 
umphs gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose   heart   had   brooded,   all   that   wintry 

day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 
declare.  46 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And   soft  adorings   from  their   loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night       50 
H  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
I     As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
I     And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
j     Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
I     Of   Heaven   with  upward   eyes    for   all   that 
'  they  desire.  5S 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Made- 
j  line; 

j     The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She    scarcely    heard :    her    maiden    eyes    di- 
vine, 
Fixed   on   the   floor,   saw   many   a   sweeping 

train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all:  in  vain    <>o 
41 


Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 

And  back  retired ;  not  cooled  by  high  dis- 
dain, 

P)Ut  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  other- 
where : 

She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless 
eyes,  65 

Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 
short : 

The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she 
sighs 

Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  re- 
sort 

Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 

'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and 
scorn,  7Q 

Hoodwinked  with   faery  fancy ;   all   amort. 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 

And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 
morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She    lingered    still.     Meantime,    across    the 
moors,  75 

Had  come  young   Porphyro,  with   heart   on 

fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed   from   moonlight,   stands   he,   and 

implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours,  80 
That    he    might    gaze    and    worship    all    un- 
seen ; 
Perchance     speak,     kneel,     touch,     kiss  —  in 
sooth  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will   storm  his   heart,   Love's   fev'rous  cita- 
del :  8s 
For    him,    those    chambers    held    barbarian 

hordes. 
Hyena   foemen,  and  hot-blooded   lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage:  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion   foul,        90 
Save   one   old    beldame,    weak   in   body   and 
in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To    where    he    stood,    hid    from    the    torch's 

flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond        95 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland: 


642 


JOHN  KEATS 


He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,    'Mercy,    Porphyro !    hie    ihee    from 

this  place ; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race!  »oo 

Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish  Hil- 

debrand  ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 

land : 
Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 

whit 
More    tame    for   his   gray   hairs  — Alas   me! 

fiit!  i°S 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away.' — '  Ah,  Gossip  dear. 
We  're   safe   enough ;   here  in  this  armchair 

sit. 
And  tell  me  how  ' — '  Good  Saints !  not  here, 

not  here; 
'Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 

be  thy  bier.' 

He     followed     through     a     lowly     arched 

way,  "° 

Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 

And     as     she     muttered     '  Well-a  —  well-a- 

day!' 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
'  Now  tell  me   where  is   Madeline,'   said  he, 
'O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom       116 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When    they    St.    Agnes'    wool    are    weaving 
piously.' 

'St.  Agnes!     Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days:       120 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And    be    liege-lord    of    all    the    Elves    and 

Fays, 
To  venture  so;  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's    help!     my    lady     fair    the    conjurer 

plays  '^5 

This  very  night;  good  angels  her  deceive! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to 

grieve.' 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone       >3o 
Who    keepcth    closed    a    wond'rous    riddle- 
book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But   soon  his   eyes  grew  brilliant,   when   she 
told 


His    lady's    purpose ;    and    he    scarce    could 

brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments 

cold,  '35 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden    a    thought    came    like    a    full-blown 

rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple   riot:   then   doth   he   propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start: 
'A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art:  '4' 

Sweet    lady,    let    her    pray,    and    sleep,    and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From    wicked    men    like    thee.     Go,    go !  — 

I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem.'  145 

'  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear,' 
Quoth  Porphyro :  '  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 

prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face:  iso 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,    with    horrid    shout,    my     foemen's 

ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged 

than  wolves  and  bears.' 

'  Ah !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A     poor,     weak,    palsy-stricken     churchyard 

thing,  156 

Whose    passing-bell    may    ere    the    midnight 

toll; 
Whose    prayers    for    thee,    each    morn    and 

evening. 
Were    never    missed.'     Thus    plaining,    doth 

she  bring  i59 

A   gentler   speech    from   burning    Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 


Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him   in   a  closet,  of   such   privacy  '66 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And     win    perhaps    that    night    a    peerless 

bride, 
While  legioned   fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And     pale     enchantment     held     her     sleepy- 
eyed.  '70 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 


643 


Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  mon- 
strous debt. 

'  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,'  said  the  Dame : 
'  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour 

frame  17s 

Her    own    lute    thou    wilt    see :    no    time    to 

spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel  in 

prayer 
The  while:     Ah!  thou  must  needs  the  lady 

wed,  180 

Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 

dead.' 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed ; 
The    dame   returned,    and    whispered    in   his 

ear 
To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast        185 
From   fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The   maiden's  chamber,   silken,  hushed,  and 

chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in 

her  brain.  190 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care,  195 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip   led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
frayed  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ;    200 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died: 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No   uttered    syllable,    or,    woe    betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble,  205 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 
As   though   a   tongueless    nightingale   should 

swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in 

her  dell. 

A    casement    high    and    triple    arched    there 

was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries  210 


Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass. 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  de- 
vice. 

Innumerable  of  stains  and   splendid  dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-mouth's  deep-damasked 
wings ; 

And  in  the  midst,  'niong  thousand  herald- 
ries, 215 

And  twilight   saints,   and   dim   emblazonings, 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of 
queens    and    kings. 

Full    on    this    casement    shone    the    wintry 

moon, 
And   threw   warm  gules   on   Madeline's    fair 

breast. 
As  down  she  knelt   for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon ;  220 

Rose-bloom     fell     on     her    hands,     together 

prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save    wings,    for    heaven :     Porphyro    grew 

faint:  225 

She   knelt,    so   pure   a   thing,    so    free    from 

mortal    taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  degrees  230 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees; 
Half-hidden,   like  a   mermaid   in   seaweed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm 
is  fled.  235 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she 
lay. 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  op- 
pressed 

Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day  ;  240 

Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 

Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 
pray; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 

As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 
again. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced,  245 
Porphyro  gazed   upon   her  empty  dress. 


644 


JOHN  KEATS 


And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  skimberous  tenderness ; 
Which   when  he  heard,   that  minute  did  he 

bless, 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the  closet 

crept,  250 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness. 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stepped, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo! 

—  how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set  255 
A  table,  and,  half-anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet:  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet,  260 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone:  — 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise 
is  gone. 

And  still   she  slept  an  azure-lidded   sleep. 
In   blanched   linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered. 
While   he   from   forth  the  closet  brought  a 

heap  26s 

Of    candied    apple,    quince,    and    plum,    and 

gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And   lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,   in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one,  270 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :   sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night,  275 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
'  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite: 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 
doth  ache.'  280 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her  dream 
By   the   dusk   curtains  :  —  't  was   a   midnight 

charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The     lustrous     salvers     in     the     moonlight 
gleam :  285 

Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies: 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phan- 
tasies. 


Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, —  and,   in  chords  that  tenderest 
be,  291 

He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In    Provence    called,    '  La    belle    dame    sans 

mercy :  ' 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody;  — 
Wherewith    disturbed,    she    uttered    a    soft 
moan :  295 

He    ceased  —  she    panted    quick  —  and    sud- 
denly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon    his    knees   he    sank,    pale   as    smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep :  i°° 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  ex- 
pelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a 

sigh; 
While    still    her    gaze    on    Porphyro    would 
keep ;  3os 

Who  knelt,   with  joined   hands   and   piteous 

eye. 
Fearing   to   move   or    speak,    she   looked    so 
dreamingly. 

'  Ah,  Porphyro ! '  said  she,  '  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ;  310 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear: 
How    changed    thou    art!    how    pallid,    chill, 

and   drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those    looks    immortal,    those    complainings 

dear ! 
Oh,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe,        31s 
For   if   thou   diest,   my   Love,   I   know   not 

where  to  go.' 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen    mid    the    sapphire    heaven's    deep    re- 
pose; 320 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution    sweet:    meantime    the    frost    wind 

blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon 
hath  set.  325 

'T  is    dark ;    quick   pattereth    the    flaw-blown 
sleet : 


ODE 


645 


'  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline ! ' 
'Tis    dark:    the    iced    gusts    still    rave    and 

beat : 
'  No  dream,  alas !  alas !  and  woe  is  mine ! 
Porphyro    will    leave    me   here   to    fade   and 

pine.—  330 

Cruel!  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou   forsakest  a  deceived  thing ;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 

wing.' 

'  My  Madeline !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely 
bride!  33i 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  ver- 
meil dyed? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim, —  saved  by  a  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 
nest  341 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st 
well 

To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

'  Hark !     'tis     an     elfin-storm     from     faery 

land. 
Of  haggard  seerhing,  but  a  boon  indeed:  345 
Arise  —  arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand;  — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed :  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drowned    all    in    Rhenish    and    the    sleepy 

mead;  350 

Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home 

for  thee.' 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At     glaring     watch,     perhaps,     with     ready 

spears —  355 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found. — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A    chain-drooped    lamp    was    flickering    by 

each  door ; 
The  arras,   rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and 

hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ;  360 
And  the  long  carpets   rose  along  the  gusty 

floor. 

They    glide,    like    phantoms,    into    the    wide 

hall; 
Like    phantoms,    to    the    iron    porch,    they 

glide ; 


Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side:     365 
The    wakeful    bloodhound    rose,    and    shook 

his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide :  — 
The     chains     lie     silent     on     the     footworn 

stones ;  — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 

groans.  37° 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That    night    the    Baron    dreamt    of    many   a 

woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and 

form 
Of    witch,    and    demon,    and    large    coffin- 
worm,  375 
Were   long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the   old 
Died   palsy-twitched,   with   meager    face   de- 
form ; 
The   Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes 
cold. 

(1820) 


ODE 

Bards   of   Passion   and   of   Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived   in    regions   new? 
Yes,  and  those  of   heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed   by  none  but    Dian's    fawns; 
Underneath    large   blue-bells   tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented. 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 
But  divine   melodious  truth ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth; 
Tales   and   golden   histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again; 
An  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you. 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying. 


646                                                  JOHN 

KEATS 

Never    slumbered,    never    cloying. 

And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 

Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still   speak- 

Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave. 

To   mortals,   of   their   little   week;             3o 

And  if  Marian  should  have 

40 

Of   their    sorrows   and   delights; 

Once  again  her  forest  days, 

Of   their   passions   and   their   spites; 

She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze : 

Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 

He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks. 

What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 

Fallen  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 

Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day,                     35 

Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas ; 

45 

Wisdom,  though  fled   far  away. 

She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her  — strange!  that  honey 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 

Can't  be  got  without  hard  money! 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 

Ye   have   souls   in   heaven   too, 

So  it  is :  yet  let  us  sing. 

Double-lived  in  regions  new!                    4o 

Honor  to  the  old  bow-string! 

so 

(1820) 

Honor  to  the  bugle-horn! 

Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 

Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green ! 

ROBIN  HOOD 

Honor  to  the  archer  keen ! 
Honor  to  tight  Little  John, 

55 

No!  those  days  are  gone  away. 

And   the  horse  he   rode  upon ! 

And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray. 

Honor  to  bold   Robin   Hood, 

And   their   minutes   buried   all 

Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 

Under  the  down-trodden  pall 

Honor   to   Maid   Marian, 

Of  the  leaves  of  many  years:                     s 

And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan  ! 

60 

Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 

Though  their  days  have  hurried  by. 

Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 

Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 

Sounded  tempests  to  the   feast 

(1820) 

Of   the   forest's   whispering  fleeces. 

Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases.       1° 

LINES    ON   THE   MERMAID    TAVERN 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 

And  the  twanging  bow  no  more ; 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known. 

Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 

Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 

Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill; 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 

There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh,                     '5 

Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 

5 

Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 

To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 

Or  are  the  fruits  of  Paradise 

Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison?     0  generous  food! 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 

Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 

10 

You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon,               20 

Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 

Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 

Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you; 

But  you  never  may  behold 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 

Little  John,  or  Robin  bold; 

Mine   host's    sign-board    flew    away, 

Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 

Nobody   knew   whither,   till 

IS 

Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 

An   astrologer's   old  quill 

Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 

To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story. 

He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 

Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory. 

To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 

Underneath   a  new  old-sign 

Down   beside  the  pasture  Trent;             3° 

Sipping   beverage   divine, 

20 

For  he  left  the  merry  tale 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 

Messenger   for  spicy  ale. 

The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din; 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 

Gone,    the    song    of    Gamelyn ; 

What   Elysium   have  ye   known. 

Gone,   the   tough-belted   outlaw                  3S 

Happy   field   or   mossy   cavern. 

23 

Idling  in  the  '  grene  shawe;' 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 

All  are  gone  away  and  past! 

(1820) 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 


647 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou    foster-child    of    silence    and    slow 
time, 
Sylvan  historian,   who  canst  thus  express 
A    flowery    tale    more    sweetly    than    our 
rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy 
shape  s 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?     What  maid- 
ens loth? 
What   mad   pursuit?    What   struggle  to   es- 
cape? 
What    pipes   and   timbrels?     What    wild 
ecstasy?  Jo 

Heard    melodies    are    sweet,    but   those    un- 
heard 
Are    sweeter;    therefore,    ye    soft    pipes, 
play  on; 
Not    to    the    sensual    ear,    but,    more    en- 
deared. 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not 
leave  is 

Thy    song,    nor    ever   can    those    trees    be 
bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not 
grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy 
bliss, 
For    ever    wilt    thou    love,    and    she    be 
fair!  20 


Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 
Your    leaves,    nor    ever    bid    the    Spring 
adieu; 
And,   happy   melodist,   unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 
!         For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed,  ^6 
I  For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 

I      All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
!         That    leaves    a   heart    high-sorrowful    and 
'  cloyed, 

A    burning    forehead,    and    a    parching 
tongue.  30 

I 

!     Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 
i         To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
I      Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 
And  all    her    silken   flanks    with   garlands 
dressed? 


I 


What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore,       35 
Or  mountain -built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets   for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why    thou    art    desolate,    can    e'er    re- 
turn. 40 

O  Attic  shape!     Fair  attitude!  with  brede 
Of      marble      men      and      maidens      over 
wrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 
Thou,    silent    form,   dost   tease   us   out   of 
thought 
As  doth  eternity:     Cold   Pastoral!  4S 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou    shalt    remain,    in    midst   of    other 
woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 
say'st, 
'  Beauty    is    truth,    truth    beauty,'—  that    is 
all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know.  so 

(1820) 


ODE  TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

My    heart    aches,    and    a    drowsy    numbness 
pains 
My   sense,    as   though   of   hemlock    I    had 
drunk. 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One    minute    past,    and    Lethe-wards    had 
sunk : 
'T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,         5 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness. — 
That   thou,   light   winged   Dryad   of   the 
trees. 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest      of      summer      in      full-throated 
ease.  10 

O    for  a  draught  of  vintage !  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green. 
Dance,    and     Provengal     song,    and     sun- 
burnt  mirth ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,     '5 
Full    of    the    true,    the    blushful    Hippo- 
crene, 
With    beaded    bubbles    winking    at    the 
brim. 

And   purple-stained   mouth; 


648 


JOHN  KEATS 


That  1  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 
unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  for- 
est dim :  20 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What   thou   among  the   leaves  hast   never 
known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 
groan  ; 
Where   palsy   shakes   a    few,   sad,   last   gray 
hairs,  25 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  specter-thin, 
and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sor- 
row 

And    leaden-eyed    despairs, 
Where    Beauty   cannot    keep    her    lustrous 
eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to- 
morrow. 30 

Away!  away!   for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 
Though  the  dull  brain   perplexes  and   re- 
tards : 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night,       3S 
And    haply    the    Queen-Moon    is    on    her 
throne. 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save     what     from     heaven     is     with     the 
breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding 
mossy  ways.  40 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 
Nor    what    soft    incense    hangs    upon    the 
boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith   the   seasonable   month   endows 
The    grass,    the    thicket,    and    the    fruit-tree 
wild ;  45 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral   eglan- 
tine; 
Fast     fading     violets     covered     up     in 
leaves ; 

And   mid-May's   eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  sum- 
mer eves.  so 

Darkling  I  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time 
I    have    been    half    in    love    with    easeful 
Death, 


Called    him    soft    names    in    many    a    mused 
rime. 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die,  SS 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou   art  pouring   forth  thy  soul 
abroad 

In   such  an  ecstasy! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in 
vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou    wast    not    born    for    death,    immortal 
Bird!  61 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down : 
The    voice    I    hear    this    passing    night    was 
heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps    the    self-same    song    that    found    a 
path  65 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick 
for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  : 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed   magic   casements,   opening  on   the 
foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell         71 
To    toll    me   back    from   thee   to   my    sole 
self! 
Adieu !    the    fancy    cannot    cheat    so    well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf, 
Adieu !    adieu !   thy  plaintive  anthem    fades 
Past    the    near    meadows,    over    the    still 
stream, 
Up   the   hill-side ;    and   now    't  is   buried 
deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was   it  a   vision,   or  a   waking  dream? 
Fled    is    that    music :  —  Do    I    wake    or 
sleep?  80 

(1819) 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
Wolf's-bane,    tight-rooted,    for   its   poison- 
ous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale   forehead  to  be  kissed 
By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 
Make  not  your   rosary  of  yew-berries,         5 
Nor    let    the    beetle,    nor    the    death-moth 
be 
Your  mournful   Psyche,  nor  the  downy 
owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 


HYPERION 


649 


For     shade     to     shade     will     come  too 
drowsily, 

And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the 

soul.  10 

But    when    the    melancholy    fit    shall    fall 
Sudden     from     heaven     like     a     weeping 
cloud, 
That    fosters    the   droop-headed    flowers   all. 
And    hides    the    green    hill    in    an    April 
shroud : 
Then  glut   thy   sorrow  on   a   morning   rose, 
Or   on   the   rainbow   of   a    salt    sandwave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Eniprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 
And   feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless 
eyes.  20 

She     dwells      with     Beauty —  Beauty     that 
must  die; 
And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding   adieu ;    and    aching    Pleasure    nigh, 
Turning    to    poison    while    the    bee-mouth 
sips: 
Ay,   in   the    very   temple   of   Delight  25 

Veiled  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 
Though   seen  of  none   save  him   whose 
strenuous    tongue 
Can    burst    Joy's    grape    against    his    palate 
fine ; 
His    soul    shall    taste   the    sadness    of   her 
might. 
And     be    among    her    cloudy     trophies 
hung.  30 

(1820) 

TO  AUTUMN 

Season   of   mists   and   mellow    fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom   friend  of  the  maturing  sun: 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With     fruit     the     vines     that     round    the 
thatch-eves   run  ; 
To    bend    with    apples    the    mossed    cottage- 
trees,  5 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel 
shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;   to   set   budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until    they    think    warm    days    will    never 
cease,                                                     10 
For    Summer    has    o'er-brimmed    their 
clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes     whoever     seeks     abroad     may 
find 


Thee    sitting    careless    on    a    granary    floor. 
Thy    hair    soft-lifted    by    the    winnowing 
wind;  16 

Or   on   a   half-reaped    furrow    sound   asleep. 
Drowsed  with  the   fume  of  poppies,  while 
thy  hook 
Spares     the     next     swath     and     all     its 
twined  flowers : 
And    sometimes    like    a    gleaner    thou    dost 
keep,  20 

Steady   thy   laden   head   across   a   brook; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou    watchest    the    last    oozings    hours 
by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where 
are   they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music 

too, —  2S 

While    barred    clouds    bloom   the    soft-dying 
day. 
And    touch    the    stubble-plains    with    rosy 
hue; 
Then    in    a    wailful    choir    the    small    gnats 
mourn 
Among  the   river   sallows,   borne   aloft 
Or   sinking   as   the   light   wind    lives   or 
dies;  30 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly 
bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing:  and  now  with  treble 

soft 
The    red-breast    whistles    from    a    garden- 
croft  ; 
And   gathering   swallows   twitter   in   the 
skies.  (1820) 


HYPERION 

A    FRAGMENT 

BOOK  I 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far    sunken     from    the    healthy    breath    of 

morn, 
Far    from    the    fiery    noon,    and    eve's    one 

star. 
Sat   gray-haired    Saturn,   quiet   as   a   stone. 
Still    as    the    silence    round    about    his    lair ; 
Forest    on    forest    hung   about    his   head       6 
Like   cloud    on    cloud.     No    stir    of    air    was 

there. 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed   from  the  feathered 

grass, 
But   where   the   dead   leaf    fell,   there  did   it 

rest.  10 


650 


JOHN  KEATS 


A   stream   went   voiceless  by,   still   deadened 

more 
By   reason   of   his    fallen   divinity 
Spreading    a    shade:    the    Naiad    'mid    her 

reeds 
Pressed   her   cold   finger   closer  to  her   lips. 

Along    the    margin-sand    large    footmarks 

went,  '5 

No     further    than    to    where    his    feet    had 

strayed 
And    slept    there    since.     Upon    the    sodden 

ground 
His    old    right    hand    lay    nerveless,    listless, 

dead. 
Unsceptered ;    and    his    realmless    eyes    were 

closed  ; 
While    his   bowed   head    seemed    list'ning   to 

the  Earth,  20 

His  ancient   mother,   for   some  comfort   yet. 

It  seemed  no   force  could  wake  him   from 

his  place ; 
But    there    came   one,    who    with    a    kindred 

hand 
Touched   his   wide   shoulders,   after   bending 

low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it 

not.  25 

She    was    a    Goddess    of    the    infant    world ; 
By    her   in    stature   the   tall    Amazon 
Had    stood    a    pigmy's    height :    she    would 

have    ta'en 
Achilles    by    the    hair    and    bent    his    neck; 
Or   with   a  finger   stayed   Ixion's   wheel.     30 
Her    face   was   large   as   that   of    Memphian 

sphinx, 
Pedestaled  haply  in  a  palace  court, 
When  sages  looked  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh !  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face : 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made       35 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than   Beauty's   self. 
There   was   a   listening    fear   in   her   regard. 
As    if    calamity    had    but    begun : 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had    spent    their    malice,    and    the     sullen 
rear  40 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  pressed  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where    beats    the    human    heart,    as    if    just 

there, 
Though   an   immortal,   she   felt   cruel   pain ; 
The  other  upon   Saturn's  bended  neck       45 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning   with   parted   lips,    some   words    she 

spake 
In    solemn    tenor    and    deep   organ    tone : 


Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble 
tongue 

Would  come  in  these  like  accents ;  O  how 
frail  so 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods! 

'Saturn,  look  up!  —  though  wherefore,  poor 
old  King? 

I  have  no  comfort   for  thee,  no,  not  one : 

I  cannot  say,  "O  wherefore  slecpcst  thou?" 

For  heaven  is  parted  from  tiice,  and  the 
earth  55 

Knows   thee   not,   thus   afflicted,   for   a   God ; 

And   ocean   too,   with   all    its   solemn   noise. 

Has  from  thy  scepter  passed ;  and  all  the 
air 

Is    emptied   of   thine   hoary   majesty. 

Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  com- 
mand, 60 

Rumbles    reluctant    o'er    our    fallen    house; 

And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised 
hands 

Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  do- 
main. 

O   aching   time !    O    moments   big   as   years ! 

All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous 
truth,  6s 

And   press   it   so  upon   our   weary  griefs 

That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 

Saturn,  sleep  on  :  —  O  thoughtless,  why  did 
I 

Thus    violate   thy    slumbrous   solitude? 

Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes?       7" 

Saturn,  sleep  on !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep.' 

As   when,   upon   a   tranced   summer   night, 

Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty 
woods. 

Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest 
stars. 

Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a 
stir,  75 

Save    from    one    gradual    solitary    gust 

Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies 
off. 

As   if   the   ebbing   air   had   but   one   wave; 

So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while 
in  tears 

She  touched  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the 
ground,  80 

Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  out- 
spread 

A    soft    and    silken    mat    for    Saturn's    feet. 

One   moon,   with   alteration   slow,   had    shed 

Her  silver  seasons   four  upon  the  night, 

And  still  these  two  were  postured  motion- 
less, *S 

Like  natural   sculpture  in   cathedral  cavern ; 


HYPERION 


651 


The     frozen     God     still     couchant     on     the 

earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until    at   length    old    Saturn    lifted   up       89 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone. 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And   that   fair  kneeling   Goddess ;   and  then 

spake, 
As    with    a    palsied    tongue,    and    while    his 

beard 
Shook  horrid   with  such  aspen-malady : 
'  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion,  95 

Thea,   I   feel  thee  ere  I   see  thy   face ; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this   feeble  shape 
Is    Saturn's;    tell    me,    if    thou    hear'st    the 

voice  99 

Of  Saturn ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 
Naked  and  bare   of   its   great   diadem, 
Peers   like  the   front  of   Saturn.     Who   had 

power 
To    make    me    desolate?    whence    came    the 

strength  ? 
How    was    it    nurtured    to    such    bursting 

forth. 
While      Fate      seemed      strangled      in      my 

nervous    grasp?  los 

But   it   is   so;    and    I   am   smothered  up, 
And  buried    from   all   godlike   exercise 
Of    influence    benign    on    planets    pale, 
Of  admonitions  to  the  winds,  and  seas,   109 
Of   peaceful    sway   above   man's    harvesting. 
And   all   those  acts   which   Deity   supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in. —  I  am  gone 
Away   from  my  own  bosom :   I   have   left 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self,  us 

Somewhere   between  the  throne,  and  where 

I  sit  115 

Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea, 

search ! 
Open    thine    eyes    eterne,    and    sphere    them 

round 
Upon  all   space :   space  starred,  and  lorn  of 

light ; 
Space    regioned    with    life-air;    and    barren 

void;  119 

Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell. — 
Search,   Thea,  search!   and  tell  me,  if  thou 

seest 
A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
A    heaven    he    lost    erewhile:    it    must  —  it 

must 
Be     of     ripe     progress  —  Saturn     must     be 

King,  125 

Yes,   there    must    be   a   golden    victory; 
There    must    be    Gods    thrown    down,    and 

trumpets  blown 


Of  triumph  calm,   and  hymns   of    festival 
Upon    the    gold    clouds    metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir   130 
Of    strings    in    hollow    shells;     and    there 

shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of     the     sky-children;     I     will     give     com- 
mand : 
Thea!   Thea!   Thea!   where  is   Saturn?'   134 

This    passion    lifted    him    upon    his    feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air. 
His    Druid    locks    to    shake    and    ooze    with 

sweat. 
His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 
He    stood,    and    heard    not    Thea's    sobbing 

deep;  139 

A    little   time,    and   then    again    he    snatched 
Utterance   thus. —  'But   cannot   I   create? 
Cannot  I  form?  Cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another    world,    another   universe. 
To   overbear   and   crumble   this   to   nought? 
Where   is   another   chaos?     Where?' — That 

word  145 

Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 
The    rebel    three. —  Thea    was    startled    up. 
And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope. 
As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of 

awe. 

'  This   cheers   our    fallen   house :    come   to 
our    friends,  iso 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart : 

1  know    the    covert,     for    thence    came    I 

hither.' 
Thus   brief;   then   with   beseeching  eyes   she 

went 
With   backward    footing   through   the    shade 

a  space : 
He    followed,    and    she    turned   to    lead    the 

way  15s 

Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the 

mist 
Which  eagles  cleave  upmounting  from  their 

nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears  were 

shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too    huge    for    mortal    tongue    or    pen    of 

scribe;  160 

The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groaned  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more. 
And    listened    in    sharp    pain    for    Saturn's 

voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood   still 

kept  164 

His    sov'reignty,    and    rule,    and    majesty;  — 


652 


JOHN  KEATS 


Blazing  Hypt-riDii  on  his  orbed  fire 

Still  sat,  snuffed  the  incense,  teeming  up 

From     man    to     the     sun's     God;     yet     un- 

secure : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear     '69 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shuddered  he — 
Not    at    dog's    howl,    or    gloom-bird's    hated 

screech. 
Or  the   familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon    the    first    toll    of    his    passing-bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp;     i74 
But   horrors,   portioned  to   a  giant   nerve. 
Oft      made      Hyperion      ache.     His     palace 

bright 
Bastioned  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold. 
And    touched    with    shade    of    bronzed    obe- 
lisks, 
Glared    a    blood-red    through    all    its    thou- 
sand   courts, 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries;  180 
And   all    its   curtains   of    Aurorian   clouds 
Flushed    angerly:    while    sometimes    eagle's 

wings, 
Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darkened    the    place;    and    neighing    steeds 

were  heard. 

Not    heard    before    by    Gods    or    wondering 

men.  '^s 

Also,  when  he  would  taste  the  spicy  wreaths 

Of     incense,    breathed    aloft     from     sacred 

hills. 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal   sick: 
And     so,     when     harbored     in     the     sleepy 
west,  190 

After  the    full   completion  of   fair   day, — 
For    rest    divine    upon    exalted    couch 
And    slumber   in   the   arms    of    melody. 
He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall ; 
While    far   within    each    aisle   and   deep    re- 


cess, 


196 


His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 
Amazed  and  full  of  fear;  like  anxious  men 
Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops, 
When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and 

towers,  200 

Even   now,    while   Saturn,   roused    from   icy 

trance, 
Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the 

woods, 
Hyperion,    leaving   twilight    in   the   rear, 
Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west; 
Then,    as    was    wont,    his    palace-door    flew 
ope  20s 

In     smoothest     silence,     save    what     solemn 

tubes, 


Blown    by    the    serious    Zephyrs,    gave    of 

sweet 
And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melo- 
dies ; 
And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye. 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence  2" 

Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  entered,  but  he  entered  full  of  wrath ; 
His  flaming  robes  streamed  out  beyond  his 

heels. 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire.     215 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And    made    their    dove-wings    tremble.     On 

he  flared, 
From   stately   nave  to  nave,   from  vault  to 

vault, 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed 

light,  219 

And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Until  he  reached  the  great  main  cupola ; 
There   standing    fierce   beneath,   he   stamped 

his    foot, 
And   from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high 

towers 
Jarred  his   own  golden   region;   and  before 
The     quavering     thunder     thereupon     had 

ceased,  225 

His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb, 
To    this    result :    *  O    dreams    of    day    and 

night ! 
O  monstrous  forms!     O  effigies  of  pain! 
O    specters    busy    in    a    cold,    cold   gloom! 

0  lank-eared    Phantoms    of    black-weeded 

pools !  230 

Why  do  I  know  ye?  why  have  I  seen  ye? 

why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 
To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall?  234 

Am    I    to    leave    this    haven    of    my    rest. 
This   cradle   of   my  glory,   this   soft  clime,  • 
This    calm    luxuriance    of    blissful    light. 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes, 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire?     It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine.     240 
The  blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  symmetry, 

1  cannot  see  — but  darkness,  death  and  dark- 

ness. 
Even  here,  into  my  center  of  repose, 
The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer,       244 
Insult,  and  blind,   and   stifle  up  my  pomp. — 
Fall !  —  No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  ! 
Over   the   fiery   frontier   of   my   realms 
I    will    advance    a    terrible    right   arm,      248 
Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel  Jove, 


I 


HYPERION 


653 


And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again.'— 
He   spake   and   ceased,   the   while   a   heavier 

threat 
Held  struggle  with  his  throat  but  came  not 

forth : 
For  as  in  theaters  of  crowded  men  253 

Hubbub      increases     more     they     call      out 

'  Hush !  ' 
So  at  Hyperion's  words  the   Phantoms  pale 
Bestirred     themselves,     thrice     horrible     and 

cold ; 
And  from  the  mirrored  level  where  he  stood 
A  mist  arose,  as   from  a  scummy  marsh. 
At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 
Crept     gradual,     from     the     feet     unto     the 
crown,  260 

Like  a   lithe   serpent  vast  and  muscular 
Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  con- 
vulsed 
From  over-strained  might.     Released,  he  fled 
To    the    eastern    gates,    and    full    six    dewy 
hours  264 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush. 
He  breathed  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy 

portals. 
Cleared   them  of  heavy  vapors,   burst   them 

wide 
Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The    planet    orb    of    fire,    whereon    he    rode 
Each    day    from    east   to    west   the    heavens 
through,  -270 

Spun   round   in   sable  curtaining  of  clouds ; 
Not    therefore    veiled    quite,    blindfold,    and 

hid, 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,  and  arcs,   and  broad-belting  colure. 
Glowed     through,     and     wrought     upon    the 
mufflmg  dark  27s 

Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 
Up    to    the    Zenith, —  hieroglyphics    old. 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then    living    on    the    earth,    with    labormg 
thought 

I  Won   from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries:   280 

I  Now    lost,    save    what    we    find    in    remnants 

j  huge 

Of    stone,    or    marble    swart ;    their    import 
I  gone, 

I  Their   wisdom    long   since   fled.     Two   wings 

this   orb 
Possessed  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings, 
I  Ever   exalted   at   the   God's   approach :       285 

I         And  now,  from  forth  the  gloom  their  plumes 
I  immense 

!         Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were ; 
While    still    the    dazzling    felobe    maintained 

eclipse, 
Awaiting    for    Hyperion's    command. 


Fain   would   he   have  commanded,    fain   took 
throne  290 

And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but   for  change. 
He    might    not:  —  No,    though    a    primeval 

God: 
The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturbed. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stayed  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  't  is  told. 
Those   silver  wings   expanded   sisterly,       296 
Eager  to  sail  their  orl);  the  porches  wide 
Opened  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 
And   the  bright  Titan,   phrenzied   with   new 

woes, 
Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His    spirit   to   the    sorrow    of   the    time;  301 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds. 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 
He  stretched  himself  in  grief  and  radiance 

faint. 
There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 
Looked    down    on    him    with    pity,    and    the 

voice  306 

Of    Coelus,    from   the   universal    space. 
Thus  whispered  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear. 
'  O    brightest    of    my    children    dear,    earth- 
born 
And    sky-engendered.    Son   of    Mysteries  310 
All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
Which    met    at   thy   creating;    at    whose   joy 
And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 
I,     Coelus,     wonder,     how     they    came     and 

whence ; 
And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they 

be,  31S 

Distinct,  and  visible;  symbols  divine, 
Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
Ditfused    unseen   throughout    eternal    space; 
Of  these  new-formed  art  thou,  oh  brightest 

child!  319 

Of  these,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses ! 
There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
Of   son  against   his   sire.     I   saw   him   fall, 
I     saw     my     first-born     tumbled     from     his 

throne ! 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 
Found  way  from   forth  the  thunders  round 

his  head !  325 

Pale  wox  I  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 
Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom?  vague   fear 

there   is  : 
For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
Divine    ye    were    created,    and    divine 
In   sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturbed,     330 
Unruffled  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and  ruled: 
Now  I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,  and  wrath ; 
Actions   of   rage   and   passion :   even   as 
I    see   them,  on  the  mortal  world   beneath, 
In  men  who  die.— This  is  the  grief,  O  Son! 


654 


JOHN  KEATS 


Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and   fall! 
Yet  do  thou  strive ;  as  thou  art  capable. 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God ; 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal   presence :  —  I  am  but  a  voice ;  340 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 
No    more    than     winds    and     tides    can     I 

avail :  — 
But   thou   canst. —  Be  thou   therefore  in  the 

van 
Of  circumstance;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
Before    the   tense    string   murmur. —  To   the 

earth !  345 

For    there    thou    wilt    find    Saturn,    and    his 

woes. 
Meantime  I   will  keep   watch  on  thy  bright 

sun, 
And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful   nurse.' — 
Ere     half     this     region-whisper     had     come 

down, 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars  35o 

Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide : 
And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  patient 

stars. 
Then    with    a    slow    incline    of    his    broad 

breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas,  355 

Forward  he  stooped  over  the  airy  shore. 
And    plunged    all    noiseless    into    the    deep 

night. 

(1820) 


IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DECEMBER 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green   felicity: 

The   north   cannot    undo   them, 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them; 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted   December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah !  would  't  were  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy 


To  know  the  change  and   feel  it. 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it. 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rime. 


(1829) 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

BALLAD 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms ! 

Alone  and  palely  loitering ! 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake. 

And  no  birds  sing. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms!  5 
So  haggard  and   so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest 's  done. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew,         'o 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast   withereth   too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads. 

Full  beautiful  —  a   faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light,         is 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love. 
And  made  sweet  moan.  20 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long. 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet,  25 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew. 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said  — 
'  I  love  thee  true.' 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot. 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore. 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes  31 

With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep. 

And  there  I  dreamed  —  Ah  !  woe  betide ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed  35 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too. 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

They  cried — 'La  Belle  Dame  sans   Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  1 '  4" 


SONNETS 


655 


I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here,  4S 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing. 

(1820) 


ON   SEEING  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES 

My  spirit  is  too  weak  —  mortality 
Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling  sleep, 
And  each  imagined  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  godlike  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  Eagle  looking  at  the  sky.  s 

Yet  't  is  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep 
That  I  have  not  the  cloudy  winds  to  keep, 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain 
Bring    round    the    heart    an    undescribable 

feud;  10 

So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain. 
That    mingles    Grecian    grandeur    with    the 

rude 
Wasting     of     old     Time  —  with     a     billowy 

main  — 
A  sun  —  a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 

(1817) 


ON  THE  SEA 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 
Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty,  swell 
Gluts    twice    ten    thousand    caverns,    till    the 

spell 
Of   Hecate   leaves  them  their   old   shadowy 

sound. 
Often  't  is  in  such  gentle  temper  found,       5 
That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  moved   for  days   from  whence   it   some- 
time fell, 
When   last   the   winds  of  heaven   were   un- 
bound. 
Oh  ye!  who  have  your  eye-balls  vexed  and 

tired, 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea;  'o 
Oh  ye !  whose  ears  are  dinned  with  uproar 
rude. 


Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 
Sit  ye   near   some  old   cavern's   mouth,   and 

brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired! 

(1848) 


WHEN  I  HAVE  FEARS  THAT  I  MAY 
CEASE  TO  BE 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before    my    pen    has    gleaned    my    teeming 

brain. 
Before  high  piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 
Hold     like     rich     garners     the     full-ripened 

grain ; 
When    I    behold,    upon    the    night's    starred 

face,  5 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their    shadows,    with    the    magic    hand    of 

chance ; 
And     when     I     feel,     fair    creature    of    an 

hour! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more,     10 
Never  have  relish  in  the   faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love!  —  then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

(1848) 


BRIGHT     STAR!      WOULD     I     WERE 
STEADFAST    AS    THOU    ART 

Bright  star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou 

art  — 
Not  in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 
Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of     pure     ablution     round     earth's     human 

shores,  6 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of     snow     upon     the     mountains     and     the 

moors  — 
No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable. 
Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast. 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell,       n 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever  —  or  else  swoon  to  death. 

(1848) 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 

For  lyric  excellence  the  period  of  nearly  one  hundred  years  between  Lyrical  Ballads  (1798) 
and  Tennyson's  Cronsiuy  the  Bar  (1889)  was  as  eminent  as  any  in  our  liistory.  Much  of 
this  excellence  lies  in  the  work  of  the  greater  poets,  all  of  whom,  from  Wordsworth  to 
Tennyson,  Browning  and  Swinburne,  will  perhaps  live  to  after  times  for  their  short  flights 
of  song,  elegy,  idyl,  or  dramatic  monologue  rather  than  by  virtue  of  their  more  ambitious 
work.  Men  of  less  notable  power  than  the  very  greatest  must  particularly  depend,  for 
'  a  perpetuity  of  fame,'  upon  those  brief  pieces  or  passages  where  their  imperfect  or  less 
sustained  genius  gets  for  a  moment  a  perfect,  or  happy,  or  distinctive  utterance.  Literature 
■would  be  the  poorer  without  these  happier  snatches  of  its  less  distinguished  warblers,  and 
the  nineteenth  century  is  peculiarly  rich  in  minor  singers  of  this  description.  One  grace 
of  the  minor  singer  is  his  frequent  recognition  of  his  minority  and  his  contentedness  to 
sing  in  a  light  or  a  minor  key,  leaving  the  'C  Major  of  this  life'  to  his  robuster  brethren. 
If  he  lack  this  self-denial  or  wisdom,  time  will  not  hesitate  to  do  for  him  what  he  fails 
to  do  for  himself.  Thus,  while  Southey's  obese  epics  are  strangling  in  dust  we  can  still  enjoy 
a  ballad  or  two.  Landor,  with  all  his  elegance  and  elevation  may  prove  too  great  a  tax  on 
our  patience  unless  we  can  select  out  a  few  choicely  cut  '  gems  of  purest  ray,'  sparkling  with 
gallantry  and  gracious  sentiment.  There  may  be  little  hope  of  pleasure  in  Campbell's  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope;  but  his  battle  hymns  can  still  bring  a  tingle  to  the  blood  which  has  any 
British  infusion.  The  inimitable  joviality  of  Peacock's  songs  will  tempt  some  to  read  them 
in  their  setting,  his  novels.  Tom  Hood,  for  his  humanitarian  sympathy,  his  tragic  insight, 
and  his  literary  refinement  when  he  throws  off  his  Comic  Almanac  manner,  will  interest 
as  long  as  greater  and  more  fortunate  poets.  The  busiest  of  us  can  afford  to  listen  for  a 
moment  to  the  bubbling  pastoral  music  of  Barnes,  '  the  Dorsetshire  Burns.'  We  need  not 
entangle  ourselves  among  the  fantastic  situations  and  impossible  characters  of  Death's  Jest 
Book  in  order  to  feel  Beddoes'  tuneful  diabolism  ;  we  get  the  essence  of  it  in  his  dirges  and 
oight  pieces.  Not  the  least  interesting  phase  of  nineteenth  century  poetry  is  its  inclination 
vo  plane  away  the  barrier  between  poetry  and  prose  and  approach  the  natural  or  easy-going 
manner  of  colloquial  speech.  This  careless,  '  over  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  '  kind  of  talk 
had  been  introduced  by  Byron  into  his  Don  Juan;  the  tone  is  happily  and  more  innocently 
hit  by  Tennyson  in  Will  Waterproofs  Lyrical  Monologue;  and  is  conspicuous  in  Peacock's 
Jongs  and  in  the  love  poetry  of  Coventry  Patmore.  Praed,  Thackeray,  and  Locker-Lampson 
convey  in  poetry  that  nice  blending  of  frivolity,  light  cynicism,  obscured  sentimetit,  and 
good  breeding  which  characterise  the  gentle  man-of-the-city.  In  Austin  Dobson  there  is  super- 
added a  fragile  renaissance  of  eighteenth  century  '  teacup  times  of  hood  and  hoop,  Or  when 
the  patch  was  worn.'  Most  of  this  poetry  is  tinged  with  delicate  regret  for  the  fresher, 
simpler  and  more  heroic  times  that  are  gone.  The  darker  and  more  terrible  pessimism  which 
is  bred  by  modern  cities  found  a  voice  in  Thomson's  City  of  Dreadful  Night;  the  querulous 
rebellion  of  a  sensitive  but  feebler  artistic  temperament  may  be  heard  in  the  '  Songs  '  of 
O'Shaughnessey.  Of  somewhat  more  professional  scope  than  any  of  these  were  the  poems  of 
Mrs.  Browning,  the  most  Sapphic  of  English  poetesses;  and  Miss  Rossetti's  sad,  sweet 
songs  of  devotion  and  renunciation  are  the  best  of  their  kind.  The  feminine  interpretation 
of  love,  humanity,  and  religion  found  in  these  two  a  more  adequate  expression  than  else- 
where in  English  poetry.  Finally,  the  scholarly  and  sincere,  if  sometimes  harsh,  spiritual 
remonstrances  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  are  most  worthy  to  supplement  those  of  Tennyson, 
Browning  and  Matthew  Arnold. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  (1774-1843) 
THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 


And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in   the  sun, 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 


656 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


657 


Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found ;  10 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large,  and   smooth,  and   round. 

Old   Kaspar  took   it    from   the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head,         'S 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
'  'T  is  some  poor  fellow's  skull,'  said  he, 
'  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

'  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there  's  many  here  about ;  20 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ! 
For  many  thousand  men,'  said  he, 
'  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.' 

'  Now  tell  me  what  't  was  all  about,'  2s 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes; 
'  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.'         30 

'  It  was  the  English,'  Kaspar  cried, 

'  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out ; 
But  everybody  said,'  quoth  he,  35 

'  That  't  was  a  famous  victory. 

'  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ;  40 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

'With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide. 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then,  45 

And  new-born  baby  died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

*  They  say  it  was  a   shocking  sight 
!         After  the  field  was  won;  50 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 
I         Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
j     After  a  famous  victory. 

I      '  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won,  SS 
I  And  our  good   Prince  Eugene.' 

!      '  Why  't  was  a  very  wicked  thing ! ' 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 


Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,'  quoth  he, 
It  was  a   famous  victory. 

And   everybody   praised   the   Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win.' 

But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?' 
Quoth    little    Peterkin. 

Why  that  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he, 

But  't  was  a  famous  victory.' 


60 


(1805) 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 
(1775-1864) 

ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race, 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 

Rose   Aylmer,   all   were   thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes       S 

May   weep,  but  never   see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

(1806) 

MILD   IS   THE   PARTING   YEAR 

Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet 

The  odor  of  the  falling  spray; 
Life  passes  on  more  rudely  fleet, 

And  balmless  is  its  closing  day. 

I  wait  its  close,  I  court  its  gloom,  S 

But  mourn  that  never  must  there  fall 

Or  on  my  breast  or  on  my  tomb 

The  tear  that  would  have  soothed  it  all. 
(1831) 


PAST  RUINED  ILION 

Past  ruined  Ilion  Helen  lives, 

Alcestis  rises  from  the  shades ; 
Verse  calls  them  forth;  'tis  verse  that  gives 

Immortal  youth  to  mortal  maids. 

Soon  shall  Oblivion's  deepening  veil  s 

Hide  all  the  peopled  hills  you  see, 

The  gay,  the  proud,  while  lovers  hail 
These  many  summers  you  and  me. 

(1831) 


THE    DEATH    OF   ARTEMIDORA 

'Artemidora!     Gods    invisible, 

While  thou  art  lying  faint  along  the  couch. 


658 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Have  tied  the  saiulal  to  thy  slender  feet 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow.     5 
Refreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariness 
Away,  and  voices  like  thy  own  come  near 
And  nearer,  and  solicit  an  embrace.' 

Artemidora      sighed,      and      would      have 

pressed 
The   hand   now  pressing  hers,   but  was   too 

weak.  '° 

Iris  stood  over  her  dark  hair  unseen 
While  thus  Elpcnor  spake.     He  looked  into 
Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  erewhilc 
To    those    above    them,   but    now    dim    with 

tears 
And  wakefulness.     Again  he  spake  of  joy  'S 
Eternal     At  that  word,  that  sad  word,  joy, 
Faithful   and    fond  her  bosom  heaved   once 

more : 
Her  head    fell  back;  and  now  a  loud  deep 

sob 
Swelled     through     the    darkened     chamber ; 

't  was  not  hers. 


(1836) 


DIRGE 


Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 
With   Uirce   in   one  boat  conveyed, 

Or  Charon,  seeing,  may  forget 
That  he  is  old,  and  she  a  shade. 

(1836) 


ON    LUCRETIA    BORGIA'S    HAIR 

Borgia,  thou  once  wert  almost  too  august 
And  high  for  adoration ;  now  thou  'rt  dust ; 
All    that    remains    of    thee   these    plaits    un- 
fold. 
Calm  hair  meandering  in  pellucid  gold. 

C1837) 


MEMORY  AND  PRIDE 

*  Do  you  remember  me  ?  or  are  you  proud  ? ' 
Lightly  advancing  through  her  star-trimmed 
crowd, 
lanthe  said,  and  looked  into  my  eyes. 
*A  yes,  3i  yes,  to  both:  for  Memory 
Where  you   but   once  have  been   must   ever 
be,  5 

And  at  your  voice  Pride  from  his  throne 
must  rise.' 

C1846) 


THE   LOVE   OF   OTHER   YEARS 

No,  my  own  love  of  other  years! 

No,   it   must   never   be. 
Much    rests   with  you   that  yet  endears, 

Alas !  but  what  with  me  ? 
Could  those  bright  years  o'er  me  revolve  S 

So  gay,  o'er  you   so   fair, 
The  pearl  of  life  we  would  dissolve 

And  each  the  cup  might   share. 
You  show  that  truth  can  ne'er  decay, 

Whatever    fate  befalls;  10 

I,  that  the  myrtle  and  the  bay 

Shoot  fresh  on  ruined  walls. 

(1846) 


TO   ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear 
Beside  the  singer;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  tho'  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  praised  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakspere  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech!  and  brief  for 

thee,  6 

Browning !     Since    Chaucer    was    alive    and 

hale, 
No  man  hath  walked  along  our  roads  with 

step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 
Give   brighter   plumage,   stronger   wing :    the 

breeze  n 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne 

on 
Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song; 

(1846) 


ON    TIMELY    DEATH 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour 

In  its  calm  cell  to  rest  the  weary  head. 
While  birds   are   singing  and   while  blooms 
the  bower. 
Than   sit  the  fire  out  and  go   starved   to 
bed? 

(18411) 


TO  AGE 

Welcome,  old  friend !     These  many  years 
Have  we  lived  door  by  door : 

The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 
Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 


THOMAS  MOORE 


659 


I  was  indocile  at  an  age 

When  better  boys  were  taught, 

But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 
If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men. 

Too  little  they  from  me. 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,   the   other  vain; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again : 

Rather  what  lies  before  my   feet 

My  notice  shall  engage  — 
He  who  hath  braved  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads-  not  the  frost  of  Age. 

(1853) 


ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

I  strove  with  none;  for  none  was  worth  my 
strife, 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 
I    warmed    both    hands    before    the    fire    of 
life. 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

(1853) 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL  (1777-1844) 
YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

A   NAVAL   ODE 

Ye  mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas. 

Whose  rtag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again         5 

To  match  another  foe. 

And  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  10 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave !  — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell       i5 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  -0 


Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march   is  o'er  the  mountain   waves. 

Her   home   is   on   the   deep. 

With  thunders   from  her  native  oak         25 

She  quells  the   floods   below  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the   stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And   the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  30 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall   yet   terrific   burn. 
Till   danger's   troubled   night   depart 
And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,   then,   ye   ocean-warriors !  35 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the   fame  of  your  name, 
When  the  storm  has  ceased   to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  i.-   heard  no  more, 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow.  40 

(1801) 


THOMAS  MOORE  (1779-1852) 

OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me; 

The    smiles,    the    tears,  S 

Of  boyhood's  years, 
The   words   of   love  then    spoken; 
The   eyes   that   shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful   hearts   now   broken  !         lo 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad   Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all  is 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I  've   seen   around   mc   fall. 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather ; 
I    feel   like  one 

Who    treads    alone  20 

Some  banquet-hall   deserted. 
Whose   lights   are   fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And    all    but   he    departed ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night,  -^s 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  hound  me, 
Sad    Memory   brings   the   light 
Of  other  days  around   me. 

(1818) 


66o 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS 

The  harp  that  once   through   Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that   soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days,  s 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er. 
And   hearts  that   once  beat  high    for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells;  i° 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The    only   throb    she   gives 
Is  when   some  heart  indignant  breaks,       'S 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

(1808) 


LEIGH  HUNT  (1784-1859) 

RONDEAU 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in : 
Say  I  'm  weary,   say  I  'm  sad,  5 

Say  that  health   and   wealth   have   missed 
me, 
Say  I  'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me. 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 
(1785-1866) 

THE  MEN   OF   GOTHAM 

Seamen  three!  what  men  be  ye? 

Gotham's  three  Wise  Men  we  be. 
Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 
The  bowl  goes  trim;  the  moon  doth  shine; 
And  our  ballast  is  old  wine:  6 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou,   so   fast   adrift? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift.  10 

No :   I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so?     'T  is  Jove's  decree  — 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be : 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 


Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll?  '5 

No :  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 
What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl? 

Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 
The  bowl   goes  trim;   the  moon  doth   shine; 
And  our  ballast  is  old  wine:  20 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

(1818) 


THE  WAR-SONG  OF  DINAS  VAWR 

The  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 

But  the  valley  sheep  are  fatter; 

We  therefore  deemed  it  meeter 

To  carry  off  the  latter. 

We   made   an   expedition  ;  .  5 

We  met  an  host  and  quelled  it ; 

We  forced  a  strong  position 

And  killed  the  men  who  held  it. 

On  Dyfed's  richest  valley, 

Where  herds  of  kine  were  browsing,         10 

We  made  a  mighty  sally. 

To  furnish  our  carousing. 

Fierce  warriors  rushed  to  meet  us; 

We  met  them,  and  o'erthrew  them: 

They  struggled  hard  to  beat  us,  'S 

But   we  conquered  them,  and   slew   them. 

As  we  drove  our  prize  at  leisure, 

The  king  marched  forth  to  catch  us : 

His    rage    surpassed    all    measure. 

But  his  people  could  not  match  us.        20 

He  fled  to  his  hall-pillars; 

And,  ere  our  force  we  led  off, 

Some  sacked  his  house  and  cellars, 

While  others  cut  his  head  off. 

We  there,  in   strife  bewildering,  25 

Spilt  blood  enough  to  swim  in: 

We  orphaned  many  children 

And   widowed   many   women. 

The  eagles  and  the  ravens 

We  glutted  with  our  foemen :  30 

The   heroes    and   the   cravens. 

The  spearmen  and  the  bowmen. 

We  brought  away  from  battle. 
And  much  their  land  bemoaned  them, 
Two  thousand  head  of  cattle  35 

And  the  head  of  him  who  owned  them : 
Ednyfed,   King  of   Dyfed, 
His  head  was  borne  before  us; 
His   wine  and  beasts  supplied  our   feasts, 
And   his  overthrow,  our  chorus.  40 

(1829) 


JOHN  KEBLE 


66i 


THE  FRIAR'S  SONG 

[         Though  I  be  now  a  gray,  gray  friar, 

Yet  I  was  once  a  hale  young  knight : 
The  cry  of  my  dogs  was  the  only  choir 

In  which  my  spirit  did  take  delight. 
Little  I   recked  of  matin  bell,  5 

But    drowned    its    toll    with    my    clanging 
horn 
[        And  the  only  beads  I  loved  to  tell 
j  Were  the  beads  of  dew  on  the  spangled 

I  thorn. 

;        Little  I  reck  of  matin  bell, 
'  But    drown     its    toll    with    my    clanging 

j  horn:  lo 

And  the  only  beads  I  love  to  tell 
Are    the    beads    of    dew    on    the    spangled 
I  thorn. 

j        An  archer  keen  I  was  withal, 

I  As  ever  did  lean  on  greenwood  tree; 

i        And  could  make  the  fleetest  roebuck  fall,  is 

I  A  good  three  hundred  yards  from  me. 

I        Though  changeful  time,  with  hand  severe, 

Has  made  me  now  these  joys  forego, 
Yet  my  heart  bounds  whene'er  I  hear 

Yoicks  !  hark  away !  and  tally  ho  !  20 

'        Though  changeful  time,  with  hand  severe, 
I  Has  made  me  now  these  joys   forego, 

I         Yet  my  heart  bounds  whene'er  I  hear 
Yoicks !    hark   away !    and  tally  ho ! 

(1822) 


CHARLES  WOLFE  (1791-1823) 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN   MOORE 
AT  CORUNNA 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
j  As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

I        Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
j  O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

j        We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night,       5 
I  The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light. 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 

Not    in    sheet    nor    in    shroud    we    wound 
him,  10 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around   him. 


Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a   word   of   sorrow; 

But  we   steadfastly  gazed  on   the   face  that 
was  dead,  15 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread 
o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow !  20 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  weary  task  was  done  25 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  re- 
tiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 
From    the    field    of    his    fame    fresh    and 
gory ;  30 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a 
stone  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 
(1817) 


JOHN  KEBLE  (1792-1866) 

UNITED  STATES 

Tyre    of    the    farther    West!    be    thou    too 
warned. 
Whose  eagle  wings  thine  own  green  world 
o'erspread. 
Touching  two  Oceans:  wherefore  hast  thou 
scorned 
Thy    fathers'    God,   O   proud   and    full   of 
bread? 
Why    lies    the     Cross    unhonored    on    thy 
ground  5 

While    in    mid   air   thy   stars   and    arrows 
flaunt  ? 
That    sheaf    of    darts,    will    it    not    fall    un- 
bound. 
Except,  disrobed  of  thy  vain  earthly  vaunt. 
Thou  bring  it  to  be  blessed  where  Saints 
and  Angels  haunt? 

The  holy  seed,  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace,  10 
Is    rooted    here    and    there    in    thy    dark 
woods ; 


662 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


But    many    a    rank    weed    round    it    grows 

Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side. 

apace, 

And   whispered  thee  so  near !  —               20 

And    Mammon    builds    beside    thy    mighty 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home 

floods, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

O'ertopping  Nature,  braving  Nature's  God; 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

0  while  thou  yet  hast  room,  fair  fruitful 

land,                                                           'S 

Ere  war  and  want  have  stained  thy  virgin 

The  dearest  of  the  dear? 

I   saw  thee,  lovely  Ines,                            25 

sod. 

Descend  along  the  shore. 

Mark    thee    a    place    on    high,    a    glorious 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen. 

stand. 

And  banners  waved  before ; 

Whence    Truth    her    sign    may   make    o'er 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

forest,  lake,  and  strand. 

And    snowy   plumes   they   wore  ;  —           30 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream. 

Eastward,  this  hour,  perchance  thou  turn'st 

—  If  it  had  been  no  more! 

thine  ear, 

Listening  if  haply  with  the  surging  sea,  20 

Alas,  alas!   fair  Ines, 

Blend    sounds    of    Ruin    from    a    land    once 

She  went  away  with  song. 

dear 

With   Music  waiting  on  her  steps,           35 

To  thee  and  Heaven.     0  trying  hour   for 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng; 

thee! 

But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth. 

Tyre  mocked  when  Salem  fell;  where  now 

But  only  Music's  wrong. 

is  Tyre? 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell 

Heaven  was  against  her.     Nations  thick  as 

To  her  you  've  loved  so  long.                    4° 

waves, 

Burst  o'er  her  walls,  to  Ocean  doomed  and 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines ! 

fire :                                                         ^s 

That  vessel  never  bore 

And  now  the  tideless  water  idly  laves 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck. 

Her    towers,    and    lone    sands    heap    her 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 

crowned   merchants'   graves. 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea,                      45 

(1836) 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 

(1827) 

THOMAS  HOOD  (1798-1845) 

FAIR  INES 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

0  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines? 

One  more  Unfortunate, 

She  's  gone  into  the  West, 

Weary  of  breath. 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down. 

Rashly    importunate. 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest: 

Gone  to  her  death ! 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her,                5 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

Take  her  up  tenderly,                             5 

With   morning  blushes   on   her  cheek, 

Lift  her  with  care; 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Fashioned    so    slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair ! 

0  turn   again,   fair  Ines, 

Before  the   fall  of  night,                            1° 

Look  at  her  garments 

For   fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone. 

Clinging  like  cerements  ;                       10 

And   stars   unrivaled   bright; 

Whilst  the   wave  constantly 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

Drips    from   her   clothing; 

That  walks  beneath  their  light. 

Take  her  up  instantly, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek  '5 

Loving,   not   loathing. 

I  dare  not  even  write! 

Touch  her  not  scornfully;                  '5 

Would  I  had  been,   fair  Ines, 

Think  of   her  mournfully. 

That  gallant  cavalier. 

Gently  and  humanly ; 

THOMAS  HOOD 


663 


Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make   no   deep   scrutiny 
Into  her   mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful: 
Past   all    dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers. 
One  of  Eve's   family  — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing   so   clammily. 

Lx)Op  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb. 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 

Whilst    wonderment    guesses 
Where  was  her  home? 

Who   was   her   father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had    she    a    brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!   for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
O,  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city   full, 

Home    she   had   none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,   by   harsh   evidence. 
Thrown    from   its   eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  to  casement. 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement. 

Houseless   by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver : 

But   not  the  dark   arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river : 

Mad    from   life's   history, 


Glad  to  death's  mystery. 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 

Anywhere,   anywhere 
Out  of  the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly  — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran  — 
Over   the   brink   of   it, 
Picture   it  — think  of   it, 

Dissolute   Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift   her   with   care; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,   kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them. 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fixed  on   futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily. 
Spurred   by   contumely, 
Cold   inhumanity. 
Burning  insanity. 

Into  her  rest  — 
Cross   her  hands  humbly, 
As   if   praying   dumbly. 

Over  her  breast! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil   behaviour. 

And  leaving  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 


(1844) 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch  !   stitch  !   stitch  ! 

In   poverty,   hunger,   and   dirt, 
And   still   with   a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the  '  Song  of  the  Shirt.' 


664 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


'Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof  I  »« 

And    work  —  work  —  work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It 's  Oh  I  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save,     '5 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

'  Work  —  work  —  work, 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 
Work  —  work  —  work. 

Till   the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim !  20 

Seam,    and    gusset,    and    band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 

'Oh,   Men,   with   Sisters   dear!  ^s 

Oh,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out 

But  human  creatures'  lives! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  3o 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

'But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I   hardly   fear   its   terrible   shape,  35 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
Oh,  God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap!  4° 

'  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof  — this  naked  floor—  45 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes   falling  there ! 

'  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime,  5° 

Work  —  work  —  work, 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 
Band,    and    gusset,    and    seam. 

Seam,    and   gusset,   and   band. 
Till    the    heart    is    sick,    and    the    brain    be- 
numbed, 55 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

'  Work  —  work  —  work. 

In   the   dull   December  light. 


And  work  —  work  —  work. 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  — 
While  underneath  the  eaves  6i 

The   brooding   swallows   cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

'  Oh !    but   to   breathe   the   breath  65 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel,  7° 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal. 

'  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A    respite    however    brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure   for  Love  or  Hope,       75 

But  only  time  for  Grief ! 
A    little    weeping   would   ease   my   heart. 

But    in    their   briny   bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!'  80 

With  fingers   weary  and  worn, 

With   eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her   needle   and  thread  — 
Stitch!  stitch!   stitch!  85 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich!  — 

She  sang  this  '  Song  of  the  Shirt !  ' 

(1843) 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH 
PRAED  (1802- 1 839) 

THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM 

Years  —  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, — 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty;  — 
Years  —  years  ago, —  while  all  my  joy  5 

Was   in   my    fowling-piece    and   filly, — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lily. 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball : 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall  »i 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle. 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED 


665 


Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing; 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our   star;     is 
And    then    she    danced  —  O    Heaven,    her 
dancing ! 

Dark  was   her  hair,  her  hand   was  white ; 

Her   voice   was   exquisitely   tender; 
Her   eyes   were    full    of   liquid   light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender !  20 

Her    every    look,    her    every    smile. 

Shot   right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows; 
I  thought  't  was  Venus  from  her  isle, 

And  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  spar- 
rows. 

She  talked, —  of   politics   or   prayers,—       25 
Of  Southey's  prose  or  Wordsworth's  son- 
nets,— 
Of  danglers  —  or  of  dancing  bears. 

Of  battles  —  or  the  last  new  bonnets, 
By  candlelight,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle;  30 

i  n  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Lit- 

I  tie. 

!  Through  sunny  Maj',  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon,  35 

,  I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal : 

I  My  mother  laughed ;  I  soon  found  out 

I  That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling: 

My  father  frowned;  but  how  should  gout 
See   any  happiness   in  kneeling?  40 

She   was    the   daughter    of    a    Dean, 

Rich,    fat,    and    rather    apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year  45 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer. 

And  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County. 

But   titles,   and   the   three  per   cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations,  so 

And   India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents. 

Oh,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks  — 

Such  wealth,  such  honors,  Cupid  chooses; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  Stocks,  55 

As    Baron    Rothschild    for    the    Muses. 

She  sketched;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 
Grew  lovelier   from  her  pencil's   shading : 

She  botanized;  I  envied  each 
Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading:  60 

She  warbled  Handel;  it  was  grand; 


She    made    the    Catalani    jealous: 
She  touched  the  organ ;   I  could  stand 
For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

.She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home,  6s 

Well    filled    with   all    an    album's   glories ; 
Paintings    of   butterflies,    and    Rome, 

Patterns   for  trimmings,   Persian   stories ; 
Soft   songs   to  Julia's   cockatoo. 

Fierce  odes  to  Famine  and  to  Slaughter; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo,  71 

And   recipes    for    elder-water. 

And    she   was   flattered,    worshipped,   bored ; 

Her    steps    were    watched,    her   dress    was 
noted. 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored,  75 

Her    sayings    were    extremely    quoted; 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As   if  the  taxes   were  abolished ; 
She    frowned,    and    every    look    was    sad. 

As  if  the  Opera  were  demolished.  80 

She   smiled   on   many,   just    for    fun, — 

I   knew  that  there   was  nothing  in  it; 
I   was  the  first  —  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. — 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so,  85 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  molded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand, —  and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded! 

Our    love    was    like    most    other    loves;  — 

A   little   glow,   a   little   shiver,  9° 

A   rose-bud,   and   a  pair  of  gloves. 

And  '  Fly  not  yet ' —  upon  the  river ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted; 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair,  95 

The    usual    vows, —  and   then    we   parted. 

We  parted;  months  and  years  rolled  by; 

We  met  again   four  summers  after: 
Our  parting  was  all   sob  and  sigh ; 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter: 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell  loi 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  belle, 

But  only  —  Mrs.   Something  Rogers! 

(1844) 

A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE 

FROM    MISS    MEDORA    TREVILIAN,    AT    PADUA,    TO 
MISS   ARAMINTA   VAVASOUR,   IN   LONDON 

You    tell    me    you  're    promised    a    lover. 
My   own    Araminta,   next   week; 


666 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Why  cannot  my  fancy  discover 

The  hue  of  his  coat  and  his  cheek? 

Alas!    if    he    look    like    another,  s 

A    vicar,    a    banker,    a    beau. 

Be    deaf    to    your    father    and    mother. 
My  own  Araminta,  say  '  No !  ' 

Miss    Lane,    at    her    Temple    of    Fashion, 

Taught  us  both  how  to  sing  and  to  speak, 
And   we   loved  one  another  with  passion,   " 

Before  we  had  been  there  a  week: 
You  gave  me  a  ring  for  a  token; 

I   wear  it  wherever  I  go ; 
I   gave  you   a   chain, —  is   it  broken?  is 

My  own  Araminta,  say  '  No!  ' 

0  think    of    our    favorite    cottage, 
And  think  of  our  dear  Lalla  Rookh  ! 

How    we    shared    with    the    milkmaids    their 
pottage,  19 

And  drank  of  the  stream  from  the  brook; 
How    fondly    our    loving    lips    faltered, 

'What   further  can   grandeur  bestow?' 
My   heart   is   the   same;  —  is   yours   altered? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  '  No ! ' 

Remember    the    thrilling    romances  ^S 

We  read  on  the  bank  in  the  glen ; 
Remember  the  suitors  our  fancies 

Would   picture    for   hpth   of   us   then. 
They  wore  the  red  cross  on  their  shoulder, 

They  had  vanquished  and  pardoned  their 
foe —  30 

Sweet  friend,  are  you  wiser  or  colder? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  '  No !  ' 

You  know,  when  Lord  Rigmarole's  carriage, 

Drove  off  with  your  Cousin  Justine, 
You  wept,  dearest  girl,  at  the  marriage,     35 

And  whispered  '  How  base  she  has  been !  ' 
You  said  you  were  sure  it  would  kill  you, 

If  ever  your  husband  looked  so; 
And  you   will   not  apostatize. —  will   you? 

M}   own  Araminta,  say  '  No  !  '  40 

When   I  heard   I   was  going  abroad,  love, 

I  thought  I   was  going  to  die ; 
We  walked  arm  in  arm  to  the  road,  love. 

We  looked  arm  in  arm  to  the  sky ; 
And  I  said  '  When  a  foreign  postilion        4S 

Has    hurried    me   off   to   the    Po, 
Forget    not    Medora    Trevilian : 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  "  ! ' 

We   parted !   but   sympathy's   fetters 

Reach    far   over   valley   and   hill ;  50 

1  muse  o'er  your  exquisite  letters, 

And   feel  that  your  heart  is  mine  still ; 
And  he  who  would  share  it  with  me,  love, — 


The  richest  of  treasures  below,— 
If  he's  not  what  Orlando  should  be,  love,  55 
My  own   Araminta,   say  '  No !  ' 

If  he  wears  a  top-boot  in  his  wooing, 

If  he  comes  to  you  riding  a  cob, 
If  he  talks  of  his  baking  or  brewing, 

If  he  puts  up  his  feet  on  the  hob,  60 

If    he    ever    drinks    port    after    dinner, 

If   his  brow  or  his  breeding   is   low, 
If   he   calls   himself   'Thompson'   or   'Skin- 
ner,' 

My   own    Araminta,    say   'No!' 

If  he  studies  the  news  in  the  papers  63 

While   you    are    preparing   the    tea. 
If  he  talks  of  the  damps  or  the  vapors 

While  moonlight  lies  soft  on  the  sea, 
If   he's   sleepy   while  you  are  capricious. 

If  he  has  not  a  musical  '  Oh !  '  70 

If  he  does  not  call  Werther  delicious, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  '  No ! ' 

If  he  ever  sets  foot  in  the  City 

Among  the  stockbrokers  and  Jews, 
If  he  has  not  a  heart  full  of  pity,  75 

If  he  don't  stand  six  feet  in  his  shoes, 
If  his   lips   are  not   redder   than   roses, 

If  his  hands  are  not  whiter  than  snow. 
If  he  has  not  the  model  of  noses, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  *  No  ! '  So 

If  he  speaks  of  a  tax  or  a  duty, 

If  he  does  not  look  grand  on  his  knees, 
If  he's  blind  to  a  landscape  of  beauty, 

Hills,  valleys,  rocks,  waters,  and  trees. 
If  he  dotes  not  on  desolate  towers,  85 

If   he   likes   not   to   hear  the   blast  blow. 
If  he  knows  not  the  language  of  flowers, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say   '  No !  ' 

He  must  walk  —  like  a  god  of  old  story 

Come  down  from  the  home  of  his  rest ;  90 
He  must   smile  —  like  the  sun  in  his  glory 

On  the  buds  he  loves  ever  the  best ; 
And  oh !   from  its  ivory  portal 

Like   music   his   soft   speech   must   flow !  — 
If  he  speak,  smile,  or  walk  like  a  mortal,     95 

My    own    Araminta,    say    '  No  !  ' 

Don't   listen  to  tales  of   his  bounty. 

Don't    hear    what   they   say   of   his   birth, 
Don't   look   at   his   seat   in   the   county. 

Don't  calculate  what  he  is  worth;  100 

But   give   him   a   theme   to   write   verse   on, 

And  see  if  he  turns  out  his  toe; 
If   he's   only   an    excellent    person, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  '  No !  ' 

(1844) 


THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES 


66: 


WILLIAM  BARNES   (1801-1886) 

BLACKMWORE   MAIDENS 

The  primrwose  in  the  sheade  do  blow, 

The    cowslip    in    the    zun, 

The  thyme  upon  the  down  do  grow, 

The  clote  where  streams  do  run ; 

An'   where   do   pretty   maidens   grow  5 

An'   blow,   but   where   the   tow'r 

Do    rise    among    the    bricken    tuns 

In   Blackmwore   by  the   Stour. 

If  you  could  zee  their  comely  gait, 

An'  pretty   feaces'  smiles,  10 

A-trippen  on   so  light  o'  wai'ght. 

An'   steppen   off  the   stiles ; 

A-gwain  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 

An'  ring  'ithin  the  tow'r, 

You'd  own  the  pretty  maidens'  pleace  »5 

Is  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  vrom  Wimborne  took  your  road. 

To  Stower  or  Paladore, 

An'  all  the   farmers'  housen   show'd 

Their  daughters  at  the  door ;  20 

You  'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwome  — 

'Here  come;  'ithin  an  hour 

You  '11  vind  ten  maidens  to  your   mind, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour.' 

An'  if  you  look'd  'ithin  their  door,  25 

To  zee  em  in  their  pleace, 

A-doen  housework  up  avore 

Their  smilen  mother's  feace ; 

You'd  cry —  'Why,  if  a  man  would  wive 

An'  thrive,  'ithout  a  dow'r,  3° 

Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 

In   Blackmwore  by  the   Stour.' 

As  I  upon  my  road  did  pass 
A    school-house    back   in    May, 
There  out  upon  the  beaten  grass  3S 

Wer  maidens  at  their  play; 
An'   as   the   pretty    souls   did   tweil 
An'   smile,  I   cried,   '  The  flow'r 
O'  beauty,  then,  is  still  in  bud 
In    Blackmwore    by    the    Stour.'  40 

(1844) 


THE  SURPRISE 

As  there  I  left  the  road  in  May, 

And  took  my  way  along  a  ground, 

I    found   a   glade   with   girls   at   play. 

By    leafy    boughs    close-hemmed    around. 

And   there,   with   stores   of   harmless   joys,  s 


Look 


They  plied  their  tongues,  in  merry  noise; 
Though    little   did   they   seem   to    fear 
So    queer    a    stranger    might    be    near; 
Teeh-hee!     Look     here!     Hah!     ha  l' Look 

there ! 
And  oh  !  so  playsome,  oh !  so  fair.  10 

And  one  would  dance  as  one  would  spring, 

Or  bob  or  bow  with  leering  smiles. 

And  one  would  swing,  or  sit  and  sing. 

Or  sew  a  stitch  or  two  at  whiles, 

And  one  skipped  on  with  downcast  face,     is 

All   heedless,   to   my  very  place, 

And   there,   in    fright,  in   one   foot  out, 

Made  one  dead  step  and  turned  about.' 

Heeh,  bee,  oh!  oh!  ooh  !  00 !  — Look  there! 

And  oh!  so  playsome,  oh,  so  fair.  20 

Away  they  scampered  all,   full   speed. 

By  boughs  that   swung  along  their  track, 

As   rabbits  out  of   wood   at   feed, 

At   sight   of  men   all    scamper  back. 

And  one  pulled  on  behind  her  heel,  25 

A   thread   of  cotton,   off  her   reel. 

And  oh  !  to  follow  that  white  clue, 

I  felt  I  fain  could  scamper  too. 

Teeh,     hee,     run     here.     Eeh !     ee ! 

there! 
And  oh !  so  playsome,  oh !  so  fair 

(I 


THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES 
(1803- I 849) 

DREAM-PEDLARY 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell. 

What   would  you   buy? 
Some    cost    a    passing    bell; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That   shakes    from    Life's    fresh   crown     5 
Only    a    rose-leaf    down. 
If  there   were   dreams   to   sell. 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell. 
And   the   crier   rang  the   bell. 

What  would  you  buy?  10 

A  cottage  lone  and  still. 

With    bowers    nigh, 
Shadowy,   my   woes   to   still. 

Until    I    die. 
Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown  15 

Fain   would   I   shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will. 
This   would   best  heal   my   ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 


668                                NINETEENTH 

CENTURY  LYRICS 

But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

20 

And  we  are  man  and  wife  together. 

111   didst   thou   buy; 

Although    thy    breast,    once    bold 

Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell, 

With  song,  be  closed  and  cold 

Waking,  to  die. 

Beneath  flowers'  roots  and  birds'  light  feet. 

Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 

Yet   sit   I   by   thy   tomb,                                25 

Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise; 

25 

And  dissipate  the  gloom 

And   if   I   had   the   spell 

With    songs    of    loving    faith    and    sorrow 

To  call   the   buried  well, 

sweet. 

Which  one  would  I? 

And  fate  and  darkling  grave  kind  dreams  do 
cheat, 

If  there  arc  ghosts  to  raise. 

That,  while   fair  life,  young  hope,  despair 

What    shall    I    call, 

30 

and   death   are, 

Out   of   hell's    murky   haze, 

We  're  boy  and  girl,  and  lass  and  lad,  and 

Heaven's  blue  pall? 

man  and  wife  together.                        30 

Raise  my  loved  long-lost  boy. 

(1851) 

To    lead    me    to    his    joy. — 

There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise; 

35 

Out  of  death  lead  no  ways; 

Vain  is  the  call. 

From   DEATH'S   JEST   BOOK 

Know'st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue, 

TO  SEA,  TO  SEA ! 

No  love  thou  hast. 

Else    lie,    as    I    will    do. 

40 

To  sea,  to  sea !     The  calm  is  o'er ; 

And  breathe  thy  last. 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport. 

So   out   of   Life's   fresh   crown 

And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore ; 

Fall    like    a    rose-leaf    down. 

The    dolphin    wheels,   the    sea-cows    snort. 

Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo ; 

And    unseen    Mermaids'   pearly   song              S 

Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true, 

45 

Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds   among. 

Ever  to  last! 

Fling  broad   the   sail,   dip  deep  the   oar : 

(1851) 

To  sea,  to  sea !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To   sea,   to   sea !   our  wide-winged  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way,           'o 

BALLAD    OF   HUMAN    LIFE 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break   the    caved    Triton's    azure    day. 

When  we  were  girl  and  boy  together, 

Like  mighty  eagle   soaring  light 

We  tossed   about  the   flowers 

O'er   antelopes   on   Alpine   height. 

And  wreathed  the  blushing  hours 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free,  15 

Into  a   posy  green  and   sweet. 

The  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  sea! 

I  sought  the  youngest,  best. 

5 

(1850) 

And  never  was  at  rest 

Till   I   had   laid  them  at  thy   fairy   feet. 

But  the  days  of  childhood  they  were   fleet. 

DIRGE 

And     the     blooming     sweet-briar-breathed 

weather, 

If   thou   wilt   ease   thine   heart 

When  we  were  boy  and  girl  together. 

:o 

Of  love  and  all  its  smart. 

Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep; 

Then  we  were  lad  and  lass  together. 

And  not  a  sorrow 

And   sought  the  kiss  of  night 

Hang  any  tear  on  your  eye-lashes;           S 

Before    we    felt    aright, 

Lie  still  and  deep. 

Sitting  and  singing  soft  and  sweet. 

Sad  soul,  until  the  sea-wave  washes 

The  dearest  thought  of  heart 

15 

The    rim   0'    the    sun   to-morrow. 

With  thee  't  was  joy  to  part, 

In  eastern  sky. 

And   the   greater   half    was   thine,   as   meet. 

Still   my  eyelid  's  dewy,  my  veins   they  beat 

But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart                    10 

At  the  starry  summer-evening  weather, 

Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 

When  we  were  lad  and  lass  together. 

20 

Then  die,  dear,  die; 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD 


669 


'T  is  deeper,  sweeter, 

Than   on  a   rose  bank  to   lie  dreaming 

With  folded  eye;  '5 

And  then  alone,  amid  the  beaming 
Of  love's  stars,  thou  'It  meet  her 
In  eastern  sky. 

(1850) 


SONG 

Old    Adam,    the    carrion    crow, 

The  old  crow  of  Cairo; 
He  sat  in  the  shower,  and  let  it  flow 
Under  his  tail  and  over  his  crest; 
And  through  every  feather  s 

Leaked   the   wet   weather ; 
And  the  bough  swung  under  his  nest; 
For  his  beak  it  was  heavy  with  marrow. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying?     O  no; 
It 's  only  two  devils,  that  blow  1° 

Through   a   murderer's  bones,   to  and 
fro. 
In  the  ghosts'  moonshine. 

Ho !  Eve,  my  gray  carrion  wife, 

When  we  have   supped   on   king's   mar- 
row, 
Where  shall  we  drink  and  make  merry  our 
life?  IS 

Our  nest   it  is  Queen   Cleopatra's  skull, 
'T  is    cloven    and    cracked, 
And    battered    and   hacked, 
But  with  tears  of  blue  eyes  it  is  full : 
Let  us  drink  then,  my  raven  of   Cairo. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying?     O  no;  21 

It 's   only  two   devils,   that   blow 
Through   a   murderer's   bones,   to   and 
fro. 
In    the    ghosts'    moonshine. 

(1850) 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

(1809-1883) 

From  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR 
KHAYYAM 

Why,  if  the  Soul,  can  fling  the  dust  aside. 
And  naked  on  the  air  of  Heaven  ride, 
Wer  't  not  a  shame  —  wer  't  not  a  shame 
for  him 
In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide? 

'T  is   but   a   tent   where   takes   his   one-day's 
rest  5 


A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest; 

The  Sultan   rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash 
Strikes,   and   prepares   it    for   another   guest. 

And   fear  not   lest  existence  closing  your 
Account,  and  mine,  should  know  the  like  no 
more ;  10 

The    Eternal    Saki    from    that    bowl    has 
poured 
Millions  of  bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour. 

When  you  and  I  behind  the  veil  are  past, 
Oh,  but  the  long  long  while  the  world  shall 
last. 
Which  of  our  coming  and  departure  heeds 
As   the    Seven    Seas   should   heed   a   pebble- 
cast.  16 

A  moment's  halt  —  a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  well  amid  the  waste  — 
And      lo ! — the     phantom     caravan      has 

reached 
The    Nothing   it   set   out    from  —  Oh,    make 

haste!  20 

*  *     * 

The    Moving    Finger    writes;    and,    having 

writ. 
Moves  on :  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 

*  *     * 

Yet  ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the 
rose !  25 

That      Youth's      sweet-scented      manuscript 
should  close! 
The  nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang, 

Ah,   whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who 
knows ! 

Would  but  the  desert  of  the  fountain  yield 
One     glimpse  —  if    dimly,    yet     indeed,     re- 
vealed, 30 
To     which     the     fainting    traveler    might 
spring, 
As    springs    the    trampled    herbage    of    the 
field! 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  roll  of  fate, 

And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise  3S 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate! 

Ah,  Love !   could  you  and  I  with  him  con- 
spire 

To  grasp  this  sorry   Scheme  of  Things  en- 
tire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits  —  and  then 

Re-mold  it  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire !     4° 

*  *     * 

(1859:    1872) 


670 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWN- 
ING (1809-1861) 

A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 

Spreading   ruin   and   scattering  ban, 

Splashing    and    paddling    with    hoofs    of    a 
goat. 

And   breaking  the  golden   lilies   afloat  5 

With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river, 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And   the  broken   lilies  a-dying  lay,  'o 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river, 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can  i5 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed. 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!),  20 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily   from  the  outside   ring, 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

'This    is    the   way,'    laughed    the   great    god 
Pan,  25 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river) 
'  The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed.' 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 
reed. 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river.  30 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly  35 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan 

To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain  — 
For    the    reed    which    grows    never    more 
again  41 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 
(1862) 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for 

years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue,     S 
I  saw  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 
Those   of   my   own    life,    who   by   turns   had 

flung 
A    shadow    across    me.     Straightway    I    was 

'ware, 
So   weeping,  how  a  mystic   Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the 

hair;  n 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove, 
'Guess  now  who  holds  thee?' — 'Death!'   I 

said.     But    there. 
The   silver  answer   rang:     'Not   Death,   but 

Love.' 

V 

I   lift  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly, 
As  once  Elcctra  her  sepulchral  urn, 
And  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  overturn 
The  ashes  at  thy  feet.     Behold  and  see 
What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in  me,     5 
And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly  burn 
Through  the  ashen  grayness.     If  thy  foot  in 

scorn 
Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness  utterly. 
It  might  be  well   perhaps.     But  if   instead 
Thou  wait  beside  me   for  the  wind  to  blow 
The  gray  dust  up,     .     .     .     those  laurels  on 

thine  head,  " 

O  my  Beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 
That  none  of  all  the  fires   shall   scorch   and 

shred 
The  hair  beneath.     Stand   farther  off   then ! 

go. 

VI 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone   upon   the  threshold  of   my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand       5 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before. 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore  — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves   thy  heart   in 

mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.    What  I  do    >° 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must   taste   of    its   own   grapes.     And   when 

I  sue 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


671 


God    for    myself,    he    hears    that    name    of 

thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 


The    face    of    all    the    world    is    changed,    I 

think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul 
Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me,  as  they  stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought  to 

sink,  5 

Was   caught   up   into    love,    and    taught   the 

whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to  drink, 
And   praise   its   sweetness,    Sweet,   with   thee 

anear. 
The  names  of  country,  heaven,  are  changed 

away  'o 

For   where   thou   art   or    shalt   be,   there   or 

here; 
And  this     .     .     .     this  lute  and  song     .     .     . 

loved  yesterday, 
(The  singing  angels  know)   are  only  dear 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they 

say. 

XIII 

And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech 
The  love  I  bear  thee,  finding  words  enough. 
And  hold  the  torch  out,  while  the  winds  are 

rough, 
Between  our  faces,  to  cast  light  on  each  ?  — 
I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.     I  cannot  teach  5 

My  hand  to  hold  my  spirit  so  far  off 
From    myself  —  me  —  that    I    should    bring 

thee  proof 
In  words,  of  love  hid  in  me  out  of  reach. 
Nay,  let  the  silence  of  my  womanhood 
Commend  my  woman-love  to  thy  belief, —  1° 
Seeing  that  I  stand  unwon,  however  wooed. 
And  rend  the  garment  of  my  life,  in  brief. 
By  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless   fortitude. 
Lest    one    touch    of    this    heart    convey    its 

grief. 

XIV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 

Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 

'I   love  her   for  her   smile  —  her    look  —  her 

way 
Of  speaking  gently, —  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That    falls    in    well    with    mine,    and    certes 

brought  5 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day' — 
For    these    things    in    themselves,    Beloved, 

may 


Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, —  and  love, 
so  wrought. 

May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks 
dry, —  10 

A  creature  might   forget  to  weep,  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  there- 
by! 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  ever- 
more 

Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eter- 
nity. 


Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 
What  time  I  sat  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And    saw    no    footprint,    heard    the    silence 
sink  4 

No  moment  at  thy  voice,  but,  link  by  link, 
Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that  so 
They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand, —  why,  thus   I 

drink 
Of    life's    great   cup    of    wonder!     Wonder- 
ful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night  1° 
With  personal  act  or  speech, —  nor  ever  cull 
Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms 

white 
Thou  sawest  growing!     Atheists  are  as  dull, 
Who    cannot    guess    God's    presence    out    of 
sight. 

XXXV 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me?     Shall  1  never  miss 
Home-talk    and    blessing    and    the    common 

kiss 
That   comes   to   each   in   turn,   nor   count   it 

strange. 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range     5 
Of    walls    and    floors,    another    home    than 

this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 
Filled    by    dead    eyes    too    tender    to    know 

change  ? 
That's    hardest.     If    to    conquer    love,    has 

tried, 
To  conquer  grief,  tries  more,  as  all  things 

prove;  'o 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 
Yet  love  me  —  wilt  thou  ?     Open  thine  heart 

wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 


672 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


XLIII 

How    do    I    love    thee?     Let    me    count    the 

ways. 
I   love   thee   to   the   depth   and   hrcadtli    and 

height 
My    soul    can    reach,    when    feeling    out    of 

sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I   love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's  5 

Most  quiet   need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 
I   love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith.  1° 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints, —  I  love  thee  with  the 

breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life!  —  and,  if  God 

choose, 
I    shall   but   love  thee   better   after   death. 

(1850) 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACK- 
ERAY (1811-1863) 

AT  THE  CHURCH   GATE 

Although  I   enter  not, 
Yet   round   about  the   spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover; 
And    near   the    sacred    gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait,  5 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming; 
They've  hush'd  the  minster  bell:  10 

The  organ   'gins  to   swell ; 

She  's  coming,   she  's  coming ! 

My  lady  comes   at   last, 
Timid   and   stepping   fast 

And  hastening  thither,  'S 

With  modest  eyes  downcast; 
She  comes  —  she's  here,  she's  past! 

May  heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel    undisturbed,    fair    saint ! 

Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint  20 

Meekly  and  duly ; 
I  will   not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 


But  suffer  me  to  pace  25 

Round  the  forbidden  place. 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast   spirits,  who  wait, 
And   sec,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels    within   it.  3° 

(1849-50) 

THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY 

The  play  is  done  —  the  curtain  drops. 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell ; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops. 

And  looks  around,  to  say   farewell. 
It   is  an   irksome   word   and  task  ;  5 

And  when  he  's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that 's  anything  but  gay. 

One   word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends : 

Let  's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme,         10 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends. 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time; 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts. 

That  fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ; 
Good-night!  —  with   honest   gentle  hearts    'S 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway ! 

Good-night!  —  I'd   say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page. 
The   triumphs   and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age ;  20 

I  'd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen. 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men, 
Your  pangs   or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At    forty-five   played   o'er   again. 

I  'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive  25 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys, 
With  grizzled  beards  at   forty-five. 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys, 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth. 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray,  3^ 
Pray  heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I  'd  say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift, 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool,         35 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift; 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall. 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown. 
The   knave   be   lifted   over   all. 

The   kind  cast   pitilessly   down.  4° 


Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  he  who  took  and  gave ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave? 


mine. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 


^72> 


We  bow  to  heaven  that  willed  it  so,  45 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 

That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow. 
That 's  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his   feast  with  wine  and   wit  — 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 
His  betters,   see,  below  him   sit,  S' 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  '11  kneel,     55 

Confessing  heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 
'  Dear  hopes,  dear   friends,  untimely  killed, 

j       Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 
I  And   longing  passion  unfulfilled.  6o 

Amen  !  —  whatever   fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent. 
And   whitened   with   the   winter   snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill,     65 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part. 
And  bow  before  the  awful  will. 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize  — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can ;  70 

But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise. 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young! 
j  (Bear   kindly  with   my  humble   lays;) 

I      The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung  75 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days; 
I       The    shepherds   heard    it   overhead  — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then: 
j       Glory  to  heaven  on  high,  it  said, 
I  And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men !  80 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth,  85 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still : 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men   of   gentle   will. 

(1848) 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 
(1819-1861) 

QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ; 

43 


When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all   the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor   dreamt   but  each   the   self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side; 

E'en   so,  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of     those,     whom     year     by     year,     un- 
changed, 10 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel. 
Astounded,  soul   from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And   onward    each    rejoicing   steered  — 

Ah,  neither  blame,   for  neither   willed,         i5 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared ! 

To  veer,  how  vain !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through     winds     and     tides     one     compass 
guides  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true.  20 

But  O  blithe  breeze ;  and  O  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past. 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,     25 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,   O   rushing  seas ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there ! 

(1849) 


WHITHER    DEPART    THE    BRAVE 

Rome  is    fallen,   I   hear,  the   gallant    Medici 

taken. 
Noble  Manara  slain,  and  Garibaldi  has  lost 

il  Moro;  — 
Rome  is  fallen ;  and  fallen,  or  falling,  heroi- 

cal   Venice. 
I,  meanwhile,  for  the  loss  of  a  single  small 

chit   of   a  girl,   sit 
Moping  and   mourning  here, —  for  her,   and 

myself   much    smaller.  5 

Whither  depart  the  souls  of  the  brave  that 

die  in  the  battle. 
Die  in  the  lost,  lost  fight,  for  the  cause  that 

perishes    with   them? 
Are  they  upborne  from  the  field  on  the  slum- 
berous pinions  of  angels 
LTnto  a   far-off  home,  where  the  weary  rest 

from  their  labor, 
And   the   deep   wounds   are   healed,   and   the 

bitter  and  burning  moisture  'o 

Wiped   from  the  generous  eyes?  or  do  they 

linger,   unhappy, 


674 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Pining,  and  haunting  the  grave  of  their  by- 
gone  hope   and   endeavor? 
All    declamation,    alas!    though    I    talk,    I 
care  not  for  Rome  nor 

Italy;    feebly  and   faintly,  and  but    with  the 
lips,   can    lament   the 

Wreck  of  the   Lombard  youth,  and   the   vic- 
tory of  the  oppressor.  JS 

Whither  depart  the  brave  !  —  God  knows  ;   I 
certainly  do  not. 

(1858) 


WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would 

go? 
Far,   far   ahead,  is  all   her   seamen  know. 
And    where    the    land    she    travels     from? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth 
face,  5 

Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to 
pace ; 

Or,   o'er  the   stern   reclining,   watch  below 

The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On    stormy    nights    when    wild    northwesters 

rave. 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with   wind   and 

wave!  jo 

The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would 

go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And    where    the    land    she    travels     from? 

Away,  '5 

Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

(1862) 


AH!  YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN! 

'Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true,' 
O  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new  ; 
Ah!  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain, 
And  yet  consider  it  again ! 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years       5 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
And  all  the  earnings  of  their  pain, — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

We !  what  do  we  see  ?  each  a  space 

Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face;         1° 


Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

Alas  I   the  great   world   goes   its   way, 
And  takes  its  truth   from  each   new  day; 
They  do  not  quit,   nor  can   retain,  '5 

Far  less  consider  it  again. 

( 1862) 

IN  THE  DEPTHS 

It  is  not  sweet  content,  be  sure. 
That  moves  the  nobler  Muse  to  song. 

Yet  when  could  truth  come  whole  and  pure 
From  hearts  that  inly  writhe  with  wrong? 

'T  is  not  the  calm  and  peaceful  breast  5 

That  sees  or  reads  the  problem  true ; 

They  only  know,  on  whom  't  has  prest 
Too  hard  to  hope  to  solve  it  too. 

Our  ills  are  worse  than  at  their  ease 

These  blameless  happy  souls  suspect,       'o 

They  only  study  the  disease, 
Alas,  who  live  not  to  detect. 

(1862) 

THE  LATEST  DECALOGUE 

Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only;  who 
Would  be  at  the  expense  of  two? 
No   graven   images  may  be 
Worshipped,   except   the   currency: 
Swear  not  at  all ;  for,  for  thy  curse  5 

Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse: 
At   church  On   Sunday  to  attend 
Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend: 
Honor  thy  parents :   that  is,  all 
From  whom  advancement  may  befall ;         '« 
Thou   shalt  not   kill ;   but  need'st  not   strive 
Officiously  to  keep  alive: 
Do  not  adultery  commit ; 
Advantage    rarely   comes    of    it: 
Thou  shalt  not  steal;  an  empty  feat,  '5 

When  it  's  so  lucrative  to  cheat : 
Bear  not  false  witness;  let  the  lie 
Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  {\y: 
Thou  shalt  not  covet,  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition.  20 

(1862) 

SAY   NOT   THE   STRUGGLE   NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain. 

The  enemy   faints  not,  nor   faileth, 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 


FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON 


675 


If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars;  5 
It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 

Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers. 
And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking. 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain,  10 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making. 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light. 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly,  'S 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 
(1862) 


LIFE  IS  STRUGGLE 

To  wear  out  heart,  and  nerves,  and  brain. 
And  give  oneself  a  world  of  pain ; 
Be  eager,  angry,  fierce,  and  hot. 
Imperious,  supple  —  God  knows  what. 
For  what's  all  one  to  have  or  not;         5 
O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain ! 
For  't  is  not  joy,  it  is  not  gain, 
It  is  not  in  itself  a  bliss. 
Only  it  is  precisely  this 
That  keeps  us  all  alive.  10 

To  say  we  truly  feel  the  pain, 
And  quite  are  sinking  with  the  strain ;  — 
Entirely,    simply,    undeceived, 
Believe,  and  say  we  ne'er  believed 
The  object,  e'en  were  it  achieved,  is 

A  thing  we  e'er  had  cared  to  keep; 
With  heart  and  soul  to  hold  it  cheap. 
And  then  to  go  and  try  it  again ; 
O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain ! 
O,  't  is  not  joy,  and  't  is  not  bliss,  20 

Only  it  is  precisely  this 
That  keeps  us  still  alive. 

(1869) 


FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON 

•(1821-1895) 

TO   MY   GRANDMOTHER 

Suggested  by  a  picture  by  Mr.  Romney 

This  relative  of  mine. 
Was  she  seventy-and  nine 

When    she  died? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  looked  at   seventeen,  5 

As  a  bride. 


Beneath   a   summer    tree 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has   a   charm  ; 
Her   ringlets  are   in  taste ; 
What  an  arm !  and  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm ! 

With   her   bridal-wreath,   bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala, — 
If  Romney's  touch  be  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you. 

Grandpapa ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love; 

They  are  parting!     Do  they  move? 

Are  they  dumb? 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,    and    seem 

To  say,  '  Come  I ' 

What  funny  fancy  slips 

From   atween   these   cherry  lips? 

Whisper   me. 
Fair  Sorceress  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  may  n't 

Marry  thee? 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime ! 

When    I    first 
Saw  this  Lady,  in  my  youth, 
Her  winters  had,   forsooth, 

Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow. 
Once   shamed  the   swarthy  crow; 

By-and-by 
That  fowl's  avenging  sprite 
Set  his  cruel   foot   for  spite 

Near  her  eye. 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean. 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine ; 

Well  I  wot 
With  her  needles  would  she  sit, 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit, — 

Would  she  not? 

Ah,   perishable   clay! 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away 

One  by  one ; 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  'Thy 

Will  be  done.' 

In  travail,  as  in  tears, 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 
Overprest, 


676 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 
Are  at  rest. 

Oh,    if   you    now   are   there, 
And  szuccl  as  once  you  were, 

Grandnianinia, 
This  nether   world   agrees 
You  '11  all  the  better  please 

Grandpapa. 


(1862) 


MY    MISTRESS'S    BOOTS 

She  has  dancing  eyes  and  niby  Ii[^s, 
Delightful   boots  — and   azuay   she   skips. 

They  nearly  strike  me  dumb, — 
I  tremble  when  they  come 

Pit-a-pat :  5 

This   palpitation   means 
These   Boots   are    Geraldine's  — 

Think  of  that! 

O,  where  did  hunter  win 

So  delicate  a  skin  1° 

For   her   feet  ? 
You  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perished,  so  you  did, 

For   my   Sweet. 

The  faery  stitching  gleams  i5 

On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams, 

And  reveals 
That  the  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags. 

And  these  heels.  20 

What  soles  to  charm  an  elf !  — 
Had   Crusoe,  sick  of  self. 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
O,  how  hard  he  would  have  tried        25 

For  the  two ! 

For  Gerry  's  debonair. 
And  innocent  and   fair 

As  a  rose; 
She  's  an  Angel  in  a  frock, —  30 

She 's  an   Angel  with  a  clock 

To  her  hose ! 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  pretty  toes  to  please 

Mandarins,  35 

Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's ! 


Cinderella's    left    and    rights 
To  Geraldine's  were   frights: 

And   I  trow 
The  Damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has   dutifully   trod 

Until  now. 

Come,   Gerry,   since  it   suits 
Such  a  pretty   Puss    (in   Boots) 

These  to  don, 
Set  your  dainty  hand   a   while 
On  my  shoulder,  Dear,  and  I  '11 

Put   them   on. 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 
(1823-1896J 

THE  SPIRIT'S  EPOCHS 

Not  in  the  crises  of  events. 

Of  compassed  hopes,  or  fears  fulfilled. 
Or  acts  of  gravest  consequence, 

Are  life's  delight  and  depth   revealed. 
The  day  of  days  was  not  the  day;  5 

That  went  before,  or  was  postponed; 
The  night  Death  took  our  lamp  away 

Was  not  the  night  on  which  we  groaned. 
I  drew  my  bride,  beneath  the  moon. 

Across   my   threshold;   happy   hour!         10 
But,  ah,  the  walk  that  afternoon 

We  saw  the  water-flags  in  flower ! 

(1862) 


THE  MARRIED  LOVER 

Why,  having  won  her,  do  I  woo? 

Because  her  spirit's  vestal  grace 
Provokes   me  always  to   pursue, 

But,   spirit-like,   eludes   embrace; 
Because  her  womanhood  is  such  5 

That,   as   on   court-days    subjects   kiss 
The  Queen's  hand,  yet  so  n«ar  a  touch 

Affirms  no  mean  familiarness ; 
Nay,  rather  marks  more  fair  the  height 

Which  can  with  safety  so  neglect  1° 

To  dread,  as  lower  ladies  might, 

That  grace  could  meet  with  disrespect; 
Thus  she  with  happy  favor  feeds 

Allegiance   from   a   love   so   high 
That  thence  no  false  conceit  proceeds         'S 

Of  difference  bridged,  or  state  put  by, 
Because  although   in   act   and   word 

As  lowly  as  a  wife  can  be. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 


^71 


Her  manners,  when  they  call  me  lord, 

Remind    me    'tis    by   courtesy;  -o 

Not  with  her  least  consent  of  will, 

Which  would  my  proud  afifection  hurt, 
But  by  the  noble  style  that  still 

Imputes  an  unattained   desert ; 
Because    her   gay    and    lofty    brows,  25 

When  all  is  won  which  hope  can  ask, 
Reflect  a  light  of  hopeless  snows 

That  bright  in  virgin  ether  bask ; 
Because,  though  free  of  the  outer  court 

I  am,  this  Temple  keeps  its  shrine  3° 

Sacred  to  Heaven  ;  because  in  short, 

She 's  not  and  never  can  be  mine. 

(1862) 


IF  I  WERE  DEAD 

'  If  I  were  dead,  you  'd  sometimes  say,  Poor 

Child!' 
The  dear  lips  quivered  as  they  spake. 
And  the  tears  brake 
From  eyes  which,  not  to  grieve  me,  brightly 

smiled. 
Poor  Child,  poor  Child ! 
I  seem  to  hear  your  laugh,  your  talk,  your 

_  song. 
It  is  not  true  that  Love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Poor  Child! 
And  did  you  think,  when  you  so  cried  and 

smiled. 
How  I,  in  lonely  nights,  should  lie  awake,  1° 
And    of    those    words    your    full    avengers 

make  ? 
Poor  Child,  poor  Child  ! 
And  now  unless  it  be 
That  sweet  amends  thrice  told  are  come  to 

thee, 
O  God,  have  thou  no  mercy  upon  me!       15 
Poor   Child! 

(1877) 


SIDNEY  DOBELL  (1824-1874) 
AMERICA 

Alen  say,  Columbia,  we  shall  hear  thy  guns. 
But  in  what  tongue  shall  be  thy  battle-cry? 
Not  that   our   sires   did  love   in  years   gone 

by, 
When    all    the    Pilgrim    Fathers    were    little 

sons 
In     merrie     homes     of     Englaunde?     Back, 

and  see  5 

Thy  satcheled  ancestor !     Behold,  he  runs 


To  mine,  and,  clasped,  they  tread  the  equal 
lea 

To  the  same  village-school,  where  side  by 
side 

They  spell  '  our  Father.'  Hard  by,  the  twin- 
pride 

Of  that  gray  hall  whose  ancient  oriel 
gleams  10 

Through  yon  baronial  pines,  with  looks  of 
light 

Our  sister-mothers  sit  beneath  one  tree. 

Meanwhile  our  Shakspere  wanders  past  and 
dreams 

His  Helena  and  Hermia.     Shall  we  fight? 

Nor    force   nor    fraud    shall    sunder   us!     O 

ye  IS 

Who    north    or    south,    on    east    or    western 

land. 
Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for  truth, 
Freedom    for    freedom,    love    for    love,    and 

God 
For  God ;  O  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood        20 
This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
Its    breathing    book;    live    worthy    of    that 

grand. 
Heroic  utterance  —  parted,  yet  a  whole. 
Far,     yet     unsevered, —  children     brave     and 

free 
Of   the   great    Mother-tongue,   and   ye   shall 

be  25 

Lords    of    an    Empire    wide    as    Shakspere's 

soul, 
Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme, 
And   rich  as   Chaucer's   speech,   and   fair  as 

Spenser's    dream. 

(1855) 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 
(1830-1894) 

SONG 

When    I   am   dead,   my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs   for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head. 

Nor    shady    cypress-tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me  S 

With   showers  and  dewdrops   wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember. 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ;  10 

I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain: 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 


678 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 
And    haply   may    forget. 


REMEMBER 


(1862) 


Remember   me   when   I   am   gone   away, 
(jonc    far  away  into  the   silent   land ; 
When    you    can    no    more    hold    me    by    the 

hand, 
Nor   I   half  turn  to  go  yet  turning  stay. 
Remember  mc  when  no  more,  day  by  day,  5 
You  tell  mc  of  your  future  that  you  planned: 
Only  remember   me;   you  understand 
It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 
Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve:  1° 
For  if  the  darkness  and   corruption   leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once   I   had, 
Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

(1862) 


ABNEGATION 

If  there  be  any  one  can  take  my  place 

And    make    you    happy    whom    I    grieve    to 
grieve, 

Think    not    that    I    can    grudge    it,    but    be- 
lieve 

I  do  commend  you  to  that  nobler  grace, 

That    readier    wit    than    mine,    that    sweeter 
face ;  5 

Yea,  since  your   riches  make  me   rich,  con- 
ceive 

I    too   am   crowned,    while   bridal   crowns    I 
weave. 

And    thread    the    bridal    dance    with    jocund 
pace. 

For  if  I  did  not  love  you,  it  might  be 

That    I    should   grudge   you   some   one    dear 
delight;  '° 

But  since  the  heart  is  yours  that  was  mine 
own. 

Your    pleasure    is    my    pleasure,    right    my 
right. 

Your  honorable  freedom  makes  me  free. 

And  you  companioned  I  am  not  alone. 

(1881) 

TRUST 

If   I   could   trust   mine   own   self   with  your 

fate. 
Shall  I  not  rather  trust  it  in  God's  hand? 


Without  whose  will  one  lily  cloth  not  stand, 
Nor   sparrow    fall  at   his   appointed   date; 
Who    nnmliercth    the   innumerable   sand,        s 
Who    weighs    the    wind    and    water    with    a 

weight, 
To    whom    the    world    is    neither    small    nor 

great, 
Whose   knowledge   foreknew   every   plan   we 

planned. 
Searching  my  heart  for  all  that  touches  you, 
1  find  there  only  love  and  love's  good-will 
Helpless  to  help  and  impotent  to  do,  " 

Of  understanding  dull,  of  sight  most  dim; 
And  therefore  I  commend  you  back  to  him 
Whose  love  your  love's  capacity  can  fill. 

(1881) 


UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long 
day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place?  s 
A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  be- 
gin. 

May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 
You  cannot  miss  that   inn. 

Shall   I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those   who   have   gone  before.  "> 

Then   must    I    knock,   or    call    when    just    in 
sight? 
They  will   not   keep   you   standing   at   that 
door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will    there    be    beds    for    me    and    all    who 
seek?  IS 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

(1862) 


CHARLES  STUART  CALVER- 
LEY  (1831-1884) 

COMPANIONS 

A    TALE   OF    A    GRANDFATHER 

I  know  not  of  what  we  pondered 
Or  made  pretty  pretence  to  talk, 

As,  her  hand  within  mine,  we  wandered 
Toward  the  pool  by  the  lime-tree  walk, 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 


While    the    dew    fell    in    showers    from    the 
passion    flowers  5 

And  the  blush-rose  bent  on  her  stalk. 

I  cannot  recall  her  figure : 

Was  it  regal  as  Juno's  own? 
Or  only  a  trifle  bigger 

Than  the  elves  who  surround  the  throne  lo 
Of  the  Faery  Queen,  and  are  seen,  I  ween. 

By  mortals  in  dreams  alone? 

What  her  eyes  were  like  I  know  not : 
Perhaps  they  were  blurred  with  tears ; 

And  perhaps  in  yon  skies  there  glow  not     'S 
(On   the  contrary)    clearer   spheres. 

No!  as  to  her  eyes  I  am  just  as  wise 
As  you  or  the  cat,  my  dears. 

Her  teeth,  I  presume,  were  '  pearly : ' 

But  which  was  she,  brunette  or  blonde?  20 

Her  hair,  was  it  quaintly  curly, 
Or  as  straight  as  a  beadle's  wand? 

That  I  failed  to  remark:  it  was  rather  dark 
And  shadowy  round  the  pond. 

Then  the  hand  that  reposed  so  snugly        25 
In  mine, —  was  it  plump  or  spare? 

Was  the  countenance   fair  or  ugly? 
Nay,  children,  you  have  me  there! 

My   eyes   were   p'haps   blurred ;    and   besides 
I  'd  heard 
That  it 's  horribly  rude  to  stare.  30 

And  I, —  was  I  brusque  and   surly? 

Or  oppressively  bland  and  fond? 
Was  I  partial  to  rising  early? 

Or  why  did  we  twain  abscond, 
When  nobody  knew,  from  the  public  view  35 

To  prowl  by  a  misty  pond? 

What  passed,  what  was  felt  or  spoken, — 
Whether  anything  passed  at  all, — 

And  whether  the  heart   was  broken 
That  beat  under  that  shelt'ring  shawl, —  40 

(If    shawl    she   had    on,    which    I    doubt), — 
has   gone, 
Yes,  gone  from  me  past  recall. 

Was  I  haply  the  lady's  suitor? 

Or   her   uncle?     I    can't   make   out; 
Ask  your  governess,  dears,  or  tutor.  45 

For  myself,   I  'm  in   hopeless  doubt 
As  to  why  we  were  there,  who  on  earth  we 
were, 
And  what  this  is  all  about. 

(1872) 


679 


AUSTIN  DOBSON  (1840-) 
A  DEAD  LETTER 


I  drew  it  from  its  china  tomb;  — 

It  came  out   feebly  scented 
With  some  thin  ghost  of  past  perfume 

That  dust  and  days  had  lent  it. 

An   old,   old    letter,—  folded    still !  5 

To  read  with  due  composure, 
I   sought  the  sun-lit   window-sill. 

Above  the   gray  enclosure, 

That  glimmering  in  the  sultry  haze. 

Faint    flowered,    dimly    shaded,  10 

Slumbered  like  Goldsmith's  Madam  Blaize, 
Bedizened  and  brocaded. 

A  queer  old  place !     You  'd  surely  say 

Some    tea-board    garden-maker 
Had  planned  it  in  Dutch  William's  day      is 

To  please  some  florist  Quaker, 

So  trim  it  was.     The  yew-trees  still, 

With  pious  care  perverted, 
Grew  in  the  same  grim  shapes ;  and  still 

The  lipless  dolphin  spurted  ;  20 

Still  in  his  wonted  state  abode 

The   broken-nosed   Apollo; 
And   still   the   cypress-arbor   showed 

The  same  umbrageous  hollow. 

Only, —  as   fresh  young  Beauty  gleams       25 

From  coffee-colored   laces, — 
So  peeped   from  its  old-fashioned  dreams 

The  fresher  modern  traces; 

For  idle  mallet,  hoop,  and  ball 

Upon  the  lawn  were  lying ;  30 

A  magazine,  a  tumbled  shawl, 

Round  which  the  swifts  were  flying; 

And,  tossed  beside  the  Guelder  rose, 

A  heap  of  rainbow  knitting, 
Where,  blinking  in  her  pleased  repose,       35 

A   Persian  cat  was  sitting. 

'  A   place  to  love  in, —  live, —  for  aye, 

If  we  too,  like  Tithonus, 
Could  find  some  God  to  stretch  the  gray 

Scant  life  the  Fates  have  thrown  us;      40 

'  But  now  by  steam  we  run  our  race, 
With  buttoned  heart  and  pocket; 


68o 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


Our  Love's  a  gilded,  surplus  grace,— 
Just  like  an  empty  locket ! 

"  The  time  is  out  of  joint."     Who  will,     45 
May  strive  to  make  it  better ; 
For  me,  this  warm  old  window-sill, 
And  this  old  dusty  letter.' 


'Dear  John    (the  letter  ran),  it  can't,  can't 

be, 
For   Father 's  gone  to   Charley  Fair  with 

Sam,  so 

And    Mother 's    storing    Apples, —  Pruc    and 

Me 
Up  to  our  Elbows  making  Damson  Jam : 
But  we  shall  meet  before  a  Week  is  gone, — 
"  'T  is    a    long   Lane   that   has   no    turning," 

John! 

'  Only    till    Sunday   next,    and    then    you  '11 

wait  55 

Behind    the   White-Thorn,   by   the   broken 

Stile  — 
We   can    go    round   and   catch   them    at   the 

Gate, 
All    to    Ourselves,    for    nearly    one    long 

Mile; 
Dear  Prne  won't  look,  and  Father  he  '11  go 

on. 
And    Sam's    two    Eyes    are    all    for    Cissy, 

John!  6o 

'John,   she's   so   smart, —  with   every  ribbon 

new. 
Flame-colored    Sack,    and    Crimson    Pade- 

soy ; 
As  proud  as  proud ;  and  has  the  Vapors  too. 
Just   like    My   Lady ;  —  calls   poor   Sam   a 

Boy, 
And     vows     no     Sweet-heart 's     worth     the 

Thinking-on  65 

Till  he  's  past  Thirty    ...    I  know  better, 

John! 

'  My  Dear,  I  don't  think  that  I  thought  of 
much 
Before  we  knew  each  other,  I  and  you ; 

And  now,  why,  John,  your  least,  least   Fin- 
ger-touch, 
Gives    me    enough    to    think    a    Summer 
through. 

See,  for  I  send  you  Something !     There,  't  is 
gone ! 

Look    in    this    corner, —  mind    you    find    it, 
John! ' 


This  was  the  matter  of  the  note, — 

A  long-forgot  deposit, 
Dropped  in  an  Indian  dragon's  throat,         75 

Deep  in  a  fragrant  closet, 

Piled  with  a  dapper  Dresden  world, — 
Beaux,  beauties,  prayers,  and  poses, — 

Bonzes  with  squat  legs  undercurlod,' 

And  great  jars  filled  with  roses.  80 

Ah,  heart  that  wrote!     Ah,  lips  that  kissed! 

You  had  no  thought  or  presage 
Into  what  keeping  you  dismissed 

Your  simple  old-world  message  ! 

A  reverent  one.     Though  we  to-day  85 

Distrust  beliefs  and  powers. 
The  artless,  ageless  things  you  say 

Are  fresh  as  May's  own  flowers, 

Starring  some  pure  primeval  spring. 
Ere  Gold  had  grown  despotic, —  90 

Ere  Life  was  yet  a  selfish  thing, 
Or  Love  a  mere  exotic  I 

I  need  not  search  too  much  to  find 

Whose  lot  it  was  to  send  it, 
That   feel  upon  me  yet  the  kind,  95 

Soft  hand  of  her  who  penned  it ; 

And  see,  through  twoscore  years  of  smoke, 

In  by-gone,  quaint  apparel, 
Shine  from  yon  time-black  Norway  oak 

The    face    of    Patience    Caryl, —  100 

The  pale,  smooth  forehead,  silver-tressed ; 

The  gray  gown,  primly  flowered ; 
The  spotless,  stately  coif  whose  crest 

Like  Hector's  horse-plume  towered ; 

And  still  the  sweet  half-solemn  look  105 

Where  some  past  thought  was  clinging, 

As  when  one  shuts  a  serious  book 
To  hear  the  thrushes  singing. 

I   kneel  to  you!     Of  those  you  were, 
Whose  kind  old  hearts  grow  mellow, —  no 

Whose  fair  old  faces  grow  more   fair 
As    Point   and    Flanders   yellow; 

Whom  some  old  store  of  garnered  grief, 

Their  placid  temples  shading, 
Crowns  like  a  wreath  of  autumn  leaf       I'S 

With  tender  tints  of  fading. 


JAMES  THOMSON 


681 


Peace  to  your  soul !     You  died  unwed  — 

Despite    this    loving   letter. 
And   what   of   John?     The    less   that's    said 

Of  John,  I  think,  the  better.  120 

(1883) 


JAMES  THOMSON  (1834-1882) 

From  THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL 
NIGHT 

MELENCOLIA 

Anear  the  center  of  that  northern  crest 

Stands  out  a  level  upland  bleak  and  bare, 
From    which    the    city    east    and    south    and 
west 
Sinks  gently  in  long  waves ;   and  throned 
there 
Ah   Image  sits,  stupendous,  superhuman,     5 
The  bronze  colossus  of  a  winged  Woman, 
Upon  a  graded  granite  base  foursquare. 

Low-seated  she  leans  forward  massively, 
With    cheek    on    clenched    left    hand,    the 
forearm's  might 
Erect,    its   elbow   on   her   rounded   knee ; 
Across    a    clasped    book    in    her    lap    the 
right  1 1 

Upholds  a  pair  of  compasses;  she  gazes 
With   full   set  eyes,  but  wandering  in   thick 
mazes 
Of    somber    thought   beholds    no    outward 
sight. 

Words  cannot  picture  her ;  but  all  men  know 

That    solemn    sketch    the    pure    sad    artist 

wrought  16 

Three  centuries  and  three   score  years  ago, 

With   fantasies  of   his   peculiar   lliought : 
The   instruments   of  carpentry  and   science 
Scattered  about  her  feet,  in  strange  alliance 
With  the  keen  wolf-hound  sleeping  undis- 
traught ; 

Scales,    hour-glass,    bell,    and    magic-square 
above ; 
The  grave  and  solid  infant  perched  beside, 
With  open  winglets  that  might  bear  a  dove, 
Intent  upon  its  tablets,  heavy-eyed ;  25 

Her  folded  wings  as  of  a  mighty  eagle 
But  all  too  impotent  to  lift  the  regal 
Robustness  of  her  earth-born  strength  and 
pride; 


i 


And  with  those  wings,  and  that  light  wreath 
which  seems 


To  mock  her  grand  head  and  the  knotted 
frown  30 

Of   forehead  charged   with  baleful   thoughts 
and  dreams, 
The  household  bunch  of  keys,  the  house- 
wife's gown 
Voluminous,    indented,   and   yet   rigid 
As  if  a  shell  of  burnished  metal   frigid, 
The  feet  thick-shod  to  tread  all  weakness 
down ;  3s 

The  comet  hanging  o'er  the  waste  dark  seas, 

The  massy  rainbow  curved  in  front  of  it 

Beyond    the    village    with    the    masts    and 

trees; 

The  snaky  imp,  dog-headed,  from  the  Pit, 

Bearing  upon  its  batlike  leathern  pinions  40 

Her  name  unfolded  in  the  sun's  dominions, 

The  'MELENCOLIA'  that  transcends  all 

wit. 

Thus  has  the  artist  copied  her,  and  thus 
Surrounded  to  expound  her  form  sublime. 

Her    fate  heroic   and   calamitous ;  45 

Fronting  the  dreadful  mysteries  of  Time, 

I'nvanquished  in  defeat  and  desolation, 

Undaunted    in   the   hopeless   conflagration 
Of  the  day  setting  on  her  baffled  prime. 

Baffled  and  beaten  back  she  works  on  still. 
Weary    and    sick   of    soul    she    works    the 
more,  51 

Sustained  by  her  indomitable  will: 
The    hands    shall    fashion    and    the    brain 
shall   pore, 
And  all  her  sorrow  shall  be  turned  to  labor. 
Till   Death   the   friend-foe   piercing   with   his 
saber  55 

That   mighty  heart   of   hearts   ends   bitter 
war. 

But  as  if  blacker  night  could  dawn  on  night, 
With    tenfold    gloom    on    moonless    night 
unstarred, 
A  sense  more  tragic  than  defeat  and  blight. 
More  desperate  than  strife  with  hope  de- 
barred. 60 
More   fatal  than  the  adamantine  Never 
Encompassing  her  passionate  endeavor. 
Dawns  glooming  in  her  tenebrous  regard'. 

The    sense    that    every    struggle    brings    de- 
feat 
Because  Fate  holds  no  prize  to  crown  suc- 
cess ;  65 
That  all  the  oracles  are  dumb  or  cheat 
Because  they  have   no   secret  to  express ; 


682 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 


That    none    can    pierce    the    vast    hlack    veil 

uncertain 
Because   there    is    no   hght   beyond   the    cur- 
tain ; 
That  all  is  vanity  and  nothingness.  70 

Titanic   from   her  high   throne  in   the  north, 
That   City's  somber   Patroness  and  Queen, 

In    bronze    sublimity    she   gazes    forth 
Over  her  Capital  of  teen  and  threne, 

Over  the  river  with  its  isles  and  bridges,  75 

The  marsh  and  moorland,  to  the  stern  rock- 
ridges, 
Confronting  them   with   a  coeval   mien. 

The   moving   moon    and    stars    from   east   to 
west 
Circle    before    her    in    the    sea    of    air; 
Shadows    and    gleams    glide    round   her    sol- 
emn  rest.  s° 
Her  subjects  often  gaze  up  to  her  there : 
The   strong   to   drink   new    strength   of   iron 

endurance, 
The  weak  new  terrors ;  all,  renewed  assur- 
ance 
And  confirmation  of  the  old  despair. 

(1874) 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY 
(1844-1881) 

HAS  SUMMER  COME  WITHOUT  THE 
ROSE? 

Has  summer  come  without  the  rose, 

Or  left  the  bird  behind? 
Is  the  blue  changed  above  thee, 

O  world !  or  am  I  blind  ? 
Will  you  change  every  flower  that  grows,  s 

Or  only  change  this  spot, 
Where  she  who  said,  I  love  thee, 

Now   says,   I   love   thee  not? 

The  skies  seemed  true  above  thee, 
The  rose  true  on  the  tree;  ^o 

The  bird  seemed  true  the  summer  through. 
But   all   proved    false  to  me. 

World,  is  there  one  good  thing  in  you, 
Life,  love,  or  death  —  or  what? 


Since  lips  that  sang,  I  love  thee,  15 

Have   said,   I  love  thee  not? 

1    think   (he   smi's   kiss   will    scarce   fall 

Into  one  flower's  gold  cup; 
I  think  the  bird  will  miss  me, 

And  give  the  summer  up.  20 

O  sweet  place,  desolate  in  tall 

Wild    grass,    have    you    forgot 
How  her  lips  loved  to  kiss  me, 

Now  that  they  kiss  me  not, 

Be   false  or  fair  above  me;  2s 

Come  back  with   any   face. 
Summer!  —  do   I  care  what  you  do? 

You  cannot   change  one   place, — 
The  grass,  the  leaves,  the  earth,  the  dew, 

The  grave  I  make  the  spot, —  3° 

Here,  where  she  used  to  love  me, 

Here,  where   she  loves  me  not. 

(1874) 
ODE 

We  are  the  music  makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by   lone   sea-breakers. 

And    sitting    by    desolate    streams ;  — 
World-losers    and    world-forsakers,  5 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams : 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of   the   world    for   ever,   it   seems. 


With   wonderful   deathless   ditties 

We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities,  10 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory: 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall   go   forth   and  conquer   a   crown; 
And  three  with   a  new   song's  measure       is 

Can   trample   a   kingdom   down. 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In   the  buried   past  of  the   earth. 
Built    Nineveh    with   our   sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth;  20 

And  o'erthrew  them   with   prophesying 

To   the   old    of   the   new   world's    worth; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying. 

Or  one  that  is  coining  to  birth. 


(1874) 


THOMAS  DE  OUINCEY  (1785-1859) 

De  Quinc6y's  life  was  ill-regulated,  almost  from  his  infancy,  in  its  material  conditions.  His 
education  was  interrupted  by  changes  from  one  school  to  another,  and  at  seventeen  he  ran 
away  from  the  grammar  school  of  his  native  city,  Manchester,  as  he  himself  describes  in  the 
first  of  our  extracts  from  the  '  Confessions.'  He  made  his  way  through  Wales  to  London, 
where  he  wandered  about  in  the  streets  and  mixed  with  the  lowest  classes  of  society.  After  a 
year  of  this  adventurous  life  he  became  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford,  but  he  gave  little  atten- 
tion to  the  prescribed  studies,  and  left  without  taking  a  degree.  He  spent  a  great  deal  of 
time  on  German,  of  which  he  had  already  learnt  something  from  a  chance  meeting  with  a 
tourist  during  his  wanderings  in  Wales,  and  he  obtained  a  good  knowledge  of  Kant  and  other 
l)hilosophical  writers.  He  wrote,  years  afterwards :  '  Without  breach  of  truth  or  modesty  I 
may  atHrm  that  my  life  has  been,  on  the  whole,  the  life  of  a  philosopher :  from  my  birth  I 
was  made  an  intellectual  creature;  and  intellectual  in  the  highest  sense  my  pursuits  and 
pleasures  have  been,  even  from  my  school-boy  days.'  In  1807  he  paid  a  visit  to  Coleridge  and 
escorted  jNIrs.  Coleridge  and  her  children  to  the  Lake  District,  where  he  met  Southey  and 
Wordsworth,  and  settled  down  for  some  years,  marrying  the  daughter  of  a  Westmoreland 
farmer.  In  1821  he  removed  to  Loudon  and  began  his  literary  career  by  contributing  the 
Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater  to  the  London  Magazine.  His  writings  consist  almost 
entirely  of  essays  and  reviews,  written  for  various  periodicals,  and  covering  a  wide  range 
of  subjects ;  many  of  them  are  on  German  literature,  which  at  that  time  was  interesting  the 
British  public.  The  latter  part  of  his  life  was  spent  mainly  in  and  about  Edinburgh,  where 
his  daughter  kept  house  for  him.  She  says:  'He  was  not  a  reassuring  man  for  nervous 
people  to  live  with,  as  those  nights  were  exceptions  on  which  he  did  not  set  something  on 
fire,  the  commonest  incident  being  for  someone  to  look  up  from  book  or  work  to  say  casually  : 
"  Papa,  your  hair  is  on  fire,"  of  which  a  calm,  "  Is  it,  my  love?  "  and  a  hand  rubbing  out  of 
the  blaze  was  all  the  notice  taken.'  His  rooms  were  crowded  with  books  and  papers  until 
they  became  uninhabitable  and  he  moved  elsewhere,  leaving  the  accumulated  store  to  the  mercy 
of  the  landlady.  He  was  incapable  of  managing  money  matters,  and  was  often  in  prison 
for  debt.  He  would  ask  for  the  loan  of  a  small  sum,  imagining  himself  absolutely  penniless 
when  he  had  a  £50  note  in  his  pocket.  His  dress  and  his  personal  appearance  were  as 
odd  as  his  habits ;  be  was  of  very  short  stature,  with  a  large  head,  and  bright  eyes.  He 
had  an  extremely  delicate  ear  for  music  and  the  harmonies  of  words;  this  in  part  accounts 
for  the  beauty  of  his  prose  style,  which  is  molded  on  that  of  the  great  writers  of  the  first 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century.  He  had  a  keenly  analytic  intellect,  and  some  of  his  writings 
are  highly  philosophical  and  imaginative;  but  like  Lamb,  as  he  himself  said,  he  had  'a  furious 
love  for  nonsense  —  headlong  nonsense' — '  rigmaroling  '  his  friends  called  it  —  and  the  'Con- 
fessions '  need  not  be  taken  as  literal  accounts  of  actual  fact. 


From  CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EATER 

I   have   often   been   asked   how    I    first  quisite  pleasure  it  gave  me:  but,  so  long 

came  to  be  a  regular  opium  eater;   and  as   I   took   it   with   this   view,   I   was   ef- 

have  suffered,  very  unjustly,  in  the  opin-  fectually  protected   from  all  material  bad 

ion  of  my   acquaintance,    from   being   re-  consequences,    by   the   necessity   of   inter- 

puted    to    have    brought    upon    myself    all  5  posing  long  intervals  between  the  several 

the    sufferings    which    I    shall    have    to  acts  of  indulgence,  in  order  to  renew  the 

record,    by    a    long   course    of    indulgence  pleasurable    sensations.     It    was    not    for 

in   this    practice    purely    for   the    sake    of  the   purpose  of  creating  pleasure,   but   of 

creating  an  artificial  state  of  pleasurable  mitigating    pain    in    the    severest    degree, 

excitement.     This,    however,    is    a    mis-  10  that    I   first   began   to   use   opium    as    an 

representation    of    my    case.     True    it    is,  article     of    daily    diet.     In     the     twenty- 

that  for  nearly  ten  years  I  did  occasion-  eighth   year   of   my   age,    a    most   painful 

ally  take  opium  for  the  sake  of  the  ex-  affection    of   the    stomach,    which    I    had 

683 


684  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

first  experienced  about  ten  years  before,  head  of  a  great  school  on  an  ancient 
attacked  nie  in  great  strength.     This  af-      foundation.     This     man     had     been     ap- 

fection  had  originally  been  caused  by  ex-      pointed  to  his  situation  by  College, 

tremities  of  hunger,  suffered  in  my  boyish  Oxford;  and  was  a  sound,  well-built 
days.  During  the  season  of  hope  and  5  scholar,  but  (like  most  men,  whom  I  have 
redundant  happiness  which  succeeded  known  from  that  college)  coarse,  clumsy, 
(that  is,  from  eighteen  to  twenty- four)  it  and  inelegant.  A  miserable  contrast  he 
had  slumbered;  for  the  three  following  presented,  in  my  eyes,  to  the  Etonian 
years  it  had  revived  at  intervals;  and  brilliancy  of  my  favorite  master;  and  be- 
now,  under  unfavorable  circumstances,  lo  side,  he  could  not  disguise  from  my 
from  depression  of  spirits,  it  attacked  me  hourly  notice,  the  poverty  and  meagerncss 
with  a  violence  that  yielded  to  no  rem-  of  his  understanding.  It  is  a  bad  thing 
edies  but  opium.  As  the  youthful  suffer-  for  a  boy  to  be,  and  to  know  himself, 
ings,  which  first  produced  this  derange-  far  beyond  his  tutors,  whether  in  know- 
ment  of  the  stomach,  were  interesting  in  15  ledge  or  in  power  of  mind.  This  was  the 
themselves,  and  in  the  circumstances  that  case,  so  far  as  regarded  knowledge  at 
attended  them,  I  shall  here  briefly  retrace  least,  not  with  myself  only,  for  the  two 
them.  boys   who   jointly   with   myself   composed 

My  father  died  when  I  was  about  seven  the  first  form  were  better  Grecians  than 
years  old,  and  left  me  to  the  care  of  four  20  the  head-master,  though  not  more  ele- 
guardians.  I  was  sent  to  various  schools,  gant  scholars,  nor  at  all  more  accustomed 
great  and  small;  and  was  very  early  dis-  to  sacrifice  to  the  graces.  When  I  first 
tinguished  for  my  classical  attainments,  entered,  I  remember  that  we  read  Soph- 
especially  for  my  knowledge  of  Greek.  ocles ;  and  it  was  a  constant  matter  of 
At  thirteen  I  wrote  Greek  with  ease ;  and  25  triumph  to  us,  the  learned  triumvirate  of 
at  fifteen  my  command  of  that  language  the  first  form,  to  see  our  '  Archididas- 
was  so  great,  that  I  not  only  composed  calus  '  (as  he  loved  to  be  called)  conning 
Greek  verses  in  lyric  meters,  but  could  our  lessons  before  we  went  up,  and  lay- 
converse  in  Greek  fluently  and  with-  ing  a  regular  train,  with  lexicon  and 
out  embarrassment  —  an  accomplishment  30  grammar,  for  blowing  up  and  blasting 
which  I  have  not  since  met  with  in  any  (as  it  were)  any  difficulties  he  found  in 
scholar  of  my  times,  and  which,  in  my  the  choruses;  whilst  we  never  conde- 
case,  was  owing  to  the  practice  of  daily  scended  to  open  our  books  until  the  mo- 
reading  off  the  newspapers  into  the  best  ment  of  going  up,  and  were  generally 
Greek  I  could  furnish  extempore;  for  35  employed  in  writing  epigrams  upon  his 
the  necessity  of  ransacking  my  memory  wig,  or  some  such  important  matter.  My 
and  invention,  for  all  sorts  and  combi-  two  class-fellows  were  poor,  and  depend- 
nations  of  periphrastic  expressions,  as  ent  for  their  future  prospects  at  the 
equivalents  for  modern  ideas,  images,  re-  university  on  the  recommendation  of  the 
lations  of  things,  etc.,  gave  me  a  compass  40  head-master ;  but  I,  who  had  a  small 
of  diction  which  would  never  have  been  patrimonial  property,  the  income  of  which 
called  out  by  a  dull  translation  of  moral  was  sufficient  to  support  me  at  college, 
essays,  etc.  '  That  boy,'  said  one  of  my  wished  to  be  sent  thither  immediately.  I 
masters,  pointing  the  attention  of  a  made  earnest  representations  on  the  sub- 
stranger  to  me,  '  that  boy  could  harangue  45  ject  to  my  guardians,  but  all  to  no  pur- 
an  Athenian  mob,  better  than  you  and  I  pose.  One,  who  was  more  reasonable, 
could  address  an  English  one.'  He  who  and  had  more  knowledge  of  the  world 
honored  me  with  this  eulogy  was  a  than  the  rest,  lived  at  a  distance ;  two 
scholar,  '  and  a  ripe  and  good  one ; '  and  of  the  other  three  resigned  all  their 
of  all  my  tutors,  was  the  only  one  whom  5°  authority  into  the  hands  of  the  fourth ; 
I  loved  or  reverenced.  Unfortunately  for  and  this  fourth  with  whom  I  had  to 
me  (and,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  to  this  negotiate,  was  a  worthy  man,  in  his  way, 
worthy  man's  great  indignation)  I  was  but  haughty,  obstinate,  and  intolerant  of 
transferred  to  the  care,  first  of  a  block-  all  opposition  to  his  will.  After  a  certain 
head,  who  was  in  a  perpetual  panic,  lest  55  number  of  letters  and  personal  inter- 
I  should  expose  his  ignorance;  and  finally,  views,  I  found  that  I  had  nothing  to  hope 
to  that   of   a   respectable   scholar,   at  the      for,  not  even  a  compromise  of  the  matter. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EATER  685 

from  my  guardian;  unconditional  submis-  cently,  smiled  good-naturedly,  returned 
sion  was  what  he  demanded;  and  I  pre-  my  salutation  (or  rather,  my  valediction), 
],'ared  myself,  therefore,  for  other  and  we  parted  (though  he  knew  it  not) 
measures.  Summer  was  now  coming  on  for  ever.  I  could  not  reverence  him  in- 
with  hasty  steps,  and  my  seventeenth  5  tellectually ;  but  he  had  been  uniformly 
liirthday  was  fast  approaching;  after  kind  to  me,  and  had  allowed  me  many 
which  day  I  had  sworn  within  myself  that  indulgences;  and  I  grieved  at  the  thought 
I  would  no  longer  be  numbered  amongst  of  the  mortification  I  should  inflict  upon 
school-boys.     Money  being  what  I  chiefly      him. 

wanted,  I  wrote  to  a  woman  of  high  rank,  10  The  morning  came  which  was  to  launch 
who,  though  young  herself,  had  known  me  into  the  world,  and  from  which  my 
me  from  a  child,  and  had  latterly  treated  whole  succeeding  life  has,  in  many  im- 
me  with  great  distinction,  requesting  portant  points,  taken  its  coloring.  I 
that  she  would  '  lend '  me  five  guineas.  lodged  in  the  head-master's  house,  and 
For  upwards  of  a  week  no  answer  came ;  15  had  been  allowed,  from  my  first  entrance, 
and  I  was  beginning  to  despond,  when,  the  indulgence  of  a  private  room,  which 
at  length,  a  servant  put  into  my  hands  a  I  used  both  as  a  sleeping  room  and  as  a 
double  letter,  with  a  coronet  on  the  seal.  study.  At  half  after  three  I  rose,  and 
The    letter    was    kind    and    obliging;    the      gazed   with   deep   emotion   at  the   ancient 

fair  writer  was  on  the  sea-coast,  and  in  20  towers   of  ,   '  drest   in   earliest   light,' 

that  way  the  delay  had  arisen;  she  en-  and  beginning  to  crimson  with  the  radiant 
closed  double  of  what  I  had  asked,  and  luster  of  a  cloudless  July  morning.  I 
good-naturedly  hinted  that  if  I  should  was  firm  and  immovable  in  my  purpose ; 
never  repay  her,  it  would  not  absolutely  but  yet  agitated  by  anticipation  of  un- 
ruin  her.  Now  then,  I  was  prepared  for  25  certain  danger  and  troubles;  and,  if  I 
my  scheme ;  ten  guineas,  added  to  about  could  have  foreseen  the  hurricane  and 
two  which  I  had  remaining  from  my  perfect  hail-storm  of  affliction  which 
pocket  money,  seemed  to  me  sufficient  for  soon  fell  upon  me,  well  might  I  have 
an  indefinite  length  of  time;  and  at  that  been  agitated.  To  this  agitation  the  deep 
happy  age,  if  no  definite  boundary  can  30  peace  of  the  morning  presented  an  af- 
be  assigned  to  one's  power,  the  spirit  of  fecting  contrast,  and  in  some  degree  a 
hope  and  pleasure  makes  it  virtually  in-  medicine.  The  silence  was  more  pro- 
finite,  found  than  that  of  midnight ;  and  to  me 
It  is  a  just  remark  of  Dr.  Johnson's  the  silence  of  a  summer  morning  is  more 
(and  what  cannot  often  be  said  of  his  35  touching  than  all  other  silence,  because, 
remarks,  it  is  a  very  feeling  one),  that  the  light  being  broad  and  strong,  as  that 
we  never  do  anything  consciously  for  the  of  noon-day  at  other  seasons  of  the  year, 
last  time  (of  things,  that  is,  which  we  it  seems  to  differ  from  perfect  day, 
have  long  been  in  the  habit  of  doing)  chiefly  because  man  is  not  yet  abroad; 
without    sadness   of   heart.     This   truth    I  40  and  thus,  the  peace  of  nature,  and  of  the 

felt  deeply,   when   I   came   to  leave  ,      innocent   creatures   of   God,   seems   to   be 

a  place  which  I  did  not  love,  and  where  secure  and  deep,  only  so  long  as  the 
I  had  not  been  happy.     On  the  evening      presence    of    man,    and    his    restless    and 

before    I    left   for    ever,    I    grieved      unquiet  spirit,  are  not  there  to  trouble  its 

when  the  ancient  and  lofty  school-room  45  sanctity.  I  dressed  myself,  took  my  hat 
resounded  with  the  evening  service,  per-  and  gloves,  and  lingered  a  little  in  the 
formed  for  the  last  time  in  my  hearing  room.  For  the  last  year  and  a-half  this 
and  at  night,  when  the  muster-roll  of  room  had  been  my  '  pensive  citadel ;  ' 
names  was  called  over,  and  mine  (as  here  I  had  read  and  studied  through  all 
usual)  was  called  first,  I  stepped  for- so  the  hours  of  night;  and,  though  true  it 
ward,  and,  passing  the  head-master,  who  was,  that  for  the  latter  part  of  this  time 
was  standing  by,  I  bowed  to  him,  and  I,  who  was  framed  for  love  and  gentle 
looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  thinking  to  affections,  had  lost  my  gaiety  and  hap- 
myself,  '  He  is  old  and  infijm,  and  in  this  piness,  during  the  strife  and  fever  of  con- 
world  I  shall  not  see  him'  again.'  I  was  S5  tention  with  my  guardian ;  yet,  on  the 
right:  I  never  did  see  him  again,  nor  other  hand,  as  a  boy,  so  passionately 
ever    shall.     He    looked    at    me    compla-      fond    of    books,    and   dedicated    to    intel- 


686  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


lectual  pursuits,  I  could  not  fail  to  have  ing  down  the  trunk  alone,  whilst  I  stood 
enjoyed  many  happy  hours  in  the  midst  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  last  flight,  in 
of  general  dejection.  I  wept  as  I  looked  anxiety  for  the  event.  For  some  time  I 
round  on  the  chair,  hearth,  writing-table,  heard  him  descending  with  slow  and  firm 
and  other  familiar  objects,  knowing  too  5  steps ;  but  unfortunately,  from  his  trepi- 
certainly,  that  I  looked  upon  them  for  dation,  as  he  drew  near  the  dangerous 
the  last  time.  Whilst  I  write  this,  it  is  quarter,  within  a  few  steps  of  the  gallery, 
eighteen  years  ago ;  and  yet,  at  this  mo-  his  foot  slipped ;  and  the  mighty  burden, 
ment,  I  see  distinctly,  as  if  it  were  yes-  falling  from  his  shoulders,  gained  such  in- 
terday,  the  lineaments  and  expression  of  10  crease  of  impetus  at  each  step  of  the 
the   object  on   which   I   fixed   my   parting      descent,   that,  on   reaching  the  bottom,   it 

gaze;  it  was  a  picture  of  the  lovely  ,      trundled,   or   rather   leaped,   right   across, 

which  hung  over  the  mantelpiece;  the  with  the  noise  of  twenty  devils,  against 
eyes  and  mouth  of  which  were  so  beauti-  the  very  bed-room  door  of  the  archididas- 
ful,  and  the  whole  countenance  so  radiant  15  calus.  My  first  thought  was  that  all  was 
with  benignity  and  divine  tranquillity,  lost,  and  that  my  only  chance  for  execut- 
that  I  had  a  thousand  times  laid  down  ing  a  retreat  was  to  sacrifice  my  bag- 
my  pen,  or  my  book,  to  gather  consola-  gage.  However,  on  reflection,  I  de- 
tion  from  it,  as  a  devotee  from  his  patron  termined  to  abide  the  issue.  The  groom 
saint.     Whilst  I  was  yet  gazing  upon  it,  20  was    in    the    utmost    alarm,    both    on    his 

the  deep  tones  of  clock  proclaimed      own  account  and  on  mine ;  but,  in  spite 

that  it  was  four  o'clock.  I  went  up  to  of  this,  so  irresistibly  had  the  sense  of 
the  picture,  kissed  it,  and  then  gently  the  ludicrous  in  this  unhappy  contrc- 
walked  out,  and  closed  the  door  for  ever !       temps  taken  possession  of  his  fancy,  that 

25  he  sang  out  a  long,  loud  and  canorous 
peal  of  laughter,  that  might  have  wak- 
So  blended  and  intertwisted  in  this  life  ened  the  Seven  Sleepers.  At  the  sound 
are  occasions  of  laughter  and  of  tears,  of  this  resonant  merriment,  within  the 
that  I  cannot  yet  recall,  without  smiling,  very  ears  of  insulted  authority,  I  could 
an  incident  which  occurred  at  that  time,  3onot  myself  forbear  joining  in  it;  sub- 
and  which  had  nearly  put  a  stop  to  the  ^ued  to  this,  not  so  much  by  the  un- 
immediate  execution  of  my  plan.  I  had  liappy  etourderie  of  the  trunk,  as  by  the 
a  trunk  of  immense  weight;  for,  besides  effect  it  had  upon  the  groom.  We  both 
my  clothes,  it  contained  nearly  all  my  li-      expected,    as    a    matter    of    course,    that 

brary.     The  difficulty  was  to  get  this  re-  35  Dr.   would   sally   out   of   his    room; 

moved  to  a  carrier's;  my  room  was  at  for  in  general,  if  but  a  mouse  stirred, 
an  aerial  elevation  in  the  house,  and  l^e  sprang  out  like  a  mastifif  from  the 
(what  was  worse)  the  stair-case,  which  kennel.  Strange  to  say,  however,  on  this 
communicated  with  this  angle  of  the  occasion,  when  the  noise  of  laughter  had 
building,    was    accessible    only    by   a    gal-  •»°  ceased,   no   sound,   or   rustling  even,   was 

lery     which     passed     the     head-master's      to  be   heard   in   the   bed-room.     Dr.   

chamber  door.  I  was  a  favorite  with  had  a  painful  complaint,  which,  some- 
all  the  servants ;  and,  knowing  that  any  times  keeping  him  awake,  made  his  sleep, 
of  them  would  screen  me,  and  act  con-  perhaps,  when  it  did  come,  the  deeper, 
fidentially,  I  communicated  my  embarrass-  •♦''  Gathering  courage  from  the  silence,  the 
ment  to  a  groom  of  the  head-master's.  groom  hoisted  his  burden  again,  and  ac- 
The  groom  swore  he  would  do  anything  complished  the  remainder  of  his  descent, 
I  wished;  and,  when  the  time  arrived,  without  accident.  I  waited  until  I  saw 
went  upstairs  to  bring  the  trunk  down.  the  trunk  placed  on  a  wheel-barrow,  and 
This  I  feared  was  beyond  the  strength  5o  on  its  road  to  the  carrier's;  then,  'with 
of  any  one  man ;  however,  the  groom  was  Providence  my  guide,'  I  set  off  on  foot 
a  man  —  carrying    a    small    parcel,    with    some 

articles     of     dress,     under     my     arm ;     a 
Of  Atlantean  shoulders,  fit  to  bear  favorite  English  poet  in  one  pocket,  and 

The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies;  55  ^    small    l2mo.-  volume,    containing    about 

and  had  a  back  as  spacious  as  Salisbury      nine  plays  of  Euripides,  in  the  other. 
Plain.     Accordingly  he  persisted  in  bring-  *     *     * 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EATER  687 

If  any  man,  poor  or  rich,  were  to  say  of  youth;  my  brain  performed  its  func- 
that  he  would  tell  us  what  had  been  the  tions  as  healthily  as  ever  before;  I  read 
happiest  day  in  his  life,  and  the  why  and  Kant  again,  and  again  I  understood  him, 
the  wherefore,  I  suppose  that  we  should  or  fancied  that  I  did.  Again  my  feel- 
all  cry  out  —  Hear  him!  hear  him!  As  sings  of  pleasure  expanded  themselves  to 
to  the  happiest  day,  that  must  be  very  all  around  me;  and  if  any  man  from 
difficult  for  any  wise  man  to  name;  be-  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  or  from  neither, 
cause  any  event  that  could  occupy  so  had  been  announced  to  me  in  my  un- 
distinguished a  place  in  a  man's  ret-  pretending  cottage,  I  should  have  wel- 
rospect  of  his  life,  or  be  entitled  to  have  10  comed  him  with  as  sumptuous  a  reception 
shed  a  special  felicity  on  any  one  day,  as  so  poor  a  man  could  offer.  Whatever 
ought  to  be  of  such  an  enduring  character  else  was  wanting  to  a  wise  man's  happi- 
as  that  (accidents  apart)  it  should  have  ness, —  of  laudanum  I  would  have  given 
continued  to  shed  the  same  felicity,  or  him  as  much  as  he  wished,  and  in  a 
one  not  distinguishably  less,  on  many  ,5  golden  cup.  And,  by  the  way,  now  that 
years  together.  To  the  happiest  liistnim,  I  speak  of  giving  laudanum  away,  I  re- 
however,  or  even  to  the  happiest  year,  it  member,  about  this  time,  a  little  incident, 
may  be  allowed  to  any  man  to  point  which  I  mention,  because,  trifling  as  it 
without  discountenance  from  wisdom.  was,  the  reader  will  soon  meet  it  again 
This  year,  in  my  case,  reader,  was  the  20  in  my  dreams,  which  it  influenced  more 
one  which  we  have  now  reached;  though  fearfully  than  could  be  imagined.  One 
it  stood,  I  confess,  as  a  parenthesis  be-  day  a  Malay  knocked  at  my  door.  What 
tween  years  of  a  gloomier  character.  It  business  a  Malay  could  have  to  transact 
was  a  year  of  brilliant  water  (to  speak  amongst  English  mountains,  I  cannot  con- 
after  the  manner  of  jewelers),  set  as  it  25  jecture ;  but  possibly  he  was  on  his  road 
were,  and  insulated,  in  the  gloom  and  to  a  seaport  about  fortv  miles  distant. 
cloudy  melancholy  of  opium.     Strange  as  The    servant   who   opened    the    door   to 

it  may  sound,  I  had  a  little  before  this  him  was  a  young  girl  born  and  bred 
time  descended  suddenly,  and  without  any  amongst  the  mountains,  who  had  never 
considerable  effort,  from  320  grains  of  30  seen  an  Asiatic  dress  of  any  sort ;  his 
opium  {i.e.,  eight  1  thousand  drops  of  turban,  therefore,  confounded  her  not  a 
laudanum)  per  day  to  forty  grains,  or  little;  and.  as  it  turned  out,  that  his  at- 
one-eighth  part.  Instantaneously,  and  as  tainments  in  English  were  exactly  of  the 
if  by  magic,  the  cloud  of  profoundest  same  extent  as  hers  in  the  Malav.  there 
melancholy  which  rested  upon  my  brain,  35  seemed  to  be  an  impassable  gulf  fixed 
like  some  black  vapors  that  I  have  seen  between  all  communication  of  ideas,  if 
roll  away  from  the  summits  of  mountains,  either  partv  had  happened  to  possess  anv. 
drew  off  in  one  day  {wxe-nix^pov)  ;  passed  !„  this  dilemma,  the  girl,  recollecting  the 
off  with  its  murky  banners  as  simultane-  reputed  learning  of  her  master  (and, 
ously  as  a  ship  that  has  been  stranded,  40  doubtless,  giving  me  credit  for  a  know- 
and  is  floated  off  by  a  spring-tide—  jedge  of  all  the  languages  of  the  earth. 

That  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all.      besides,    perhaps,     a     few    of    the     lunar 

ones),   came   and  gave   me  to  understand 

Now,  then,  I  was  again  happy;  I  now  that  there  was  a  sort  of  demon  below, 
took  only  1,000  drops  of  laudanum  per  45  whom  she  clearly  imagined  that  mv  art 
day;  and  what  was  that?  A  latter  could  exorcise  from  the  house.  I  did 
spring  had   come   to  close   up   the   season      not    immediately   go   down;    but.    when    I 

'  I   here   reckon   twenty-five   drops   of   laudanum   as        did,      the     grOUp     which     presented     itSClf. 

equivalent  to  one  grain  of  opium,  which,  I  believe,      arranged   as    it   was   by   accident,    though 

is  the  common  estimate.  However,  as  both  may  5°  not  very  elaborate,  tOOk  hold  of  my 
be   considered    variable   <,-r,antities    (the    crude   opium        ^  ^^^  j,^    ^  ^^^^    ^^^^ 

varying    much    in    strength,    and    the    tmcture    still  .      r  ^    ,      -'        ■'        ,,..      ,  •',.,.       ,     . 

more),  I  suppose  that  no  infinitesimal  accuracy  can  of  the  Statuesque  attitudes  exhibited  in 
be    had    in    such    a    calculation.     Teaspoons    vary    as        the    ballets     at    the     Opera     House,     though 

much  in  size  as  opium  in  strength.  Small  ones  so  ostentatiouslv  complex,  had  ever  done, 
hold  about  100  drops;  so  that  8000  drops  are  about  55  j,^  ^  cottage  kitchen,  but  paneled  on   the 

eighty    times    a    teaspoontul.     The    reader    sees    how  n         •  1      j      1  j      1  r 

much  I  kept  within  Dr.  Buchan's  indulgent  allow-  ^all  With  dark  wood  that  from  age  and 
ance.  rubbing  resembled  oak,  and  looking  more 


688  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


like  a  rustic  hall  of  entrance  than  a  three  dragoons  and  their  horses;  and  I 
kitchen,  stood  the  Malay  —  his  turban  and  felt  some  alarm  for  the  poor  creature; 
loose  trousers  of  dingy  white  relieved  but  what  could  be  done?  I  had  given 
upon  the  dark  ])aneling;  he  had  placed  him  the  opium  in  compassion  for  his 
himself  nearer  to  the  girl  than  she  seemed  5  solitary  life,  on  recollecting  that  if  he 
to  relish;  though  her  native  spirit  of  had  traveled  on  foot  from  London,  it 
mountain  intrepidity  contended  with  the  must  be  nearly  three  weeks  since  he  could 
feeling  of  simple  awe  which  her  coun-  have  exchanged  a  thought  with  any  human 
tenance  expressed  as  she  gazed  upon  the  being.  I  could  not  think  of  violating  the 
tiger-cat  before  her.  And  a  more  strik-  lo  laws  of  hospitality,  by  having  him  seized 
ing  picture  there  could  not  be  iniaginetl,  and  drenched  with  an  emetic,  and  thus 
than  the  beautiful  English  face  of  the  frightening  him  into  a  notion  that  we 
girl,  and  its  exquisite  fairness,  together  were  going  to  sacrifice  him  to  some  Eng- 
with  mahogany,  by  marine  air,  his  small,  lish  idol.  No:  there  was  clearly  no  help 
contrasted  with  the  sallow  and  bilious  15  for  it;  —  he  took  his  leave,  and  for  some 
skin  of  the  Malay,  enameled  or  veneered  days  I  felt  anxious ;  but  as  I  never  heard 
with  her  erect  and  independent  attitude,  of  any  Malay  being  found  dead,  I  became 
fierce,  restless  eyes,  thin  lips,  slavish  convinced  that  he  was  used  ^  to  opium: 
gestures  and  adorations.  Half-hidden  by  and  that  I  must  have  done  him  the  serv- 
the  ferocious-looking  Malay,  was  a  little  20  ice  I  designed,  by  giving  him  one  night 
child  from  a  neighboring  cottage  who  of  respite  from  the  pains  of  wandering, 
had  crept  in  after  him,  and  was  now  in  This  incident  I  have  digressed  to  men- 

the  act  of  reverting  its  head,  and  gazing  tion,  because  this  Malay  (partly  from 
upwards  at  the  turban  and  the  fiery  eyes  the  picturesque  exhibition  he  assisted  to 
beneath  it,  whilst  with  one  hand  he  25  frame,  partly  from  the  anxiety  I  con- 
caught  at  the  dress  of  the  young  woman  nected  with  his  image  for  some  days) 
for  protection.  My  knowledge  of  the  fastened  afterwards  upon  my  dreams. 
Oriental  tongues  is  not  remarkably  ex-  and  brought  other  Malays  with  him  worse 
tensive,  being  indeed  confined  to  two  than  himself,  that  ran  'a-muck'^  at  me, 
words  —  the  Arabic  word  for  barley,  and  33  and  led  me  into  a  world  of  troubles. 
the  Turkish  for  opium  (madjoon),  which  But  to  quit  this  episode,  and  to  return 
I  have  learned  from  Anastasius.  And,  to  my  intercalary  year  of  happiness.  I 
as  I  had  neither  a  Malay  dictionary,  nor  have  said  already,  that  on  a  subject  so 
even  Adelung's  Mithridatcs,  which  might  important  to  us  all  as  happiness,  we 
have  helped  me  to  a  few  words,  I  ad-  35  should  listen  with  pleasure  to  any  man's 
dressed  him  in  some  lines  from  the  Iliad ;  experience  or  experiments,  even  though 
considering  that,  of  such  languages  as  I  he  were  but  a  plowboy,  who  cannot  be 
possessed,  Greek,  in  point  of  longitude,  supposed  to  have  plowed  very  deep  into 
came  geographically  nearest  to  an  Ori-  such  an  intractable  soil  as  that  of  human 
ental  one.  He  worshipped  me  in  a  most  40  pains  and  pleasures,  or  to  have  conducted 
devout    manner,    and    replied    in    what    I 

suppose   was    Malay.       In   this   way   I    saved  ^  This,    however,    is    not    a    necessary    conclusion; 

mv  reputation  with  my  neighbors;  for  the  varieties  of  effect  produced  by  opium  on  differ- 
,  '     T.  t  \         11  r   1     X         •  ii  ent  constitutions  are  nihnite.     A  London   JMagistrate 

the  Malay  had  no  means  of  betraymg  the      (Harriott's  struggles  through  Life,  vol.  iii,  p.  391. 

secret.  He  lay  down  upon  the  floor  for  45  Third  Edition),  has  recorded  that,  on  the  first  occa- 
about     an     hour,     and     then     pursued     his        sion    of   his   trying   laudanum   for   the   gout,    he   took 

journey.     On   his   departure    I    presented      f°'-'y  ^'°f'  *''•  ^^""^  ^ighi  sixty,  and  on  the  fifth 

i  .  ■'.  ,  .  ,^.  ^^^,.  night   eighty,    without   any   effect   whatever;    and   this 

hnn  with  a  piece  of  opium.  To  him,  as  ^^  ^^„  advanced  age.  I  have  an  anecdote  from  a 
an  Orientalist,  I  concluded  that  opium  country  surgeon,  however,  which  sinks  Mr.  Har- 
mUSt    be    familiar;    and    the    expression    of  50   riott's   case   into  a   trifle;   and   in   my   projected   med- 

his     face     convinced     me     that     it     was.      '"'  }"T''^%  °"  "'"'i"^'  '^'"''''  ^ .,?"'  p"*"'''';-  p'°" 

,.  ,     ,  T  ,         1  -,1  vided   the   College   of   Surgeons   will   pav   me    for   en- 

Nevertheless,  I  was  struck  with  some  lightening  their  benighted  understandings  upon  this 
little    consternation    when    I    saw    him    sud-        subject,    I    will    relate    it;    but    it    is    far    too    good    a 

denlv   raise   his   hand   to   his   mouth,   and      story  to  be  published  gratis. 

(in  the  school-boy  phrase)  bolt  the  whole,  55  /  ^ee  the  common  accounts  in  any  Eastern  trav- 
V     .  ,     ,     .  1      -^    '     ■  1  eler    or    voyager    of    the    frantic    excesses    committed 

divided  into  three  pieces,  at  one  mouth-  i,y  Malays  who  have  taken  opium,  or  are  reduced 
ful.      The     quantity     was     enough     to     kill        to  desperation  by  ill  luck  at  gambling. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EATER  689 

his  researches  upon  any  very  enhghtened  it  matter  of  congratulation  that  winter 
principles.  But  I,  who  have  taken  happi-  is  going,  or,  if  coming,  is  not  hkely  to  be 
ness,  both  in  a  solid  and  a  liquid  shape,  a  severe  one.  On  the  contrary,  I  put  up 
both  boiled  and  unboiled,  both  East  a  petition  annually,  for  as  much  snow, 
India  and  Turkey  —  who  have  conducted  5  hail,  frost,  or  storm,  of  one  kind  or  other, 
my  experiments  upon  this  interesting  as  the  skies  can  possibly  afford  us. 
subject  with  a  sort  of  galvanic  battery  —  Surely  everybody  is  aware  of  the  divine 
and  have,  for  the  general  benefit  of  the  pleasures  which  attend  a  winter  fireside; 
world,  inoculated  myself,  as  it  were,  with  candles  at  four  o'clock,  warm  hearth-rugs, 
the  poison  of  8,000  drops  of  laudanum  per  10  tea,  a  fair  tea-maker,  shutters  closed, 
(lay  (just,  for  the  same  reason,  as  a  curtains  flowing  in  ample  draperies  on  the 
I'rench  surgeon  inoculated  himself  lately  floor,  whilst  the  wind  and  rain  are  rag- 
with  cancer  —  an  English  one,  twenty  ing  audibly  without, 
years    ago,    with    plague  —  and    a    third, 

I  know  not  of  what  nation,  with  hydro-  15  And  at  the  doors  and  windows  seem  to  call, 
phobia), —  /  (it  will  be  admitted)  must  As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together 
surely   know   wdiat   happiness   is,    if   any-  mell ; 

body    does.     And,    therefore,    I    will    here      Yet  the  least  entrance  find  they  none  at  all; 
lay   down   an   analysis   of   happiness ;   and      Whence   sweeter   grows    our    rest    secure   in 
as    the    most    interesting    mode    of    com-  20         massy  hall. 

municating  it,  I  will  give  it,  not  didactic-  — Castle   of  Indolence. 

ally,   but  wrapped   up   and   involved   in   a 

picture  of  one  evening,  as  I  spent  every  All   these   are   items   in  the   description 

evening  during  the  intercalary  year  when  of  a  winter  evening,  which  must  surely 
laudanum,  though  taken  daily,  was  to  me  25  be  familiar  to  everybody  born  in  a  high 
no  more  than  the  elixir  of  pleasure.  This  latitude.  And  it  is  evident  that  most  of 
done,  I  shall  quit  the  subject  of  happi-  these  delicacies,  like  ice-cream,  require 
ness  altogether,  and  pass  to  a  very  differ-  a  very  low  temperature  of  the  atmosphere 
ent  one  —  the  pains  of  opium.  to   produce   them :    they   are    fruits   which 

Let  there  be  a  cottage,  standing  in  a  30  cannot  be  ripened  without  weather  stormy 
valley,  eighteen  miles  from  any  town  —  or  inclement,  in  some  way  or  other.  I 
no  spacious  valley,  but  about  two  miles  am  not  'particular,'  as  people  say, 
long,    by    three    quarters    of    a    mile    in      whether    it   be    snow,    or   black    frost,   or 

average     width;     the     benefit     of     which      wind  so  strong,  that   (as  Mr.  says) 

provision  is,  that  all  the  families  resident  35  '  you  may  lean  your  back  against  it  like 
within  its  circuit  will  compose,  as  it  a  post.'  I  can  put  up  even  with  rain, 
were,  one  larger  household  personally  provided  it  rains  cats  and  dogs;  but 
familiar  to  your  eye,  and  more  or  less  something  of  the  sort  I  must  have ;  and, 
interesting  to  your  affections.  Let  the  if  I  have  it  not,  I  think  myself  in  a  man- 
mountains  be  real  mountains,  between  40  ner  ill-used ;  for  why  am  I  called  on  to 
three  and  four  thousand  feet  high ;  and  pay  so  heavily  for  winter,  in  coals,  and 
the  cottage  a  real  cottage,  not  (as  a  witty  candles,  and  various  privations  that  will 
author  has  it)  'a  cottage  with  a  double  occur  even  to  gentlemen,  if  I  am  not  to 
coach-house';  let  it  be,  in  fact  (for  I  have  the  article  good  of  its  kind?  No: 
must  abide  by  the  actual  scene),  a  45  a  Canadian  winter  for  my  money;  or  a 
white  cottage,  embowered  with  flowering  Russian  one,  where  every,  man  is  but  a 
shrubs,  so  chosen  as  to  unfold  a  succes-  co-proprietor  with  the  north  wind  in  the 
sion  of  flowers  upon  the  walls,  and  fee-simple  of  his  own  ears.  Indeed,  so 
clustering  round  the  windows  through  all  great  an  epicure  am  I  in  this  matter,  that 
the  months  of  spring,  summer,  and  50  I  cannot  relish  a  winter  night  fully  if  it 
autumn  —  beginning,  in  fact,  with  May  be  much  past  St.  Thomas's  day,  and  have 
roses,  and  ending  with  jasmine.  Let  it,  degenerated  into  disgusting  tendencies  to 
however,  not  be  spring,  nor  summer,  nor  vernal  appearances ;  no,  it  must  be  divided 
autumn  —  but  winter  in  his  sternest  by  a  thick  wall  of  dark  nights  from  all 
shape.  This  is  a  most  important  point  in  55  return  of  light  and  sunshine.  From  the 
the  science  of  happiness.  And  I  am  sur-  latter  weeks  of  October  to  Christmas 
prised  to  see  people  overlook  it,  and  think  Eve,  therefore,  is  the  period  during  which 
44 


690  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


happiness  is  in  season,  which,  in  my  beauty;  or  that  the  witchcraft  of  angelic 
judgment,  enters  the  room  with  the  tea-  smiles  lies  within  the  empire  of .  any 
tray;  for  tea,  though  ridiculed  by  those  earthly  pencil.  Pass,  then,  my  good 
who  are  naturally  of  coarse  nerves,  or  painter,  to  something  more  within  its 
are  become  so  from  wine-drinking,  and  5  power ;  and  the  next  article  brought  for- 
are  not  susceptible  of  influence  from  so  ward  should  naturally  be  myself  —  a 
refined  a  stimulant,  will  always  be  the  picture  of  the  Opium-eater,  with  his 
favorite  beverage  of  the  intellectual ;  '  little  golden  rece])tacle  of  the  pernicious 
and,  for  my  part,  I  would  have  joined  drug '  lying  beside  him  on  the  table.  As 
Dr.  Johnson  in  a  belliim  internccinum  10  to  the  opium,  I  have  no  objection  to  see 
against  Jonas  Hanway,  or  any  other  im-  a  picture  of  that,  though  I  would  rather 
pious  person,  who  should  presume  to  see  the  original :  you  may  paint  it  if  you 
disparage  it.  But  here,  to  save  myself  choose;  but  I  apprise  you,  that  no  'little' 
the  trouble  of  too  much  verbal  descrip-  receptacle  would,  even  in  18 16,  answer 
tion,  I  will  introduce  a  painter,  and  give  15  my  purpose,  who  was  at  a  distance  from 
him  directions  for  the  rest  of  the  pic-  the  '  stately  Pantheon,'  and  all  druggists 
ture.  Painters  do  not  like  white  cottages,  (mortal  or  otherwise).  No;  you  may  as 
unless  a  good  deal  weather-stained ;  but  well  paint  the  real  receptacle,  which  was 
as  the  reader  now  understands  that  it  is  not  of  gold,  but  of  glass,  and  as  much 
a  winter  night,  his  services  will  not  be  20  iji^e  a  wine-decanter  as  possible.  Into 
required,  except  for  the  inside  of  the  this  you  may  put  a  quart  of  ruby-colored 
house.  laudanum:   that,   and   a   book   of   German 

Paint  me,  then,  a  room  seventeen  feet  Metaphysics  placed  by  its  side,  will  suffi- 
by  twelve,  and  not  more  than  seven  and  ciently  attest  my  being  in  the  neighbor- 
a  half  feet  high.  This,  reader,  is  some-  25  hood ;  but,  as  to  myself, —  there  I  demur, 
what  ambitiously  styled,  in  my  family,  the  I  admit  that,  naturally,  I  ought  to  occupy 
drawing-room;  but,  being  contrived  'a  the  foreground  of  the  picture;  that  being 
double  debt  to  pay,'  it  is  also,  and  more  the  hero  of  the  piece,  or  (if  you  choose) 
justly,  termed  the  library;  for  it  happens  the  criminal  at  the  bar,  my  body  should 
that  books  are  the  only  article  of  prop-  30  be  had  into  court.  This  seems  reason- 
erty  in  which  I  am  richer  than  my  able;  but  why  should  I  confess,  on  this 
neighbors.  Of  these  I  have  about  five  point,  to  a  painter?  or  why  confess  at 
thousand,  collected  gradually  since  my  all?  If  the  public  (into  whose  private 
eighteenth  year.  Therefore,  painter,  put  ear  I  am  confidentially  whispering  my 
as  many  as  you  can  into  this  room.  35  confessions,  and  not  into  any  painter's) 
Make  it  populous  with  books;  and,  should  chance  to  have  framed  some  agree- 
furthermore,  paint  me  a  good  fire;  and  able  picture  for  itself,  of  the  Opium- 
furniture  plain  and  modest,  befitting  the  eater's  exterior  —  should  have  ascribed 
unpretending  cottage  of  a  scholar.  And,  to  him,  romantically,  an  elegant  person, 
near  the  fire  paint  me  a  tea-table ;  and  40  or  a  handsome  face,  why  should  I  bar- 
(as  it  is  clear  that  no  creature  can  come  barously  tear  from  it  so  pleasing  a  delusion 
to  see  one  such  a  stormy  night),  place  —pleasing  both  to  the  public  and  to  me? 
only  two  cups  and  saucers  on  the  tea-  No:  paint  me,  if  at  all,  according  to  your 
tray;  and,  if  you  know  how  to  paint  such  own  fancy;  and,  as  a  painter's  fancy 
a  thing  symbolically,  or  otherwise,  paint  45  should  teem  with  beautiful  creations,  I 
me  an  eternal- tea-pot  —  eternal  a  parte  cannot  fail,  in  that  way,  to  be  a  gainer. 
ante,  and  a  parte  post;  for  I  usually  And  now,  reader,  we  have  run  through 
drink  tea  from  eight  o'clock  at  night  to  all  the  ten  categories  of  my  condition  as 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  And,  as  it  it  stood  about  1816-17;  up  to  the  middle 
is  very  unpleasant  to  make  tea,  or  to  50  of  which  latter  year  I  judge  myself  to 
pour  it  out  for  oneself,  paint  me  a  lovely  have  been  a  happy  man;  and  the  elements 
young  woman,  sitting  at  the  table.  of  that  happiness  I  have  endeavored  to 
Paint    her    arms    like    Aurora's,    and    her      place  before  you,  in  the  above  sketch  of 

smiles  like  Hebe's.— But  no,  dear  M ,      the    interior   of   a   scholar's   library,   in    a 

not  even  in  jest  let  me  insinuate  that  thy  55  cottage  among  the  mountains,  on  a  stormy 

power  to  illuminate  my  cottage  rests  upon      winter  evening. 

a  tenure   so  perishable   as   mere   personal  (1021) 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  AIACAULAY   (1800-1859). 

^Nlacaulay's  life  is  a  remaikable  story  of  successful  eudeavor.  The  son  of  a  well-known 
pliilantliropist  and  anti-slavery  agitator,  lie  was  a  precocious  boy,  with  a  natural  aptitude 
for  litcMary  composition  and  a  phenomenal  memory  ;  he  began  a  compendium  of  universal  his- 
tory at  the  age  of  seven,  and  repeated  after  a  lapse  of  forty  years  a  scrap  of  poetry  he  had 
nad  as  a  youth  in  a  country  newspaper  and  had  not  recalled  in  the  interval ;  he  knew  Paradise 
Lost  and  I'ibjrim's  Progress  by  heart.  He  went  in  1818  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and 
li  ft  with  a  fellowship  which  secured  him  a  sufficient  income  for  his  personal  wants  for  the 
next  seven  years.  An  essay  on  Milton  he  contributed  to  the  Ed'mhurgh  Rcricic  in  1825 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  editor,  Jeffrey,  who  said  to  him,  '  The  more  I  think,  the  less  I 
rail  conceive  where  you  picked  up  that  style.'  In  1830  he  entered  the  House  of  Commons 
as  member  for  Calne,  and  at  once  made  his  mark  by  a  speech  on  the  Reform  Bill.  The 
termination  of  his  fellowship  in  1831  put  him  in  somewhat  straitened  circumstances,  and 
be  was  obliged  to  sell  the  gold  medals  he  had  won  at  the  university ;  but  a  way  out  of  all 
financial  difficulties  was  found  in  1833  by  his  appointment  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme 
Council  of  India  for  five  years  at  a  salary  of  £10,000  a  year.  He  did  valuable  work  in 
India,  reconstructing  the  educational  system  and  drawing  up  a  criminal  code,  beside  doing 
an  enormous  amount  of  private  reading.  On  his  return  home,  he  began  his  Uistonj  of  Eng- 
land, and  published  a  collection  of  his  essays,  which  at  once  obtained  a  very  large  sale,  lie 
was  elected  member  for  Edinburgh,  and  became  Secretary  for  War,  with  a  seat  in  the 
cabinet.  The  ministry  fell  in  1841,  and  in  1847  Macaulay  was  rejected  by  his  constituency. 
He  wrote  a  poem  to  the  effect  that  literature  had  been  his  consolation  under  all  the  trials  of 
life,  '  of  which,'  says  one  biographer,  '  it  was  rather  difficult  to  make  a  respectable  list.' 
The  Edinburgh  seat  again  becoming  vacant,  he  was  re-elected  without  any  exertion  on 
his  part,  but  he  adhered  to  his  determination  to  give  the  rest  of  his  life  to  literature.  The 
first  two  volumes  of  his  History  were  published  in  1848,  the  third  and  fourth  in  1855 ;  from 
the  first  it  enjoyed  very  great  popularity,  and  his  publishers  sent  him  a  check  for  £20,000. 
He  was  raised  to  the  peerage,  and  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  He  never  married,  but 
was  devoted  to  his  sisters  and  their  children;  his  nephew.  Sir  G.  O.  Trevelyan,  wrote  his 
life,  and   has  attained  a  considerable   reputation  as  a  politician   and  man  of   letters. 

Macaulay  has  not  Lamb's  delicate  humor,  or  De  Quincey's  philosophical  imagination. 
He  disliked  speculation,  and  his  idea  of  history  was  to  present  accumulated  facts  with  the 
attractiveness  of  fiction.  His  worst  fault  is  a  tendency  to  emphasize  the  commonplace  — 
'blackening  the  chimney,'  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  calls  it  —  but  his  judgment  is  generally  sound, 
as  far  as  it  goes.  His  style  has  no  subtle  harmonies,  but  is  admirable  for  mechanical 
excellences  —  orderly  arrangement  of  material,  careful  paragraphing,  and  absolute  clearness 
of  statement.  In  these  points  he  offers  a  better  model  for  young  writers  than  De  Quincey, 
Carlyle,  Kuskin,   and  other  masters   of  a   more   elaborate   style. 


■    THE  ROMANCE  OF  HISTORY  not    necessary    that    they    shotild    assert 

what  is  absolutely  false ;  for  all  questions 
The  best  historians  of  later  times  have  in  morals  and  politics  are  questions  of 
been  seduced  from  truth,  not  by  their  im-  comparison  and  degree.  Any  proposition 
agination,  but  by  their  reason.  They  far  5  which  does  not  involve  a  contradiction  in 
excel  their  predecessors  in  the  art  of  de-  terms  may  by  possibility  be  true;  and  if 
ducing  general  principles  from  facts.  But  all  the  circumstances  which  raise  a 
unhappily  they  have  fallen  into  the  error  of  probability  in  its  favor  be  stated  and 
distorting  facts  to  suit  general  principles.  enforced,  and  those  which  lead  to  an  op- 
They  arrive  at  a  theory  from  looking  at  lo  posite  conclusion  be  omitted  or  lightlv 
some  of  the  phenomena;  and  the  remain-  passed  over,  it  may  appear  to  be  demon- 
ing  phenomena  they  strain  or  curtail  to  strated.  In  every  human  character  and 
suit   the   theory.     For   this   purpose    it    is      transaction    there    is    a    mixture    of    good 

691 


692  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

and  evil:  a  little  exaggeration,  a  little  age,  they  judged  of  antiquity  by  itself 
suppression,  a  judicious  use  of  epithets,  alone.  They  seemed  to  think  that  no- 
a  watchful  and  searching  scepticism  with  tions,  long  driven  from  every  other 
respect  to  the  evidence  on  one  side,  a  con-  corner  of  literature,  had  a  prescriptive 
venient  credulity  with  respect  to  every  5  right  to  occupy  this  last  fastness.  They 
report  or  tradition  on  the  other,  may  considered  all  the  ancient  historians  as 
easily  make  a  saint  of  Laud,  or  a  tyrant  equally  authentic.  They  scarcely  made 
of  Henry  IV.  any  distinction  between  him  who  related 

This  species  of  misrepresentation  events  at  which  he  had  himself  been  pres- 
abounds  in  the  most  valuable  works  of  10  ent  and  him  who  five  hundred  years  after 
modern  historians.  Herodotus  tells  his  composed  a  philosophic  romance  for  a 
story  like  a  slovenly  witness,  who,  heated  society  which  had  in  the  interval  under- 
by  partialities  and  prejudices,  unac-  gone  a  complete  change.  It  was  all 
quainted  with  the  established  rules  of  Greek,  and  all  true !  The  centuries 
evidence,  and  uninstructed  as  to  the  15  which  separated  Plutarch  from  Thucy- 
obligations  of  his  oath,  confounds  what  dides  seemed  as  nothing  to  men  who  lived 
he  imagines  with  what  he  has  seen  and  in  an  age  so  remote.  The  distance  of 
heard,  and  brings  out  facts,  reports,  con-  time  produced  an  error  similar  to  that 
jectures,  and  fancies,  in  one  mass,  which  is  sometimes  produced  by  distance 
Hume  is  an  accomplished  advocate.  20  of  place.  There  are  many  good  ladies 
Without  positively  asserting  much  more  who  think  that  all  the  people  in  India 
than  he  can  prove,  he  gives  prominence  live  together,  and  who  charge  a  friend 
to  all  the  circumstances  which  support  setting  out  for  Calcutta  with  kind  mes- 
his  case ;  he  glides  lightly  over  those  sages  to  Bombay.  To  Rollin  and  Bar- 
which  are  unfavorable  to  it ;  his  own  25  thelemi,  in  the  same  manner,  all  the 
witnesses  are  applauded  and  encouraged ;  classics  were  contemporaries, 
the  statements  which  seem  to  throw  dis-  Mr.  Mitford  certainly  introduced  great 

credit  on  them  are  controverted ;  the  improvements ;  he  showed  us  that  men 
contradictions  into  which  they  fall  are  who  wrote  in  Greek  and  Latin  sometimes 
explained  away;  a  clear  and  connected  30  told  lies;  he  showed  us  that  ancient 
abstract  of  their  evidence  is  given.  history  might  be  related  in  such  a  man- 
Everything  that  is  offered  on  the  other  ner  as  to  furnish  not  only  allusions  to 
side  is  scrutinized  with  the  utmost  sever-  schoolboys,  but  important  lessons  to 
ity;  every  suspicious  circumstance  is  a  statesmen.  From  that  love  of  theatrical 
ground  for  comment  and  invective ;  what  35  effect  and  high-flown  sentiment  which 
cannot  be  denied  is  extenuated,  or  passed  had  poisoned  almost  every  other  work 
by  without  notice;  concessions  even  are  on  the  same  subject  his  book  is  perfectly 
sometimes  made :  but  this  insidious  can-  free.  But  his  passion  for  a  theory  as 
dor  only  increases  the  effect  of  the  vast  false,  and  far  more  ungenerous,  led  him 
mass  of  sophistry.  •  40  substantially    to    violate    truth    in    every 

We  have  mentioned  Hume  as  the  ablest  page.  Statements  unfavorable  to  democ- 
and  most  popular  writer  of  his  class ;  but  racy  are  made  with  unhesitating  confi- 
the  charge  which  we  have  brought  against  dence,  and  with  the  utmost  bitterness  of 
him  is  one  to  which  all  our  most  dis-  language.  Every  charge  brought  against 
tinguished  historians  are  in  some  degree  45  a  monarch  or  an  aristocracy  is  sifted  with 
obnoxious.  Gibbon,  in  particular,  de-  the  utmost  care.  If  it  cannot  be  denied, 
serves  very  severe  censure.  Of  all  the  some  palliating  supposition  is  suggested; 
numerous  culprits,  however,  none  is  more  or  we  are  at  least  reminded  that  some, 
deeply  guilty  than  Mr.  Mitford,  We  will-  circumstances  now  unknown  may  have 
ingly  acknowledge  the  obligations  which  50  justified  what  at  present  appears  un- 
are  due  to  his  talents  and  industry.  The  justifiable.  Two  events  are  reported  by 
modern  historians  of  Greece  had  been  the  same  author  in  the  same  sentence; 
in  the  habit  of  writing  as  if  the  world  their  truth  rests  on  the  same  testimony; 
had  learned  nothing  new  during  the  last  but  the  one  supports  the  darling  hypoth- 
sixteen  hundred  years.  Instead  of  illus- 55  esis,  and  the  other  seems  inconsistent 
trating  the  events  which  they  narrated  by  with  it.  The  one  is  taken  and  the  other 
the    philosophy    of    a    more    enlightened      is  left. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  HISTORY  693 

The    practice    of    distorting    narrative      of    eminent    ability,    lie    unread    on    the 
into   a   conformity  with   theory   is   a   vice      shelves  of  ostentatious  libraries, 
not  so  unfavorable  as  at  first  sight  it  may  The   writers  of  history  seem   to  enter- 

appear  to  the  interests  of  political  science.  tain  an  aristocratical  contempt  for  the 
We  have  compared  the  writers  who  in-  5  writers  of  memoirs.  They  think  it  be- 
dulge  in  it  to  advocates;  and  we  may  neath  the  dignity  of  men  who  describe 
add  that  their  conflicting  fallacies,  like  the  revolutions  of  nations  to  dwell  on  the 
those  of  advocates,  correct  each  other,  details  which  constitute  the  charm  of 
It  has  always  been  held,  in  the  most  en-  biography.  They  have  imposed  on  them- 
lightened  nations,  that  a  tribunal  will  de- 10  selves  a  code  of  conventional  decencies 
cide  a  judicial  question  most  fairly  when  as  absurd  as  that  which  has  been  the  bane 
it  has  heard  two  able  men  argue,  as  un-  of  the  French  drama.  The  most  charac- 
fairly  as  possible,  on  the  two  opposite  teristic  and  interesting  circumstances  are 
sides  of  it;  and  we  are  inclined  to  think  omitted  or  softened  down,  because,  as  we 
that  this  opinion  is  just.  Sometimes,  it  15  are  told,  they  are  too  trivial  for  the 
is  true,  superior  eloquence  and  dexterity  majesty  of  history.  The  majesty  of 
will  make  the  worse  appear  the  better  history  seems  to  resemble  the  majesty  of 
reason ;  but  it  is  at  least  certain  that  the  the  poor  King  of  Spain,  who  died  a 
judge  will  be  compelled  to  contemplate  martyr  to  ceremony  because  the  proper 
the  case  under  two  different  aspects.  It  20  dignitaries  were  not  at  hand  to  render  him 
is  certain  that  no  important  considera-  assistance. 
tion  will  altogether  escape  notice.  That  history  would  be  more  amusing  if 

This  is  at  present  the  state  of  history.  this  etiquette  were  relaxed  will,  we  sup- 
The  poet  laureate  appears  for  the  Church  pose,  be  acknowledged.  But  would  it  be 
of  England,  Lingard  for  the  Church  of  25  less  dignified  or  less  useful?  What  do 
Rome.  Brodie  has  moved  to  set  aside  we  mean  when  we  say  that  one  past 
the  verdicts  obtained  by  Hume ;  and  the  event  is  important  and  another  insignifi- 
cause  in  which  Mitford  succeeded  is,  we  cant  ?  No  past  event  has  any  intrinsic 
understand,  about  to  be  reheard.  In  the  importance.  The  knowledge  of  it  is  valu- 
midst  of  these  disputes,  however,  history  30  able  only  as  it  leads  us  to  form  just 
proper,  if  we  may  use  the  term,  is  dis-  calculations  with  respect  to  the  future, 
appearing.  The  high,  grave,  impartial  A  history  which  does  not  serve  this  pur- 
summing  up  of  Thucydides  is  nowhere  to  pose,  though  it  may  be  filled  with  battles, 
be  found.  treaties,  and  commotions,  is  as  useless  as 

While  our  historians  are  practising  all  35  the    series    of    turnpike    tickets    collected 
the    arts    of    controversy,    they    miserably      by    Sir    Matthew    Mite. 
neglect   the   art   of   narration,   the   art   of  Let    us    suppose    that    Lord    Clarendon, 

interesting  the  affections  and  presenting  instead  of  filling  hundreds  of  folio  pages 
pictures  to  the  imagination.  That  a  with  copies  of  state  papers  in  which  the 
writer  may  produce  these  effects  without  40  same  assertions  and  contradictions  are 
violating  truth  is  sufficiently  proved  by  repeated  till  the  reader  is  overpowered 
many  excellent  biographical  works.  The  with  weariness,  had  condescended  to  be 
immense  popularity  which  well-written  the  Boswell  of  the  Long  Parliament, 
books  of  this  kind  have  acquired  deserves  Let  us  suppose  that  he  had  exhibited  to 
the  serious  consideration  of  historians.  45  us  the  wise  and  lofty  self-government  of 
Voltaire's  Charles  the  Twelfth,  Mar-  Hampden,  leading  while  he  seemed  to 
niontel's  Memoirs,  Boswell's  life  of  John-  follow,  and  propounding  unanswerable 
son,  Southey's  account  of  Nelson,  are  arguments  in  the  strongest  forms  with 
perused  with  delight  by  the  most  frivolous  the  modest  air  of  an  inquirer  anxious  for 
and  indolent.  Whenever  any  tolerable  50  information ;  the  delusions  which  misled 
book  of  the  same  description  makes  its  the  noble  spirit  of  Vane;  the  coarse  fa- 
appearance,  the  circulating  libraries  are  naticism  which  concealed  the  yet  loftier 
mobbed;  the  book  societies  are  in  com-  genius  of  Cromwell,  destined  to  control 
motion;  the  new  novel  lies  uncut;  the  a  mutinous  army  and  a  factious  people, 
magazines  and  newspapers  fill  their  col-  55  to  abase  the  flag  of  Holland,  to  arrest 
umns  with  extracts.  In  the  meantime  the  victorious  arms  of  Sweden,  and  to 
histories  of  great  empires,  written  by  men      hold   the   balance  firm  between  the  rival 


694  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 


monarchies  of  France  and  Spain.  Let  us  as  rich,  as  well  governed,  and  as  well 
suppose  that  he  had  made  his  Cavaliers  educated  at  the  latter  period  as  at  the 
and  Roundheads  talk  in  their  own  style ;  former.  We  have  read  books  called 
that  he  had  reported  some  of  the  ribaldry  Histories  of  England,  under  the  reign  of 
of  Rupert's  pages,  and  some  of  ilic  cant  5  (ieorge  the  Second,  in  which  the  rise 
of  Harrison  and  Fleetwood.  Would  not  of  Methodism  is  not  even  mentioned.  A 
his  work  in  that  case  have  been  more  hundred  years  hence  this  breed  of  authors 
interesting?  Would  it  not  have  been  will,  we  hope,  be  extinct.  H  it  should 
more  accurate?  still     exist,     the     late     ministerial     inter- 

A  history  in  which  every  particular  lo  regnum  will  be  described  in  terms  which 
incident  may  be  true  may  on  the  whole  will  seem  to  imply  that  all  government 
be  false.  The  circumstances  which  have  was  at  end;  that  the  social  contract  was 
most  influence  on  the  happiness  of  man-  annulled ;  and  that  the  hand  of  every  man 
kind,  the  changes  of  manners  and  morals,  was  against  his  neighbor  until  the  wisdom 
the  transition  of  communities  from  pov- 15  and  virtue  of  the  new  cabinet  educed 
erty  to  wealth,  from  knowledge  to  igno-  order  out  of  the  chaos  of  anarchy.  We 
raiice,  from  ferocity  to  humanity  —  these  are  quite  certain  that  misconceptions  as 
are,  for  the  most  part,  noiseless  revolu-  gross  prevail  at  this  moment  respecting 
tions.  Their  progress  is  rarely  indicated  many  important  parts  of  our  annals. 
by  what  historians  are  pleased  to  call  20  The  effect  of  historical  reading  is 
important  events.  They  are  not  achieved  analogous,  in  many  respects,  to  that  pro- 
by  armies,  or  enacted  by  senates.  They  duced  by  foreign  travel.  The  student, 
are  sanctioned  by  no  treaties,  and  re-  like  the  tourist,  is  transported  into  a 
corded  in  no  archives.  They  are  carried  new  state  of  society.  He  sees  new  fash- 
on  in  every  school,  in  every  church,  be-  25  ions.  He  hears  new  modes  of  expression, 
hind  ten  thousand  counters,  at  ten  thou-  His  mind  is  enlarged  by  contemplating 
sand  firesides.  The  upper  current  of  the  wide  diversities  of  laws,  of  morals 
society  presents  no  certain  criterion  by  and  of  manners.  But  men  may  travel 
which  we  can  judge  of  the  direction  in  far,  and  return  with  minds  as  contracted 
which  the  under  current  flows.  We  read  3o  as  if  they  had  never  stirred  from  their 
of  defeats  and  victories.  But  we  know  own  market-town.  In  the  same  manner, 
that  nations  may  be  miserable  amidst  men  may  know  the  dates  of  many  battles 
victories  and  prosperous  amidst  defeats.  and  the  genealogies  of  many  royal  houses, 
We  read  of  the  fall  of  wise  ministers  and  and  yet  be  no  wiser.  Most  people  look 
of  the  rise  of  profligate  favorites.  But  35  at  past  times  as  princes  look  at  foreign 
we  must  remember  how  small  a  propor-  countries.  More  than  one  illustrious 
tion  the  good  or  evil  effected  by  a  single  stranger  has  landed  on  our  island  amidst 
statesman  can  bear  to  the  good  or  evil  the  shouts  of  a  mob,  has  dined  with  the 
of  a  great  social  system.  King,  has  hunted  with  the  master  of  the 

Bishop  Watson  compares  a  geologist  to  4°  stag-hounds,  has  seen  the  Guards  re- 
a  gnat  mounted  on  an  elephant,  and  lay-  viewed,  and  a  knight  of  the  garter  in- 
ing  down  theories  as  to  the  whole  inter-  stalled,  has  cantered  along  Regent  Street, 
nal  structure  of  the  vast  animal,  from  has  visited  Saint  Paul's,  and  noted  down 
the  phenomena  of  the  hide.  The  com-  its  dimensions;  and  has  then  departed, 
parison  is  unjust  to  the  geologists;  but  is  4S  thinking  that  he  has  seen  England.  He 
very  applicable  to  those  historians  who  has,  in  fact,  seen  a  few  public  buildings, 
write  as  if  the  body  politic  were  homo-  public  men,  and  public  ceremonies.  But 
geneous,  who  look  only  on  the  surface  of  of  the  vast  and  complex  system  of 
affairs,  and  never  think  of  the  mighty  society,  of  the  fine  shades  of  national 
and  various  organization  which  lies  deep  50  character,  of  the  practical  operation  of 
below.  government  and  laws,  he  knows  nothing. 

In  the  works  of  such  writers  as  these.  He  who  would  understand  these  things 
England,  at  the  close  of  the  Seven  Years'  rightly  must  not  confine  his  observations 
War,  is  in  the  highest  state  of  prosperity :  to  palaces  and  solemn  days.  He  must  see 
at  the  close  of  the  American  war  she  55  ordinary  men  as  they  appear  in  their 
is  in  a  miserable  and  degraded  condition  ;  ordinary  business  and  in  their  ordinary 
as  if  the  people  were  not  on  the  whole      pleasures.     He  must  mingle  in  the  crowds 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  HISTORY  695 


of  the  exchange  and  the  coffee-house.  painted  window,  which  was  made  by  an 
He  must  obtain  admittance  to  the  con-  apprentice  out  of  the  pieces  of  glass 
vivial  table  and  the  domestic  hearth.  He  which  had  been  rejected  by  his  master, 
must  bear  with  vulgar  expressions.  He  It  is  so  far  superior  to  every  other  in 
must  not  shrink  from  exploring  even  the  5  the  church,  that,  according  to  the  tradi- 
retreats  of  misery.  He  who  wishes  to  tion,  the  vanquished  artist  killed  himself 
understand  the  condition  of  mankind  in  from  mortification.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in 
former  ages  must  proceed  on  the  same  the  same  manner,  has  used  those  fr'ag- 
principle.  If  he  attends  only  to  public  ments  of  truth  which  historians  have 
transactions,  to  wars,  congresses,  and  de- 10  scornfully  thrown  behind  them  in  a  man- 
bates,  his  studies  will  be  as  unprofitable  ner  which  may  well  excite  their  envy, 
as  the  travels  of  those  imperial,  royal  He  has  constructed  out  of  their  gleanings 
and  serene  sovereigns  who  form  their  works  which,  even  considered  as  histories, 
judgment  of  our  island  from  having  gone  are  scarcely  less  valuable  than  theirs. 
in  state  to  a  few  fine  sights,  and  from  15  But  a  truly  great  historian  would  reclaim 
having  held  formal  conferences  with  a  those  materials  which  the  novelist  has 
few  great  officers.  appropriated.     The  history  of  the  govern- 

The  perfect  historian  is  he  in  whose  ment,  and  the  history  of  the  people, 
work  the  character  and  spirit  of  an  age  would  be  exhibited  in  that  mode  in  which 
is  exhibited  in  miniature.  He  relates  no  20  alone  they  can  be  exhibited  justly,  in 
fact,  he  attributes  no  expression  to  his  inseparable  conjunction  and  intermixture, 
characters,  which  is  not  authenticated  by  We  should  not  then  have  to  look  for  the 
sufficient  testimony.  But,  by  judicious  wars  and  votes  of  the  Puritans  in  Claren- 
selection,  rejection,  and  arrangement,  he  don,  and  for  their  phraseology  in  Old 
gives  to  truth  those  attractions  which  ^5  Mortality;  for  one  half  of  King  James  in 
have  been  usurped  by  fiction.  In  his  Hume,  and  for  the  other  half  in  the 
narrative  a  due  subordination  is  observed :      Fortunes  of  Nigel. 

some   transactions   are   prominent ;   others  The  early  part  of  our  imaginary  history 

retire.  But  the  scale  on  which  he  repre-  would  be  rich  with  coloring  from  re- 
sents them  is  increased  or  diminished,  not  30  mance,  ballad,  and  chronicle.  We  should 
according  to  the  dignity  of  the  persons  find  ourselves  in  the  company  of  knights 
concerned  in  them,  but  according  to  the  such  as  those  of  Froissart,  and  of  pil- 
degree  in  which  they  elucidate  the  con-  grims  such  as  those  who  rode  with 
dition  of  society  and  the  nature  of  man.  Chaucer  from  the  Tabard.  Society 
He  shows  us  the  court,  the  camp,  and  the  35  would  be  shown  from  the  highest  to  the 
senate.  But  he  shows  us  also  the  nation,  lowest, —  from  the  royal  cloth  of  state  to 
He  considers  no  anecdote,  no  peculiarity  the  den  of  the  outlaw ;  from  the  throne 
of  manner,  no  familiar  saying,  as  too  of  the  Legate  to  the  chimney-corner 
insignificant  for  his  notice  which  is  not  where  the  begging  friar  regaled  him- 
too  insignificant  to  illustrate  the  opera- 40  self.  Palmers,  minstrels,  crusaders, —  the 
tion  of  laws,  of  religion,  and  of  educa-  stately  monastery,  with  the  good  cheer  in 
tion,  and  to  mark  the  progress  of  the  its  refectory  and  the  high-mass  in  its 
human  mind.  Men  will  not  merely  be  de-  chapel, —  the  manor-house,  with  its  hunt- 
scribed,  but  will  be  made  intimately  ing  and  hawking, —  the  tournament,  with 
known  to  us.  The  changes 'of  manners  4S  the  heralds  and  ladies,  the  trumpets  and 
will  be  indicated,  not  merely  by  a  few  the  cloth  of  gold, —  would  give  truth  and 
general  phrases  or  a  few  extracts  from  life  to  the  representation.  We  should 
statistical  documents,  but  by  appropriate  perceive,  in  a  thousand  slight  touches,  the 
images  presented  in  every  line.  importance  of  the  privileged  burgher,  and 

If  a  man,  such  as  we  are  supposing,  50  the  fierce  and  haughty  spirit  which 
should  write  the  history  of  England,  he  swelled  under  the  collar  of  the  degraded 
would  assuredly  not  omit  the  battles,  the  villain.  The  revival  of  letters  would  not 
sieges,  the  negotiations,  the  seditions,  the  merely  be  described  in  a  few  magnificent 
ministerial  changes.  But  with  these  he  periods.  We  should  discern,  in  innumer- 
would  intersperse  the  details  which  are  55  able  particulars,  the  fermentation  of 
the  charm  of  historical  romances.  At  mind,  the  eager  appetite  for  knowledge, 
Lincoln    Cathedral    there    is    a    beautiful     which    distinguished    the    sixteenth    from 


696  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

the  fifteenth  century.  In  the  Reforma-  would  be  told,  as  Thucydides  would  have 
tion  we  should  see,  not  merely  a  schism  told  them,  with  perspicuous  conciseness, 
which  changed  the  ecclesiastical  constitu-  Tliey  are  merely  connecting  links.  But 
tion  of  England  and  the  mutual  relations  the  great  characteristics  of  the  age,  the 
of  the  European  powers,  but  a  moral  war  5  loyal  enthusiasm  of  the  brave  English 
which  raged  in  every  family,  which  set  gentry,  the  fierce  licentiousness  of  the 
the  father  against  the  son,  and  the  son  swearing,  dicing,  drunken  reprobates 
against  the  father,  the  mother  against  the  whose  excesses  disgraced  the  royal  cause, 
daughter,  and  the  daughter  against  the  —  the  austerity  of  the  Presbyterian  Sab- 
mother.  Henry  would  be  painted  with  10  baths  in  the  city,  the  extravagance  of 
the  skill  of  Tacitus.  We  should  have  the  the  independent  preachers  in  the  camp, 
change  of  his  character  from  his  profuse  the  precise  garb,  the  severe  counte- 
and  joyous  youth  to  his  savage  and  im-  nance,  the  petty  scruples,  the  affected 
perious  old  age.  We  should  perceive  the  accent,  the  absurd  names  and  phrases 
gradual  progress  of  selfish  and  tyrannical  15  which  marked  the  Puritans, —  the  valor, 
passions  in  a  mind  not  naturally  in-  the  policy,  the  public  spirit,  which  lurked 
sensible  or  ungenerous;  and  to  the  last  beneath  these  ungraceful  disguises, —  the 
we  should  detect  some  remains  of  that  dreams  of  the  raving  Fifth-monarchy- 
open  and  noble  temper  which  endeared  man,  the  dreams,  scarcely  less  wild,  of 
him  to  a  people  whom  he  oppressed,  20  the  philosophic  republican, —  all  these 
struggling  with  the  hardness  of  despot-  would  enter  into  the  representation,  and 
ism  and  the  irritability  of  disease.  We  render  it  at  once  more  exact  and  more 
should  see  Elizabeth  in  all  her  weakness      striking. 

and    in    all    her    strength,    surrounded   by  The    instruction    derived    from    history 

the  handsome  favorites  whom  she  never  25  thus  written  would  be  of  a  vivid  and 
trusted,  and  the  wise  old  statesman  whom  practical  character.  It  would  be  received 
she  never  dismissed,  uniting  in  herself  by  the  imagination  as  well  as  by  the 
the  most  contradictory  qualities  of  both  reason.  It  would  be  not  merely  traced 
her  parents, —  the  coquetry,  the  caprice,  on  the  mind,  but  branded  into  it.  Many 
the  petty  malice  of  Anne, —  the  haughty  30  truths,  too,  would  be  learned,  which  can 
and  resolute  spirit  of  Henry.  We  have  be  learned  in  no  other  manner.  As  the 
no  hesitation  in  saying  that  a  great  artist  history  of  states  is  generally  written,  the 
might  produce  a  portrait  of  this  re-  greatest  and  most  momentous  revolutions 
markable  woman  at  least  as  striking  as  seem  to  come  upon  them  like  supernatural 
that  in  the  novel  of  Kenilworth,  without  35  inflictions,  without  warning  or  cause, 
employing  a  single  trait  not  authenticated  But  the  fact  is,  that  such  revolutions  are 
by  ample  testimony.  In  the  meantime,  almost  always  the  consequences  of  moral 
we  should  see  arts  cultivated,  wealth  ac-  changes,  which  have  gradually  passed  on 
cumulated,  the  conveniences  of  life  im-  the  mass  of  the  community,  and  which 
proved.  We  should  see  the  keeps,  where  ^o  ordinarily  proceed  far,  before  their 
nobles,  insecure  themselves,  spread  in-  progress  is  indicated  by  any  public  meas- 
security  around  them,  gradually  giving  ure.  An  intimate  knowledge  of  the  do- 
place  to  the  halls  of  peaceful  opulence,  mestic  history  of  nations  is  therefore 
to  the  oriels  of  Longleat,  and  the  stately  absolutely  necessary  to  the  prognosis  of 
pinnacles  of  Burleigh.  We  should  see  45  political  events.  A  narrative,  defective 
towns  extended,  deserts  cultivated,  the  in  this  respect,  is  as  useless  as  a  medical 
hamlets  of  fisherman  turned  into  wealthy  treatise  which  should  pass  by  all  the 
havens,  the  meal  of  the  peasant  improved,  symptoms  attendant  on  the  early  stage  of 
and  his  hut  more  commodiously  furnished.  a  disease  and  mention  only  what  occurs 
We  should  see  those  opinions  and  feel-  50  when  the  patient  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
ings   which   produced   the   great   struggle      remedies. 

against     the     House     of     Stuart     slowly  A  historian  such  as  we  have  been  at- 

growing  up  in  the  bosom  of  private  fam-  tempting  to  describe  would  indeed  be  an 
ilies,  before  they  manifested  themselves  intellectual  prodigy.  In  his  mind,  powers 
in  parliamentary  debates.  Then  would  55  scarcely  compatible  with  each  other  must 
come  the  Civil  War.  Those  skirmishes  be  tempered  into  an  exquisite  harmony, 
on  which   Clarendon  dwells  so  minutely      We   shall   sooner  see   another   Shakspere 


THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND  697 

or  another  Homer.  The  highest  excel-  made,  during  Danby's  administration,  to 
lence  to  which  any  single  faculty  can  be  close  the  coffee-houses.  But  men  of  all 
brought  would  be  less  surprising  than  parties  missed  their  usual  places  of  re- 
such  a  happy  and  delicate  combination  of  sort  so  much  that  there  was  a  universal 
qualities.  Yet  the  contemplation  of  im-  5  outcry.  The  government  did  not  venture, 
aginary  models  is  not  an  unpleasant  or  in  opposition  to  a  feeling  so  strong  and 
useless  employment  of  the  mind.  It  can-  general,  to  enforce  a  regulation  of  which 
not  indeed  produce  perfection;  but  it  the  legality  might  well  be  questioned, 
produces  improvement,  and  nourishes  that  Since  that  time  ten  years  had  elapsed,  and 
generous  and  liberal  fastidiousness  which  10  during  those  years  the  number  and  in- 
is  not  inconsistent  with  the  strongest  fluence  of  the  coffee-houses  had  been 
sensibility  to  merit,  and  which,  while  it  constantly  increasing.  Foreigners  re- 
exalts  our  conceptions  of  the  art,  does  marked  that  the  coffee-house  was  that 
not  render  us  unjust  to  the  artist.  which     especially     distinguished     London 

(1828)  15  from  all  other  cities;  that  the  coffee- 
house was  the  Londoner's  home,  and  that 
those    who    wished    to    find    a    gentleman 

THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND  ^p^^^ "s'L^^'^  oV  "^Cl^nctrT  Lan^'but 

(From  VOL.   I,   CHAP.   III.   ON   THE  ^° '^^'^^'^^^  ^f    frequented    the    Grecian    or 

STATE  OF   ENGLAND   IN    1685)  ^/^      Rainbow      Nobody     was     excluded 

from    these    places    who    laid    down    his 

The  coffee-house  must  not  be  dismissed  penny  at  the  bar.  Yet  every  rank  and 
with  a  cursory  mention.  It  might,  in-  profession,  and  every  shade  of  religious 
deed,  at  that  time  have  been  not  im-  ^5  and  political  opinion,  had  its  own  head- 
properly  called  a  most  important  political  quarters.  There  were  houses  near  Saint 
institution.  No  Parliament  had  sat  for  James's  Park  where  fops  congregated, 
years.  The  municipal  council  of  the  city  their  heads  and  shoulders  covered  with 
had  ceased  to  speak  the  sense  of  the  black  or  flaxen  wigs,  not  less  ample  than 
citizens.  Public  meetings,  harangues,  3°  those  which  are  now  worn  by  the  Chan- 
resolutions,  and  the  rest  of  the  modern  cellor  and  by  the  Speaker  of  the  House 
machinery  of  agitation  had  not  yet  come  of  Commons.  The  wig  came  from  Paris ; 
into  fashion.  Nothing  resembling  the  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  fine  gentle- 
modern  newspaper  existed.  In  such  cir-  man's  ornaments,  his  embroidered  coat, 
cumstances  the  coffee-houses  were  the  35  his  fringed  gloves,  and  the  tassel  which 
chief  organs  through  which  the  public  upheld  his  pantaloons.  The  conversation 
opinion  of  the  metropolis  vented  itself.  was  in  that  dialect,  which,   long  after   it 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  had  ceased  to  be  spoken  in  fashionable 
been  set  up,  in  the  time  of  the  Common-  circles,  continued,  in  the  mouth  of  Lord 
wealth,  by  a  Turkey  merchant,  who  had  40  Foppington,  to  excite  the  mirth  of 
acquired  among  the  Mahometans  a  taste  theaters.^  The  atmosphere  was  like  that 
for  their  favorite  beverage.  The  con-  of  a  perfumer's  shop.  Tobacco  in  any 
venience  of  being  able  to  make  appoint-  other  form  than  that  of  richly  scented 
ments  in  any  part  of  the  town,  and  of  snuff  was  held  in  abomination.  If  any 
being  able  to  pass  evenings  socially  at  a  45  clown,  ignorant  of  the  usages  of  the 
very  small  charge,  was  so  great  that  the  house,  called  for  a  pipe,  the  sneers  of 
fashion  spread  fast.  Every  man  of  the  the  whole  assembly  and  the  short  an- 
upper  or  middle  class  went  daily  to  his  swers  of  the  waiters  soon  convinced  him 
coffee-house  to  learn  the  news  and  to  that  he  had  better  go  somewhere  else, 
discuss  it.  Every  coffee-house  had  one  50  Nor,  indeed,  would  he  have  had  far  to 
or  more  orators  to  whose  eloquence  the  go.  For,  in  general,  the  coft'ee-rooms 
crowd  listened  with  admiration,  and  who         ,_,,       ,.  ,         ,.    .        r  ^u-     j-  1    ^  .t.  . 

,  ,  ,        .  ..  e  *The    chief    peculiarity    of   this    dialect    was    that, 

soon    became,    what    the    journalists    of   our        ;„    ^    large    class    of    words,    the    O    was    pronounced 

time     have     been     called,     a     fourth     Estate        like     A.     Thus     Lord     was     pronounced     Lard.     See 

of    the    realm.      The    court    had    long    seen  55  Vanbrugh's   Relapse.      Lord    Sunderland   was   a   great 

•  ,i  •       „       .1        „_„  .ii,    ^s    i-u:^    ^«,,r        master  of  this  court  tune,   as   Roger   North  calls  it; 

With  uneasiness  the  growth  of    his  new      ^^^  ^.^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  .^  i^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^  p^^^.^^ 

power  in   the  state.      An   attempt  had  been        for   a   fine   gentleman.     Examen,    77,    254. 


698  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

reeked   with  tobacco    like   a   guard-room;  These   gregarious   haljils   had    no   small 

and  strangers  sometimes  expressed  their  share  in  forming  the  character  of  the 
surprise  that  so  many  people  should  leave  Londoner  of  that  age.  He  was,  indeed, 
their  own  firesides  to  sit  in  the  midst  of  a  different  being  from  the  rustic  English- 
eternal  fog  and  stench.  Nowhere  was  s  man.  There  was  not  then  the  intercourse 
the  smoking  more  constant  than  at  Will's.  which  now  exists  between  the  two  classes. 
That  celebrated  house,  situated  between  Only  very  great  men  were  in  the  habit 
Covent  Garden  and  Bow  Street,  was  of  dividing  the  year  between  town  and 
sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the  talk  country.  Few  esquires  came  to  the  cap- 
was  about  poetical  justice  and  the  unities  10  ital  thrice  in  their  lives.  Nor  was  it 
of  i)lace  and  time.  There  was  a  faction  yet  the  practice  of  all  citizens  in  easy 
for  Perrault  and  the  moderns,  a  faction  circumstances  to  breathe  the  fresh  air 
for  Boileau  and  the  ancients.  One  group  of  the  fields  and  woods  during  some  weeks 
debated  whether  Paradise  Lost  ought  not  of  every  summer.  A  cockney  in  a  rural 
to  have  been  in  rime.  To  another  an  15  village  was  stared  at  as  much  as  if  he 
envious  poetaster  demonstrated  that  had  uitruded  into  a  kraal  of  Hottentots. 
Venice  Preserved  ought  to  have  been  On  the  other  hand,  when  the  lord  of  a 
hooted  from  the  stage.  Under  no  roof  Lincolnshire  or  Shropshire  manor  ap- 
was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to  be  peared  in  Fleet  Street,  he  was  as  easily 
seen.  There  were  earls  in  stars  and  gar-  20  distinguished  from  the  resident  popula- 
ters,  clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands,  tion  as  a  Turk  or  a  Lascar.  His  dress, 
pert  Templars,  sheepish  lads  from  the  his  gait,  his  accent,  the  manner  in  which 
universities,  translators  and  index-mak-  he  gazed  at  the  shops,  stumbled  into  the 
ers  in  ragged  coats  of  frieze.  The  great  gutters,  ran  against  the  porters,  and  stood 
press  was  to  get  near  the  chair  where  25  under  the  waterspouts,  marked  him  out 
John  Dryden  sat.  In  winter  that  chair  as  an  excellent  subject  for  the  operations 
was  always  in  the  warmest  nook  by  the  of  swindlers  and  banterers.  Bullies 
fire;  in  summer  it  stood  in  the  balcony.  jostled  him  into  the  kennel.  Hackney 
To  bow  to  the  Laureate,  and  to  hear  coachmen  splashed  him  from  head  to 
his  opinion  of  Racine's  last  tragedy  or  of  30  foot.  Thieves  explored  with  perfect 
Bossu's  treatise  on  epic  poetry,  was  security  the  huge  pockets  of  his  horse- 
thought  a  privilege.  A  pinch  from  his  man's  coat,  while  he  stood  entranced  by 
snuff-box  was  an  honor  sufficient  to  turn  the  splendor  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  show, 
the  head  of  a  young  enthusiast.  There  Moneydroppers,  sore  from  the  cart's  tail, 
were  coffee-houses  where  the  first  med-  35  introduced  themselves  to  him,  and  ap- 
ical men  might  be  consulted.  Dr.  John  peared  to  him  the  most  honest  friendly 
Radcliffe,  who,  in  the  year  1685,  rose  to  gentlemen  that  he  had  ever  seen, 
the  largest  practice  in  London,  came  dady,  Painted  women,  the  refuse  of  Lewkner 
at  the  hour  when  the  Exchange  was  full.  Lane  and  Whetstone  Park,  passed  them- 
from  his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a  40  selves  on  him  for  countesses  and  maids 
fashionable  part  of  the  capital,  to  Gar-  of  honor.  H  he  asked  his  way  to  Saint 
raway's,  and  was  to  be  found,  surrounded  James's,  his  informants  sent  him  to  Mile 
by  surgeons  and  apothecaries,  at  a  partic-  End.  If  he  went  into  a  shop,  he  was 
ular  table.  There  were  Puritan  coffee-  instantly  discerned  to  be  a  fit  purchaser 
houses  where  no  oath  was  heard,  and  45  of  everything  that  nobody  else  would 
where  lank-haired  men  discussed  election  i^^y,  of  second-hand  embroidery,  "copper 
and  reprobation  through  their  noses;  j-ings,  and  watches  that  would  not  go. 
Jew  coffee-houses  where  dark-eyed  money  jf  ]^q  ramljled  into  anv  fashionable  coffee- 
changers  from  Venice  and  from  Amster-  house,  he  became  a  mark  for  the  insolent 
dam  greeted  each  other ;  and  popish  cof-  5o 

fee-houses  where,  as  good  Protestants  House,  1674;  Coffee  Houses  vindicated,  1675;  A 
,     v  1      T         -t         1    .,.,„  1'    ^ ^l,^;- ~  Satyr    against    Coffee;    North's     Examen,     138;    Life 

believed,  Jesuits  planned,  over  their  cups,  ^^  Guildford,  152;  Life  of  Sir  Dudley  North, 
another  great  fire,  and  cast  silver  bullets       149;  Life  of  Dr.   Radcliffe.  published  by  Curii  in 

to   shoot   the    King.^  1715-     The    liveliest    description    of    Will's    is    in    the 

55   City    and    Country    Mouse.      There    is    a    remarkable 
'  Lettres    sur    les    Anglois:     Tom     Brown's    Tour;        passage   about   the  influence   of   the  coffee   house  era- 
Ward's    London    Spy;    The    Character    of    a    Coffee        tors    in    Halstead's    Succinct    Genealogies,    printed    in 
House,     1673;     Rules     and     Orders     of    the     Coffee        1685. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND  699 

derision  of  fops  and  the  grave  waggery  water  work  might,  perhaps,  furnish 
of  Templars.  Enraged  and  mortified,  he  matter  for  conversation  at  a  meeting  of 
soon  returned  to  his  mansion,  and  there,  the  Royal  Society,  but  was  not  applied 
in  the  homage  of  his  tenants  and  the  to  any  practical  purpose.  There  were 
conversation  of  his  boon  companions,  5  no  railways,  except  a  few  made  of  tim- 
found  consolation  for  the  vexations  and  ber,  on  which  coals  were  carried  from 
humiliations  which  he  had  undergone.  the  mouths  of  the  Northumbrian  pits  to 
There  he  was  once  more  a  great  man,  the  banks  of  the  Tyne.-  There  was  very 
and  saw  nothing  above  himself  except  little  international  communication  by 
when  at  the  assizes  he  took  his  seat  on  10  water.  A  few  attempts  had  been  made 
the  bench  near  the  judge,  or  when  at  to  deepen  and  embank  the  natural  streams, 
the  muster  of  the  militia  he  saluted  the  but  with  slender  success.  Hardly  a  sin- 
Lord  Lieutenant.  gle  navigable  canal  had  been  even  pro- 
The  chief  cause  which  made  the  fusion  jected.  The  English  of  that  dav  were  in 
of  the  different  elements  of  society  so  is  the  habit  of  talking  with  mingled  admira- 
imperfect  was  the  extreme  difficulty  tion  and  despair  of  the  immense  trench 
which  our  ancestors  found  in  passing  by  which  Louis  the  Fourteenth  had  made 
from  place  to  place.  Of  all  inventions,  a  junction  between  the  Atlantic  and  Aled- 
the  alphabet  and  the  printing-press  alone  iterrancan.  They  little  thought  that  their 
excepted,  those  inventions  which  abridge  20  country  would,  in  the  course  of  a  few- 
distance  have  done  most  for  the  civiliza-  generations,  be  intersected,  at  the  cost  of 
tion  of  our  species.  Every  improvement  private  adventurers,  by  artificial  rivers 
of  the  means  of  locomotion  benefits  man-  making  up  more  than  four  times  the 
kind  morally  and  intellectually  as  well  as  length  of  the  Thames,  the  Severn,  and 
materially,    and    not    only    facilitates    the  25  the  Trent  together. 

interchange  of  the  various  productions  of  It  was  by  tlie  highways  that  both  trav- 

nature  and  art,  but  tends  to  remove  na-  clers  and  goods  generally  passed  from 
tional  and  provincial  antipathies,  and  to  place  to  place;  and  those  highways  ap- 
bind  together  all  the  branches  of  the  pear  to  have  been  far  worse  than  might 
great  human  family.  In  the  seventeenth  30  have  been  expected  from  the  degree  of 
century  the  inhabitants  of  London  were,  wealth  and  civilization  which  the  nation 
for  almost  every  practical  purpose,  far-  had  even  then  attained.  On  the  best 
ther  from  Reading  than  they  now  are  lines  of  communication  the  ruts  were 
from  Edinburgh,  and  farther  from  Edin-  deep,  the  descents  precipitous,  and  the 
burgh  than  they  now  are  from  Vienna.  35  way  often  such  as  it  was  hardly  possible 
The  subjects  of  Charles  the  Second  to  distinguish,  in  the  dusk,  from  the  un- 
were  not,  it  is  true,  quite  unacquainted  inclosed  heath  and  fen  which  lay  on  both 
with  that  principle  which  has,  in  our  own  sides.  Ralph  Thoresby,  the  antiquary, 
time,  produced  an  unprecedented  revolu-  ^as  in  danger  of  losing  his  way  on  the 
tion  m  human  affairs,  which  has  enabled  40  great  North  road,  between  Barnby  Moor 
navies  to  advance  in  face  of  wind  and  and  Tuxford,  and  actually  lost  his  wav 
tide,  and  brigades  of  troops,  attended  by  between  Doncaster  and  York.^  Pepvs 
all  their  baggage  and  artillery,  to  traverse  and  his  wife,  traveling  in  their  own 
kingdoms  at  a  pace  equal  to  that  of  the  coach,  lost  their  way  between  Newbury 
fleetest  race  horse.  The  Marquess  of45and  Reading.  In  the  course  of  the  same 
Worcester  had  recently  observed  the  ex-  tour  they  lost  their  wav  near  Salisburv. 
pansive  power  of  moisture  rarefied  by  ^^d  were  in  danger  of  having  to  pass  the 
heat.  After  many  experiments  he  had  ^ight  on  the  plain.*  It  was  only  in  fine 
succeeded  in  constructing  a  rude  steam  weather  that  the  whole  breadth  of  the 
engine,  which  he  called  a  fire  water  work,  50  j-oad  was  available  for  wheeled  vehicles, 
and  which  he  pronounced  to  be  an  ad-  often  the  mud  lay  deep  on  the  right  and 
mirable  and  most  forcible  instrument  of  the  left ;  and  onlv  a  narrow  track  of  firm 
propulsion. 1  But  the  Marquess  was  sus-  ground  rose  above  the  quagmire.^  At 
pected   to   be    a   madman,    and   known    to 

be   a   Paptist.     His   inventions,   therefore,  55     2  Xorth's  Life  of  Guildford,  136. 
found    no    favorable    reception.     His    fire         '  Thoresby's  Diary,  Oct.  21.  1680,  .Aug.   3,   171J. 

*  Pepys's   Diary,   June   12   and   16,    1668. 
^Century    of    Inventions,    1663,    No.    68.  °  Pepys's  Diary,   Feb.  28,   1660. 


700  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

such  times  obstructions  and  quarrels  were  Kent  and  Sussex  none  but  the  strongest 
frequent,  and  the  path  was  sometimes  horses  could,  in  winter,  get  through  the 
blocked  up  during  a  long  time  by  carriers,  bog,  in  which,  at  every  step,  they  sank 
neither  of  whom  would  break  the  way.  deep.  The  markets  were  often  inac- 
It  happened,  almost  every  day,  that  5  cessible  during  several  months.  It  is 
coaches  stuck  fast,  until  a  team  of  cattle  said  that  the  fruits  of  the  earth  were 
could  be  procured  from  some  neighbor-  sometimes  suffered  to  rot  in  one  place, 
ing  farm  to  tug  them  out  of  the  slough,  while  in  another  place,  distant  only  a  few 
But  in  bad  seasons  the  traveler  had  to  miles,  the  supply  fell  far  short  of  the 
encounter  inconveniences  still  more  10  demand.  The  wheeled  carriages  were,  in 
serious.  Thoresby,  who  was  in  the  habit  this  district,  generally  pulled  by  oxen.'* 
of  traveling  between  Leeds  and  the  cap-  When  Prince  George  of  Denmark  visited 
ital,  has  recorded,  in  his  Diary,  such  a  the  stately  mansion  of  Petworth  in  wet 
scries  of  perils  and  disasters  as  might  weather,  he  was  six  hours  in  going  nine 
suffice  for  a  journey  to  the  Frozen  Ocean  15  miles;  and  it  was  necessary  that  a  body 
or  to  the  Desert  of  Sahara.  On  one  oc-  of  sturdy  hinds  should  be  on  each  side 
casion  he  learned  that  the  floods  were  of  his  coach,  in  order  to  prop  it.  Of  the 
out  between  Ware  and  London,  that  pas-  carriages  which  conveyed  his  retinue, 
sengers  had  to  swim  for  their  lives,  and  several  were  upset  and  injured.  A  letter 
that  a  higgler  had  perished  in  the  at-  20  from  one  of  the  party  has  been  preserved, 
tempt  to  cross.  In  consequence  of  these  in  which  the  unfortunate  courtier  com- 
tidings  he  turned  out  of  the  high-road,  plains  that,  during  fourteen  hours,  he 
and  was  conducted  across  some  meadows,  never  once  alighted  except  when  his 
where  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  ride  coach  was  overturned  or  stuck  fast  in  the 
to    the    saddle    skirts    in    water.^     In    the  35  mud.<* 

course    of    another   journey   he   narrowly  One  chief  cause  of  the  badness  of  the 

escaped  being  swept  away  by  an  inunda-  roads  seems  to  have  been  the  defective 
tion  of  the  Trent.  He  was  afterwards  state  of  the  law.  Every  parish  was  bound 
detained  at  Stamford  four  days,  on  ac-  to  repair  the  highways  which  passed 
count  of  the  state  of  the  roads,  and  then  30  through  it.  The  peasantry  were  forced 
ventured  to  proceed  only  because  fourteen  to  give  their  gratuitous  labor  six  days 
members  of  the  House  of  Commons,  who  in  the  year.  If  this  was  not  sufficient, 
were  going  up  in  a  body  to  Parliament  hired  labor  was  employed,  and  the  ex- 
with  guides  and  numerous  attendants,  pense  was  met  by  a  parochial  rate.  That 
took  him  into  their  company.^  On  the  35  a  route  connecting  two  great  towns, 
roads  of  Derbyshire,  travelers  were  in  which  have  a  large  and  thriving  trade 
constant  fear  for  their  necks,  and  were  with  each  other,  should  be  maintained 
frequently  compelled  to  alight  and  lead  at  the  cost  of  the  rural  population  scat- 
their  beasts.^  The  great  route  through  tered  between  them  is  obviously  unjust; 
Wales  to  Holyhead  was  in  such  a  state  4°  and  this  injustice  was  peculiarly  glaring 
that,  in  1685,  a  viceroy,  going  to  Ireland,  in  the  case  of  the  great  North  road,  which 
was  five  hours  in  traveling  fourteen  traversed  very  poor  and  thinly  inhabited 
miles,  from  Saint  Asaph  to  Conway.  Be-  districts,  and  joined  very  rich  and  popu- 
tween  Conway  and  Beaumaris  he  was  lous  districts.  Indeed  it  was  not  in  the 
forced  to  walk  great  part  of  the  way ;  45  power  of  the  parishes  of  Huntingdon- 
and  his  lady  was  carried  in  a  litter.  His  shire  to  mend  a  highway  worn  by  the 
coach  was,  with  much  difficulty,  and  by  constant  traffic  between  the  West  Riding 
the  help  of  many  hands,  brought  after  of  Yorkshire  and  London.  Soon  after 
him  entire.  In  general,  carriages  were  the  Restoration  this  grievance  attracted 
taken  to  pieces  at  Conway,  and  borne,  50  the  notice  of  Parliament ;  and  an  act,  the 
on  the  shoulders  of  stout  Welsh  peasants,  first  of  our  many  turnpike  acts,  was 
to  the  Menai  Straits.*  In  some  parts  of  passed,  imposing  a  small  toll  on  travel- 
>Thoresby's  Diary,  May  :;.  :69s.  ^rs  and  goods,  for  the  purpose  of  keep- 

tlbid.,  Dec.   27,   1708.  mg  some  parts  of  this  unportant  una  01 

"Tour  in     Derbyshire,    by    J.    Browne,    son    of    Sir  55 

Thomas    Browne,    1662.     Cotton's    .\ngler,    1676.  ^^  Postlethwaite's    Diet.,    Roads;    History    of    Hawk- 

*  Correspondence     of    Henry,     Earl    of    Clarendon,  hurst,    in    the    Bibliotheca    Topographica    Britannica. 

Dec.    30,    1685,   Jan.    I,    1686.  ".Annals   of  Queen  Anne,   1703,  Appendix,  No.  3. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND  701 


communication     in     good     repair.^     This      known   in   the   south   of   England  by   the 
innovation,   however,   excited   many   mur-      name  of  sea  coal. 

niurs;    and    the    other    great    avenues    to  On  by-roads,  and  generally  throughout 

the  capital  were  long  left  under  the  old  the  country  north  of  York  and  west  of 
system.  A  change  was  at  length  effected,  5  Exeter,  goods  were  carried  by  long  trains 
but  not  without  much  difficulty.  For  of  pack  horses.  These  strong  and  patient 
unjust  and  absurd  taxation  to  which  men  beasts,  the  breed  of  which  is' now  extinct, 
are  accustomed  is  often  borne  far  more  were  attended  by  a  class  of  men  who 
willingly  than  the  most  reasonable  im-  seem  to  have  borne  much  resemblance  to 
post  which  is  new.  It  was  not  till  many  10  the  Spanish  muleteers.  A  traveler  of 
toll  bars  had  been  violently  pulled  down,  humble  condition  often  found  it  conven- 
till  the  troops  had  in  many  districts  been  ient  to  perform  a  journey  mounted  on  a 
forced  to  act  against  the  people,  and  till  pack  saddle  between  two  baskets,  under 
much  blood  had  been  shed,  that  a  good  the  care  of  these  hardy  guides.  The  ex- 
system  was  introduced.-  By  slow  degrees  15  pense  of  this  mode  of  conveyance  was 
reason  triumphed  over  prejudice;  and  small.  But  the  caravan  moved  at  a  foot's 
our  island  is  now  crossed  in  every  direc-  pace;  and  in  winter  the  cold  was  often 
tion  by  near  thirty  thousand  miles  of  insupportable.* 
turnpike  road.  The    rich    commonly    traveled    in    their 

On  the  best  highways  heavy  articles  20  own  carriages,  with  at  least  four  horses, 
were,  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second,  Cotton,  the  facetious  poet,  attempted  to 
generally  conveyed  from  place  to  place  go  from  London  to  the  Peak  with  a  sin- 
by  stage  wagons.  In  the  straw  of  these  gle  pair,  but  found  at  Saint  Albans  that 
vehicles  nestled  a  crowd  of  passengers,  the  journey  would  be  insupportably  tedi- 
who  could  not  afford  to  travel  by  coach  ^^  ous,  and  altered  his  plan.^  A  coach  and 
or  on  horseback,  and  who  were  prevented  six  is  in  our  time  never  seen,  except  as 
by  infirmity,  or  by  the  weight  of  their  part  of  some  pageant.  The  frequent 
luggage,  from  going  on  foot.  The  ex-  mention  therefore  of  such  equipages  in 
pense  of  transmitting  heavy  goods  in  this  old  books  is  likely  to  mislead  us.  We 
way  was  enormous.  From  London  to  3°  attribute  to  magnificence  what  was  really 
Birmingham  the  charge  was  seven  pounds  the  effect  of  a  very  disagreeable  necessity. 
a  ton;  from  London  to  Exeter,  twelve  People,  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Sec- 
pounds  a  ton.^  This,  was  about  fifteen  ond,  traveled  with  six  horses,  because 
pence  a  ton  for  every  mile,  more  by  a  with  a  smaller  number  there  was  great 
third  than  was  afterwards  charged  on  35  danger  of  sticking  fast  in  the  mire.  Nor 
turnpike  roads,  and  fifteen  times  what  is  were  even  six  horses  always  sufficient, 
now  demanded  by  railway  companies.  Vanbrugh,  in  the  succeeding  generation. 
The  cost  of  conveyance  amounted  to  a  described  with  great  humor  the  way  in 
prohibitory  tax  on  many  useful  articles.  which  a  country  gentleman,  newly  chosen 
Coal  in  particular  was  never  seen  except  *°  a  member  of  Parliament,  went  up  to  Lon- 
in  the  districts  where  it  was  produced,  don.  On  that  occasion  all  the  exertions 
or  in  the  districts  to  which  it  could  be  of  six  beasts,  two  of  which  had  been 
carried   by   sea,   and   was   indeed   always      taken  from  the  plough,  could  not  save  the 

family  coach  from  being  embedded  in  a 

lis  Car.  II.  c.  1.  45  quagmire. 

2  The    evils    of    the   old   system   are   strikingly   set  :|c      *      * 

forth    in    many    petitions   which    appear   in    the    Com- 
mons'   Journal    of    1725-26.     How    fierce    an    opposi-  ♦  Loidis    and    Elraete;    Marshall's    Rural    Economy 
tion  was  offered  to  the  new  system  may  be  learned        of   England.     In    1739    Roderic    Random   came    from 
from  the  Gentleman's   Magazine  of   1749.                            Scotland   to   Newcastle   on   a   packhorse. 

« Postlethwaite's  Diet.,  Roads.  eg        *  Cotton's  Epistle  to  J.   Bradshaw. 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN   (1801-1890) 

That  ferment  of  iispiraliou  and  unrest  wliieli  produced  in  the  nineteenth  century  so  many 
forms  of  religious  iniiuiry,  the  questioning  faitli  of  Tennyson's  In  ilcmoriam,  Carlyle's  turljid 
discontent  with  modern  civilization  and  liuslvin's  frantic  anti-materialism,  produced  in  Jolui 
Henry  Newman  its  most  specialized  and  inspired  searcher  after  spiritual  grace, — -in  short, 
a  religious  genius.  Newman  was  born  in  the  City  of  London  not  far  from  the  Bank.  His 
father,  a  banker,  was  a  man  of  cultivated  tastes  and  is  thought  to  have  been  of  Jewish 
oxtra<'tion.  His  mother  came  of  a  Huguenot  family  and  Newman  was  instructed  during  his 
childhood  in  '  modified  Calvinism.'  As  a  youth  he  displayed  singular  intellectual  restlessness 
combined  with  literary  instinct  and  precocity.  He  was  said  to  know  the  Bible  by  heart. 
His  early  passion  for  Scott  provided  his  imagination  with  a  background  of  medieval  sympa- 
thies, and  his  memory  with  a  picjnant  reference  at  a  crucial  point  in  the  most  close-knit  con- 
troversy of  his  later  life.  In  1817  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  and  won  a  scholarship 
at  the  end  of  his  first  year.  The  stirrings  of  the  medieval  movement  were  already  beginning 
at  Oxford  when  Newman  became  a  fellow  of  Oriel  College,  its  special  home.  After  some 
terms  at  the  law  in  London,  Newman  took  orders  in  the  Anglican  church  and  by  1829  had 
become  a  tutor  in  Oriel  and  Vicar  of  St.  Mary's.  From  contact  with  Hurrell  Fronde  he 
soon  grew  deeply  interested  in  the  historic  phases  of  Christianity ;  the  new-old  ideas  of  the 
Fathers  'came  like  music'  to  his  'inward  ear,'  and  he  conveyed  them  with  burning  effect 
into  his  clarion  University  Sermons  at  St.  IMary's.  In  1832,  with  Froude  he  saw  Home;  he 
came  near  to  death  from  cholera,  paid  devout  visits  to  many  ancient  churches,  wrote  at 
Palermo,  '  O,  that  thy  creed  were  sound,  thou  Church  of  Rome,'  and  on  shipboard  composed 
in  the  twilight  of  Romanism,  Lead  Kindhj  L'ujht,  which  one  of  his  critics  has  termed  '  the 
"  March  "  of  the  tractarian  movement.'  The  Sunday  after  Newman  reached  England,  John 
Keble  preached  in  his  pulpit  at  St.  Mary's  the  sermon  on  National  Apostasy,  which  is  held 
to  have  precipitated  the  Tractarian  movement.  To  meet  the  rationalistic  liberalism  and 
irreligion  which  were  threatening  the  church  from  without,  two  movements,  broadly  speaking, 
were  advocated  within  it;  —  one,  in  sympathy  with  the  temper  of  the  age,  toward  more 
latitude  of  doctrine  and  more  practical  activity ;  the  other,  reactionary,  toward  a  more 
zealous  adherence  to  the  forms,  traditions  and  earlier  sanctities  of  the  church.  It  was  this 
latter  course  that  Newman  and  his  friends  espoused  in  the  Tracts  for  the  Times.  Of  this 
movement  Newman  was  the  most  powerful  writer.  In  seeking  to  establish  the  historical 
continuity  of  the  English  church,  he  gradually  convinced  himself  of  the  authenticity  of  Ro- 
manism. He  was  not  yet  aware  of  the  approaching  position  of  his  own  mind,  when  he 
examined  the  subject  of  Apostolic  Succession  in  his  famous  Tract  Ninety  (1841).  The 
dangerousness  of  his  position  did  not  remain  undetected  by  others  and  aroused  the  utmost 
violence  of  passion.  Newman  was  compelled  to  leave  Oxford  and,  soon  after,  it  became 
known  that  he  had  entered  the  Roman  fold.  What  followed  is  indescribable.  Families 
were  broken  up.  The  entire  religious  world  was  in  a  state  of  almost  tragic  excitement. 
Newman  alone  preserved  his  calm  and  what  was  considered  an  ominous  silence.  For  twenty 
years  he  addressed  himself  chiefly  to  his  own  parish  and  the  men  of  his  adopted  faith. 
Finally,  in  1864,  a  supreme  opportunity  came  for  him  to  address  from  a  point  of  advantage 
the  public  which  had  reviled  him.  Charles  Kingsley  in  a  review  of  Fronde's  History  of 
England,  went  out  of  his  way  to  accuse  '  Father  Newman  '  of  having  justified  the  principle 
of  dishonesty  in  the  Roman  priesthood.  In  the  complicated  correspondence,  which  was 
afterwards  published  in  full,  Newman  had  all  the  honors.  With  resistless  logic  and  dex- 
terity and  the  perfect  poise  and  sincerity  of  a  christian  gentleman  he  left  his  assailant 
in  an  obvious  position  of  reckless  bigotry,  w'rong-headedness  and  untruth.  Newman  could 
now  present  to  the  English  world  the  logic  of  his  religious  development,  and  this  he  did  in 
his  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua  [Defense  of  his  Life].  This  is  a  telling  presentation,  full  of 
acute  personal  interest,  of  the  claims  which  an  ancient  and  established  religion  can  urge 
upon  modern  culture,  and  a  justification  of  faith  'against  the  assaults  of  a  fictitious  en- 
lightenment.' Upon  the  elevation  of  Pope  Leo  XIII,  Newman  was  made,  in  1870,  a 
Cardinal    of    the    Roman    church. 

Newman's  prose  style  was  a  remarkable  weapon  in  the  hands  of  a  controversialist.  Pliant 
and  strong,  colloquial  but  never  familiar,  subtle  and  suave  without  the  least  insinuation  of 
vulgar  slyness,  in  command  of  all  the  nuances  of  delicate  culture  which  it  sparingly  uses,  it 
bends  and  thrusts  like  a  beautifully  tempered  steel.  Even  should  its  matter  cease  to  be  of 
great  interest,  Newman's  prose  will  always  remain  poignant  for  its  classic  purity  and 
strength. 

702 


THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  703 

THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  lellect  by  the  name  of  philosophy,   phil 

osophical      knowledge,      enlargement      of 

DISCOURSE  VI  mind,    or    illumination;    terms    which    are 

not    uncommonly   given   to   it    by   writers 

KNOWLEDGE  VIEWED  IN   RELATION   TO       5  of  this  day:  but,  whatever  name  we  be- 
LEARNiNG  ^tow  on   it,   it  is,   I   believe,   as   a   matter 

It  were  well  if  the  English,  like  the  of  history,  the  business  of  a  university 
Greek  language,  possessed  some  definite  to  make  this  intellectual  culture  its  di- 
word  to  express,  simply  and  generally,  rect  scope,  or  to  employ  itself  in  the  edu- 
intellectual  proficiency  or  perfection,  such  lo  cation  of  the  intellect. —  just  as  the  work 
as  '  health,'  as  used  with  reference  to  the  of  a  hospital  lies  in  healing  the  sick  or 
animal  frame,  and  '  virtue/  with  reference  wounded,  of  a  riding  or  fencing  school, 
to  our  moral  nature.  I  am  not  able  to  or  of  a  gymnasium,  in  exercising  the 
find  such  a  term;  —  talent,  ability,  genius,  limbs,  of  an  almshouse,  in  aiding  and 
belong  distinctly  to  the  raw  material,  i5  solacing  the  old,  of  an  orphanage,  in 
which  is  the  subject-matter,  not  to  that  protecting  innocence,  of  a  penitentiary, 
excellence  which  is  the  result  of  exercise  in  restoring  the  guilty.  I  say,  a  univer- 
and  training.  When  we  turn,  indeed,  to  sity,  taken  in  its  bare  idea,  and  before 
the  particular  kinds  of  intellectual  perfec-  we  view  it  as  an  instrument  of  the  church, 
tion,  words  are  forthcoming  for  our  pur- ^o  has  this  object  and  this  mission;  it  con- 
pose,  as,  for  instance,  judgment,  taste,  templates  neither  moral  impression  nor 
and  skill ;  yet  even  these  belong,  for  the  mechanical  production ;  it  professes  to 
most  part,  to  powers  or  habits  bearing  exercise  the  mind  neither  in  art  nor  in 
upon  practice  or  upon  art,  and  not  to  any  duty;  its  function  is  intellectual  culture; 
perfect  condition  of  the  intellect,  con- 21;  here  it  may  leave  its  scholars,  and  it  has 
sidered  in  itself.  Wisdom,  again,  is  cer-  done  its  work  when  it  has  done  as  much 
tainly  a  more  comprehensive  word  than  as  this.  It  educates  the  intellect  to  rea- 
any  other,  but  it  has  a  direct  relation  to  son  well  in  all  matters,  to  reach  out  to- 
conduct,  and  to  human  life.  Knowledge,  wards  truth,  and  to  grasp  it. 
indeed,  and  science  express  purely  intel-  3°  This,  I  said  in  my  foregoing  discourse, 
lectual  ideas,  but  still  not  a  state  or  was  the  object  of  a  university,  viewed  in 
quality  of  the  intellect;  for  knowledge,  in  itself,  and  apart  from  the  Catholic 
its  ordinary  sense,  is  but  one  of  its  cir-  Church,  or  from  the  state,  or  from  any 
cumstances,  denoting  a  possession  or  a  other  power  which  may  use  it ;  and  I 
habit ;  and  science  has  been  appropriated  35  illustrated  this  in  various  ways.  I  said 
to  the  subject-matter  of  the  intellect,  in-  that  the  intellect  must  have  an  excellence 
stead  of  belonging  in  English,  as  it  ought  of  its  own,  for  there  was  nothing  which 
to  do,  to  the  intellect  itself.  The  con-  had  not  its  specific  good;  that  the  word 
sequence  is  that,  on  an  occasion  like  this,  '  educate '  would  not  be  used  of  intel- 
many  words  are  necessary,  in  order,  first,  40  lectual  culture,  as  it  is  used,  had  not  the 
to  bring  out  and  convey  what  surely  is  intellect  had  an  end  of  its  own ;  that, 
no  difficult  idea  in  itself, —  that  of  the  had  it  not  such  an  end,  there  would  be 
cultivation  of  the  intellect  as  an  end;  no  meaning  in  calling  certain  intellectual 
next,  in  order  to  recommend  what  surely  exercises  '  liberal,'  in  contrast  with  '  use- 
is  no  unreasonable  object;  and  lastly,  to  45  ful,'  as  is  commonly  done;  that  the  very 
describe  and  make  the  mind  realize  the  notion  of  a  philosophical  temper  implied 
particular  perfection  in  which  that  object  it,  for  it  threw  us  back  upon  research  and 
consists.  Every  one  knows  practically  system  as  ends  in  themselves,  distinct 
what  are  the  constituents  of  health  or  from  effects  and  works  of  any  kind ; 
of  virtue;  and  every  one  recognizes  50  that  a  philosophical  scheme  of  knowl- 
health  and  virtue  as  ends  to  be  pursued ;  edge,  or  system  of  sciences,  could  not, 
it  is  otherwise  with  intellectual  excel-  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  issue  in 
lence,  and  this  must  be  my  excuse,  if  I  any  one  definite  art  or  pursuit,  as  its 
seem  to  anyone  to  be  bestowing  a  good  end;  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
deal  of  labor  on  a  preliminary  matter.        55  discovery  and  contemplation  of  truth,   to 

In  default  of  a  recognized  term,  I  have      which     research     and     systematizing    led. 
called  the  perfection  or  virtue  of  the  in-      were  surely  sufficient  ends,  though  noth- 


704  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 


ing  beyond  them  were  ackled,  and  that  ceptacle  for  storing  them ;  he  welcomes 
they  had  ever  been  accounted  sufficient  them  as  fast  as  they  come  to  him;  he  lives 
by  mankind.  on  what  is  without;  he  has  his  eyes  ever 

Here  then  I  take  up  the  subject;  and,  about  him;  he  has  a  lively  susceptibility 
having  determined  that  the  cultivation  5  of  impressions;  he  imbibes  information 
of  the  intellect  is  an  end  distinct  and  of  every  kind;  and  little  does  he  make  his 
sufficient  in  itself,  and  that,  so  far  as  own  in  a  true  sense  of  the  word,  living 
words  go,  it  is  an  enlargement  or  illumi-  rather  upon  his  neighbors  all  around 
nation,  I  proceed  to  inquire  what  this  him.  He  has  ojMuions,  religious,  political 
mental  breath,  or  power,  or  light,  or  phi-  lo  and  literary,  and,  for  a  boy,  is  very  posi- 
losophy  consists  in.  A  hospital  heals  a  tive  in  them  and  sure  about  them ;  but  he 
broken  limb  or  cures  a  fever:  what  does  gets  them  from  his  schoolfellows,  or  his 
an  institution  effect,  which  professes  the  masters,  or  his  parents,  as  the  case  may 
health,  not  of  the  body,  not  of  the  soul,  be.  Such  as  he  is  in  his  other  relations, 
but  of  the  intellect?  What  is  this  good,  ,,;  such  also  is  he  in  his  school  exercises; 
which  in  former  times,  as  well  as  our  his  mind  is  observant,  sharp,  ready,  re- 
own,  has  been  found  worth  the  notice,  the  tentive;  he  is  almost  passive  in  the  ac- 
appropriation   of  the   Catholic   Church?  quisition  of  knowledge.     I  say  this  in  no 

I  have  then  to  investigate,  in  the  dis-  disparagement  of  the  idea  of  a  clever 
courses  which  follow,  those  qualities  and  20  boy.  Geography,  chronology,  history, 
characteristics  of  the  intellect  in  which  language,  natural  history,  he  heaps  up 
its  cultivation  issues  or  rather  consists;  the  matter  of  these  studies  as  treasures 
and,  with  a  view  of  assisting  myself  in  for  a  future  day.  It  is  the  seven  years 
this  undertaking,  I  shall  recur  to  certain  of  plenty  with  him:  he  gathers  in  by 
questions  which  have  already  been  25  handfuls,  like  the  Egyptians,  without 
touched  upon.  These  questions  are  counting;  and  though,  as  time  goes  on, 
three:  viz.  the  relation  of  intellectual  there  is  exercise  for  his  argumentative 
culture,  first,  to  mere  knowledge;  sec-  powers  in  the  elements  of  mathematics, 
ondly,  to  professional  knowledge ;  and  and  for  his  taste  in  the  poets  and  orators, 
thirdly,  to  religious  knowledge.  In  other  30  still,  while  at  school,  or  at  least,  till  quite 
words,  are  acquirements  and  attainments  the  last  years  of  his  time,  he  acquires, 
the  scope  of  a  university  education?  or  and  little  more;  and  when  he  is  leaving 
expertness  in  particular  arts  and  pursuits?  for  the  university,  he  is  mainly  the  crea- 
or  moral  and  religious  proficiency?  or  ture  of  foreign  influences  and  circum- 
something  besides  these  three?  These  35  stances,  and  made  up  of  accidents,  homo- 
questions  I  shall  examine  in  succession,  geneous  or  not,  as  the  case  may  be. 
with  the  purpose  I  have  mentioned ;  and  Moreover,  the  moral  habits,  which  are 
I  hope  to  be  excused,  if,  in  this  anxious  a  boy's  praise,  encourage  and  assist  this 
undertaking,  I  am  led  to  repeat  what,  result;  that  is,  diligence,  assiduity,  regu- 
either  in  these  discourses  or  elsewhere,  40  larity,  despatch,  persevering  application; 
I  have  already  put  upon  paper.  And  for  these  are  the  direct  conditions  of  ac- 
first,  of  fnere  knoidedgc,  or  learning,  and  quisition,  and  naturally  lead  to  it.  Ac- 
its  connection  with  intellectual  illumina-  quirements,  again,  are  emphatically  pro- 
tion  or  philosophy.  ducible,    and    at    a    moment ;    they    are    a 

4S  something  to  show,  both   for  master  and 

I  suppose  the  prima-facie  view  which  scholar;  an  audience,  even  though  igno- 
the  public  at  large  would  take  of  a  uni-  rant  themselves  of  the  subjects  of  an 
versity,  considering  it  as  a  place  of  edu-  examination,  can  comprehend  when  ques- 
cation,  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  tions  are  answered  and  when  they  are 
place  for  acquiring  a  great  deal  of  knowl-  5c  not.  Here  again  is  a  reason  why  mental 
edge  on  a  great  many  subjects.  Memory  culture  is  in  the  minds  of  men  identified 
is  one  of  the  first  developed  of  the  men-  with  the  acquisition  of  knowledge, 
tal    faculties;   a   boy's   business   when   he  The   same   notion   possesses   the   public 

goes  to  school  is  to  learn,  that  is,  to  mind,  when  it  passes  on  from  the  thought 
store  up  things  in  his  memory.  For  some  55  ^f  ^  school  to  that  of  a  universitv:  and 
years  his  intellect  is  little  more  than  an  with  the  best  of  reasons  so  far  as  this, 
instrument   for  taking  in  facts,  or  a  re-      that  there  is  no  true  culture  without  ac- 


THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  705 

quirements,  and  that  philosophy  presup-  ness  and  enjoyment  of  large  intellectual 
poses  knowledge.     It  requires  a  great  deal      possessions? 

of  reading,  or  a  wide  range  of  informa-  And   yet   this   notion    is,    I    conceive,   a 

tion,  to  warrant  us  in  putting  forth  our  mistake,  and  my  present  business  is' to 
opinions  on  any  serious  subject;  and  with-  s  show  that  it  is  one,  and  that  the  end  of 
out  such  learning  the  most  original  mind  a  liberal  education  is  not  mere  knowl- 
may  be  able  indeed  to  dazzle,  to  amuse,  edge,  or  knowledge  considered  in  its 
to  refute,  to  perplex,  but  not  to  come  to  matter;  and  I  shall  best  attain  my  object, 
any  useful  result  or  any  trustworthy  con-  by  actually  setting  down  some  casesi 
elusion.  There  are  indeed  persons  who  10  which  will  be  generally  granted  to  be 
profess  a  different  view  of  the  matter,  and  instances  of  the  process  of  enlightenment 
even  act  upon  it.  Every  now  and  then  or  enlargement  of  mind,  and  others  which 
you  will  find  a  person  of  vigorous  or  are  not,  and  thus,  by  the  comparison,  you 
fertile  mind,  who  relies  upon  his  own  will  be  able  to  judge  for  yourselves,  gen- 
resources,  despises  all  former  authors,  'S  tlemen,  whether  knowledge,  that  is,  ac- 
and  gives  the  world,  with  the  utmost  fear-  quirement,  is  after  all  the  real  principle 
lessness,  his  views  upon  religion,  or  his-  of  the  enlargement  or  whether  that  prin- 
tory,  or  any  other  popular  subject.  And  ciple  is  not  rather  something  beyond  it. 
his  works  may  sell  for  a  while;  he  may  For  instance,   let  a  person,   whose  ex- 

get  a  name  in  his  day;  but  this  will  be  20  perience  has  hitherto  been  confined  to 
all.  His  readers  are  sure  to  find  on  the  the  more  calm  and  unpretending  scenery 
long  run  that  his  doctrines  are  mere  of  these  islands,  whether  here  or  in  Eng- 
theories,  and  not  the  expression  of  facts,  land,  go  for  the  first  time  into  parts 
that  they  are  chaff  instead  of  bread,  and  where  physical  nature  puts  on  her  wilder 
then  his  popularity  drops  as  suddenly  as  25  and  more  awful  forms,  whether  at  home 
it  rose.  or  abroad,  as  into  mountainous  districts; 

Knowledge  then  is  the  indispensable  or  let  one,  who  has  ever  lived  in  a  quiet 
condition  of  expansion  of  mind,  and  the  village,  go  for  the  first  time  to  a  great 
instrument  of  attaining  to  it;  this  can-  metropolis, —  then  I  suppose  he  will  have 
not  be  denied,  it  is  ever  to  be  insisted  3o  a  sensation  which  perhaps  he  never  had 
on;  I  begin  with  it  as  a  first  principle;  before.  He  has  a  feeling  not  in  addition 
however,  the  very  truth  of  it  carries  men  or  increase  of  former  feelings,  but  of 
too  far,  and  confirms  to  them  the  notion  something  different  in  its  nature.  He 
that  it  is  the  whole  of  the  matter.  A  will  perhaps  be  borne  forward,  and  find 
narrow  mind  is  thought  to  be  that  which  35  for  a  time  that  he  has  lost  his  bearings, 
contains  little  knowledge;  and  an  en-  He  has  made  a  certain  progress,  and 
j  larged  mind,  that  which  holds  a  great  he  has  a  consciousness  of  mental  enlarge- 
j  deal;  and  what  seems  to  put  the  matter  ment;  he  does  not  stand  where  he  did,  he 
beyond  dispute  is,  the  fact  of  the  great  has  a  new  center,  and  a  range  of  thoughts 
number  of  studies  which  are  pursued  in  ^°  to  which  he  was  before  a  stranger. 
a     university,     by     its     very     profession.  Again,  the  view  of  the  heavens  which 

Lectures  are  given  on  every  kind  of  sub-  the  telescope  opens  upon  us,  if  allowed 
ject;  examinations  are  held;  prizes  to  fill  and  possess  the  mind,  may  almost 
awarded.  There  are  moral,  metaphysical,  whirl  it  round  and  make  it  dizzy.  It 
physical  professors ;  professors  of  Ian-  "'^  brings  in  a  flood  of  ideas,  and  is  rightly 
guages,  of  history,  of  mathematics,  of  called  an  intellectual  enlargement,  what 
experimental  science.  Lists  of  questions  ever  is  meant  by  the  term. 
I    are  published,  wonderful   for  their  range  And   so   again,    the    sight   of   beasts    of 

and  depth,  variety  and  difficulty ;  trea-  prey  and  other  foreign  animals,  their 
tises  are  written,  which  carry  upon  their  5o  strangeness,  the  originality  (if  I  may  use 
very  face  the  evidence  of  extensive  read-  the  term)  of  their  forms  and  gestures 
ing  or  multifarious  information;  what  and  habits,  and  their  variety  and  inde- 
then  is  wanting  for  mental  culture  to  a  pendence  of  each  other,  throw  us  out  of 
person  of  large  reading  and  scientific  at-  ourselves  into  another  creation,  and  as 
tainments?  what  is  grasp  of  mind  but  5S  if  under  another  Creator,  if  I  may  so 
acquirement?  where  shall  philosophical  express  the  temptation  which  may  come 
repose  be  found,  but  in  the  conscious-  on  the  mind.  We  seem  to  have  new 
45 


7o6  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

faculties,  or  a  new  exercise  for  our  who  will  deny  that  tlie  fruit  of  the  tree 
faculties,  hy  this  addition  to  our  know-  of  knowledge,  or  what  the  mind  takes 
ledge ;  like  a  prisoner,  who,  having  been  fur  knowledge,  has  made  it  one  of  the 
accustomed  to  wear  manacles  or  fetters,  gods,  with  a  sense  of  expansion  and 
suddenly   finds  his  arms  and  legs   free.       5  elevation, —  an     intoxication     in     reality. 

Hence  physical  science  generally,  in  still,  so  far  as  the  subjective  state  of  the 
al!  its  departments,  as  bringing  before  mind  goes,  an  illumination?  Hence  tlie 
us  the  exuberant  riches  and  resources,  fanaticism  of  individuals  or  nations,  who 
yet  the  orderly  course,  of  the  universe,  suddenly  cast  off  their  Maker.  Their 
clcvalcs  and  excites  the  student,  and  at  lo  eyes  are  opened;  and,  like  the  judgment- 
first,  I  may  say,  almost  takes  away  his  stricken  king  in  the  _  tragedy,  they  see 
breath,  while  in  time  it  exercises  a  tran-  two  suns,  and  a  magic  universe,  out  of 
quilizing  influence  upon  him.  which  they  look  back  upon  their   former 

Again  the  study  of  history  is  said  to  state  of  faith  and  innocence  with  a  sort 
enlarge  and  enlighten  the  mind,  and  why?  15  of  contempt  and  indignation,  as  if  they 
because,  as  I  conceive,  it  gives  it  a  power  were  then  but  fools,  and  the  dupes  of 
of  judging  of  passing  events   and  of  all      imposture. 

events,   and   a   conscious   superiority  over  On    the    other    hand,    religion    has    its 

them,  which  before  it  did  not  possess.  own    enlargement,    and    an    enlargement, 

And  in  like  mam>er,  what  is  called  20  not  of  tumult,  but  of  peace.  It  is  often 
seeing  the  world,  entering  into  active  life,  remarked  of  uneducated  persons,  who 
going  into  society,  traveling,  gaining  ac-  have  hitherto  thought  little  of  the  unseen 
quaintance  with  the  various  classes  of  the  world,  that,  on  their  turning  to  God, 
community,  coming  into  contact  with  the  looking  into  themselves,  regulating  their 
principles  and  modes  of  thought  of  vari- 25  liearts,  reforming  their  conduct,  and  med- 
ous  parties,  interests,  and  races,  their  itating  on  death  and  judgment,  heaven 
views,  aims,  habits  and  manners,  their  and  hell,  they  seem  to  become,  in  point 
religious  creeds  and  forms  of  worship, —  of  intellect,  different  beings  from  what 
gaining  experience  how  various  yet  how  they  were.  Before,  they  took  things  as 
alike  men  are,  how  low-minded,  how  bad,  30  they  came,  and  thought  no  more  of  one 
how  opposed,  yet  how  confident  in  their  thing  tlian  another.  But  now  every  event 
opinions;  all  this  exerts  a  perceptible  in-  has  a  meaning;  they  have  their  own  es- 
fluence  upon  the  mind,  which  it  is  im-  timate  of  whatever  happens  to  them ;  they 
possible  to  mistake,  be  it  good  or  be  it  are  mindful  of  times  and  seasons,  and 
bad,  and  is  popularly  called  its  enlarge-  35  compare  the  present  with  the  past;  and 
ment.  the    world,    no    longer    dull,    monotonous. 

And  then  again,  the  first  time  the  mind  unprofitable,  and  hopeless,  is  a  various 
comes  across  the  arguments  and  specula-  and  complicated  drama,  with  parts  and 
tions  of  unbelievers,  and  feels  what  a  an  object,  and  an  awful  moral, 
novel  light  they  cast  upon  what  he  has  40  Now  from  these  instances,  to  which 
hitherto  accounted  sacred ;  and  still  more,  many  more  might  be  added,  it  is  plain, 
if  it  gives  in  to  them  and  embraces  them,  first,  that  the  communication  of  knowl- 
and  throws  off  as  so  much  prejudice  what  edge  certainly  is  either  a  condition  or 
it  has  hitherto  held,  and,  as  if  waking  the  means  of  that  sense  of  enlargement, 
from  a  dream,  begins  to  realize  to  its  45  or  enlightenment  of  which  at  this  day 
imagination  that  there  is  now  no  such  we  hear  so  much  in  certain  quarters:  this 
thing  as  law  and  the  transgression  of  law,  cannot  be  denied ;  but  next,  it  is  equally 
that  sin  is  a  phantom,  and  punishment  plain,  that  such  communication  is  not  the 
a  bugbear,  that  it  is  free  to  sin,  free  to  whole  of  the  process.  The  enlargement 
enjoy  the  world  and  the  flesh;  and  still  50  consists,  not  merely  in  the  passive  recep- 
further,  when  it  does  enjoy  them,  and  tion  into  the  mind  of  a  number  of  ideas 
reflects  that  it  may  think  and  hold  just  hitherto  unknown  to  it,  but  in  the  mind's 
what  it  will,  that  '  the  world  is  all  be-  energetic  and  simultaneous  action  upon 
fore  it  where  to  choose,'  and  what  sys-  and  towards  and  among  those  new  ideas, 
tem  to  build  up  as  its  own  private  per- 55  which  are  rushing  in  upon  it.  It  is  the 
suasion;  when  this  torrent  of  wilful  action  of  a  formative  power,  reducing  to 
thoughts    rushes    over    and    inundates    it,      order    and    meaning    the    matter    of    our 


THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  707 

acquirements;  it  is  a  making  the  objects  well-read  men,  or  men  of  information, 
of  our  knowledge  subjectively  our  own,  they  have  not  what  specially  deserves  the 
or,  to  use  a  familiar  word,  it  is  a  digestion  name  of  culture  of  mind,  or  fulfils  the 
of  what  we  receive,  into  the  substance  of  type  of  liberal  education, 
our  previous  state  of  thought ;  and  with-  5  In  like  manner,  we  sometimes  fall  in 
out  this  no  enlargement  is  said  to  follow.  with  persons  who  have  seen  much  of  the 
There  is  no  enlargement,  unless  there  be  world,  and  of  the  men  who,  in  their  day, 
a  comparison  of  ideas  one  with  another,  have  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  it,  but 
as  they  come  before  the  mind,  and  a  who  generalize  nothing,  and  have  no  ob- 
systematizing  of  them.  We  feel  our  10  servation,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
minds  to  be  growing  and  expanding  then,  They  abound  in  information  in  detail, 
when  we  not  only  learn,  but  refer  what  curious  and  entertaining,  about  men  and 
we  learn  to  what  we  know  already.  It  things;  and,  having  lived  under  the  in- 
is  not  the  mere  addition  to  our  knowledge  fluence  of  no  very  clear  or  settled  prin- 
that  is  the  illumination ;  but  the  locomo-  15  ciples,  religious  or  political,  they  speak 
tion,  the  movement  onwards,  of  that  of  every  one  and  every  thing,  only  as  so 
mental  center,  to  which  both  what  we  many  phenomena,  which  are  complete  in 
know,  and  what  we  are  learning,  the  ac-  themselves,  and  lead  to  nothing,  not  dis- 
cumulating  mass  of  our  acquirements,  cussing  them,  or  teaching  any  truth,  or 
gravitates.  And  therefore  a  truly  great  20  instructing  the  hearer,  but  simply  talking, 
intellect,  and  recognized  to  be  such  by  No  one  would  say  that  these  persons, 
the  common  opinion  of  mankind,  such  well  informed  as  they  are,  had  attained 
as  the  intellect  of  Aristotle,  or  of  St.  to  any  great  culture  of  intellect  or  to 
Thomas,  or  of  Newton,  or  of  Goethe    (I      philosophy. 

purposely  take  instances  within  and  with-  25  The  case  is  the  same  still  more  strik- 
out  the  Catholic  pale,  when  I  would  ingly  where  the  persons  in  question  are 
speak  of  the  intellect  as  such),  is  one'  beyond  dispute  men  of  inferior  powers 
which  takes  a  connected  view  of  old  and  and  deficient  education.  Perhaps  they 
new,  past  and  present,  far  and  near,  and  have  been  much  in  foreign  countries,  and 
which  has  an  insight  into  the  influence  of  30  they  receive,  in  a  passive,  otiose,  un- 
all  these  one  on  another;  without  which  fruitful  way,  the  various  facts  which  are 
there  is  no  whole  and  no  center.  It  forced  upon  them  there.  Seafaring  men, 
possesses  the  knowledge,  not  only  of  for  example,  range  from  one  end  of  the 
things,  but  also  of  their  mutual  and  true  earth  to  the  other;  but  the  multiplicity  of 
relations;  knowledge,  not  merely  con- 35  external  objects,  which  they  have  en- 
sidered  as  acquirement  but  as  philosophy,  countered,  forms  no  symmetrical  and  con- 
Accordingly,  when  this  analytical,  dis-  sistent  picture  upon  their  imagination; 
tributive,  harmonizing  process  is  away,  they  see  the  tapestry  of  human  life,  as 
the  mind  experiences  no  enlargement,  it  were  on  the  wrong  side,  and  it  tells 
and  is  not  reckoned  as  enlightened  or  40  no  story.  They  sleep,  and  they  rise  up. 
comprehensive,  whatever  it  may  add  to  and  they  find  themselves,  now  in  Europe, 
its  knowledge.  For  instance,  a  great  now  in  Asia;  they  see  visions  of  great 
memory,  as  I  have  already  said,  does  not  cities  and  wild  regions ;  they  are  in  the 
make  a  philosopher,  any  more  than  a  die-  marts  of  commerce,  or  amid  the  islands 
tionary  can  be  called  a  grammar.  There  45  of  the  South;  they  gaze  on  Pompey's 
are  men  who  embrace  in  their  minds  a  Pillar,  or  on  the  Andes;  and  nothing 
vast  multitude  of  ideas,  but  with  little  which  meets  them  carries  them  forward 
sensibility  about  their  real  relations  or  backward,  to  any  idea  beyond  itself. 
towards  each  other.  These  may  be  an-  Nothing  has  a  drift  or  relation ;  nothing 
tiquarians,  annalists,  naturalists;  they  may  50 has  a  history  or  a  promise.  Every  thing 
be  learned  in  the  law ;  they  may  be  stands  by  itself,  and  comes  and  goes  in 
versed  in  statistics;  they  are  most  useful  its  turn,  like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a 
in  their  own  place;  I  should  shrink  from  show,  which  leave  the  spectator  where 
speaking  disrespectfully  of  them;  still,  he  was.  Perhaps  you  are  near  such  a 
there  is  nothing  in  such  attainments  to  55  man  on  a  particular  occasion,  and  ex- 
guarantee  the  absence  of  narrowness  of  pect  him  to  be  shocked  or  perplexed  at 
mind.     If    they    are    nothing    more    than      something   which   occurs;   but   one   thing 


7o8  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

is  much  the  same  to  him  as  anotlier,  of  the  many.  Men,  whose  minds  are 
or,  if  he  is  perplexed,  it  is  as  not  know-  possessed  with  some  one  object,  take  ex- 
ing  what  to  say,  whether  it  is  rii^ht  to  aggerated  views  of  its  importance,  are 
admire,  or  to  ridicule,  or  to  disapprove,  feverish  in  the  pursuit  of  it,  make  it  the 
while  conscious  that  some  expression  of  5  measure  of  things  which  are  utterly 
opinion  is  expected  from  him;  for  in  fact  foreign  to  it,  and  are  startled  and  despond 
he  has  no  standard  of  judgment  at  all,  if  it  happens  to  fail  them.  They  are  ever 
and  no  landmarks  to  guide  him  to  a  con-  in  alarm  or  in  transport.  Those  on  the 
elusion.  Such  is  mere  acquisition,  and,  other  hand  who  have  no  object  or  prin- 
I  repeat,  no  one  would  dream  of  calling  lo  ciple  whatever  to  hold  by,  lose  their  way 
it  philosophy.  every   step  they   take.     They  are   thrown 

Instances,  such  as  these,  confirm,  by  out,  and  do  not  know  what  to  think  or 
the  contrast,  the  conclusion  I  have  al-  say,  at  every  fresh  juncture;  they  have 
ready  drawn  from  those  which  preceded  no  view  of  persons,  or  occurrences,  or 
them.  That  only  is  true  enlargement  of  15  facts,  which  come  suddenly  upon  them, 
mind  which  is  the  power  of  viewing  many  and  they  hang  upon  the  opinion  of  others 
things  at  once  as  one  whole,  of  referring  for  want  of  internal  resources.  But  the 
them  severally  to  their  true  place  in  the  intellect,  which  has  been  disciplined  to  the 
universal  system,  of  understanding  their  perfection  of  its  powers,  which  knows, 
respective  values,  and  determining  their  20  and  thinks  while  it  knows,  which  has 
mutual  dependence.  Thus  is  that  form  learned  to  leaven  the  dense  mass  of  facts 
of  universal  knowledge,  of  which  I  have  and  events  with  the  elastic  force  of  rea- 
on  a  former  occasion  spoken,  set  up  in  son,  such  an  intellect  cannot  be  partial, 
the  individual  intellect,  and  constitutes  its  cannot  be  exclusive,  cannot  be  impetuous, 
perfection.  Possessed  of  this  real  il-  25  cannot  be  at  a  loss,  cannot  but  be  patient, 
lumination,  the  mind  never  views  any  part  collected,  and  majestically  calm,  because 
of  the  extended  subject-matter  of  knowl-  '  it  discerns  the  end  in  every  beginning, 
edge  without  recollecting  that  it  is  but  the  origin  in  every  end,  the  law  in  every 
a  part,  or  without  the  associations  which  interruption,  the  limit  in  each  delay;  be- 
spring  from  this  recollection.  It  makes  30  cause  it  ever  knows  where  it  stands,  and 
everything  in  some  sort  lead  to  every-  how  its  path  lies  from  one  point  to  an- 
thing  else;  it  would  communicate  the  other.  It  is  the  Terpdyo)vo<i  [four-square] 
image  of  the  whole  to  every  separate  of  the  Peripatetic,  and  has  the  nil  ad- 
portion,  till  that  whole  becomes  in  im-  mirari  [to  be  moved  by  nothing]  of  the 
agination  like  a  spirit,  everywhere  per- 35  Stoic, — 
vading    and    penetrating    its     component 

parts,  and  giving  them  one  definite  mean-  Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas, 
ing.  Just  as  our  bodily  organs,  when  Atque  metus  omnes,  et  inexorabile  fatum 
mentioned,  recall  their  function  in  the  Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontis 
body,  as  the  word  '  creation  '  suggests  the  40         avari. 

Creator,   and   'subjects'   a   sovereign,   so,  [Happy  is  he  who  has  come  to  know  the 

in  the  mind  of  the  philosopher,  as  we  are      sequences   of  things,  and   is   thus   above  all 
abstractedly    conceiving   of    him,    the    ele-      fear  and  the  dread  march  of   fate  and  the 
ments   of   the   physical   and   moral   world,      roar  of  greedy  Acheron.] 
sciences,     arts,     pursuits,     ranks,     offices,  45 

events,  opinions,  individualities,  are  all  There  are  men  who,  when  in  difficulties, 
viewed  as  one,  with  correlative  functions,  originate  at  the  moment  vast  ideas  or 
and  as  gradually  by  successive  combina-  dazzling  projects;  who,  under  the  influ- 
tions  converging,  one  and  all,  to  the  true  ence  of  excitement,  are  able  to  cast  a 
center.  50  light,  almost  as  if  from  inspiration,  on  a 

To  have  even  a  portion  of  this  illumi-  subject  or  course  of  action  which  comes 
native  reason  and  true  philosophy  is  the  before  them ;  who  have  a  sudden  presence 
highest  state  to  which  nature  can  aspire,  of  mind  equal  to  any  emergency,  rising 
in  the  way  of  intellect:  it  puts  the  mind  with  the  occasion,  and  an  undaunted 
above  the  influences  of  chance  and  neces-  55  magnanimous  bearing,  and  an  energy  and 
sity,  above  anxiety,  suspense,  unsettle-  keenness  which  is  but  made  intense  by 
ment,   and   superstition,   which   is   the   lot      opposition.     This  is  genius,  this  is  hero- 


THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  709 

ism;    it    is    the    exhibition    of    a    natural      the  more  you  have  of  it,  the  greater  will 
^ift,  which  no  culture  can  teach,  at  which      be  the  load.     The  learning  of  a  Salmasius 
no  institution  can  aim :  here,  on  the  con-      or  a  Burman,  unless  you  are  its  master, 
trary,   we   are   concerned,   not   with   mere      will   be   your   tyrant.     Impcrat   ant  scrvit 
nature,    but    with   training   and   teaching.    5  [it  rules  or  it  serves]  ;  if  you  can  wield 
That  perfection  of  the  intellect,  which  is      it  with  a  strong  arm,  it  is  a  great  weapon; 
the  result  of  education,  and  its  bean  ideal,      otherwise, 
to    be    imparted    to    individuals    in    their  ...  ... 

respective    measures,    is    the    clear,    calm,  Mol  Tu"!    u^""^""' 

accurate  vision  and  comprehension  of  all  .0      ^^^^^^"^  ^^^  Ji'Jf;^^,^  intelligence  falls  by 
thmgs,  as  far  as  the  finite  mmd  can  en-      j^s^wn  weight.] 
brace  them,  each  m  its  place,  and  with  its  *=     ■■ 

own  characteristics  upon  it      It  is  almost      you   will   be  overwhelmed,   like   Tarpeia, 
prophetic  from  Its  knowledge  of  history;      ,      ^|^^  ^^^^^  ^^,^^^^1^  ^^,1,;^!^  ^^^  j^^^^  ^^_ 
It     IS     almost     heart-searching     from     its  i5  ^^^^ed  from  tributarv  generations, 
knowledge  of  human  nature ;  it  has  almost  instances    abound  :    there    are    authors 

supernatural  charity  from  its  freedom  ^j^^  ^^^  ^^  pointless  as  they  are  inex- 
from  littleness  and  prejudice;  it  has  al-  haustible  in  their  literary  resources, 
most  the  repose  of  faith,  because  nothing  ^^^ey  measure  knowledge  by  bulk,  as  it 
can  startle  it ;  it  has  almost  the  beauty  ^o  lies  "in  the  rude  block,  without  symmetry, 
and  harmony  of  heavenly  contemplation,  without  design.  How  many  commenta- 
so  intimate  is  it  with  the  eternal  order  of  jq^s  are  there  on  the  classics,  how  many 
things  and  the  music  of  the  spheres.  q^  Holy  Scripture,  from  whom  we  rise  up, 

And  now,  if  I  may  take  for  granted  wondering  at  the  learning  which  has 
that  the  true  and  adequate  end  of  in-  2s  passed  before  us,  and  wondering  why  it 
teliectual  training  and  of  a  university  is  passed!  How  many  writers  are  there  of 
not  learning  or  acquirement,  but  rather,  is  Ecclesiastical  historv,  such  as  Mosheim 
thought  or  reason  exercised  upon  knowl-  or  Du  Pin,  who,  breaking  up  their  sub- 
edge,  or  what  may  be  called  philosophy,  jgct  into  details,  destroy  its  life,  and  de- 
I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  explain  the  30  fraud  us  of  the  whole  by  their  anxiety 
various  mistakes  which  at  the  present  about  the  parts!  The  sermons,  again,  of 
day  beset  the  subject  of  university  educa-  the  English  divines  in  the  seventeenth 
tion.  century,  how  often  are  they  mere  reper- 

I  say  then,  if  we  would  improve  the  tories  of  miscellaneous  and  officious  learn- 
intellect,  first  of  all,  we  must  ascend ;  we  35  ing !  Of  course  Catholics  also  may  read 
cannot  gain  real  knowledge  on  a  level;  without  thinking;  and  in  their  case, 
we  must  generalize,  we  must  reduce  to  equally  as  with  Protestants,  it  holds  good, 
method,  we  must  have  a  grasp  of  prin-  that  such  knowledge  is  unworthy  of  the 
ciples,  and  group  and  shape  our  acquisi-  name,  knowledge  which  they  have  not 
tions  by  means  of  them.  It  matters  not  40  thought  through,  and  thought  out.  Such 
whether  our  field  of  operation  be  wide  or  readers  are  only  possessed  by  their  knowl- 
limited ;  in  every  case,  to  command  it,  is  edge,  not  possessed  of  it ;  nay,  in  matter 
to  mount  above  it.  Who  has  not  felt  of  fact  they  are  often  even  carried  away 
the  irritation  of  mind  and  impatience  by  it,  without  any  volition  of  their  own. 
created  by  a  deep,  rich  country,  visited  45  Recollect,  the  memory  can  tyrannize,  as 
for  the  first  time,  with  winding  lanes,  and  well  as  the  imagination.  Derangement,  I 
high  hedges,  and  green  steeps,  and  tangled  believe,  has  been  considered  as  a  loss  of 
woods,  and  every  thing  smiling  indeed,  control  over  the  sequence  of  ideas.  The 
but  in  a  maze?  The  same  feeling  comes  mind,  once  set  in  motion,  is  henceforth 
upon  us  in  a  strange  city,  where  we  have  5°  deprived  of  the  power  of  initiation,  and 
no  map  of  its  streets.  Hence  you  hear  becomes  the  victim  of  a  train  of  associa- 
of  practised  travelers,  when  they  first  tions,  one  thought  suggesting  another,  in 
come  into  a  place,  mounting  some  high  the  way  of  cause  and  effect,  as  if  by  a 
hill  or  church  tower,  by  way  of  recon-  mechanical  process,  or  some  physical  ne- 
noitering  its  neighborhood.  In  like  man-  5S  cessity.  No  one,  who  has  had  experience 
ner,  you  must  be  above  your  knowledge,  of  men  of  studious  habits,  but  must 
not  under  it,  or  it  will  oppress  you;  and      recognize    the    existence    of    a    parallel 


710  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 


phenomenon  in  the  case  of  those  who  tendance  on  eloquent  lecturers,  and  mem- 
have  over-stimulated  the  memory.  In  bership  with  scientific  institutions,  and 
such  persons  reason  acts  almost  as  feeljly  the  sight  of  the  experiments  of  a  plat- 
and  as  impotently  as  in  the  madman ;  form  and  the  specimens  of  a  museum, 
once  fairly  started  on  any  subject  what-  5  that  all  this  was  not  dissipation  of  mind, 
ever,  they  have  no  power  of  self-control;  jjut  progress.  All  things  now  are  to  be 
they  passively  endure  the  succession  of  learned  at  once,  not  first  one  thing,  then 
impulses  which  are  evolved  out  of  the  another,  not  one  well,  but  many  badly, 
original  exciting  cause;  they  are  passed  Learning  is  to  be  without  exertion,  with- 
on  from  one  idea  to  another  and  go  lo  out  attention,  without  toil ;  without 
steadily  forward,  plodding  along  one  line  grounding,  without  advance,  without  fin- 
of  thought  in  spite  of  the  amplest  con-  ishing.  There  is  to  be  nothing  individual 
cessions  of  the  hearer,  or  wandering  from  in  it;  and  this,  forsooth,  is  the  wonder 
it  in  endless  digression  in  spite  of  his  of  the  age.  What  the  steam  engine  does 
remonstrances.  Now,  if,  as  is  very  cer-ijwith  matter,  the  printing  press  is  to  do 
tain,  no  one  would  envy  the  madman  the  with  the  mind;  it  is  to  act  mechanically, 
glow  and  originality  of  his  conceptions,  and  the  population  is  to  be  passively,  al- 
why  must  we  extol  the  cultivation  of  that  most  unconsciously  enlightened,  by  the 
intellect,  which  is  the  prey,  not  indeed  of  mere  multiplication  and  dissemination  of 
barren  fancies  but  of  barren  facts,  of  20  volumes.  Whether  it  be  the  school  boy, 
random  intrusions  from  without,  though  or  the  school  girl,  or  the  youth  at  college, 
not  of  morbid  imaginations  from  withui?  or  the  mechanic  in  the  town,  or  the 
And  in  thus  speaking,  I  am  not  denying  politician  in  the  senate,  all  have  been  the 
that  a  strong  and  ready  memory  is  in  victims  in  one  way  or  other  of  this  most 
itself  a  real  treasure;  I  am  not  disparag-25  preposterous  and  pernicious  of  delusions, 
ing  a  well-stored  mind,  though  it  be  Wise  men  have  lifted  up  their  voices  in 
nothing  besides,  provided  it  be  sober,  any  vain;  and  at  length,  lest  their  own  institu- 
more  than  I  would  despise  a  bookseller's  tions  should  be  outshone  and  should  dis- 
shop :  —  it  is  of  great  value  to  others,  appear  in  the  folly  of  the  hour,  they  have 
even  when  not  so  to  the  owner.  Nor  am  3°  been  obliged,  as  far  as  they  could  with 
I  banishing,  far  from  it,  the  possessors  a  good  conscience,  to  humor  a  spirit 
of  deep  and  multifarious  learning  from  which  they  could  not  withstand,  and 
my  ideal  University ;  they  adorn  it  in  the  make  temporizing  concessions  at  which 
eyes  of  men ;  I  do  but  say  that  they  con-  they  could  not  but  inwardly  smile, 
stitute  no  type  of  the  results  at  which  it  35  it  must  not  be  supposed  that,  because 
aims;  that  it  is  no  great  gain  to  the  in-  I  so  speak,  therefore  I  have  some  sort  of 
tellect  to  have  enlarged  the  memory  at  fear  of  the  education  of  the  people:  on 
the  expense  of  faculties  which  are  in-  the  contrary,  the  more  education  they 
disputably  higher.  have,  the  better,  so  that  it  is  really  educa- 

Nor  indeed  am  I  supposing  that  there  4°  tion.  Nor  am  I  an  enemy  to  the  cheap 
is  any  great  danger,  at  least  in  this  day,  publication  of  scientific  and  literary 
of  over-education;  the  danger  is  on  the  works,  which  is  now  in  vogue:  on  the 
other  side.  I  will  tell  you,  gentlemen,  contrary,  I  consider  it  a  great  advantage, 
what  has  been  the  practical  error  of  the  convenience,  and  gain ;  that  is,  to  those 
last  twenty  years, —  not  to  load  the  mem-  45  to  whom  education  has  given  a  capacity 
ory  of  the  student  with  a  mass  of  un-  for  using  them.  Further,  I  consider 
digested  knowledge,  but  to  force  upon  such  innocent  recreations  as  science  and 
him  so  much  that  he  has  rejected  all.  literature  are  able  to  furnish  will  be  a 
It  has  been  the  error  of  distracting  and  very  fit  occupation  of  the  thoughts  and 
enfeebling  the  mind  by  an  unmeaning  50  the  leisure  of  young  persons,  and  may  be 
profusion  of  subjects;  of  implying  that  a  made  the  means  of  keeping  them  from 
smattering  in  a  dozen  branches  of  study  bad  employments  and  bad  companions, 
is  not  shallowness,  which  it  really  is.  Moreover,  as  to  that  superficial  acquaint- 
but  enlargement  which  it  is  not;  of  con-  ance  with  chemistry,  and  geology,  and 
sidering  an  acquaintance  with  the  learned  55  astronomy,  and  political  economy,  and 
names  of  things  and  persons  and  the  modern  history,  and  biography,  and  other 
possession  of  clever  duodecimos,  and  at-      branches  of  knowledge,  which  periodical 


THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY 


711 


literature  and  occasional  lectures  and  a  university  which  had  no  professors  or 
scientific  institutions  diffuse  through  the  examinations  at  all,  but  merely  brought  a 
community,  I  think  it  a  graceful  accom-  number  of  young  men  together  for  three 
plishment,  and  a  suitable,  nay,  in  this  day  or  four  years,  and  then  sent  them  away 
a  necessary  accomplishment,  in  the  case  5  as  the  University  of  Oxford  is  said  to 
of  educated  men.  Nor,  lastly,  am  I  dis-  have  done  some  sixty  years  since,  if  I 
paraging  or  discouraging  the  thorough  were  asked  which  of  these  two  methods 
acquisition  of  any  one  of  these  studies,  or  was  the  better  discipline  of  the  intellect, 
denying  that,  as  far  as  it  goes,  such  —mind,  I  do  not  say  which  is  morally 
thorough  acquisition  is  a  real  education  10  the  better,  for  it  is  plain  that  compulsory 
of  the  mind.  All  I  say  is,  call  things  by  study  must  be  a  good  and  idleness  an 
their  right  names,  and  do  not  confuse  to-  intolerable  mischief, —  but  if  I  must  de- 
gether  ideas  which  are  essentially  differ-  mine  which  of  the  two  courses  was  the 
ent.  A  thorough  knowledge  of  one  more  successful  in  training,  molding,  en- 
science  and  a  superficial  acquaintance  15  larging  the  mind,  which  sent  out  men  the 
with  many,  are  not  the  same  thing:  a  more  fitted  for  their  secular  duties,  which 
smattering  of  a  hundred  things  or  a  produced  better  public  men,  men  of  the 
memory  for  detail,  is  not  a  philosophical  world,  men  whose  names  would  descend 
or  comprehensive  view.  Recreations  are  to  posterity,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  giv- 
not  education ;  accomplishments  are  not  20  ing  the  preference  to  that  university 
education.  Do  not  say,  the  people  must  which  did  nothing,  over  that  which  ex- 
be  educated,  when,  after  all,  you  only  acted  of  its  members  an  acquaintance 
mean,  amused,  refreshed,  soothed,  put  with  every  science  under  the  sun.  And, 
into  good  spirits  and  good  humor,  or  paradox  as  this  may  seem,  still  if  results 
kept  from  vicious  excesses.  I  do  not  say  25  be  the  test  of  systems,  the  influence  of 
that  such  amusements,  such  occupations  the  public  schools  and  colleges  of  Eng- 
of  mind,  are  not  a  great  gain;  but  they  land,  in  the  course  of  the  last  century, 
are  not  education.  You  may  as  well  call  at  least  will  bear  out  one  side  of  the  con- 
drawing  and  fencing  education  as  a  gen-  trast  as  I  have  drawn  it.  What  would 
eral  knowledge  of  botany  or  conchology.  30  come,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the  ideal 
Stuffing  birds  or  playing  stringed  instru-  systems  of  education  which  have  fas- 
ments  is  an  elegant  pastime,  and  a  re-  cinated  the  imagination  of  this  age,  could 
source  to  the  idle,  but  it  is  not  education;  they  ever  take  effect,  and  whether  they 
it  does  not  form  or  cultivate  the  intellect,  would  not  produce  a  generation  frivo- 
Education  is  a  high  word;  it  is  the  prep- 3S  lous,  narrow-minded,  and  resourceless, 
aration  for  knowledge,  and  it  is  the  im-  intellectually  considered,  is  a  fair  subject 
parting  of  knowledge  in  proportion  to  that  for  debate ;  but  so  far  is  certain,  that  the 
preparation.  We  require  intellectual  eyes  universities  and  scholastic  establishments, 
to  know  withal,  as  bodily  eyes  for  sight,  to  which  I  refer,  and  which  did  little 
We  need  both  objects  and  organs  Intel- -to  more  than  bring  together  first  boys  and 
Icctual ;  we  cannot  gain  them  without  then  youths  in  large  numbers,  these  in- 
setting about  it;  we  cannot  gain  them  in  stitutions,  with  miserable  deformities  on 
our  sleep,  or  by  haphazard.  The  best  the  side  of  morals,  with  a  hollow  pro- 
telescope  does  not  dispense  with  eyes;  the  fession  of  Christianity,  and  a  heathen 
printing  press  or  the  lecture  room  will  45  code  of  ethics, —  I  say,  at  least  they  can 
assist  us  greatly,  but  we  must  be  true  to  boast  of  a  succession  of  heroes  and  states- 
ourselves,  we  must  be  parties  in  the  work,  men,  of  literary  men  and  philosophers, 
A  university  is,  according  to  the  usual  of  men  conspicuous  for  great  natural 
designation,  an  alma  mater,  knowing  her  virtues,  for  habits  of  business,  for  know- 
children  one  by  one,  not  a  foundry,  or  aco  ledge  of  life,  for  practical  judgment,  for 
mint,  or  a  treadmill.  cultivated     tastes,     for     accomplishments, 

I  protest  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  if  I  who  have  made  England  what  it  is, — 
had  to  choose  between  a  so-called  uni-  able  to  subdue  the  earth,  able  to  domineer 
versity,    which    dispensed    with    residence     over  Catholics. 

and  tutorial  superintendence,  and  gave  its  55  How  is  this  to  be  explained?  I  sup- 
degrees  to  any  person  who  passed  an  ex-  pose  as  follows:  When  a  multitude  of 
amination  in  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  and      young    men,    keen,    open-hearted,    sympa- 


712  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

Ihetic,  and  observant,  as  young  men  are,  is  submitted  to  it,  becomes  a  twofold 
come  together  and  freely  mix  with  each  source  of  strength  to  him,  both  from 
other,  they  are  sure  to  learn  one  from  an-  the  distinct  stamp  it  impresses  on  his 
other,  even  if  there  be  no  one  to  teach  mind,  and  from  the  bond  of  union  which 
them;  the  conversation  of  all  is  a  scries  5  it  creates  between  him  and  others, — 
of  lectures  to  each,  and  they  gain  for  effects  which  are  shared  by  the  authorities 
themselves  new  ideas  and  views,  fresh  of  the  place,  for  they  themselves  have 
matter  of  thought,  and  distinct  prin-  been  educated  in  it,  and  at  all  times  are 
ciples  for  judging  and  acting,  day  by  day.  exposed  to  the  influence  of  its  ethical  at- 
An  infant  has  to  learn  the  meaning  of  lo  mosphere.  Here  then  is  a  real  teaching, 
the  information  which  its  senses  con-  whatever  be  its  standards  and  principles, 
vey  to  it,  and  this  seems  to  be  its  em-  true  or  false;  and  it  at  least  tends  towards 
ployment.  It  fancies  all  that  the  eye  cultivation  of  the  intellect;  it  at  least 
presents  to  it  to  be  close  to  it,  till  it  recognizes  that  knowledge  is  something 
actually  learns  the  contrary,  and  thus  by  i5  more  than  a  sort  of  passive  reception  of 
practice  does  it  ascertain  the  relations  scraps  and  details;  it  is  a  something,  and 
and  uses  of  those  first  elements  of  knowl-  it  does  a  something,  which  never  will 
edge  which  are  necessary  for  its  animal  issue  from  the  most  strenuous  efforts  of  a 
existence.  A  parallel  teaching  is  neces-  set  of  teachers,  with  no  mutual  sympa- 
sary  for  our  social  being,  and  it  is  secured  20  thies  and  no  intercommunion,  of  a  set  of 
by  a  large  school  or  a  college ;  and  this  examiners  with  no  opinions  which  they 
effect  may  be  fairly  called  in  its  own  de-  dare  profess,  and  with  no  common  prin- 
partment  an  enlargement  of  mind.  It  is  ciples,  who  are  teaching  or  questioning  a 
seeing  the  world  on  a  small  field  with  set  of  youths  who  do  not  know  them,  and 
little  trouble ;  for  the  pupils  or  students  25  do  not  know  each  other,  on  a  large  num- 
come  from  very  different  places,  and  with  her  of  subjects,  diiTerent  in  kind,  and 
widely  different  notions,  and  there  is  connected  by  no  wide  philosophy,  three 
much  to  generalize,  much  to  adjust,  much  times  a  week,  or  three  times  a  year,  or 
to  eliminate,  there  are  inter-relations  to  once  in  three  years,  in  chill  lecture-rooms 
be  defined,  and  conventional  rules  to  be  30  or  on  a  pompous  anniversary, 
established,  in  the  process,  by  which  the  Nay,    self-education    in    any    shape,    in 

whole  assemblage  is  molded  together,  and      the  most  restricted  sense,  is  preferable  to 
gains  one  tone  and  one  character.  a   system   of   teaching   which,    professing 

Let  it  be  clearly  understood,  I  repeat  so  much,  really  does  so  little  for  the 
it,  that  I  am  not  taking  into  account  35  mind.  Shut  your  college  gates  against 
moral  or  religious  considerations;  I  am  the  votary  of  knowledge,  throw  him  back 
but  saying  that  that  youthful  community  upon  the  searchings  and  the  efforts  of  his 
will  constitute  a  whole,  it  will  embody  a  own  mind ;  he  will  gain  by  being  spared 
specific  idea,  it  will  represent  a  doctrine,  an  entrance  into  your  babel.  Few  indeed 
it  will  administer  a  code  of  conduct,  and  40  there  are  who  can  dispense  with  the 
it  will  furnish  principles  of  thought  and  stimulus  and  support  of  instructors,  or 
action.  It  will  give  birth  to  a  living  will  do  anything  at  all,  if  left  to  them- 
teaching,  which  in  course  of  time  will  selves.  And  fewer  still  (though  such 
take  the  shape  of  a  self-perpetuating  great  minds  are  to  be  found),  wdio  will 
tradition,  or  a  gejiins  loci,  as  it  is  some-  45  not,  from  such  unassisted  attempts,  con- 
times  called;  which  haunts  the  home  tract  a  self-reliance  and  a  self-esteem, 
where  it  has  been  born,  and  which  im-  which  are  not  only  moral  evils,  but 
hues  and  forms  more  or  less,  and  one  by  serious  hindrances  to  the  attainment  of 
one,  every  individual  who  is  successively  truth.  And  next  to  none,  perhaps,  or 
brought  under  its  shadow.  Thus  it  is  50  none,  who  will  not  be  reminded  from  time 
that,  independent  of  direct  instruction  on  to  time  of  the  disadvantage  under  which 
the  part  of  superiors,  there  is  a  sort  of  they  lie,  by  their  imperfect  grounding, 
self-education  in  the  academic  institu-  by  the  breaks,  deficiencies,  and  irregulari- 
tions  of  protestant  England;  a  charac-  ties  of  their  knowledge,  by  the  eccen- 
teristic  tone  of  thought,  a  recognized  55  tricity  of  opinion  and  the  confusion  of 
standard  of  judgment  is  found  in  them,  principle  which  they  exhibit.  They  will 
which  as  developed  in  the  individual  who      be  too  often  ignorant  of  what  every  one 


THE  IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  713 


knows  and  takes  for  granted,  of  that  How  much  more  profitable  for  the  in- 
multitude  of  small  truths  which  fall  upon  dependent  mind,  after  the  mere  rudi- 
the  mind  like  dust,  impalpable  and  ever  ments  of  education,  to  range  through  a 
accumulating;  they  may  be  unable  to  con-  library  at  random,  taking  down  books  as 
verse,  they  may  argue  perversely,  they  5  they  meet  him,  and  pursuing  the  trains 
may  pride  themselves  on  their  worst  of  thought  which  his  mother  wit  sug- 
paradoxes  or  their  grossest  truisms,  they  gests !  How  much  healthier  to  wan- 
may  be  full  of  their  own  mode  of  view-  der  into  the  fields,  and  there  with  the 
ing  things,  unwilling  to  be  put  out  of  exiled  prince  to  find  '  tongues  in  the 
their  way,  slow  to  enter  into  the  minds  10  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks !  ' 
of  others ;  —  but,  with  these  and  what-  How  much  more  genuine  an  education 
ever  other  liabilities  upon  their  heads,  is  that  of  the  poor  boy  in  the  poem  ^— 
they  are  likely  to  have  more  thought,  a  poem,  whether  in  conception  or  in  ex- 
more  mind,  more  philosophy,  more  true  ecution,  one  of  the  most  touching  in  our 
enlargement,  than  those  earnest  but  ill-  15  language  —  who,  not  in  the  wide  world, 
used  persons,  who  are  forced  to  load  their  but  ranging  day  by  day  around  his 
minds  with  a  score  of  subjects  against  widowed  mother's  home,  'a  dexterous 
an  examination,  who  have  too  much  on  gleaner '  in  a  narrow  field  and  with  only 
their  _  hands  to  indulge  themselves  in  such  slender  outfit 
thinking    or    investigation,     who    devour  20 

premise  and  conclusion  together  with  in-  ^^  the  village  school  and  hooks  a  few 

discriminate   greediness,   who   hold   whole  Supplied, 

sciences  on  faith,  and  commit  demonstra-  contrived  from  the  beach,   and   the  quay, 

tions  to  memory    and  who  too  often    as  ^„^  ^^^  ^^^,^^^,3   ^          ^^^^  ^^^  inn's  fire- 

niight  be  expected,  when  their  period  of  25  gj^      ^„^   ^1^^   tradesman's   shop,    and   the 

education    is    passed,    throw    up    all    they  shepherd's  walk,   and  the  smuggler's  hut. 

have    learned    in    disgust,    having   gamed  ^^^  ^he  mossy  moor,  and  the  screaming 

nothing    really    by    their    anxious    labors,  jj^    ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^1^33  ^            ^^  ^^^j^^^f^ 

except   perhaps   the   habit   of   application.  ^^^    himself    a    philosophy    and    a    poetry 

Yet  such  is  the  better  specimen  of  the  30  ^^  his   own  !                                            f        -' 

fruit  of  that  ambitious  system  which  has  3^,^  -^  ^  '^           3^^,  "ect,  I  am  exceeding 

of    late    years    been    making   way    among  necessary  limits.     Gentlemen,   I  must 

us:  for  Its  result  on  ordinary  minds,  and  conclude     abruptly;     and     postpone     any 

on   the   common   run   of   students,   is   less  ,^,,,^,-             ^f          argument,  should  that 

satisfactory   still;   they   leave   their   place  3S  he  necessary,  to  another  day. 

of    education    simply    dissipated    and    re-  -^          ( iS,k2) 
laxed    by    the    multiplicity     of    subjects, 

which   they   have   never    really   mastered,  '  Crabbe's  Tales  of  the  Hall.    This  poem,  let  me 

and  so  shallow  as  not  even  to  know  their  ^^>''  ^  ''^'^  .°"  ''\  ^'''  Ty'lf"""'.  ^1°"^  ""'''' 

,     ,,  TT  1       1     i.  T  years    ago,    with    extreme    delight,    and    have    never 

shallowness.  How  much  better,  1  say,  40  ,ost  my  love  of  it;  and  on  taking  it  up  lately,  found 
is  it  for  the  active  and  thoughtful  in-  I  was  even  more  touched  by  it  than  heretofore.  A 
tellect,  where  such  is  to  be  found,  to  work-  which  can  please  in  youth  and  age.  seems  to 
eschew     the     college      and     the     university        ^""^'    ^^   logi"/    '^"gu^^ge)    the   accidental  definuion 

^  *=.  11°^^    classic.      (A    further    course    of    twenty    years 

altogether,    than    to    SUbmitt    to    a    drudgery        has   past,    and    I    bear   the    same   witness   in    favor    of 

so   ignoble,   a   mockery   so   contumelious !  -iS  this  poem.) 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  (1795-1881) 

Early  struggles  and  privations,  followed  by  acute  dyspepsia,  embittered  Carlyle's  temper. 
The  son  of  a  Scottish  stone-mason,  he  walked  eighty  miles  from  his  native  village  of  Eccle- 
fechan  to  Edinburgh  to  study  at  the  university  and  prepare  himself  for  the  ministry.  This 
latter  purpose  was  soon  abandoned  on  account  of  unsettled  religious  convictions;  after 
graduating  he  earned  a  scanty  living  by  teaching  and  tried  in  vain  to  obtain  various  pro- 
fessorships. Having  married  Jane  Baillie  Welsh,  a  woman  of  brilliant  wit  and  some  property, 
he  retired  with  her  to  the  manor  house  of  Craigenputtock,  where  for  six  years  he  studied 
German  literature  and  philosophy  and  wrote  essays  for  the  reviews,  among  them  his  first  great 
work,  ISartor  Rcsarfiis.  Under  the  disguise  of  a  translation  from  the  papers  of  a  German 
professor,  it  is  an  imaginative  account  of  his  own  school  and  college  experiences,  his  falling 
in  love  with  Margaret  Gordon  of  Prince  Edward  Island,  who  returned  to  that  colony  as  wife 
of  the  governor,  his  spiritual  and  intellectual  struggles,  and  his  philosophy  of  life.  It  had 
just  been  published  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  when,  in  1834,  the  Carlyles  determined  to  risk 
their  little  all,  and  leave  Craigenputtock  for  London.  Carlyle  chose  a  house  in  Cheyne  Row, 
Chelsea,  and  kept  it  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  peculiar  style  of  Sartor  did  not  commend 
it  to  the  public.  Eraser  wrote  that  it  excited  '  universal  disapprobation,'  and  several  sub- 
scribers to  the  magazine  refused  to  take  it  any  longer.  Carlyle  was  more  fortunate  in 
his  next  subject,  'The  French  Revolution,'  suggested  by  John  Stuart  Mill.  When  the 
manuscript  of  the  first  volume  was  finished,  Carlyle  lent  it  to  ^lill  to  read ;  Mill  lent  it 
in  turn  to  a  friend,  whose  housemaid  found  it  on  the  table  one  morning  and  lit  the  fire 
with  it.  Carlyle  was  in  despair  at  the  loss  of  so  much  labor;  he  felt  incapable  of  doing 
the  work  over  again,  and  spent  three  months  in  reading  Marryat's  novels  before  he  could 
bend  his  energies  to  the  unwelcome  task.  The  book  was  completed  in  1837,,  and  at  once 
won  the  favor  of  both  critics  and  public.  He  was  also  successful  about  this  time  as  a 
lecturer,  and  his  wife  said  that  the  public  bad  evidently  made  up  its  mind  that  '  Carlyle 
was  worth  keeping  alive  at  a  moderate  rate.'  One  of  the  courses  he  gave,  that  '  On  Heroes, 
Hero-worship,  and  the  Heroic  in  History,'  when  published  in  1841  became  one  of  his  most 
popular  works ;  it  contains  in  the  shortest  and  simplest  form  Carlyle's  •  favorite  doctrine 
that  the  history  of  the  world  is  at  bottom  the  history  of  its  great  men.  After  setting  forth 
his  ideas  on  social  and  political  questions  in  Chartism  and  Past  and  Present,  he  returned 
to  the  study  of  history,  and  his  Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Cromicell  made  a  remarkable 
change  in  the  current  estimate  of  the  great  Protector.  The  labor  of  a  dozen  years  is 
contained  in  his  last  historical  work,  Frederick  the  Great  (published  1858-05).  The  year 
after  this  was  completed,  Mrs.  Carlyle  died  suddenly  in  her  carriage  from  the  shock  caused 
by  an  accident  to  her  pet  dog,  which  was  run  over  when  she  was  driving  one  afternoon  In 
Hyde  Park.  Carlyle  in  heartbroken  remorse  determined  to  tell  the  public  not  only  his 
wife's  virtues  but  his  own  unkindness  to  her.  The  publication  after  his  death  of  the  record 
of  their  unhappy  married  life  injured  his  reputation,  and  led  to  a  controversy  which  has  not 
yet  ended,  the  discretion  and  even  the  good  faith  of  J.  A.  Froude,  who  edited  the  papers,  being 
attacked  by  Carlyle's  admirers. 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  faire,     Competition     and     Supply-and-de- 

mand,  start  up  as  the  exponent  of  human 
BOOK  III  relations,  expect  that  it  will  soon  end. 

Such  philosophies  will  arise:  for  man's 
CHAPTER  X  5  philosophies     are     usually     the     '  supple- 

ment of  his  practice;'  some  ornamentar 
Logic-varnish,    some    outer    skin    of    Ar- 


PLUGSON    OF    UNDERSHOT 


One  thing  I  do  know:  Never,  on  this  ticulate  intelligence,  with  which  he 
Earth,  was  the  relation  of  man  .to  man  strives  to  render  his  dumb  Instinctive 
long  carried  on  by  Cash-payment  alone.  lo  Doings  presentable  when  they  are  done. 
If,  at  any  time,  a  philosophy  of  Laissez-      Such  philosophies  will  arise;  be  preached 

714 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  715 


as  Mammon-Gospels,  the  ultimate  Evan-  son  droning  to  you,  glance  into  your 
gel  of  the  World ;  be  believed  with  what  New  Testament,  and  the  cash-account 
is  called  belief,  with  much  superficial  stated  four  times  over,  by  a  kind  of  quad- 
bluster,  and  a  kind  of  shallow  satisfac-  ruple  entry, —  in  the  Four  Gospels  there? 
tion  real  in  its  way;  —  but  they  are  omi-  5  I  consider  that  a  cash-account,  and  bal- 
nous  gospels  !  They  are  the  sure  and  even  ance-statement  of  work  done  and  wages 
swift,  forerunner  of  great  changes.  Ex-  paid,  worth  attending  to.  Precisely 
pect  that  the  old  System  of  Society  is  sncli,  though  on  a  smaller  scale,  go  on 
done,  is  dying  and  fallen  into  dotage,  at  all  moments  under  this  Sun;  and  the 
when  it  begins  to  rave  in  that  fashion.  10  statement  and  balance  of  them  in  the 
Most  Systems  that  I  have  watched  the  Plugson  Ledgers^  and  on  the  Tablets  of 
death  of,  for  the  last  three  thousand  Heaven's  Chancery  are  discrepant  ex- 
years,  have  gone  just  so.  The  Ideal,  the  ceedingly;  —  which  ought  really  to  teach, 
True  and  Noble  that  was  in  them  having  and  to  have  long  since  taught,  an  in- 
faded  out,  and  nothing  now  remaining  15  domitable  common-sense  Plugson  of  Un- 
but  naked  Egoism,  vulturous  Greediness,  dershot,  much  more  an  unattackable 
they  cannot  live;  they  are  bound  and  in-  j<?2common-sense  Grace  of  Rackrent, 
exorably  ordained  by  the  oldest  Destinies,  a  thing  or  two !  —  In  brief,  we  shall 
Mothers  of  the  Universe,  to  die.  Cu-  have  to  dismiss  the  Cash-Gospel  rigor- 
rious  enough;  they  thereupon,  as  I  have  20  ously  into  its  own  place:  we  shall  have 
pretty  generally  noticed,  devised  some  to  know,  on  the  threshold,  that  either 
light  comfortable  kind  of  '  wine-and-  there  is  some  infinitely  deeper  Gospel, 
walnuts  philosophy'  for  themselves,  this  subsidiary,  explanatory  and  daily  and 
of  Supply-and-demand  or  another ;  and  hourly  corrective,  to  the  Cash  one ;  or 
keep  saying,  during  hours  of  mastication  ^5  else  that  the  Cash  one  itself  and  all 
and  rumination,  which  they  call  hours  others  are  fast  traveling! 
of  meditation :     '  Soul,  take  thy  ease ;   it 

is  all  zvell  that  thou  art  a  vulture-soul ; '  For    all    human    things    do    require    to 

—  and  pangs  of  dissolution  come  upon  have  an  Ideal  in  them ;  to  have  some 
them,   oftenest  before  they  are  aware !      30  Soul   in   them,   as   we   said,   w^ere   it   only 

Cash-payment  never  was,  or  could  ex-  to  keep  the  Body  unputrefied.  And 
cept  for  a  few  years  be,  the  union-bond  wonderful  it  is  to  see  how  the  Ideal  or 
of  man  to  man.  Cash  never  yet  paid  Soul,  place  it  in  what  ugliest  Body  you 
one  man  fully  his  deserts  to  another ;  nor  may,  will  irradiate  said  Body  with  its 
could  it,  nor  can  it,  now  or  henceforth  3S  own  nobleness;  will  gradually,  inces- 
to  the  end  of  the  world.  I  invite  his  santly,  mold,  modify,  new- form  or  re- 
Grace  of  Castle-Rackrent  to  reflect  on  form  said  ugliest  Body,  and  make  it  at 
this;  —  does  he  think  that  a  Land  Aris-  last  beautiful,  and  to  a  certain  degree 
tocracy  when  it  becomes  a  Land  Auction-  divine  !  —  Oh,  if  you  could  dethrone 
eership  can  have  long  to  live?  Or  that  40  that  Brute-god  Mammon,  and  put  a 
Sliding-scales  will  increase  the  vital  Spirit-god  in  his  place !  One  way  or 
stamina  of  it?  The  indomitable  Plug-  other,  he  must  and  will  have  to  be  de- 
son  too,  of  the  respected  Firm  of  Plug-      throned. 

son.   Hunks   and   Company,   in   St.   Dolly  Fighting,   for  example,  as  I  often  say 

Undershot,  is  invited  to  reflect  on  this ;  45  to  myself,  Fighting  with  steel  murder- 
for  to  him  also  it  will  be  new,  perhaps  tools  is  surely  a  much  uglier  operation 
even  newer.  Bookkeeping  by  double  than  Working,  take  it  how  you  will, 
entry  is  admirable,  and  records  several  Yet  even  of  Fighting,  in  religious  Ab- 
things  in  an  exact  manner.  But  the  bot  Samson's  days,  see  what  a  Feudal- 
Mother-Destinies  also  keep  their  Tablets ;  5o  ism  there  had  grown, —  a  '  glorious 
in  Heaven's  Chancery  also  there  goes  on  Chivalry,'  much  besung  down  to  the  pres- 
a  recording;  and  things,  as  my  Moslem  ent  day.  Was  not  that  one  of  the  '  im- 
friends  say,  are  'written  on  the  iron  possiblest'  things?  Under  the  sky  is  no 
leaf.'  uglier     spectacle     than     two     men     with 

Your  Grace  and  Plugson,  it  is  like,  go  55  clenched  teeth,  and  hell-fire  eyes,  hack- 
to  Church  occasionally:  did  you  never  in  ing  one  another's  flesh,  converting 
vacant  moments,  with  perhaps  a  dull  par-      precious  living  bodies,  and  priceless  liv- 


7i6  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


ing  souls,  into  nameless  masses  of  pu-  nificance  of  years  of  it  compressed  into 
trescence,  useful  only  for  turnip-manure.  an  hour.  Here  too  thou  shalt  be  strong, 
How  did  a  Chivalry  ever  come  out  of  and  not  in  muscle  only,  if  thou  wouldst 
that ;  how  anything  that  was  not  hideous,  prevail.  Here  too  thou  shalt  be  strong 
scandalous,  infernal  ?  It  will  be  a  ques-  5  of  heart,  noble  of  soul ;  thou  shalt  dread 
tion  v^^orth  considering  by  and  by.  no  pain  or  death,  thou  shalt  not  love  ease 

I  remark,  for  the  present,  only  two  or  life;  in  rage,  thou  shalt  remember 
things:  first,  that  the  Fighting  itself  was  mercy,  justice;  —  thou  shalt  be  a  Knight 
not,  as  we  rashly  suppose  it,  a  Fighting  and  not  a  Chactaw,  if  thou  wouldst  pre- 
without  cause,  but  more  or  less  with  10  vail !  It  is  the  rule  of  all  battles,  against 
cause.  Man  is  created  to  fight ;  he  is  hallucinating  fellow  Men,  against  un- 
perhaps  best  of  all  definable  as  a  born  kempt  Cotton,  or  whatsoever  battles  they 
soldier;  his  life  'a  battle  and  a  march,'  may  be,  which  a  man  in  this  world  has 
under    the    right    General.     It    is    forever      to  fight. 

indispensable  for  a  man  to  fight:  now  15  Howel  Davies  dyes  the  West-Indian 
with  Necessity,  with  Barrenness,  Scar-  Seas  with  blood,  piles  his  decks  with 
city,  with  Puddles,  Bogs,  tangled  For-  plunder;  approves  himself  the  expertest 
ests,  unkempt  Cotton;  —  now  also  v^ith  Seaman,  the  daringest  Seafighter :  but  he 
the  hallucinations  of  his  poor  fellow  gains  no  lasting  victory,  lasting  victory 
Men.  Hallucinatory  visions  rise  in  the  20  is  not  possible  for  him.  Not,  had  he 
head  of  my  poor  fellow  man;  make  him  fleets  larger  than  the  combined  British 
claim  over  me  rights  which  are  not  his.  Navy  all  united  with  him  in  bucanier- 
All  fighting,  as  we  noticed  long  ago,  ing.  He,  once  for  all,  cannot  prosper  in 
is  the  dusty  conflict  of  strengths,  each  his  duel.  He  strikes  down  his  man :  yes ; 
thinking  itself  the  strongest,  or,  in  other  25  but  his  man,  or  his  man's  representative, 
words,  the  justest;  —  of  Mights  which  has  no  notion  to  lie  struck  down;  neither, 
do  in  the  long-run,  and  forever  will  in  though  slain  ten  times,  will  he  keep  so 
this  just  Universe  in  the  long-run,  mean  lying;  —  nor  has  the  Universe  any  notion 
Rights.  In  conflict  the  perishable  part  to  keep  him  so  lying!  On  the  contrary, 
of  them,  beaten  sufficiently,  flies  off  into  30  the  Universe  and  he  have,  at  all  moments, 
dust;  this  process  ended,  appears  the  im-  all  manner  of  motives  to  start  up  again, 
perishable,  the  true  and  exact.  and    desperately    fight    again.     Your    Na- 

And  now  let  us  remark  a  second  thing:  poleon  is  flung  out,  at  last,  to  St.  Helena; 
how,  in  these  baleful  operations,  a  noble  the  latter  end  of  him  sternly  compen- 
devout-hearted  Chevalier  will  comport  35  sating  the  beginning.  The  Bucanier 
himself,  and  an  ignoble  godless  Bucanier  strikes  down  a  man,  a  hundred  or  a  mil- 
and  Chactaw  Indian.  Victory  is  the  aim  lion  men:  but  what  profits  it?  He  has 
of  each.  But  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  one  enemy  never  to  be  struck  down ;  nay 
noble  man  it  lies  forever  legible,  that  two  enemies :  Mankind  and  the  Maker  of 
as  an  Invisible  Just  God  made  him.  so  40  Men.  On  the  great  scale  or  on  the 
will  and  must  God's  Justice  and  this  only,  small,  in  fighting  of  men  or  fighting  of 
were  it  never  so  invisible,  ultimately  difficulties,  I  will  not  embark  my  venture 
prosper  in  all  controversies  and  enter-  with  Howel  Davies :  it  is  not  the  Buca- 
prises  and  battles  whatsoever.  What  an  nier,  it  is  the  Hero  only  that  can  gain 
Influence ;  ever-present, —  like  a  Soul  in  45  victory,  that  can  do  more  than  seem  to 
the  rudest  Caliban  of  a  body;  like  a  ray  succeed.  These  things  will  deserve 
of  Heaven,  and  illuminative  creative  meditating;  for  they  apply  to  all  battle 
Fiat-Lux,  in  the  wastest  terrestrial  and  soldiership,  all  struggle  and  effort 
Chaos!  Blessed  divine  Influence,  trace-  whatsoever  in  this  Fight  of  Life.  It  is 
able  even  in  the  horror  of  Battlefields  5©  a  poor  Gospel,  Cash-Gospel  or  whatever 
and  garments  rolled  in  blood :  how  it  name  it  have,  that  does  not,  with  clear 
ennobles  even  the  Battlefield ;  and,  in  tone,  uncontradictable,  carrying  convic- 
place  of  a  Chactaw  Massacre,  makes  it  tion  to  all  hearts,  forever  keep  men  in 
a    Field    of    Honor!     A    Battlefield    too,      mind  of  these  things. 

is  great.  Considered  well,  it  is  a  kind  55  Unhappily,  my  indomitable  friend 
of  Quintessence  of  Labor ;  Labor  distilled  Plugson  of  Undershot  has,  in  a  great 
into    its    utmost    concentration ;    the    sig-      degree,  forgotten  them ;  —  as,  alas,  all  the 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  717 


world  has ;  as,  alas,  our  very  Dukes  and  to  them :  '  Noble  spinners,  this  is  the 
Soul-Overseers  have,  whose  special  trade  Hundred  Thousand  we  have  gained, 
it  was  to  remember  them  !  Hence  these  wherein  I  mean  to  dwell  and  plant  vine- 
tears. —  Plugson,  who  has  indomitably  yards;  the  hundred  thousand  is  mine,  the 
spun  Cotton  merely  to  gain  thousands  5  three  and  sixpence  daily  was  yours : 
of  pounds,  I  have  to  call  as  yet  a  Buc-  adieu,  noble  spinners;  drink  my  health 
anier  and  Chactaw ;  till  there  come  with  this  groat  each,  which  I  give  you 
something  better,  still  more  indomitable  over  and  above !  '  The  entirely  unjust 
from  him.  His  hundred  Thousand-pound  Captain  of  Industry,  say  I ;  not  Chev- 
Notes,  if  there  be  nothing  other,  are  to  10  alier,  but  Bucanier !  '  Commercial  Law  ' 
me  but  as  the  hundred  Scalps  in  a  Chac-  does  indeed  acquit  him ;  asks,  with  wide 
taw  wigwam.  The  blind  Plugson :  he  eyes.  What  else  ?  So  too  Howell  Davies 
was  a  Captain  of  Industry,  born  member  asks.  Was  it  not  according  to  the  strict- 
of  the  Ultimate  genuine  Aristocracy  of  est  Bucanier  Custom?  Did  I  depart  in 
this  Universe,  could  he  have  known  it !  15  any  jot  or  tittle  from  the  Laws  of  the 
These  thousand  men  that  span  and  toiled      Bucaniers? 

round  him,   they  were  a   regiment  whom  After   all,   money,   as   they   say,    is   mi- 

he  had  enlisted,  man  by  man ;  to  make  raculous.  Plugson  wanted  victory ;  as 
war  on  a  very  genuine  enemy:  Bareness  Chevaliers  and  Bucaniers,  and  all  men 
of  back,  and  disobedient  Cotton-fiber,  20  alike  do.  He  found  money  recognized, 
which  will  not,  unless  forced  to  it,  con-  by  the  whole  world  with  one  assent,  as 
sent  to  cover  bare  backs.  Here  is  a  the  true  symbol,  exact  equivalent  and 
most  genuine  enemy ;  over  whom  all  synonym  of  victory ;  —  and  here  we  have 
creatures  will  wish  him  victory.  He  en-  him,  a  grimbrowed,  indomitable  Bucanier, 
listed  his  thousand  men ;  said  to  them,  25  coming  home  to  us  with  a  '  victory,' 
'  Come,  brothers,  let  us  have  a  dash  at  which  the  whole  world  is  ceasing  to  clap 
Cotton !  '  They  follow  with  cheerful  hands  at !  The  whole  world,  taught 
shout;  they  gain  such  a  victory  over  somewhat  impressively,  is  beginning  to 
Cotton  as  the  Earth  has  to  admire  and  recognize  that  such  victory  is  "but  half  a 
clap  hands  at:  but,  alas,  it  is  yet  only  of  3°  victory;  and  that  now,  if  it  please  the 
the  Bucanier  or  Chactaw  sort, —  as  good  Powers,  we  must  —  have  the  other  half! 
as    no    victory !     Foolish    Plugson    of    St.  Money    is    miraculous.     What    miracu- 

Dolly  Undershot:  does  he  hope  to  be-  lous  facilities  has  it  yielded,  will  it  yield 
come  illustrious  by  hanging  up  the  us ;  but  also  what  never-imagined  con- 
scalps  in  his  wigwam,  the  hundred  thou-  35  fusions,  obscurations  has  it  brought  in ; 
sands  at  his  banker's,  and  saying.  Be-  down  almost  to  total  extinction  of  the 
hold  my  scalps?  Why,  Plugson,  even  moral-sense  in  large  masses  of  mankind! 
thy  own  host  is  all  in  mutiny :  Cotton  is  '  Protection  of  property,'  of  what  is 
conquered;  but  the  'bare  backs' — are  'mine,'  means  with  most  men  protection 
worse  covered  than  ever !  Indomitable  40  of  money, —  the  thing  which,  had  I  a 
Plugson,  thou  must  cease  to  be  a  Chac-  thousand  padlocks  over  it,  is  least  of  all 
taw;  thou  and  others;  thou  thyself,  if  mine;  is,  in  a  manner,  scarcely  worth 
no  other !  calling  mine  !     The   symbol   shall  be   held 

Did  William  the  Norman  Bastard,  or  sacred,  defended  everywhere  with  tip- 
any  of  his  Taillefers,  Ironcutters,  manage  45  staves,  ropes,  and  gibbets ;  the  thing  sig- 
so?  Ironcutter,  at  the  end  of  the  cam-  nified  shall  be  composedly  cast  to  the 
paign,  did  not  turn-off  his  thousand  dogs.  A  human  being  who  has  worked 
fighters,  but  said  to  them :  '  Noble  fight-  with  human  beings  clears  all  scores  with 
ers,  this  is  the  land  we  have  gained ;  be  them,  cuts  himself  with  triumphant  com- 
I  Lord  in  it, —  what  we  will  call  Low- Sopleteness  forever  loose  from  them,  by 
■ward,  maintainer  and  keeper  of  Heaven's  paying  down  certain  shillings  and  pounds. 
Laws:  be  I  Law-ward,  or  in  brief  ortho-  Was  it  not  the  wages,  I  promised  you? 
epy  Lord  in  it,  and  be  ye  Loyal  Men  There  they  are,  to  the  last  sixpence, — 
around  me  in  it;  and  we  will  stand  by  according  to  the  Laws  of  the  Bucaniers! 
one  another,  as  soldiers  round  a  captain,  55  —  Yes,  indeed ;  —  and,  at  such  times,  it 
for  again  we  shall  have  need  of  one  becomes  imperatively  necessary  to  ask  all 
another !  '     Plugson,     bucanier-like,     says      persons,    bucaniers   and   others,    Whether 


7i8  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


these  same  respectable  Laws  of  the  rij^ht  reverend  Soul-Overseers,  Christian 
Bucaniers  are  written  on  God's  eternal  Spiritual  Duces  '  on  a  minimum  of  four 
Heavens  at  all,  on  the  inner  Heart  of  thousand  five  hundred,'  one's  hopes  are  a 
Man  at  all;  or  on  the  res])ectal)le  Buca-  little  chilled.  Courage,  nevertheless; 
nier  Logbook  merely,  for  the  convenience  5  there  are  many  brave  men  in  England ! 
of  bucaniering  merely?  What  a  ques-  My  indomitable  Plugson, —  nay  is  there 
tion ;  —  whereat  Westminster  Hall  shud-  not  even  in  thee  some  hope?  Thou  art 
ders  to  its  driest  parchment ;  and  on  the  hitherto  a  Bucanier,  as  it  was  written  and 
dead  wigs  each  particular  horsehair  prescribed  for  thee  by  an  evil  world:  but 
stands  on  end  !  ^°  in    that    grim    brow,    in    that   indomitaljle 

The    Laws    of    Laissez-faire,    O    West-      heart  which  can  conquer  Cotton,  do  there 
minster,    the    laws    of    industrial    Captain      not    perhaps    lie    other    ten-times    nobler 
and   industrial    Soldier,   how   much    more      conquests? 
of    idle    Captain    and    industrial    Soldier, 

will  need  to  be  remodeled,  and  modified,  i5  chapter  xi 

and  rectified  in  a  hundred  and  a  hundred 

ways, —  and   not   in    the    Sliding-scale   di-  labor 

rection,   but   in  the   totally  opposite  one !  Yov  there  is  a  perennial  nobleness,  and 

With  two  million  industrial  Soldiers  al-  5^^^  sacredness,  in  Work.  Were  he 
ready  sitting  in  Bastilles,  and  five  mil- 20  ^^^^^j.  g^  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high 
lion  pining  on  potatoes,  methinks  West-  calling,  there  is  always  hope  in  a  man  that 
minster  cannot  begin  too  soon !  —  A  man  actually  and  earnestly  works:  in  Idleness 
has  other  obligations  laid  on  him,  in  aio,-,^  [^  there  perpetual  despair.  Work, 
God's  Universe,  than  the  payment  of  ^^^^^^  go  Mammonish,  mean,  is  in  com- 
cash:  these  also  Westminster,  if  it  will  25  ^unication  with  Nature;  the  real  desire 
continue  to  exist  and  have  board-wages,  ^q  get  Work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more 
must  contrive  to  take  some  charge  of:  ^^-^^  „-,ore  to  truth,  to  Nature's  appoint- 
—  by  Westminster  or  by  another,  they  ^^ents  and  regulations,  which  are  truth. 
must   and   will   be   taken   charge   of;   be,  xbg    j^test    Gospel    in    this    world    is, 

with  whatever  difficulty,  got  articulated,  30  Know  thy  work  and  do  it.  '  Know  thy- 
got  enforced,  and  to  a  certain  approxi-  g^lf:  long  enough  has  that  poor  'self 
mate  extent  put  in  practice.  And,  as  of  thine  tormented  thee;  thou  wilt  never 
I  say,  it  cannot  be  too  soon  !  For  Mam-  get  to  '  know  '  it,  I  believe  !  Think  it  not 
monism,  left  to  itself,  has  become  Midas-  thy  business,  this  of  knowing  thyself; 
eared ;  and  with  all  its  gold  mountains,  35  thou  art  an  unknowable  individual :  know 
sits  starving  for  want  of  bread :  and  ^^,hat  thou  canst  work  at ;  and  work  at  it. 
Dilettantism  with  its  partridge-nets,  in  uj^e  a  Hercules !  That  will  be  thy  better 
this  extremely  earnest  Universe  of  ours,      plan. 

is    playing    somewhat    too    high    a    game.  it  has  been  written,  '  an  endless  signifi- 

•  A  man  by  the  very  look  of  him  40  ^ance  lies  in  Work  ' ;  a  man  perfects  him- 
promises  so  much  ' :  yes;  and  by  the  rent-  self  by  working.  Foul  jungles  are  cleared 
roll  of  him  does  he  promis     nothing?—      a^ay,    fair    seedfields    rise    instead,    and 

stately   cities ;   and   withal   the   man   him- 

Alas,  what  a  business  will  this  be,  self  first  ceases  to  be  a  jungle  and  foul 
which  our  Continental  friends,  groping  45  unwholesome  desert  thereby.  Consider 
this  long  while  somewhat  absurdly  about  how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  Labor, 
it  and  about  it,  call  '  Organization  of  the  whole  soul  of  a  man  is  composed  into 
Labor'; — which  must  be  taken  out  of  the  a  kind  of  real  harmony,  the  instant  he 
hand  of  absurd  windy  persons,  and  put  sets  himself  to  work !  Doubt,  Desire, 
into  the  hands  of  wise,  laborious,  modest  50  Sorrow,  Remorse,  Indignation,  Despair 
and  valiant  men,  to  begin  with  it  itself,  all  these  like  helldogs  lie  beleaguer- 
straightway;  to  proceed  with  it,  and  sue-  ing  the  soul  of  the  poor  dayworker,  as  of 
ceed  in  it  more  and  more,  if  Europe,  at  every  man :  but  he  bends  himself  with  free 
any  rate  if  England,  is  to  continue  valor  against  his  task,  and  all  these  are 
habitable  much  longer.  Looking  at  the  55  stilled,  all  these  shrink  murmuring  far 
kind  of  most  noble  Corn-Law  Dukes  or  off  into  their  caves.  The  man  is  now  a 
Practical    Duces   we    have,    and    also    of      man.     The  blessed  glow  of  Labor  in  him, 


J 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  719 


is  it  not  as  purifying  fire,  wherein  all  nobleness, —  to  all  knowledge,  '  self-knowl-. 
poison  is  burnt  up,  and  of  sour  smoke  edge '  and  much  else,  so  soon  as  Work 
itself  there  is  made  bright  blessed  flame !      fitly  begins.     Knowledge  ?    The  knowledge 

Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other  that  will  hold  good  in  working,  cleave 
way  of  cultivating  us.  A  formless  Chaos,  5  thou  to  that ;  for  Nature  herself  accredits 
once  set  it  revolving,  grows  round  and  that,  says  Yea  to  that.  Properly  thou 
ever  rounder;  ranges  itself,  by  mere  force  hast  no  other  knowledge  but  what  thou 
of  gravity,  into  strata,  spherical  courses;  hast  got  by  working:  the  rest  is  yet  all  a 
is  no  longer  a  Chaos,  but  a  round  com-  hypothesis  of  knowledge ;  a  thing  to  l)e 
pacted  World.  What  would  become  of  10  argued  of  in  schools,  a  thing  floating  in 
the  Earth,  did  she  cease  to  revolve?  In  the  clouds,  in  endless  logic-vortices,  till 
the  poor  old  Earth,  so  long  as  she  re-  we  try  it  and  fix  it.  '  Doubt,  of  wliatever 
volves,  all  inequalities,  irregularities  dis-  kind,  can  be  ended  by  Action  alone.' 
perse    themselves ;    all    irregularities    are 

incessantly  becoming  regular.  Hast  thou  ,^  And  again,  hast  thou  valued  Patience, 
looked  on  the  Potter's  wheel, —  one  of  the  Courage,  Perseverance,  Openness  to 
venerablest  objects;  old  as  the  Prophet  light;  readiness  to  own  thyself  mistaken, 
Ezechiel  and  far  older?  Rude  lumps  of  to  do  better  next  time?  All  these,  all 
clay,  how  they  spin  themselves  up,  by  virtues,  in  wrestling  with  the  dim  brute 
mere  quick  whirling,  into  beautiful  cir-  20  Powers  of  Fact,  in  ordering  of  thy  fel- 
cular  dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  assidu-  lows  in  such  wrestle,  there  and  elsewhere 
ous  Potter,  but  without  his  wheel ;  reduced  not  at  all,  thou  wilt  continually  learn. 
to  make  dishes  or  rather  amorphous  Set  down  a  brave  Sir  Christopher  in  the 
botches,  by  mere  kneading  and  baking !  middle  of  black  ruined  Stone-heaps,  of 
Even  such  a  Potter  were  Destiny,  with  a  25  foolish  unarchitectural  Bishops,  redtape 
human  soul  that  would  rest  and  lie  at  Officials,  idle  Nell-Gwyn  Defenders  of  the 
ease,  that  would  not  work  and  spin!  Of  Faith;  and  see  whether  he  will  ever  raise 
an  idle  unrevolving  man  the  kindest  a  Paul's  Cathedral  out  of  all  that,  yea  or 
Destiny,  like  the  most  assiduous  Potter  no !  Rough,  rude,  contradictory  are  all 
without  wheel,  can  bake  and  knead  noth-  30  things  and  persons,  from  the  mutinous 
ing  other  than  a  botch;  let  her  spend  on  masons  and  Irish  hodmen,  up  to  the  idle 
him  what  expensive  coloring,  what  gild-  Nell-Gwyn  Defenders,  to  blustering  red- 
ing and  enameling  she  will,  he  is  but  a  tape  Officials,  foolish  unarchitectural 
botch.  Not  a  dish;  no,  a  bulging,  Bishops.  All  these  things  and  persons 
kneaded,  crooked,  shambling,  squint-cor-  35  are  there  not  for  Christopher's  sake  and 
nered,  amorphous  botch, —  a  mere  enam-  his  Cathedral's;  they  are  there  for  their 
eled  vessel  of  dishonor !  Let  the  idle  own  sake  mainly !  Christopher  will  have 
think  of  this.  to  conquer  and  constrain  all  these, —  if  he 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work;  be  able.  All  these  are  against  him. 
let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness.  He  40  Equitable  Nature  herself,  who  carries  her 
has  a  work,  a  life-purpose ;  he  has  found  mathematics  and  architectonics  not  on  the 
it,  and  will  follow  it !  How,  as  a  free-  face  of  her,  but  deep  in  the  hidden  heart 
flowing  channel,  dug  and  torn  by  noble  of  her, —  Nature  herself  is  but  partially 
force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of  for  him;  will  be  wholly  against  him,  if 
one's  existence,  like  an  ever-deepening  45  he  constrain  her  not !  His  very  money, 
river  there,  it  runs  and  flows ;  — draining-  where  is  it  to  come  from?  The  pious 
off  the  sour  festering  water,  gradually  munificence  of  England  lies  far-scattered, 
from  the  root  of  the  remotest  grass-blade ;  distant,  unable  to  speak,  and  say,  '  I  am 
making,  instead  of  pestilential  swamp,  a  here  ' ;  —  must  be  spoken  to  before  it  can 
green  fruitful  meadow  with  its  clear-flow-  50  speak.  Pious  munificence,  and  all  help,  is 
ing  stream.  How  blessed  for  the  meadow  so  silent,  invisible  like  the  gods ;  impedi- 
itself,  let  the  stream  and  its  value  be  great  ment,  contradictions  manifold  are  so  loud 
or  small !  Labor  is  Life :  from  the  inmost  and  near  !  O  brave  Sir  Christopher,  trust 
heart  of  the  Worker  rises  his  god-given  thou  in  those  notwithstanding,  and  front 
Force,  the  sacred  celestial  Life-essence  55  all  these ;  understand  all  these ;  by  valiant 
breathed  into  him  by  Almighty  God ;  from  patience,  noble  effort,  insight,  by  man's- 
his    inmost    heart    awakens    him    to    all      strength,  vanquish  and  compel  all  these, 


720  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


^and,  on  the  whole,  strike  down  victon-  brother;  thou  art  among  immeasurable 
ously  the  last  topstone  of  that  Paul's  dumb  monsters,  tumbling,  howling  wide 
Edifice;  thy  monument  for  certam  cen-  as  the  world  here.  Secret,  far  off,  in- 
turies,  the  stamp  '  Great  Man  '  mipressed  visible  to  all  hearts  but  thine,  there  lies 
very   legibly   on    Portland-stone   there!—   5a  help  in  them:  see  how  thou  wilt  get  at 

Yes,  all  manner  of  help,  and  pious  re-  that.  Patiently  thou  wilt  wait  till  the 
sponse  from  Men  or  Nature,  is  always  niad  Southwcster  spend  itself,  saving  thy- 
what  we  call  silent;  cannot  speak  or  come  self  by  dextrous  science  of  defense,  the 
to  light,  till  it  be  seen,  till  it  be  spoken  while:  valiantly,  with  swift  decision,  wilt 
to.  Every  noble  work  is  at  first  '  im-  ,0  thou  strike  in,  when  the  favoring  East, 
possible.'  In  very  truth,  for  every  noble  the  Possible,  springs  up.  Mutiny  of  men 
work  the  possibilities  will  lie  diffused  thou  wilt  sternly  repress;  weakness,  de- 
through  Immensity;  inarticulate,  undis-  spondency,  thou  wilt  cheerily  encourage: 
coverable  except  to  faith..  Like  Gideon  thou  wilt  swallow  down  complaint,  unrea- 
thou  shalt  spread  out  thy  fleece  at  the  15  son,  weariness,  weakness  of  others  and 
door  of  thy  tent;  see  whether  under  the  thyself;  —  how  much  wilt  thou  swallow 
wide  arch  of  Heaven  there  be  any  bounte-  down  !  There  shall  be  a  depth  of  Silence 
ous  moisture,  or  none.  Thy  heart  and  in  thee,  deeper  than  this  Sea,  which  is 
life-purpose  shall  be  as  a  miraculous  but  ten  miles  deep :  a  Silence  unsound- 
Gideon's  fleece,  spread  out  in  silent  appeal  20  able ;  known  to  God  only.  Thou  shalt  be 
to  Heaven :  and  from  the  kind  Immensi-  a  Great  Man.  Yes,  my  World-Soldier, 
ties,  what  from  the  poor  unkind  Localities  thou  of  the  World  Marine-service, —  thou 
and  town  and  country  Parishes  there  wilt  have  to  be  greater  than  this  tumultu- 
never  could,  blessed  dew-moisture  to  suf-  ous  unmeasured  World  here  round  thee 
fice  thee  shall  have  fallen !  25  is ;    thou,    in    thy    strong    soul,    as    with 

Work  is  of  a  religious  nature:  —  work      wrestler's  arms,  shalt  embrace  it,  harness 
is  of  a  brave  nature ;  which  it  is  the  aim      it  down ;  and  make  it  bear  thee  on, —  to 
of  all  religion  to  be.     All  work  of  man      new  Americas,  or  whither   God  wills ! 
is    as     the     swimmer's :     a    waste     ocean 

threatens   to  devour   him;   if  he   front   it  30  chapter  xii 

not   bravely,    it   will   keep    its   word.     By 

incessant  wise  defiance  of  it,  lusty  rebuke  reward 

and   buffet   of   it,   behold   how   it   loyally  *  Religion,'  I  said ;  for,  properly  speak- 

supports  him,  bears  him  as  its  conqueror  ing,  all  true  Work  is  Religion :  and  what- 
along.  '  It  is  so,'  says  Goethe,  '  with  all  35  soever  Religion  is  not  Work  may  go  and 
things  that  man  undertakes  in  this  dwell  among  the  Brahmins,  Antinomians, 
world.'  Spinning    Dervishes,    or    where    it    will ; 

Brave  Sea-captain,  Norse  Sea-king, —  with  me  it  shall  have  no  harbor.  Ad- 
Columbus,  my  hero,  royalest  Sea-king  of  mirable  was  that  of  the  old  Monks, 
all!  it  is  no  friendly  environment  this  of  40'  Laborare  est  Orare,  Work  is  Worship.' 
thine,  in  the  waste  deep  waters ;   around  Older   than    all    preached    Gospels    was 

thee  mutinous  discouraged  souls,  behind  this  unpreached,  inarticulate,  but  inerad- 
thee  disgrace  and  ruin,  before  thee  the  icable,  forever-enduring  Gospel :  Work, 
unpenetrated  veil  of  Night.  Brother,  and  therein  have  wellbeing.  Alan,  Son  of 
these  wild  water-mountains,  bounding  45  Earth  and  of  Heaven,  lies  there  not,  in 
from  their  deep  bases  (ten  miles  deep,  I  the  innermost  heart  of  thee,  a  Spirit  of 
am  told),  are  not  entirely  there  on  thy  active  Method,  a  Force  for  Work;  —  and 
behalf !  Meseems  they  have  other  work  burns  like  a  painfully-smoldering  fire, 
than  floating  thee  forward:  —  and  the  giving  thee  no'rest  till  thou  unfold  it,  till 
huge  Winds,  that  sweep  from  Ursa  Major  50  thou  write  it  down  in  beneficent  Facts 
to  the  Tropics  and  Equators,  dancing  around  thee !  What  is  immethodic, 
their  giant-waltz  through  the  kingdoms  of  waste,  thou  shalt  make  methodic,  regu- 
Chaos  and  Immensity,  they  care  little  lated,  arable ;  obedient  and  productive  to 
about  filling  rightly  or  filling  wrongly  the  thee.  Wheresoever  thou  findest  Disorder, 
small  shoulder-of-mutton  sails  in  this  55  there  is  thy  eternal  enemy;  attack  him 
cockle-skiff  of  thine!  Thou  art  not  swiftly,  subdue  him;  make  Order  of  him, 
among     articulate-speaking     friends,     my      the  subject  not  of  Chaos,  but  of  Intelli- 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  7^1 


gence,  Divinity  and  Thee !  The  thistle  Mankind.  Even  in  the  weak  Human 
that  grows  in  thy  path,  dig  it  out,  that  a  Memory  they  survive  so  long,  as  saints, 
blade  of  useful  grass,  a  drop  of  nourish-  as  heroes,  as  gods;  they  alone  surviving; 
ing  milk,  may  grow  there  instead.  The  peopling,  they  alone,  the  unmeasured  soli- 
waste  cotton-shrub,  gather  its  waste  white  5  tudes  of  Time  !  To  thee  Heaven,  though 
down,  spin  it,  weave  it;  that,  in  place  of  severe,  is  not  unkind;  Heaven  is  kind, — 
idle  litter,  there  may  be  folded  webs,  and  as  a  noble  Mother;  as  that  Spartan 
the  naked  skin  of  man  be  covered.  Mother,    saying   while   she   gave    her   son 

But  above  all,  where  thou  findest  Igno-  his  shield,  '  With  it,  my  son,  or  upon  it!  ' 
ranee,  Stupidity,  Brute-mindedness, —  yes,  lo  Thou  too  shalt  return  home  in  honor;  to 
there,  with  or  without  Church-tithes  and  thy  far-distant  home,  in  honor;  doubt  it 
Shovel-hat,  with  or  without  Talfourd-  not, —  if  in  the  battle  thou  keep  thy 
Mahon  Copyrights,  or  were  it  with  mere  shield !  Thou,  in  the  Eternities  and 
dungeons  and  gibbets  and  crosses,  attack  deepest  Death-kingdoms,  art  not  an  alien ; 
it,  I  say;  smite  it  wisely,  unweariedly,  15  thou  everywhere  art  a  denizen!  Com- 
and  rest  not  while  thou  livest  and  it  plain  not;  the  very  Spartans  did  not  corn- 
lives  ;   but   smite,    smite,   in   the   name   of      plain. 

God !     The  Highest  God,  as  I  understand  And  who  art  thou  that  braggest  of  thy 

it,  does  audibly  so  command  thee;  still  life  of  Idleness ;  complacently  showest  thy 
audibly,  if  thou  have  ears  to  hear.  He,  20  bright  gilt  equipages;  sumptuous  cush- 
even  He,  with  his  unspoken  voice,  aw-  ions ;  appliances  for  folding  of  the  hands 
fuler  than  any  Sinai  thunders  or  syllabled  to  mere  sleep  ?  Looking  up,  looking 
speech  of  Whirlwinds ;  for  the  Silence  down,  around,  behind  or  before,  discernest 
of  deep  Eternities,  of  Worlds  from  be-  thou,  if  it  be  not  in  Mayfair  alone,  any 
yond  the  morning-stars,  does  it  not  speak  25  idle  hero,  saint,  god,  or  even  devil  ?  Not 
to  thee?  The  unborn  Ages;  the  old  a  veslige  of  one.  In  the  Heavens,  in  the 
Graves,  with  their  long-moldering  dust,  Earth,  in  the  Waters  under  the  Earth,  is 
the  very  tears  that  wetted  it  now  all  none  like  unto  thee.  Thou  art  an  orig- 
dry, —  do  not  these  speak  to  thee,  what  inal  figure  in  this  Creation;  a  denizen  in 
ear  hath  not  heard  ?  The  deep  Death-  30  Mayfair  alone,  in  this  extraordinary 
[  kingdoms,  the  Stars  in  their  never-resting  Century  or  Half-Century  alone !  One 
j  courses,  all  Space  and  all  Time,  proclaim  monster  there  is  in  the  world :  the  idle 
it  to  thee  in  continual  silent  admonition,  man.  What  is  his  'Religion'?  That 
Thou  too,  if  ever  man  should,  shalt  work  Nature  is  a  Phantasm,  where  cunning 
while  it  is  called  To-day.  For  the  Night  35  beggary  or  thievery  may  sometimes  find 
cometh,   wherein  no  man  work.  good    victual.     That    God    is    a    lie ;    and 

All  true  Work  is  sacred;  in  all  true  that  Man  and  his  Life  are  a  lie. —  Alas, 
Work,  were  it  but  true  hand-labor,  there  alas,  who  of  us  is  there  that  can  say,  I 
is  something  of  divineness.  Labor,  wide  have  worked?  The  faithfulest  of  us  are 
as  the  Earth,  has  its  summit  in  Heaven,  ao  unprofitable  servants ;  the  faithfulest  of 
Sweat  of  the  brow;  and  up  from  that  to  us  know  that  best.  The  faithfulest  of  us 
sweat  of  the  brain,  sweat  of  the  heart ;  may  say,  with  sad  and  true  old  Samuel, 
which  includes  all  Kepler  calculations,  '  Much  of  my  life  has  been  trifled  away  ! ' 
Newton  meditations,  all  Sciences,  all  But  he  that  has,  and  except  '  on  public 
spoken  Epics,  all  acted  Heroisms,  Martyr- 45  occasions '  professes  to  have,  no  function 
doms, —  up  to  that  'Agony  of  bloody  but  that  of  going  idle  in  a  graceful  or 
sweat,'  which  all  men  have  called  divine !      graceless  manner ;  and  of  begetting  sons 

0  brother,  if  this  is  not  'worship,'   then     to  go  idle;  and  to  address  Chief  Spinners 

1  say,  the  more  pity  for  worship;  for  and  Diggers,  who  at  least  are  spinning 
this  is  the  noblest  thing  yet  discovered  5°  and  digging,  '  Ye  scandalous  persons 
under  God's  sky.  Who  art  thou  that  who  produce  too  much ' —  My  Corn-Law 
complainest  of  thy  life  of  toil?     Complain     friends,  on  what  imaginary  still  richer  El- 

i   not.     Look   up,   my  wearied  brother;   see      dorados,  and  true  iron-spikes  with  law  of 

'   thy     fellow     Workmen     there,     in     God's      gravitation,  are  ye  rushing! 

Eternity ;     surviving     there,     they     alone "      As  to  the  Wages  of  Work  there  might 

surviving:  sacred  Band  of  the  Immortals,      innumerable  things  be  said;  there  will  and 

celestial    Bodyguard    of    the    Empire    of     must  yet  innumerable  things  be  said  and 

46 


722  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


spoken,  in  St.  Stei)licn's  and  out  of  St.  Thou  wilt  never  sell  thy  Life,  or  any  \rdv\ 
Stephen's;  and  gradually  not  a  few  things  of  thy  Life,  in  a  satisfactory  manner, 
be  ascertained  and  written,  on  Law-parch-  Give  it,  like  a  royal  heart;  let  the  price 
ment,  concerning  this  very  matter: —  be  Nothing:  thou  hast  then,  in  a  certain 
'  Fair  day's-wages  for  a  fair  day's-work  '  5  sense,  got  All  for  it !  The  heroic  man. — 
is  the  most  unrefusable  demand !  Money-  and  is  not  every  man,  God  be  thanked, 
wages  'to  the  extent  of  keeping  your  a  potential  hero?  —  has  to  do  so,  in  all 
worker  alive  that  he  may  work  more ' ;  times  and  circumstances.  In  the  most 
these,  unless  you  mean  to  dismiss  him  heroic  age,  as  in  the  most  unheroic,  he 
straightway  out  of  this  world,  are  indis-  lo  will  have  to  say,  as  Burns  said  proudly 
pensable  alike  to  the  noblest  Worker  and  and  humbly  of  his  little  Scottish  Songs, 
to  the   least  noble  !  little  dewdrops  of  Celestial  Melody  in  an 

One  thing  only  I  will  say  here,  in  age  when  so  much  was  unmelodious : 
special  reference  to  the  former  class,  the  '  By  Heaven,  they  shall  either  be  invalu- 
noble  and  noblest ;  but  throwing  light  on  15  able  or  of  no  value ;  I  do  not  need  your 
all  the  other  classes  and  their  arrange-  guineas  for  them.'  It  is  an  element 
ments  of  this  difficult  matter:  The  which  should,  and  must,  enter  deeply  into 
'  wages '  of  every  noble  Work  do  yet  lie  all  settlements  of  wages  here  below, 
in  Heaven  or  else  Nowhere.  Not  in  They  never  will  be  '  satisfactory '  other- 
Bank-of-England  bills,  in  Owen's  Labor- 20  wise;  they  cannot,  O  Mammon  Gospel, 
bank,  or  any  the  most  improved  establish-  they  never  can  !  Money  for  my  little 
ment  of  banking  and  money-changing,  piece  of  work  '  to  the  extent  that  will  al- 
needest  thou,  heroic  soul,  present  thy  ac-  low  me  to  keep  working ' ;  yes,  this, — 
count  of  earnings.  Human  banks  and  unless  you  mean  that  I  shall  go  my  ways 
laT)or-banks  know  thee  not;  or  know  thee  25  before  the  work  is  all  taken  out  of  me: 
after  generations  and  centuries  have  but  as  to  *  wages ' — !  — 
passed    away,    and    thou    art    clean    gone  On    the    whole,    we    do    entirely    agree 

from  '  rewarding,' —  all  manner  of  bank-  with  those  old  Monks,  Laborare  est 
drafts,  shop-tills,  and  Downing-street  Ex-  Orare.  In  a  thousand  senses,  from  one 
chequers  lying  very  invisible,  so  far  from  3°  end  of  it  to  the  other,  true  Work  is 
thee  !  Nay,  at  bottom,  dost  thou  need  any  Worship.  He  that  works,  whatsoever  be 
reward?  Was  it  thy  aim  and  life-pur-  his  work,  he  bodies  forth  the  form  of 
pose  to  be  filled  with  good  things  for  thy  Things  Unseen;  a  small  Poet  every 
heroism;  to  have  a  life  of  pomp  and  ease.  Worker  is.  The  idea,  were  it  but  of  his 
and  be  what  men  call  '  happy,'  in  this  35  poor  Delf  Platter,  how  much  more  of  his 
world,  or  in  any  other  world?  I  answer  Epic  Poem,  is  as  yet  'seen,'  half-seen, 
for  thee  deliberately.  No.  The  whole  only  by  himself;  to  all  others  it  is  a 
spiritual  secret  of  the  new  epoch  lies  in  thing  unseen,  impossible ;  to  Nature  her- 
this,  that  thou  canst  answer  for  thyself,  self  it  is  a  thing  unseen,  a  thing  which 
with  thy  whole  clearness  of  head  and 40  never  hitherto  was;  —  very  'impossible,' 
heart,  deliberately.  No  !  for  it  is  as  yet  a  No-thing !     The  Unseen 

My  brother,  the  brave  man  has  to  give  Powers  had  need  to  watch  over  such  a 
his  Life  away.  Give  it,  I  advise  thee;  man;  he  works  in  and  for  the  Unseen. 
—  thou  dost  not  expect  to  sell  thy  Life  Alas,  if  he  look  to  the  Seen  Powers  only, 
in  an  adequate  manner?  What  price,  for  45  he  may  as  well  quit  the  business;  his  No- 
example,  would  content  thee?  The  just  thing  will  never  rightly  issue  as  a  Thing, 
price  of  thy  Life  to  thee, —  why,  God's  but  as  a  Deceptivity,  a  Sham-thing, — 
entire  Creation  to  thyself,  the  whole  Uni-  which  it  had  better  not  do ! 
verse    of    Space,    the    whole    Eternity    of  Thy  No-thing  of  an  Intended  Poem,  O 

Time,  and  what  they  hold :  that  is  the  5°  Poet  who  hast  looked  merely  to  reviewers, 
price  which  would  content  thee ;  that,  and  copyrights,  booksellers,  popularities,  be- 
if  thou  wilt  be  candid,  nothing  short  of  hold  it  has  not  yet  become  a  Thing;  for 
that!  It  is  thy  all;  and  for  it  thou  the  truth  is  not  in  it!  Though  printed, 
wouldst  have  all.  Thou  art  an  unreason-  hotpressed,  reviewed,  celebrated,  sold  to 
able  mortal;  — or  rather  thou  art  a  poor  55  the  twentieth  edition:  what  is  all  that? 
infinite  mortal,  who,  in  thy  narrow  clay-  The  Thing,  in  philosophical  uncommer- 
prison    here,    seemcst    so    unreasonable !      cial  language,  is  still  a  No-thing,  mostly 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  723 


semblance  and  deception  of  the  sight ;  —  blances  to  get  hold  of  wages.  Instead  of 
benign  Oblivion  incessantly  gnawing  at  it,  better  felt-hats  to  cover  your  head,  you 
impatient  till  Chaos,  to  which  it  belongs,  have  bigger  lath-and-plaster  hats  set 
do  reabsorb  it !  —  traveling  the   streets  on  wheels.     Instead 

He  who  takes  not  counsel  of  the  Un-  5  of  heavenly  and  earthly  Guidance  for  the 
seen  and  Silent,  from  him  will  never  come  souls  of  men,  you  have  '  Black  or  White 
real  visibility  and  speech.  Thou  must  de-  Surplice '  Controversies,  stuffed  hair-and- 
scend  to  the  Mothers,  to  the  Manes,  and  leather  Popes ;  —  terrestrial  Lazu-zvards, 
Hercules-like  long  suffer  and  labor  there,  Lords  and  Law-bringers,  *  organizing 
wouldst  thou  emerge  with  victory  into  the  10  Lal)or '  in  these  years,  by  passing  Corn- 
sunlight.  As  in  battle  and  the  shock  of  Laws.  With  all  which,  alas,  this  dis- 
war, —  for  is  not  this  a  battle?  —  thou  tracted  Earth  is  now  full,  nigh  to 
too  shalt  fear  no  pain  or  death,  shalt  love  bursting.  Semblances  most  smooth  to 
no  ease  or  life;  the  voice  of  festive  the  touch  and  eye;  most  accursed,  never- 
Lubberlands,  the  noise  of  greedy  Acheron  15  theless,  to  body  and  soul.  Semblances, 
shall  alike  lie  silent  under  thy  victorious  be  they  of  Sham-woven  Cloth  or  of 
feet.  Thy  work,  like  Dante's,  shall  Dilettante  Legislation,  which  are  not  real 
'  make  thee  lean  for  many  years.'  The  wool  or  substance,  but  Devil's-dust,  ac- 
world  and  its  wages,  its  criticisms,  coun-  cursed  of  God  and  man  !  No  man  has 
sels,  helps,  impediments,  shall  be  as  a  20  worked,  or  can  work,  except  religiously ; 
waste  ocean-flood ;  the  chaos  through  not  even  the  poor  day-laborer,  the  weaver 
which  thou  art  to  swim  and  sail.  Not  of  your  coat,  the  sewer  of  your  shoes, 
the  waste  waves  and  their  weedy  gulf-  All  men,  if  they  work  not  as  in  a  Great 
streams,  shalt  thou  take  for  guidance:  Taskmaster's  eye,  will  work  wrong,  work 
thy  star  alone, — '  Se  tu  segxii  tiia  stella ! '  25  unhappily  for  themselves  and  you. 
Thy   star   alone,   now   clear-beaming  over  Industrial  work,  still  under  bondage  to 

Chaos,  nay  now  by  fits  gone  out,  dis-  Mammon,  the  rational  soul  of  it  not  yet 
astrously  eclipsed :  this  only  shalt  thou  awakened,  is  a  tragic  spectacle.  Men  in 
strive  to  follow.  O,  it  is  a  business,  as  the  rapidest  motion  and  self-motion ;  rest- 
I  fancy,  that  of  weltering  your  way  30  less,  with  convulsive  energy,  as  if  driven 
through  Chaos  and  the  murk  of  Hell!  by  Galvanism,  as  if  possessed  by  a  Devil; 
Green-eyed  dragons  watching  you,  three-  tearing  asunder  mountains, — ■  to  no  pur- 
headed  Cerberuses, —  not  without  sym-  pose,  for  Mammonism  is  always  Midas- 
pathy  of  their  sort!  ' Eccovi  I'  uom  ch'  eared!  This  is  sad,  on  the  face  of  it. 
e  state  all'  Inferno.'  For  in  fine,  as  Poet  35  Yet  courage :  the  beneficent  Destinies, 
Dryden  says,  you  do  walk  hand  in  hand  kind  in  their  sternness,  are  apprising  us 
with  sheer  Madness,  all  the  way, —  who  that  this  cannot  continue.  Labor  is  not 
is  by  no  means  pleasant  company  !  You  a  devil,  even  while  encased  in  Mammon- 
look  fixedly  into  Madness,  and  her  undis-  ism ;  Labor  is  ever  an  imprisoned  god, 
covered,  boundless,  bottomless  Night-em-  40  writhing  unconsciously  or  consciously  to 
pire;  that  you  may  extort  new  Wisdom  escape  out  of  Mammonism!  Plugson  of 
out  of  it,  as  an  Eurydice  from  Tartarus.  Undershot,  like  Taillefer  of  Normandy, 
The  higher  the  Wisdom,  the  closer  was  wants  victory;  how  much  happier  will 
its  neighborhood  and  kindred  with  mere  even  Plugson  be  to  have  a  Chivalrous 
Insanity;  literally  so;  —  and  thou  wilt,  45  victory  than  a  Chactaw  one!  The  unre- 
with  a  speechless  feeling,  observe  how  deemed  ugliness  is  that  of  a  slothful 
highest  Wisdom,  struggling  up  into  this  People.  Show  me  a  People  energetically 
world,  has  oftentimes  carried  such  tine-  busy;  heaving,  struggling,  all  shoulders  at 
tures  and  adhesions  of  Insanity  still  the  wheel ;  their  heart  pulsing,  every 
cleaving  to  it  hither !  50  muscle   swelling,   with   man's   energy   and 

All  Works,  each  in  their  degree,  are  will;  —  I  show  you  a  People  of  whom 
a  making  of  Madness  sane  ;  —  truly  great  good  is  already  predicable  ;  to  whom 
enough  a  religious  operation ;  which  can-  all  manner  of  good  is  yet  certain,  if  their 
not  be  carried  on  without  religion.  You  energy  endure.  By  very  working,  they 
have  not  work  otherwise;  you  have  eye- 55  will  learn;  they  have,  Antaeus-like,  their 
service,  greedy  grasping  of  wages,  swift  foot  on  Mother  Fact:  how  can  they  but 
and    ever    swifter    manufacture    of    sem-      learn? 


724  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


The  vulgarest  Plugson  of  a  Master-  embodiment  of  it ;  which  would  have  to 
Worker,  who  can  connnand  Workers,  become,  more  or  less,  a  godlike  one.  By 
and  get  work  out  of  them,  js  already  a  noble  real  legislation,  by  true  noble's- 
considerable  man.  Blessed  and  thrice-  work,  by  unwearied,  valiant,  and  were  it 
blessed  symptoms  I  discern  of  Master-  5  wageless  effort,  in  my  Parliament  and  in 
Workers  who  are  not  vulgar  men ;  who  my  Parish,  I  would  aid,  constrain,  en- 
are  Nobles,  and  begin  to  feel  that  they  courage  him  to  effect  more  or  less  this 
must  act  as  such :  all  speed  to  these,  they  blessed  change.  I  should  know  that  it 
are  England's  hope  at  present !  But  in  would  have  to  be  effected ;  that  unless  it 
this  Plugson  himself,  conscious  of  almost  lo  were  in  some  measure  effected,  he  and 
no  nobleness  whatever,  how  much  is  I  and  all  of  us,  I  first  and  soonest  of  all, 
there !  Not  without  man's  faculty,  in-  were  doomed  to  perdition !  —  Effected  it 
sight,  courage,  hard  energy,  is  this  will  be ;  unless  it  were  a  Demon  that 
rugged  figure.  His  words  none  of  the  made  this  Universe;  which  I,  for  my  own 
wisest;  but  his  actings  cannot  be  alto-  15  part,  do  at  no  moment,  under  no  form,  in 
gether     foolish.     Think,     how     were     it,      the  least  believe. 

stoodst  thou  suddenly  in  his  shoes  !     He  May  it  please  your  Serene  Highnesses, 

has  to  command  a  thousand  men.  And  your  Majesties,  Lordships  and  Law- 
not  imaginary  commanding;  no,  it  is  real,  wardships,  the  proper  Epic  of  this  world 
incessantly  practical.  The  evil  passions  20  is  not  now  *  Arms  and  the  Man  ' ;  how 
of  so  many  men  (with  the  Devil  in  them,  much  less,  'Shirt-frills  and  the  Man': 
as  in  all  of  us)  he  has  to  vanquish;  by  no,  it  is  now  'Tools  and  the  Man':  that, 
manifold  force  of  speech  and  of  silence,  henceforth  to  all  time,  is  now  our  Epic; 
to  repress  or  evade.  What  a  force  of  —  and  you,  first  of  all  others,  I  think, 
silence,  to  say  nothing  of  the  others,  is  25  were  wise  to  take  note  of  that ! 
in  Plugson !     For  these  his  thousand  men 

he  has  to  provide  raw-material,  machin-  chapter  xiii 

ery,    arrangement,    houserooni ;    and    ever  ^^,„^„.^„ 

at   the    week's    end,   wages   by   due    sale.  democracy 

No  Civil-List,  or  Goulburn-Baring  Budget  30  If  the  Serene  Highnesses  and  Majesties 
has  he  to  fall  back  upon,  for  paying  of  do  not  take  note  of  that,  then,  as  I  per- 
his  regiment;  he  has  to  pick  his  supplies  ceive,  that  will  take  note  of  itself!  The 
from  the  confused  face  of  the  whole  time  for  levity,  insincerity,  and  idle 
Earth  and  Contemporaneous  History,  by  babble  and  play-acting,  in  all  kinds,  is 
his  dexterity  alone.  There  will  be  dry  35  gone  by;  it  is  a  serious,  grave  time.  Old 
eyes  if  he  fail  to  do  it !  —  He  exclaims,  long-vexed  questions,  not  yet  solved  in 
at  present,  '  black  in  the  face,'  near  logical  words  or  parliamentary  laws,  are 
strangled  with  Dilettante  Legislation:  fast  solving  themselves  in  facts,  some- 
'  Let  me  have  elbow-room,  throat-room,  what  unblessed  to  behold !  This  largest 
and  I  will  not  fail !  No,  I  will  spin  yet,  40  of  questions,  this  question  of  Work  and 
and  conquer  like  a  giant:  what  "sinews  Wages,  which  ought,  had  we  heeded 
of  war "  lie  in  me,  untold  resources  Heaven's  voice,  to  have  begun  two  gen- 
towards  the  Conquest  of  this  Planet,  if  erations  ago  or  more,  cannot  be  delayed 
instead  of  hanging  me,  you  husband  them,  longer  without  hearing  Earth's  voice, 
and  help  me  !  ' —  My  indomitable  friend,  4s  '  Labor  '  will  verily  need  to  be  somewhat 
it  is  true;  and  thou  shalt  and  must  be  '  organized,'  as  they  say, —  God  knows 
helped.  with    what   difficulty.     Man   will    actually 

This  is  not  a  man  I  would  kill  and  need  to  have  his  debts  and  earnings  a 
strangle  by  Corn-Laws,  even  if  I  could!  little  better  paid  by  man;  which,  let 
No,  I  would  fling  my  Corn-laws  and  50  Parliaments  speak  of  them  or  be  silent 
shot-belts  to  the  Devil ;  and  try  to  help  this  of  them,  are  eternally  his  due  from  man, 
man.  I  would  teach  him,  by  noble  pre-  and  cannot,  without  penalty  and  at  length 
cept  and  law-precept,  by  noble  example  not  without  death-penalty,  be  withheld, 
most  of  all,  that  Mammonism  was  not  How  much  ought  to  cease  among  us 
the  essence  of  his  or  of  my  station  in 55  straightway;  how  much  ought  to  begin 
God's  Universe;  but  the  adscititious  ex-  straightway,  while  the  hours  yet  are! 
crcscence  of  it;  the  gross,  terrene,  godless  Truly  they  are  strange  results  to  which 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 


725 


this  of  leaving  all  to  'Cash';  of  quietly  ing;  to  be  heart-worn,  weary,  yet  isolated, 
shutting-up  the  God's  Temple,  and  grad-  unrelated,  girt-in  with  a  cold  universal 
ually  opening  wide-open  the  Mammon's  Laissez-faire:  it  is  to  die  slowly  all  our 
Temple,  with  '  Lassez-faire,  and  Every  life  long,  imprisoned  in  a  deaf,  dead,  In- 
man  for  himself,' — have  led  us  in  these  s  finite  Injustice,  as  in  the  accursed  iron 
days !  _  We  have  Upper,  speaking  Classes,  belly  of  a  Phalaris'  Bull !  This  is  and  re- 
who  indeed  do  '  speak '  as  never  man  mains  forever  intolerable  to  all  men 
spake  before;  the  withered  flimsiness,  the  whom  God  has  made.  Do  we  wonder  at 
godless  baseness  and  barrenness  of  whose  P>ench  Revolutions,  Chartisms,  Revolts 
Speech  might  of  itself  indicate  what  kind  ic  of  Three  Days?  The  times,  if  we  will 
of  Doing  and  practical  Governing  went  consider  them,  are  really  unexampled, 
on  under  it !     For  Speech  is  the  gaseous  Never   before   did   I    hear   of    an    Irish 

element  out  of  which  most  kinds  of  Prac-  Widow  reduced  to  '  prove  her  sisterhood 
tice  and  Performance,  especially  all  kinds  by  dying  of  typhus-fever  and  infecting 
of  moral  Performance,  condense  them- 15  seventeen  persons,'- —  saying  in  such  un- 
selves,  and  take  shape ;  as  the  one  is,  so  deniable  way,  '  You  see  I  was  your 
will  the  other  be.  Descending,  accord-  sister !  '  Sisterhood,  brotherhood,  was 
ingly,  into  the  Dumb  Class  in  its  Stock-  often  forgotten;  but  not  till  the  rise  of 
port  Cellars  and  Poor-Law  Bastilles,  have  these  ultimate  Mammon  and  Shotbelt 
we  not  to  announce  that  they  also  are  20  Gospels  did  I  ever  see  it  so  expressly 
hitherto  unexampled  in  the  History  of  denied.  If  no  pious  Lord  or  Law-ward 
Adam's   Posterity?  would    remember    it,    always    some    pious 

Life  was  never  a  May-game  for  men:  Lady  (' Hlaf-dig,'  Benefactress,  'Loaf- 
in  all  times  the  lot  of  the  dumb  millions  givcress/  they  say  she  is, —  blessings  on 
born  to  toil  was  defaced  with  manifold  ^5  her  beautiful  heart !)  was  there,  with  mild 
sufferings,  injustices,  heavy  burdens,  mother-voice  and  hand,  to  remember  it; 
avoidable  and  unavoidable ;  not  play  at  some  pious  thoughtful  Elder,  what  we 
all,  but  hard  work  that  made  the  sinews  now  call  '  Prester,'  Presbyter  or  '  Priest,' 
sore  and  the  heart  sore.  As  bond-slaves,  was  there  to  put  all  men  in  mind  of  it, 
villani,  bordarii,  sochemanni,  nay  indeed  30  in  the  name  of  the  God  who  had  made  all. 
as    dukes,    earls    and    kings,    men    were  Not    even    in    Black    Dahomey    was    it 

oftentimes  made  weary  of  their  life;  and  ever,  I  think,  forgotten  to  the  typhus- 
had  to  say,  in  the  sweat  of  their  brow  fever  length.  Mungo  Park,  resourceless, 
and  of  their  soul.  Behold,  it  is  not  sport,  had  sunk  down  to  die  under  the  Negro 
it  is  grim  earnest,  and  our  back  can  35  \lllage-Tree,  a  horrible  White  object  in 
bear  no  more !  Who  knows  not  what  the  eyes  of  all.  But  in  the  poor  Black 
massacrings  and  harryings  there  have  Woman,  and  her  daughter  who  stood 
been;  grinding;  long-continuing,  unbear-  aghast  at  him,  whose  earthly  wealth  and 
able  injustices, —  till  the  heart  had  to  rise  funded  capital  consisted  of  one  small 
in  madness,  and  some  '  En  Sachscn,  40  Calabash  of  rice,  there  lived  a  heart 
nimith  euer  sachses,  You  Saxons,  out  richer  than  Laissez-faire:  they,  with  a 
with  your  gully-knives,  then ! '  You  royal  munificence,  boiled  their  rice  for 
Saxons,  some  '  arrestment,'  partial  '  ar-  him ;  they  sang  all  night  to  him,  spinning 
restment  of  the  Knaves  and  Dastards'  assiduous  on  their  cotton  distaffs,  as  he 
has  become  indispensable  !  —  The  page  of  45  lay  to  sleep:  '  Let  us  pity  the  poor  white 
Dryasdust  is  heavy  with  such  details.  nian ;  no  mother  has  he  to  fetch  him  milk. 

And  yet  I  will  venture  to  believe  that  in  "o  sister  to  grind  him  corn  !  '  Thou  poor 
no  time,  since  the  beginnings  of  Society,  black  Noble  One,— thou  Lady  too:  did 
was  the  lot  of  those  same  dumb  millions  not  a  God  make  thee  too;  was  there 
of  toilers  so  entirely  unbearable  as  it  is  50  not  in  thee  too  somethmg  of  a  God !  — 
even   in   the  days   now  passing  over   us. 

It  is  not  to  die,  or  even  to  die  of  hunger,  Gurth,  born  thrall  of  Cedric  the  Saxon, 

that  makes  a  man  wretched ;  many  men  has  been  greatly  pitied  by  Dryasdust  and 
have  died ;  all  men  must  die, —  the  last  others.  Gurth,  with  the  brass  collar 
exit  of  us  all  is  in  a  Fire-Chariot  of  55  round  his  neck,  tending  Cedric's  pigs  in 
Pain.  But  it  is  to  live  miserable  we  know  the  glades  of  the  wood,  is  not  what  I  call 
not  why ;  to  work  sore  and  yet  gain  noth-      an     exemplar     of     human     felicity :     but 


rjG  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


Gurth,  with  the  sky  above  him,  with  the  ended  in  death  and  wreck.  O  that  the 
free  air  and  tinted  boscage  and  umbrage  Newspaper  had  called  me  slave,  coward, 
round  him,  and  in  him  at  least  the  cer-  fool,  or  what  it  pleased  their  sweet 
tainty  of  supper  and  social  lodging  when  voices  to  name  me,  and  I  had  attained  not 
he  came  home;  Gurth  to  me  seems  happy,  5  death,  but  life!  —  Liberty  requires  new 
in    comparison    with    many    a    Lancashire      definitions. 

and  Buckinghamshire  man  of  these  days,  A  conscious  abhorrence  and  intolerance 

not  born  thrall  of  anybody !  Gurth's  of  Folly,  of  Baseness,  Stupidity,  Pol- 
brass  collar  did  not  gall  him :  Cedric  dc-  troonery  and  all  that  brood  of  things, 
served  to  be  his  master.  The  pigs  were  10  dwells  deep  in  some  men :  still  deeper  in 
Cedric's,  but  Gurth  too  would  get  his  par-  others  an  z<»conscious  abhorrence  and  in- 
ings  of  them.  Gurth  had  the  inexprcss-  tolerance,  clothed  moreover  by  the  be- 
ible  satisfaction  of  feeling  himself  related  neficent  Supreme  Powers  in  what  stout 
indissolubly,  though  in  a  rude  brass-collar  appetites,  energies,  egoisms  so-called,  are 
way,  to  his  fellow-mortals  in  this  Earth.  J5  suitalile  to  it;  —  these  latter  are  your 
He  had  superiors,  inferiors,  equals. —  Conquerors,  Romans,  Normans,  Russians, 
Gurth  is  now  '  emancipated  '  long  since ;  Indo-English ;  Founders  of  what  we  call 
has  what  we  call  '  Liberty.'  Liberty,  I  Aristocracies.  Which  indeed  have  they 
am  told,  is  a  divine  thing.  Liberty  when  not  the  most  'divine  right'  to  found;  — 
it  becomes  the  *  Liberty  to  die  by  starva-  20  being  themselves  very  truly  "Apto-roj, 
tion  '  is  not  so  divine !  Bravest,  Best  ;  and  conquering  generally 

Liberty?  The  true  liberty  of  a  man,  a  confused  rabble  of  Worst,  or  at  lowest, 
you  would  say,  consisted  in  his  finding  clearly  enough,  of  Worse?  I  think  their 
out,  or  being  forced  to  find  out  the  right  divine  right,  tried,  with  affirmatory  ver- 
path,  and  to  walk  thereon.  To  learn,  or  25  ^\^^^  j^  the  greatest  Law-Court  known 
to  be  taught,  what  work  he  actually  was  to  me,  was  good !  A  class  of  men  who 
able  for;  and  then  by  permission,  per-  are  dreadfully  exclaimed  against  by 
suasion,  and  even  compulsion,  to  set  Dryasdust ;  of  whom  nevertheless  be- 
about  doing  of  the  same!  That  is  his  neficent  Nature  has  oftentimes  had  need; 
true  blessedness,  honor,  '  liberty '  and  30  and  may,  alas,  again  have  need, 
maximum  of  wellbeing:  if  liberty  be  not  When,     across     the    hundredfold     poor 

that,  I  for  one  have  small  care  about  scepticisms,  trivialisms  and  constitutional 
liberty.  You  do  not  allow  a  palpable  cobwebberies  of  Dryasdust,  you  catch  any 
madman  to  leap  over  precipices ;  you  glimpse  of  a  William  the  Conqueror,  a 
violate  his  liberty,  you  that  are  wise ;  and  35  Tancred  of  Hauteville  or  such  like, —  do 
keep  him,  were  it  in  strait-waistcoats,  you  not  discern  veritably  some  rude  out- 
away  from  the  precipices!  Every  stupid,  line  of  a  true  God-made  King;  whom  not 
every  cowardly  and  foolish  man  is  but  the  Champion  of  England  cased  in  tin, 
a  less  palpable  madman :  his  true  liberty  but  all  Nature  and  the  Universe  were 
were  that  a  wiser  man,  that  any  and  40  calling  to  the  throne?  It  is  absolutely 
every  wiser  man,  could,  by  brass  collars,  necessary  that  he  get  thither.  Nature 
or  in  whatever  milder  or  sharper  way,  does  not  mean  her  poor  Saxon  children  to 
lay  hold  of  him  when  he  was  going  perish,  of  obesity,  stupor  or  other  malady, 
wrong,  and  order  and  compel  him  to  go  as  yet:  a  stern  Ruler  and  Line  of  Rulers 
a  little  righter.  O,  if  thou  really  art  my  45  therefore  is  called  in, —  a  stern  but  most 
Senior,  Seigneur,  my  Elder,  Presbyter  or  beneficent  perpetual  House-Surgeon  is  by 
Priest, —  if  thou  art  in  very  deed  my  Nature  herself  called  in,  and  even  the 
Wiser,  may  a  beneficent  instinct  lead  and  appropriate  fees  are  provided  for  him  ! 
impel  thee  to  '  conquer  '  me,  to  command  Dryasdust  talks  lamentably  about  Here- 
me  !  If  thou  do  know  better  than  I  what 50  ward  and  the  Fen  Counties;  fate  of  Earl 
is  good  and  right,  I  conjure  thee  in  the  Waltheof;  Yorkshire  and  the  North  re- 
name of  God,  force  me  to  do  it;  were  it  duced  to  ashes:  all  which  is  undoubtedly 
by  never  such  brass  collars,  whips  and  lamentable.  But  even  Dryasdust  ap- 
handcuffs,  leave  me  not  to  walk  over  prises  me  of  one  fact:  'A  child,  in  this 
precipices!  That  I  have  been  called,  bySS  W'illiam's  reign,  might  have  carried  a 
all  the  Newspapers,  a  '  free  man '  will  purse  of  gold  from  end  to  end  of  Eng- 
avail    me    little,    if   my    pilgrimage    have      land.'     My    erudite    friend,    it    is    a    fact 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  727 


which  outweighs  a  thousand !  Sweep  Splcndcitr  dc  Dicu.' —  I  sa}',  it  is  neces- 
away  thy  constitutional,  sentimental  and  sary  to  get  the  work  out  of  such  a  man, 
other  cobwebberies ;  look  eye  to  eye,  if  however  harsh  that  be!  When  a  world, 
thou  still  have  any  eye,  in  the  face  of  this  not  yet  doomed  for  death,  is  rushing 
big  burly  William  Bastard:  thou  wilt  see  5  down  to  ever-deeper  Baseness  and  Confu- 
a  fellow  of  most  flashing  discernment,  sion,  it  is  a  dire  necessity  of  Nature's  to 
of  most  strong  lion-heart;  in  whom,  as  bring  in  her  Aristocracies,  her  Best, 
it  were,  within  a  frame  of  oak  and  iron,  even  by  forcible  methods.  When  their 
the  gods  have  planted  the  soul  of  a  descendants  or  representatives  cease  en- 
man  of  genius ' !  Dost  _  thou  call  that  10  tirely  to  be  the  Best,  Nature's  poor  world 
nothing?  I  call  it  an  immense  thing!  will  very  soon  rush  down  again  to  Base- 
—  Rage  enough  was  in  this  Willelmus  ness ;  and  it  becomes  a  dire  necessity  of 
Conqujestor,  rage  enough  for  his  occa-  nature's  to  cast  them  out.  Hence  French 
sions ;  —  and  yet  the  essential  element  of  Revolutions,  Five-point  Charters,  Democ- 
him,  as  of  all  such  men,  is  not  scorching  15  racics,  and  a  mournful  list  of  Etceteras, 
fire,  but  shining  illuminative  light.  Fire  in  these  our  afflicted  times. 
and   light   are   strangely   interchangeable;  To    what    extent    Democracy   has    now 

nay,  at  bottom,  I  have  found  them  differ-  reached,  how  it  advances  irresistible  with 
ent  forms  of  the  same  most  godlike  ominous,  ever-increasing  speed,  he  that 
'elementary  substance'  in  our  world:  a  20  will  open  his  eyes  on  any  province  of 
thing  worth  stating  in  these  days.  The  human  affairs  may  discern.  Democracy 
essential  element  of  this  Conquaestor  is,  is  everywhere  the  inexorable  demand  of 
first  of  all,  the  most  sun-eyed  perception  these  ages,  swiftly  fulfilling  itself.  From 
of  what  is  really  what  on  this  God's-  the  thunder  of  Napoleon  battles,  to  the 
Earth;  —  which,  thou  wilt  find,  does  25  jabbering  of  Open-vestry  in  St.  Mary 
mean  at  bottom  'Justice,'  and  'Virtues'  Axe,  all  things  announce  Democracy, 
not  a  few:  Conformity  to  what  the  A  distinguished  man,  whom  some  of  my 
Maker  has  seen  good  to  make;  that,  I  readers  will  hear  again  with  pleasure, 
suppose,  will  mean  Justice  and  a  Virtue  thus  writes  to  me  what  in  these  days  he 
or    two? —  30  notes  from  the  Wahngasse  of  Weissnicht- 

Dost  thou  think  Willelmus  Conqusestor  wo,  where  our  London  fashions  seem  to 
would  have  tolerated  ten  years'  jargon,  be  in  full  vogue.  Let  us  hear  the  Herr 
one  hour's  jargon,  on  the  propriety  of  Teufelsdrockh  again,  were  it  but  the 
killing  Cotton-manufactures   by  partridge      smallest  word ! 

Corn-Laws  ?  I  fancy,  this  was  not  the  35  '  Democracy,  which  means  despair  of 
man  to  knock  out  of  his  night's  rest  with  finding  any  Heroes  to  govern  you,  and 
nothing  but  a  noisy  bedlamism  in  your  contented  putting-up  with  the  want  of 
mouth  !  '  Assist  us  still  better  to  bush  them, —  alas,  thou  too,  mein  Lieber,  seest 
the  partridges;  strangle  Plugson  who  well  how  close  it  is  of  kin  to  Atheism, 
spins  the  shirts?' — 'Par  la  Splendeur  de  40  and  other  sad  Isms:  he  who  discovers 
Dieu!' —  — Dost  thou  think  Willelmus  no  God  whatever,  how  shall  he  discover 
Conquaestor,  in  this  new  time,  with  Heroes,  the  visible  Temples  of  God?  — 
Steamengine  Captains  of  Industry  on  one  Strange  enough  meanwhile  it  is,  to  ob- 
hand  of  him,  and  Joe-Manton  Captains  serve  with  what  thoughtlessness,  here  in 
of  Idleness  on  the  other,  would  have  45  our  rigidly  Conservative  Country,  men 
doubted  which  zvas  really  the  Best;  rush  into  Democracy  with  full  cry.  Be- 
which  did  deserve  strangling,  and  which  yond  doubt,  his  Excellenz  the  Titular- 
not?  Herr    Ritter    Kauderwalsch    von    Pferde- 

I  have  a  certain  indestructible  regard  fuss-Quacksalber,  he  our  distinguished 
for  Willelmus  Conquaestor.  A  resident  50  Conservative  Premier  himself,  and  all 
House-surgeon,  provided  by  Nature  for  but  the  thicker-headed  of  his  Party,  dis- 
her  beloved  English  People,  and  even  fur-  cern  Democracy  to  be  inevitable  as  death, 
nished  with  the  requisite  fees,  as  I  said ;  and  are  even  desperate  of  delaying  it 
for   he   by    no   means    felt   himself   doing      much ! 

Nature's  work,  this  Willelmus,  but  his  55  '  You  cannot  walk  the  streets  without 
own  work  exclusively!  And  his  own  beholding  Democracy  announce  itself: 
work    withal    it    was;    informed    'par    la      the  very  Tailor  has  become,  if  not  prop- 


728  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


crly  Sansculottic,  which  to  him  would  be  and  how,  hemmed-in  by  Sedan  and  Hud- 
ruinous,  yet  a  Tailor  unconsciously  sym-  dersfield,  ijy  Nescience,  Dulness,  Pruri- 
bolizing,  and  prophesying  with  his  scis-  ence,  and  other  sad  necessities  and  laws 
sors,  the  reign  of  Equality.  What  now  is  of  Nature,  it  has  attained  just  to  this: 
our  fashionable  coat  ?  A  thing  of  super-  5  Gray  savagery  of  Three  Sacks  with  a 
finest    texture,    of    deeply   meditated    cut ;      hem ! 

with     Malines-lace     cuffs;     quilted     with  'When  the  very  Tailor  verges  towards 

gold;  so  that  a  man  can  carry,  without  Sansculottism,  is  it  not  ominous?  The 
difficulty,  an  estate  of  land  on  his  back?  last  Divinity  of  poor  mankind  dethron- 
Kcincsxi'cgs,  By  no  manner  of  means !  lo  ing  himself;  sinking  his  taper  too,  flame 
The  Sumptuary  Laws  have  fallen  into  downmost,  like  the  Genius  of  Sleep  or  of 
such  a  state  of  desuetude  as  was  never  Death ;  admonitory  that  Tailor  time  shall 
before  seen.  Our  fashionable  coat  is  an  be  no  more!  —  For,  little  as  one  could 
amphibium  between  barn-sack  and  dray-  advise  Sumptuary  Laws  at  the  present 
man's  doublet.  The  cloth  of  it  is  studi-  15  epoch,  yet  nothing  is  clearer  than  that 
ously  coarse;  the  color  a  speckled  soot-  where  ranks  do  actually  exist,  strict  di- 
black  or  rust-brown  gray;  the  nearest  vision  of  costumes  will  also  be  enforced; 
approach  to  a  Peasant's.  And  for  shape,  that  if  we  ever  have  a  new  Hierarchy 
—  thou  shouldst  see  it!  The  last  con-  and  Aristocracy,  acknowledged  veritably 
summation  of  the  year  now  passing  over  20  as  such,  for  which  I  daily  pray  Heaven, 
us  is  definable  as  Three  Bags;  a  big  bag  the  Tailor  will  reawaken;  and  be,  by 
for  the  body,  two  small  bags  for  the  arms,  volunteering  and  appointment,  con- 
and  by  way  of  collar  a  hem !  The  first  sciously  and  unconsciously,  a  safeguard 
Antique  Cheruscan  who,  of  feltcloth  or  of  that  same.' —  Certain  farther  observa- 
bear's-hide,  with  bone  or  metal  needle,  =5  tions,  from  the  same  invaluable  pen,  on 
set  about  making  himself  a  coat,  before  our  never-ending  changes  of  mode,  our 
Tailors  had  yet  awakened  out  of  No-  '  perpetual  nomadic  and  even  ape-like 
thing, —  did  not  he  make  it  even  so?  A  appetite  for  change  and  mere  change' 
loose  wide  poke  for  body,  with  two  holes  in  all  the  equipments  of  our  existence, 
to  let  out  the  arms ;  this  w^as  his  original  30  and  the  '  fatal  revolutionary  character ' 
coat:  to  which  holes  it  was  soon  visible  thereby  manifested,  we  suppress  for  the 
that  two  small  loose  pokes,  or  sleeves,  present.  It  may  be  admitted  that  De- 
easily  appended,  would  be  an  improve-  mocracy,  in  all  meanings  of  the  word,  is 
ment.  in   full   career;   irresistible   by   any   Ritter 

'  Thus  has  the  Tailor-art,  so  to  speak,  35  Kauderwalsch  or  other  Son  of  Adam,  as 
overset  itself,  like  most  other  things ;  times  go.  '  Liberty '  is  a  thing  men  are 
changed     its     center-of-gravity ;     whirled     determined  to  have. 

suddenly     over     from     zenith     to     nadir.  But  truly,   as   I   had  to   remark   in   the 

Your  Stulz,  with  huge  somerset,  vaults  mean  while,  '  the  liberty  of  not  being 
from  his  high  shopboard  down  to  the  40  oppressed  by  your  fellow  man '  is  an 
depths  of  primal  savagery, —  carrying  indispensable,  yet  one  of  the  most  insig- 
much  along  with  him  !  For  I  will  invite  nificant  fractional  parts  of  Human  Lib- 
thee  to  reflect  that  the  Tailor,  as  top-  erty.  No  man  oppresses  thee,  can  bid 
most  ultimate  froth  of  Human  Society,  thee  fetch  or  carry,  come  or  go,  without 
is  indeed  swift-passing,  evanescent,  slip- 45  reason  shown.  True;  from  all  men  thou 
pery  to  decipher;  yet  significant  of  much,  art  emancipated:  but  from  Thyself  and 
nay  of  all.  Topmost  evanescent  froth,  he  from  the  Devil  —  ?  No  man,  wiser,  un- 
is  churned-up  from  the  very  lees,  and  wiser,  can  make  thee  come  or  go:  but 
from  all  intermediate  regions  of  the  thy  own  futilities,  bewilderments,  thy 
liquor.  The  general  outcome  he,  visible  5°  false  appetites  for  Money,  Windsor 
to  the  eye,  of  what  men  aimed  to  do,  and  Georges  and  suchlike  ?  No  man  op- 
were  obliged  and  enabled  to  do,  in  this  presses  thee,  O  free  and  independent 
one  public  department  of  symbolizing  Franchiser:  but  does  not  this  stupid 
themselves  to  each  other  by  covering  of  Porter-pot  oppress  thee?  No  Son  of 
their  skins.  A  smack  of  all  Human  Life  55  Adam  can  bid  thee  come  or  go;  but  this 
lies  in  the  Tailor:  its  wild  struggles  to-  absurd  Pot  of  Heavy-wet,  this  can  and 
wards  beauty,  dignity,   freedom,   victory ;      does  !     Thou  art  the  thrall  not  of  Cedric 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  729 


the  Saxon,  but  of  thy  own  brutal  appe-  at  present;  and  puts  it  into  the  heads  of 
tites  and  this  scoured  dish  of  liquor,  many,  almost  of  all.  The  liberty  especially 
And  thou  pratest  of  thy  '  liberty '  ?  which  has  to  purchase  itself  by  social 
Thou  entire  blockhead  !  isolation,  and  each  man  standing  separate 

Heavy-wet  and  gin :  alas,  these  are  not  5  from  the  other,  having  '  no  business  with 
the  only  kinds  of  thraldom.  Thou  who  him '  but  a  cash-account :  this  is  such  a 
walkest  in  a  vain  show,  looking  out  with  liberty  as  the  Earth  seldom  saw ;  —  as  the 
ornamental  dilettante  sniff  and  serene  Earth  will  not  long  put  up  with,  recom- 
supremacy  at  all  Life  and  all  Death;  and  mend  it  how  you  may.  This  liberty  turns 
amblest  jauntily;  perking  up  thy  poor  10  out,  before  it  have  long  continued  in 
talk  into  crotchets,  thy  poor  conduct  into  action,  with  all  men  flinging  up  their  caps 
fatuous  somnambulisms ;  —  and  art  as  an  round  it,  to  be,  for  the  Working  Millions 
*  enchanted  Ape  '  under  God's  sky,  where  a  liberty  to  die  by  want  of  food ;  for  the 
thou  mightest  have  been  a  man,  had  Idle  Thousands  and  Units,  alas,  a  still 
proper  School-masters  and  Conquerors,  i5  more  fatal  liberty  to  live  in  want  of 
and  Constables  with  cat-o'-nine  tails,  work;  to  have  no  earnest  duty  to  do  in 
been  vouchsafed  thee;  dost  thou  call  that  this  God's-World  any  more.  What  be- 
'  liberty '  ?  Or  your  unreposing  Mam-  comes  of  a  man  in  such  predicament  ? 
mon-worshipper  again,  driven,  as  if  by  Earth's  Laws  are  silent;  and  Heaven's 
Galvanisms,  by  Devils  and  Fixed-Ideas,  20  speak  in  a  voice  which  is  not  heard.  Nc 
who  rises  early  and  sits  late,  chasing  work,  and  the  ineradicable  need  of  work. 
the  impossible;  straining  every  faculty  give  rise  to  new  very  wondrous  life- 
to  'fill  himself  with  the  east  wind,' —  philosophies,  new  very  wondrous  life  ■ 
how  merciful  were  it,  could  you,  by  mild  practices !  Dilettantism,  Pococurantism, 
persuasion,  or  by  the  severest  tyranny  25  Beau-Brummelism,  with  perhaps  an  oc- 
so-called,  check  him  in  his  mad  path,  and  casional,  half-mad,  protesting  burst  of 
turn  him  into  a  wiser  one !  AH  pain-  Byronism,  establish  themselves :  at  the 
ful  tyranny,  in  that  case  again,  were  but  end  of  a  certain  period, —  if  you  go  back 
mild  '  surgery ; '  the  pain  of  it  cheap,  to  '  the  Dead  Sea,'  there  is,  say  our 
as  health  and  life,  instead  of  galvanism  30  Moslem  friends,  a  very  strange  '  Sabbath- 
and    fixed-idea,    are    cheap    at    any   price,      day  '  transacting  itself  there  !  —  Brethren, 

Sure  enough,  of  all  paths  a  man  could  we  know  but  imperfectly  yet,  after  ages 
strike  into,  there  w,  at  any  given  mo-  of  Constitutional  Government,  what  Lib- 
ment,  a  best  path  for  every  man ;  a  thing  erty  and  Slavery  are. 
which,  here  and  now,  it  were  of  all  35  Democracy,  the  chase  of  Liberty  in  that 
things  iviscst  for  him  to  do; — which  direction,  shall  go  its  full  course;  un- 
could  he  be  but  led  or  driven  to  do,  he  restrainable  by  him  of  Pferdefuss-Quack- 
were  then  doing  '  like  a  man,'  as  we  salber,  or  any  of  his  household.  The 
phrase  it;  all  men  and  gods  agreeing  with  Toiling  Millions  of  Mankind,  in  most 
him,  the  whole  Universe  virtually  ex-  40  vital  need  and  passionate  instinctive  de- 
claiming Well-done  to  him  !  His  success,  sire  of  Guidance,  shall  cast  away  False- 
in  such  case,  were  complete ;  his  felicity  Guidance ;  and  hope,  for  an  hour,  that 
a  maximum.  This  path,  to  find  this  path  No-Guidance  will  suffice  them :  but  it  can 
and  walk  in  it,  is  the  one  thing  needful  be  for  an  hour  only.  The  smallest  item 
for  him.  Whatsoever  forwards  him  in  45  of  human  Slavery  is  the  oppression  of 
that,  let  it  come  to  him  even  in  the  shape  man  by  his  Mock-Superiors;  the  palpa- 
of  blows  and  spurnings,  is  liberty :  what-  blest,  but  I  say  at  bottom  the  smallest, 
soever  hinders  him,  were  it  wardmotes,  Let  him  shake-off  such  oppression, 
open-vestries,  pollbooths,  tremendous  trample  it  indignantly  under  his  feet ;  I 
cheers,  rivers  of  heavy-wet,  is  slavery.      50  blame  him  not,  I  pity  and  commend  him. 

The  notion  that  a  man's  liberty  con-  But  oppression  by  your  Mock-Superiors 
sists  in  giving  his  vote  at  election-hust-  well  shaken  off,  the  grand  problem  yet 
ings,  and  saying,  '  Behold,  now  I  too  have  remains  to  solve :  That  of  finding  govern- 
my  twenty-thousandth  part  of  a  Talker  ment  by  your  Real-Superiors !  Alas,  how 
in  our  National  Palaver;  will  not  all  the  55  shall  we  ever  learn  the  solution  of  that, 
gods  be  good  to  me?' — is  one  of  the  benighted,  bewildered,  snifiing,  sneering, 
pleasantest!     Nature  nevertheless  is  kind     godforgetting    unfortunates    as   we    are? 


730  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


It  is  a  work  for  centuries;  to  be  taught  alone,  but  a  far  deeper  than  these:  it  is 
us  by  tribulations,  confusions,  insurrec-  your  souls  that  lie  dead,  crushed  down 
tions,  obstructions;  who  knows  if  not  by  under  despicable  Nightmares,  Atheisms, 
conflagration  and  despair!  It  is  a  les-  Brain-fumes;  and  are  not  souls  at  all, 
son  inclusive  of  all  other  lessons;  the  5  but  mere  succcdanea  for  salt  to  keep  your 
hardest  of  all  lessons  to  learn.  bodies   and   their   appetites   from   putrefy- 

One  thing  I  do  know:  Those  Apes,  ing !  Your  cotton-spinning  and  thrice- 
chattering  on  the  branches  by  the  Dead  miraculous  mechanism,  what  is  this  too. 
Sea,  never  got  it  learned;  but  chatter  by  itself,  but  a  larger  kind  of  Animalism? 
there  to  this  day.  To  them  no  Moses  lo  Spiders  can  spin,  Beavers  can  l)uild  and 
need  come  a  second  time;  a  thousand  show  contrivance;  the  Ant  lays-up  ac- 
]\Ioseses  would  be  but  so  many  painted  cumulation  of  capital,  and  has,  for  aught 
Phantasms,  interesting  Fellow-Apes  of  I  know,  a  Bank  of  Antland.  If  there  is 
new  strange  aspect,— whom  they  would  no  soul  in  man  higher  than  all  that,  did 
'  invite  to  dinner,'  be  glad  to  meet  with  i5  it  reach  to  sailing  on  the  cloud-rack  and 
in  lion-soirees.  To  them  the  voice  of  spinning  seasand ;  then  I  say,  man  is  but 
Prophecv  of  heavenly  monition,  is  quite  an  animal,  a  more  cunning  kind  of  brute: 
ended  They  chatter  there,  all  Heaven  he  has  no  soul,  but  only  a  succedaneum 
shut  to  them,  to  the  end  of  the  world.  for  salt.  Whereupon,  seeing  himself  to 
The  unfortunates  !  Oh,  what  is  dying  of  20  be  truly  of  the  beasts  that  perish,  he 
hunger,  with  honest  tools  in  your  hand,  ought  to  admit  it,  I  think ;  — and  also 
with  a  manful  purpose  in  your  heart,  and  straightway  universally  to  kdl  himself; 
much  real  labor  lying  round  you  done,  and  so,  in  a  manlike  manner  at  least 
in  comparison?  You  ^honestly  quit  your  end,  and  wave  these  brute-worlds  his 
tools ;  quit  a  most  muddy  confused  coil  ^5  dignified  farewelH  —  ^ 
of  sore  work,  short  rations,  of  sorrows, 
dispiritments  and  contradictions,  having 
now    honestly    done    with    it    all ;  —  and 

await,  not  entirely  in  a  distracted  manner,  BOOK  IV 

what  the   Supreme   Powers,   and  the   Si-  30 

lences    and    the    Eternities   may   have    to  chapter  viii 

say  to  you  ^^^  didactic 

•  A    second   thing   I    know:    This    lesson 
will    have    to    be    learned,—  under    penal-  Certainly  it  were  a  fond  imagination  to 

ties !  England  will  either  learn  it,  or  35  expect  that  any  preaching  of  mine  could 
England  also  will  cease  to  exist  among  abate  Mammonism ;  that  Bobus  of 
Nations.  England  will  either  learn  to  Houndsditch  will  love  his  guineas  less, 
reverence  its  Heroes,  and  discriminate  or  his  poor  soul  more,  for  any  preaching 
them  from  its  Sham-Heroes  and  Valets  of  mine !  But  there  is  one  Preacher  who 
and  gaslighted  Histrios ;  and  to  prize  40  does  preach  with  effect,  and  gradually 
them  as  the  audible  God's-voice,  amid  all  persuade  all  persons:  his  name  is  Des- 
inane  jargons  and  temporary  market-  tiny,  is  Divine  Providence,  and  his  Ser- 
cries,  and  say  to  them  with  heart-loyalty,  mon  the  inflexible  Course  of  Things. 
'  Be  ye  King  and  Priest,  and  Gospel  and  Experience  does  take  dreadfully  high 
Guidance  for  us : '  or  else  England  will  45  school-wages ;  but  he  teaches  like  no 
continue   to   worship   new   and   ever-new      other ! 

forms  of  Quackhood, —  and  so,  with  what  I   revert  to  Friend  Prudence  the  good 

resiliences  and  reboundings  matters  little,  Quaker's  refusal  of  '  seven  thousand 
go  down  to  the  Father  of  Quacks !  Can  pounds  to  boot.'  Friend  Prudence's  prac- 
I  dread  such  things  of  England?  5°  tical  conclusion  will,  by  degrees,  become 
Wretched,  thick-eyed,  gross-hearted  mor-  that  of  all  rational  practical  men  what- 
tals,  why  will  ye  worship  lies,  and  soever.  On  the  present  scheme  and  prin- 
'  Stuffed  Clothes-suits  created  by  the  ciple.  Work  cannot  continue.  Trades' 
ninth-parts  of  men'!  It  is  not  your  Strikes,  Trades'  Unions,  Chartisms;  mu- 
purses  that  suffer;  your  farm-rents,  your  55  tiny,   squalor,    rage   and   desperate   revolt. 

commerces,  your  mill-revenues,  loud  as  growing  ever  more  desperate,  will  go  on 
ye  lament  over  these;  no,  it  is  not  these      their  way.     As  dark  misery  settles  down 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  731 

on  us,  and  our  refuges  of  lies  fall  in  Heaven  forever.  No;  I  reckon  not. 
pieces  one  after  one,  the  hearts  of  men,  Socinian  Preachers  quit  their  pulpits  in 
now  at  last  serious,  will  turn  to  refuges  Yankeeland,  saying,  '  Friends,  this  is  all 
of  truth.  The  eternal  stars  shine  out  gone  to  colored  cobweb,  we  regret  to 
again,  so  soon  as  it  is  dark  enough.  5  say  !  ' —  and   retire  into  the  fields  to  cul- 

Begirt  with  desperate  Trades'  Union-  tivate  onion-beds,  and  live  frugally  on 
ism  and  Anarchic  Mutiny,  many  an  In-  vegetables.  It  is  very  notable.  Old  god- 
dustrial  Law-zvard,  by  and  by,  who  has  like  Calvinism  declares  that  its  old  body 
neglected  to  make  laws  and  keep  them,  is  now  fallen  to  tatters,  and  done ;  and  its 
will  be  heard  saying  to  himself:  '  Why  10  mournful  ghost,  disembodied,  seeking 
have  I  realized  five  hundred  thousand  new  embodiment,  pipes  again  in  the 
pounds?  I  rose  early  and  sat  late,  I  winds;  —  a  ghost  and  spirit  as  yet,  but 
toiled  and  moiled,  and  in  the  sweat  of  heralding  new  Spirit-worlds,  and  better 
my  brow  and  of  my  soul  I  strove  to  gain  Dynasties  than  the  Dollar  one. 
this  money,  that  I  might  become  conspic-  15  Yes,  here  as  there,  light  is  coming  into 
uous,  and  have  some  honor  among  my  the  world ;  men  love  not  darkness,  they 
fellow-creatures.  I  wanted  them  to  do  love  light.  A  deep  feeling  of  the 
honor  me,  to  love  me.  The  money  is  eternal  nature  of  Justice  looks  out  among 
here,  earned  with  my  best  lifeblood ;  but  us  everywhere, —  even  through  the  dull 
the  honor?  I  am  encircled  with  squalor,  20  eyes  of  Exeter  Hall;  an  unspeakable  re- 
with  hunger,  rage,  and  sooty  despera-  ligiousness  struggles,  in  the  most  help- 
tion.  Not  honored,  hardly  even  envied ;  less  manner,  to  speak  itself,  in  Puseyisms 
only  fools  and  the  flunky-species  so  and  the  like.  Of  our  Cant,  all  condem- 
much  as  envy  me.  I  am  conspicuous,  nable,  how  much  is  not  condemnable  with- 
—  as  a  mark  for  curses  and  brick- 25  out  pity;  we  had  almost  said,  without 
bats.  What  good  is  it?  My  five  hundred  respect!  The  J«articulate  worth  and 
scalps  hang  here  in  my  wigwam ;  would  truth  that  is  in  England  goes  down  yet 
to   Heaven   I   had  sought  something  else      to    the   Foundations. 

than  the  scalps ;  would  to  Heaven  I  had  Some  '  Chivalry  of  Labor,'  some  noble 

been  a  Christian  Fighter,  not  a  Chactaw  30  Humanity  and  practical  Divineness  of 
one !  To  have  ruled  and  fought  not  in  a  Labor,  will  yet  be  realized  on  this  Earth. 
Mammonish  but  in  a  Godlike  spirit ;  to  Or  why  tvill;  why  do  we  pray  to  Heaven, 
have  had  the  hearts  of  the  people  bless  without  setting  our  own  shoulder  to  the 
me,  as  a  true  ruler  and  captain  of  my  wheel?  The  Present,  if  it  will  have  the 
people;  to  have  felt  my  own  heart  bless  35  Future  accomplish,  shall  itself  commence, 
me,  and  that  God  above  instead  of  Mam-  Thou  who  prophesiest,  who  believest,  be- 
mon  below  was  blessing  me, —  this  had  gin  thou  to  fulfil.  Here  or  nowhere,  now 
been  something.  Out  of  my  sight,  ye  beg-  equally  as  at  any  time  !  That  outcast 
garly  five  hundred  scalps  of  banker's-thou-  help-needing  thing  or  person,  trampled 
sands:  I  will  try  for  something  other,  40 down  under  vulgar  feet  or  hoofs,  no  help 
or  account  my  life  a  tragical  futility !  '  '  possible '  for  it,  no  prize  offered  for 
*     *     *  the  saving  of  it, —  canst  not  thou  save  it. 

But  truly  it  is  beautiful  to  see  the  then,  without  prize?  Put  forth  thy  hand, 
brutish  empire  of  Mammon  cracking  in  God's  name;  know  that  'impossible,' 
everywhere ;  giving  sure  promise  of  dy-  45  where  Truth  and  Mercy  and  the  ever- 
ing,  or  of  being  changed.  A  strange,  lasting  Voice  of  Natural  order,  has  no 
chill,  almost  ghastly  dayspring  strikes  up  place  in  the  brave  man's  dictionary, 
in  Yankeeland  itself:  my  Transcendental  That  when  all  men  have  said  '  Impos- 
friends  announce  there,  in  a  distinct,  sible,'  and  tumbled  noisily  elsewhither, 
though  somewhat  lankhaired,  ungainly  5°  and  thou  alone  art  left,  then  first  thy 
manner,  that  the  Demiurgus  Dollar  is  time  and  possibility  have  come.  It  is  for 
dethroned ;  that  new  unheard-of  Demiur-  thee  now ;  do  thou  that,  and  ask  no 
gusships,  Priesthoods,  Aristocracies,  man's  counsel,  but  thy  own  only,  and 
Growths  and  Destructions  are  already  God's.  Brother,  thou  hast  possibility  in 
visible  in  the  gray  of  coming  Time.  55  thee  for  much:  the  possibility  of  writing 
Chronos  is  dethroned  by  Jove;  Odin  by  on  the  eternal  skies  the  record  of  a  heroic 
St.    Olaf:     the    Dollar    cannot    rule    in      like.     That  noble  downfallen   or  yet  un- 


732  THOMAS  CARLYLE 


born  '  Impossibility,'  thou  canst  lift  it  up,  and  there  is  no  other  greatness.  To 
thou  canst,  by  thy  soul's  travail,  bring  it  make  some  nook  of  God's  Creation  a 
into  clear  being.  That  loud  inane  Ac-  little  fruitfuller,  better,  more  worthy  of 
tuality,  with  millions  in  its  pocket,  too  God;  to  make  some  human  hearts  a  little 
'possible'  that,  whicli  rolls  along  there,  5  wiser,  manfuller,  happier, —  more  blessed, 
with  quilted  trumpeters  blaring  round  it,  less  accursed!  It  is  work  for  a  God. 
and  all  the  world  escorting  it  as  mute  or  Sooty  Hell  of  mutiny  and  savagery  and 
vocal  flunky, —  escort  it  not  thou;  say  to  despair  can,  by  man's  energy,  be  made  a 
it,  either  nothing,  or  else  deeply  in  thy  kind  of  Heaven;  cleared  of  its  soot,  of 
heart:  'Loud-blaring  Nonentity,  no  force  lo  its  mutiny,  of  its  need  to  mutiny;  the 
of  trumpets,  cash,  Long-acre  art,  or  uni-  everlasting  arch  of  Heaven's  azure  over- 
versal  flunkyhood  of  men,  makes  thee  si)anning  it  too,  and  its  cunning  mechan- 
an  Entity ;  thou  art  a  A''o;ientity,  and  de-  isms  and  tall  chimney-steeples,  as  a  birth 
ceptive  Simulacrum,  more  accursed  than  of  Heaven ;  God  and  all  men  looking  on 
thou    seemest.     Pass    on    in    the    Devil's  15  it  well  pleased. 

name,  unworshipped  by  at  least  one  man,  Unstained   by   wasteful   deformities,   by 

and  leave  the  thoroughfare  clear ! '  wasted  tears  or  heart's-blood  of  men,  or 

Not  on  Ilion's  or  Latium's  plains;  on  any  defacement  of  the  Pit,  noble  fruitful 
far  other  plains  and  places  henceforth  Labor,  growing  ever  nobler,  will  come 
can  noble  deeds  be  now  done.  Not  on  20  forth, —  the  grand  sole  miracle  of  Man ; 
Ilion's  plains ;  how  much  less  in  May-  whereby  Man  has  risen  from  the  low 
fair's  drawingrooms !  Not  in  victory  places  of  this  Earth,  very  literally,  into 
over  poor  brother  French  or  Phrygians ;  divine  Heavens.  Ploughers,  Spinners, 
but  in  victory  over  Frost-jotuns,  Marsh-  Builders;  Prophets,  Poets,  Kings;  Brind- 
giants,  over  demons  of  Discord,  Idleness,  25  leys  and  Goethes,  Odins  and  Arkwrights; 
Injustice,  Unreason,  and  Chaos  come  all  martyrs,  and  noble  men,  and  gods  are 
again.  None  of  the  old  Epics  is  longer  of  one  grand  Host;  immeasurable; 
possible.  The  Epic  of  French  and  Phry-  marching  ever  forward  since  the  begin- 
gians  was  comparatively  a  small  Epic;  nings  of  the  World.  The  enormous,  ail- 
but  that  of  Flirts  and  Fribbles,  what  is  3°  conquering,  flame-crowned  Host,  noble 
that?  A  thing  that  vanishes  at  cock-  every  soldier  in  it;  sacred,  and  alone 
crowing, —  that  already  begins  to  scent  noble.  Let  him  who  is  not  of  it  hide 
the  morning  air.  Gamepreserving  Aris-  himself;  let  him  tremble  for  himself, 
tocracies,  let  them  '  bush  '  never  so  ef-  Stars  at  every  button  cannot  make  him 
fectually,  cannot  escape  the  Subtle  35  noble ;  sheaves  of  Bath-garters,  nor 
Fowler.  Game  seasons  will  be  excel-  bushels  of  Georges;  nor  any  other  con- 
lent,  and  again  will  be  indifferent,  and  trivance  but  manfully  enlisting  in  it,  val- 
by  and  by  they  will  not  be  at  all.  The  iantly  taking  place  and  step  in  it.  O 
Last  Partridge  of  England,  of  an  Eng-  Heavens,  will  he  not  bethink  himself; 
land  where  millions  of  men  can  get  no  40  he  too  is  so  needed  in  the  Host !  It 
corn  to  eat,  will  be  shot  and  ended.  were  so  blessed,  thrice-blessed,  for  him- 
Aristocracies  with  beards  on  their  chins  self  and  for  us  all !  In  hope  of  the  Last 
will  find  other  work  to  do  than  amuse  Partridge,  and  some  Duke  of  Weimar 
themselves   with    trundling-hoops.  among    our    English    Dukes,    we    will    be 

But  it  is  to  you,  ye  Workers,  who  do  45  patient  yet  a  while, 
already    work,    and    are    as    grown    men, 

noble    and   honorable    in   a    sort,   that   the  The  Future  hides  in  it 

whole    world    calls    for    new    work    and  Gladness    and    sorrow; 

nobleness.     Subdue  mutiny,  discord,  wide-  We    press    still    thorow, 

spread    despair,    by    manfulness,    justice,  5o  Naught  that  abides  in  it 

mercy  and  wisdom.     Chaos  is  dark,  deep  Daunting  us,— onward, 

as  Hell;  let  light  be,  and  there  is  instead  *     *     * 

a  green  flowery  World.     Oh,  it  is  great,  (1843) 


JOHN  RUSKIN   (1819-1900) 

Ruskin's  literary  career  divides  itself  into  two  periods :  iu  the  first,  his  supreme  interest 
was  art ;  in  the  second,  his  attention  was  chiefly  directed  to  social  problems  and  ethical 
teaching.  When  he  was  only  seventeen  his  indignation  was  aroused  by  the  current  deprecia- 
tion of  the  great  landscape  painter,  Turner,  to  whom  he  wrote  offering  his  pen  in  defence. 
The  offer  was  declined,  but  this  youthful  project  was  realized  in  Modern  Painters,  the  first 
volume  of  which  Ruskin  published  when  he  was  twenty-four,  and  the  sixth  when  he  was  forty- 
one.  His  main  principles  are  that  truth  is  the  standard  of  all  excellence,  and  nature  the 
inspiration  of  all  great  art ;  he  applies  these  tests  to  establish  the  conclusion  that  Turner 
is  the  only  perfect  landscape  painter  the  world  has  ever  seen.  In  the  midst  of  this 
undertaking,  which  was  expanded  far  beyond  its  original  object,  Ruskin  wrote  The  Seven 
Lamps  of  Architecture  —  (Sacrifice,  Truth,  Power,  Beauty,  Life,  Memory,  Obedience).  He 
developed  his  ideas  further  in  T]ie  Stones  of  Venice,  in  which  he  defended  Gothic  architecture 
on  the  same  grounds  as  he  had  defended  Turner — ^  truthfulness  and  the  love  of  nature.  These 
works  and  the  successive  volumes  of  Modern  Painters  gave  him  an  unprecedented  position 
as  an  art  critic,  but  he  was  already  beginning  to  turn  his  attention  to  other  subjects.  He 
was  greatly  influenced  by  Carlyle,  with  whom  he  formed  a  close  friendship;  and  he  was 
deeply  interested  in  the  Workmen's  College  conducted  by  Maurice  and  Kingsley,  writing  for 
his  pupils  there  The  Elements  of  Drawing  and  The  Elements  of  Perspective.  In  1857  he 
said  that  the  kind  of  painting  they  wanted  in  London  was  painting  cheeks  red  with  health, 
and  in  the  same  year  he  gave  fuller  utterance  to  his  new  ideas  in  a  course  of  lectures  at 
Manchester  on  '  The  Political  Economy  of  Art.'  Four  essays  which  appeared  in  The  Corn- 
hill  Magazine  in  18G0  (afterwards  republished  under  the  title  Unto  This  Last)  were  even 
more  outspoken,  and  caused  so  much  dissatisfaction  that  the  editor  refused  to  continue  the 
series ;  Eraser's  Magazine  a  little  later  took  the  same  course  with  the  papers  now  included 
in  Ruskin's  works  as  Miinera  Pulveris.  He  advocated  the  application  of  christian  principles 
to  the  organization  of  labor,  and  condemned  the  accepted  political  economy  of  the  day  as 
self-seeking  and  unsound.  His  idea  of  political  economy  was  that  it  was  not  an  abstract 
science,  but  '  a  system  of  conduct  founded  on  the  sciences,  and  impossible,  except  under 
certain  conditions  of  moral  culture.'  He  accordingly  devoted  his  maiu  energies  henceforth 
to  arousing  the  upper  classes  to  a  sense  of  their  duties  to  the  poor,  and  helping  the  lower 
classes  to  realize  their  opportunities.  To  this  end  he  wrote,  gave  his  money,  and  labored  with 
his  own  hands.  Time  and  Tide  hy  Vt'eare  and  Tijne  and  Eors  Claviycra  are  letters  to 
workingmen;  Sesame  and  Lilies  and  The  Croicn  of  Wild  Olive  are  lectures  delivered  in 
various  parts  of  England,  dealing  with  political,  social,  and  economical  questions.  He 
held  the  Professorship  of  Fine  Art  at  Oxford  for  many  years,  and  his  courses  there  were 
the  foundation  of  several  of  his  later  works  on  art ;  after  his  retirement  he  wrote  a  series 
of  sketches  of  his  past  life  under  the  title  Prwterita  (things  gone  by).  His  last  years 
were  spent  in  seclusion  at  Brantwood,  on  the  shores  of  Coniston  Water  in  the  Lake  District. 
On  his  eightieth  birthday  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  headed  an  address  which  was  signed 
by  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  time  to  assure  Ruskin  of  their  '  deepest  respect  and 
sincerest  affection.'  While  there  have  been  wide  differences  of  opinion  about  his  theories 
of  art  and  his  views  of  political  economy  and  social  reform,  his  entire  singleness  of  aim  and 
his  preeminence  as  a  writer  of  English  prose  are  beyond  dispute. 


TRAFFIC  you  are  going  to  build :  but  earnestly  and 

seriously  asking  you  to  pardon  me,  I  am 

(A   lecture   delivered  in   the   Town  Hall,      going  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.     I  can- 

Bradford,   afterwards  included   in    The      not   talk,   or  at   least  can   say  very   little, 

Croivn  of  Wild  Olive)  5  about   this   same   Exchange.     I   must   talk 

My  good  Yorkshire  friends,  you  asked      of   quite   other    things,    though    not   will- 

me   down   here   among  your   hills   that   I      ingly ;  —  I  could  not  deserve  your  pardon, 

might   talk   to   you    about   this    Exchange      if  when  you  invited  me  to  speak  on  one 

72,2, 


734  JOHN  RUSKIN 


subject,  I  zvilfully  spoke  on  another.     But      sermons    even    were    you    able    to    preach 
I   cannot   speak,   to  purpose,   of   anything      them,  which  may  be  doubted.' 
about    which    I    do    not    care;    and    most  Permit    me,    therefore,    to    fortify,  this 

simply  and  sorrowfully  I  have  to  tell  you,  old  dogma  of  mine  somewhat.  Taste  is 
in  the  outset,  that  I  do  not  care  about  5  not  oniy  a  part  and  an  index  of  morality 
this  Exchange  of  yours.  — it  is  the  only  morality.     The  first,  and 

If,  however,  when  you  sent  me  your  in-  last,  and  closest  trial  question  to  any 
vitation,  I  had  answered,  'I  won't  come,  living  creature  is,  'What  do  you  like?' 
I  don't  care  about  the  Exchange  of  Brad-  Tell  me  what  you  like,  and  I  '11  tell  you 
ford,'  you  would  have  been  justly  of-  ,3  what  you  are.  Go  out  into  the  street, 
fended  with  me,  not  knowing  the  rea-  and  ask  the  first  man  or  woman  you 
sons  of  so  blunt  a  carelessness.  So  I  meet,  what  their  'taste'  is,  and  if  they 
have  come  down,  hoping  that  you  will  answer  candidly,  you  know  them,  body 
patiently  let  me  tell  you  why,  on  this,  and  soul.  '  You,  my  friend  in  the  rags, 
and  many  other  such  occasions,  I  now  ,5  with  the  unsteady  gait,  what  do  you 
remain  silent,  when  formerly  I  should  like?'  'A  pipe  and  a  quartern  of  gin.' 
have  caught  at  the  opportunity  of  speak-  I  know  you.  '  You,  good  woman,  with 
ing  to  a  gracious  audience.  the  quick  step  and  tidy  bonnet,  what  do 

In  a  word,  then,  I  do  not  care  about  you  like?'  'A  swept  hearth  and  a  clean 
this  Exchange, —  because  you  don't;  and  20  tea-table,  and  my  husband  opposite  me, 
because  you  know  perfectly  well  I  can-  and  a  baby  at  my  breast.'  Good,  I  know- 
not  make  you.  Look  at  the  essential  you  also.  '  You,  little  girl  with  the 
conditions  of  the  case,  which  you,  as  golden  hair  and  the  soft  eyes,  what  do 
l)usiness  men,  know  perfectly  well,  you  like?'  'My  canary,  and  a  run 
though  perhaps  you  think  I  forget  them.  25  among  the  wood  hyacinths.'  '  You,  little 
You  are  going  to  spend  £30,000,  which  to  boy  with  the  dirty  hands  and  the  low 
you,  collectively,  is  nothing;  the  buying  forehead,  what  do  you  like?'  _' A  shy  at 
a  new  coat  is,  as  to  the  cost  of  it,  a  the  sparrows,  and  a  game  at  pitch  farth- 
much  more  important  matter  of  consider-  ing.'  Good;  we  know  them  all  now. 
ation  to  me  than  building  a  new  Ex- 3°  What  more  need  v^^e  ask? 
change    is    to    you.     But   you   think   you  'Nay,'  perhaps  you  answer:     'we  need 

may  as  well  have  the  right  thing  for  rather  to  ask  what  these  people  and  chil- 
your  money.  You  know  there  are  a  dren  do,  than  what  they  like.  If  they  do 
great  many  odd  styles  of  architecture  right,  it  is  no  matter  that  they  like  what 
about;  you  don't  want  to  do  anything  3S  is  wrong;  and  if  they  do  wrong,  it  is 
ridiculous ;  you  hear  of  me,  among  others,  no  matter  that  they  like  what  is  right. 
as  a  respectable  architectural  man-mil-  Doing  is  the  great  thing;  and  it  does 
liner;  and  you  send  for  me,  that  I  may  not  matter  that  the  man  likes  drinking, 
tell  you  the  leading  fashion ;  and  what  so  that  he  does  not  drink ;  nor  that  the 
is,  in  our  shops,  for  the  moment,  the  40  little  girl  likes  to  be  kind  to  her  canary, 
newest   and   sweetest   thing   in   pinnacles.      if  she  will  not  learn  her  lessons;  nor  that 

Now,  pardon  me  for  telling  you  the  little  boy  likes  throwing  stones  at 
frankly,  you  cannot  have  good  architec-  the  sparrows,  if  he  goes  to  the  Sunday 
ture  merely  by  asking  people's  advice  on  School.'  Indeed,  for  a  short  time,  and 
occasion.  All  good  architecture  is  the  45  in  a  provisional  sense,  this  is  true.  For 
expression  of  national  life  and  character;  if,  resolutely,  people  do  what  is  right,  in 
and  it  is  produced  by  a  prevalent  and  time  they  come  to  like  doing  it.  But 
eager  national  taste,  or  desire  for  beauty,  they  only  are  in  a  right  moral  state  when 
And  I  want  you  to  think  a  little  of  the  they  have  come  to  like  doing  it;  and  as 
deep  significance  of  this  word  '  taste ;  '  5°  Jong  as  they  don't  like  it,  they  are  still  in 
for  no  statement  of  mine  has  been  more  a  vicious  state.  The  man  is  not  in  health 
earnestly  or  oftener  controverted  than  of  body  who  is  always  thinking  of  the 
that  good  taste  is  essentially  a  moral  bottle  in  the  cupboard,  though  he  bravely 
quality.  '  No,'  say  many  of  my  antago-  bears  his  thirst;  but  the  man  who  heartily 
nists,  'taste  is  one  thing,  morality  is  an- 55  enjoys  water  in  the  morning  and  wine 
other.  Tell  us  what  is  pretty:  we  shall  in  the  evening,  each  in  its  proper  quan- 
be   glad    to   know   that;   but   we   need   no      tity  and   time.     And  the   entire  object  of 


TRAFFIC  735 


true  education  is  to  make  people  not  you  lil<e,  belongs  to  the  same  class  with 
merely  do  the  right  things,  but  enjoy  the  you,  I  think.  Inevitably  so.  You  may 
right  things  —  not  merely  industrious,  but  put  him  to  other  work  if  you  choose;  but, 
to  love  industry  —  not  merely  learned,  but  by  the  condition  you  have  brought  him 
to  love  knowledge  —  not  merely  pure,  but  5  into,  he  will  dislike  the  other  work  as 
to  love  purity  —  not  merely  just,  but  to  much  as  you  would  yourself.  You  get 
hunger  and  thirst  after  justice.  hold  of  a   scavenger,  or  a   costermonger, 

But  you  may  answer  or  think,  '  Is  the  who  enjoyed  the  Newgate  Calendar  for 
liking  for  outside  ornaments, —  for  pic-  literature,  and  '  Pop  goes  the  Weasel ' 
tures,  or  statues,  or  furniture,  or  archi-  lo  for  music.  You  think  you  can  make  him 
tecture, —  a  moral  quality?'  Yes,  most  like  Dante  and  Beethoven?  I  wish  you 
surely,  if  a  rightly  set  liking.  Taste  for  joy  of  your  lessons;  but  if  you  do,  you 
any  pictures  or  statues  is  not  a  moral  have  made  a  gentleman  of  him :  —  he 
quality,  but  taste  for  good  ones  is.  Only  won't  like  to  go  back  to  his  costermonger- 
here  again  we  have  to  define  the  word  15  ing.' 
'  good.'     I   don't  mean  by   '  good,'   clever         And  so  completely  and  unexceptionally 

—  or  learned  —  or  difficult  in  the  doing.  is  this  so,  that,  if  I  had  time  to-night,  I 
Take  a  picture  by  Teniers,  of  sots  quar-  could  show  you  that  a  nation  cannot  be 
reling  over  their  dice :  it  is  an  entirely  affected  by  any  vice,  or  weakness,  with- 
clever  picture;  so  clever  that  nothing  in  20  out  expressing  it,  legibly,  and  forever, 
its  kind  has  ever  been  done  equal  to  it;  either  in  bad  art,  or  by  want  of  art;  and 
but  it  is  also  an  entirely  base  and  evil  that  there  is  no  national  virtue,  small  or 
picture.  It  is  an  expression  of  delight  in  great,  which  is  not  manifestly  expressed 
the  prolonged  contemplation  of  a  vile  in  all  the  art  which  circumstances  enable 
thing,  and  delight  in  that  is  an  '  unman-  25  the  people  possessing  that  virtue  to  pro- 
nered,'  or  '  immoral '  quality.  It  is  '  bad  duce.  Take,  for  instance,  your  great 
taste '  in  the  profoundest  sense  —  it  is  English  virtue  of  enduring  and  patient 
the  taste  of  the  devils.  On  the  other  courage.  You  have  at  present  in  Eng- 
hand,  a  picture  of  Titian's,  or  a  Greek  land  only  one  art  of  any  consequence  — 
statue,  or  a  Greek  coin,  or  a  Turner  land-  30  that  is,  iron-working.  You  know  thor- 
scape,  expresses  delight  in  the  perpetual  oughly  well  how  to  cast  and  hammer 
contemplation  of  a  good  and  perfect  iron.  Now,  do  you  think  in  those  masses 
thing.     That  is  an  entirely  moral  quality      of   lava   which   you   build   volcanic   cones 

—  it  is  the  taste  of  the  angels.  And  all  to  melt,  and  which  you  forge  at  the 
delight  in  fine  art,  and  all  love  of  it,  re-  35  mouths  of  the  Infernos  you  have  created ; 
solve  themselves  into  simple  love  of  that  do  you  think,  on  those  iron  plates,  your 
which  deserves  love.  That  deserving  is  courage  and  endurance  are  not  written 
the  quality  which  we  call  'loveliness' —  forever  —  not  merely  with  an  iron  pen, 
(we  ought  to  have  an  opposite  word,  hate-  but  on  iron  parchment?  And  take  also 
liness,  to  be  said  of  the  things  which  de- 40  your  great  English  vice  —  European  vice 
serve  to  be  hated)  ;  and  it  is  not  an  in-  — vice  of  all  the  world — vice  of  all  other 
different  nor  optional  thing  whether  we  worlds  that  roll  or  shine  in  heaven,  bear- 
love  this  or  that;  but  it  is  just  the  vital  ing  with  them  yet  the  atmosphere  of  hell 
function  of  all  our  being.  What  we  — the  vice  of  jealousy,  which  brings 
like  determines  what  we  are,  and  is  the  45  competition  into  your  commerce,  treach- 
sign  of  what  we  are;  and  to  teach  taste  ery  into  your  councils,  and  dishonor 
is   inevitably   to   form   character.  into    your    wars  —  that    vice    which    has 

As  I  was  thinking  over  this,  in  walking  rendered  for  you,  and  for  your  next 
up  Fleet  Street  the  other  day,  my  eye  neighboring  nation,  the  daily  occupations 
caught  the  title  of  a  book  standing  open  so  of  existence  no  longer  possil)le,  but  with 
in  a  bookseller's  window.  It  was —  the  mail  upon  your  breasts  and  the  sword 
'  On  the  necessity  of  the  diffusion  of  loose  in  its  sheath ;  so  that  at  last,  you 
taste  among  all  classes.'  '  Ah,'  I  thought  have  realized  for  all  the  multitudes  of  the 
to  myself,  '  my  classifying  friend,  when  two  great  peoples  who  lead  the  so-called 
you  have  diffused  your  taste,  where  will  55  civilization  of  the  earth, —  you  have 
your  classes  be?     The  man  who  likes  what      realized    for    them    all,    I    say,    in    person 


736  JOHN  RUSKIN 


and  in  policy,  what  was  once  true  only  one  clown  in  it ;  but  when  the  whole  world 
of  the  rough  Border  riders  of  your  turns  clown,  and  paints  itself  red  with 
Cheviot  hills —  its   own   heart's   blood   instead   of   vermil- 

ion,   it    is    something   else   than    comic,    I 
They  carved  at  the  meal  5  think. 

With  gloves  of  steel.  Mind,   I   know   a  great  deal  of  this   is 

And   they  drank  the  red   wine  through  the      play,   and   willingly   allow   for   that.     You 

helmet   barred ;  —  don't   know   what   to   do   with   yourselves 

for  a  sensation:  fox-hunting  and  cricket- 
do  you  think  that  this  national  shame  lo  ing  will  not  carry  you  through  the  whole 
and  dastardliness  of  heart  are  not  written  of  this  unendurably  long  mortal  life: 
as  legibly  on  every  rivet  of  your  iron  you  liked  pop-guns  when  you  were  school- 
armor  as  the  strength  of  the  right  hands  boys,  and  rifles  and  Armstrongs  ^re  only 
that  forged  it?  the    same    things    better    made:    but   then 

Friends,  I  know  not  whether  this  thing  .5  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  what  was  play  to 
be  the  more  ludicrous  or  the  more  melan-  you  when  boys,  was  not  play  to  the 
choly.  It  is  quite  unspeakably  both.  ^.parrows ;  and  what  is  play  to  you  now, 
Suppose,  instead  of  being  now  sent  for  is  not  play  to  the  small  birds  of  State 
by  you,  I  had  been  sent  for  by  some  neither ;  and  for  the  black  eagles,  you  are 
private  gentleman,  living  in  a  suburban  20  somewhat  shy  of  taking  shots  at  them, 
house,  with  his  garden  separated  only  by      if  I  mistake  not. 

a    fruit-wall    from    his    next   door    neigh-  I  must  get  back  to  the  matter  in  hand, 

bor's ;  and  he  had  called  me  to  consult  however.  Believe  me,  without  farther 
with  him  on  the  furnishing  of  his  drawing  instance,  I  could  show  you,  in  all  time, 
room.  I  begin  looking  about  me,  and  25  that  every  nation's  vice,  or  virtue,  was 
find  the  walls  rather  bare;  I  think  such  written  in  its  art:  the  soldiership  of  early 
and  such  a  paper  might  be  desirable —  Greece;  the  sensuality  of  late  Italy;  the 
perhaps  a  little  fresco  here  and  there  on  visionary  religion  of  Tuscany;  the 
the  ceiling— a  damask  curtain  or  so  at  splendid  human  energy  and  beauty  of 
the  windows.  '  Ah,'  says  my  employer,  30  Venice.  I  have  no  time  to  do  this  to- 
'  damask  curtains,  indeed!  That's  all  night  (I  have  done  it  elsewhere  before 
very  fine,  but  you  know  I  can't  afford  now)  ;  but  I  proceed  to  apply  the  prin- 
that  kind  of  thing  just  now !  '  '  Yet  the  ciple  to  ourselves  in  a  more  searching 
world    credits    you    with    a    splendid    in-      manner. 

come ! '  '  Ah,  yes,'  says  my  friend,  '  but  35  I  notice  that  among  all  the  new  build- 
do  you  know,  at  present,  I  am  obliged  ings  which  cover  your  once  wild  hills, 
to  spend  it  nearly  all  in  steel-traps?'  churches  and  schools  are  mixed  in  due. 
Steel-traps!  for  whom?'  'Why,  for  that  is  to  say,  in  large  proportion,  with 
that  fellow  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  your  mills  and  mansions;  and  I  notice 
you  know :  we  're  very  good  friends,  40  also  that  the  churches  and  schools  are 
but  we  are  obliged  to  keep  our  traps  set  almost  always  Gothic,  and  the  mansions 
on  both  sides  of  the  wall;  we  could  not  and  mills  are  never  Gothic.  Will  you 
possibly  keep  on  friendly  terms  without  allow  me  to  ask  precisely  the  meaning  of 
them,  and  our  spring  guns.  The  worst  this?  For,  remember,  it  is  peculiarly  a 
of  it  is,  we  are  both  clever  fellows  45  modern  phenomenon.  When  Gothic  was 
enough ;  and  there  's  never  a  day  passes  invented,  houses  were  Gothic  as  well  as 
that  we  don't  find  out  a  new  trap,  or  a  churches;  and  when  the  Italian  style 
new  gun-barrel,  or  something;  we  spend  superseded  the  Gothic,  churches  were 
about  fifteen  millions  a  year  each  in  our  Italian  as  well  as  houses.  If  there  is 
traps,  take  it  all  together ;  and  I  don't  see  to  a  Gothic  spire  to  the  cathedral  of  Ant- 
how  we  're  to  do  with  less.'  A  highly  werp,  there  is  a  Gothic  belfry  to  the 
comic  state  of  life  for  two  private  gentle-  Hotel  de  Ville  at  Brussels:  if  Inigo  Jones 
men !  but  for  two  nations,  it  seems  to  builds  an  Italian  Whitehall,  Sir  Chris- 
me,  not  wholly  comic?  Bedlam  would  topher  Wren  builds  an  Italian  St.  Paul's, 
be  comic,  perhaps,  if  there  were  only  one  ^1;  But  now  you  live  under  one  school  of 
madman  in  it;  and  your  Christmas  architecture,  and  worship  under  another, 
pantomime  is  comic,  when  there  is  only      What  do  you  mean  by  doing  this?    Am  I 


TRAFFIC  737 


to  understand  that  you  are  thinking  of  rent-bitten,  snow-blighted;  this  any  place 
changing  your  architecture  back  to  where  God  lets  down  the  ladder.  And 
Gothic;  and  that  you  treat  your  churches  how  are  you  to  know  where  that  will  be? 
experimentally,  because  it  does  not  matter  or  how  are  you  to  determine  where  it  may 
what  mistakes  you  make  in  a  church?  5  be,  but  by  being  ready  for  it  always?  Do 
Or  am  I  to  understand  that  you  consider  you  know  where  the  lightning  is  to  fall 
Gothic  a  pre-eminently  sacred  and  beauti-  next?  You  do  know  that,  partly;  you 
ful  mode  of  building,  which  you  think,  can  guide  the  lightning;  but  you  cannot 
like  the  fine  frankincense,  should  be  guide  the  going  forth  of  the  Spirit,  which 
mixed  for  the  tabernacle  only,  and  re-  10  is  as  that  lightning  when  it  shines  from 
served  for  your  religious  services?     For      the  east  to  the  west. 

if  this  be  the  feeling,  though  it  may  seem  But  the  perpetual  and  insolent  warping 

at  first  as  if  it  were  graceful  and  reverent,  of  that  strong  verse  to  serve  a  merely 
at  the  root  of  the  matter,  it  signifies  ecclesiastical  purpose,  is  only  one  of  the 
neither  more  nor  less  than  that  you  have  i5  thousand  instances  in  which  we  sink 
separated  your  religion  from  your  life.  back    into    gross   Judaism.     We    call    our 

For  consider  what  a  wide  significance  churches  '  temples.'  Now,  you  know  per- 
this  fact  has ;  and  remember  that  it  is  fectly  well  they  are  not  temples.  They 
not  you  only,  but  all  the  people  of  Eng-  have  never  had,  never  can  have,  any- 
land,  who  are  behaving  thus  just  now.      20  thing  whatever  to  do  with  temples.     They 

You  have  all  got  into  the  habit  of  are  '  synagogues ' — '  gathering  places ' — 
calling  the  church  '  the  house  of  God.'  where  you  gather  yourselves  together  as 
I  have  seen,  over  the  doors  of  many  an  assembly;  and  by  not  calling  them  so, 
churches,  the  legend  actually  carved,  you  again  miss  the  force  of  another  mighty 
'This  is  the  house  of  God,  and  this  is  25  text — 'Thou,  when  thou  prayest,  shalt 
the  gate  of  heaven.'  Now,  note  where  not  be  as  the  hypocrites  are;  for  they 
that  legend  comes  from,  and  of  what  love  to  pray  standing  in  the  churches ' 
place  it  was  first  spoken.  A  boy  leaves  (we  should  translate  it),  'that  they  may 
his  father's  house  to  go  on  a  long  jour-  be  seen  of  men.  But  thou,  when  thou 
ney  on  foot,  to  visit  his  uncle ;  he  has  30  prayest,  enter  into  thy  closet,  and  when 
to  cross  a  wild  hill-desert;  just  as  if  one  thou  hast  shut  thy  door,  pray  to  thy 
of  your  own  boys  had  to  cross  the  wolds  Father,' —  which  is,  not  in  chancel  nor 
to  visit  an  uncle  at  Carlisle.  The  second  in  aisle,  but  '  in  secret.' 
or  third  day  your  boy  finds  himself  some-  Now,  you  feel,  as  I  say  this  to  you  — 

where  between  Hawes  and  Brough,  in  the  3s  I  know  you  feel  —  as  if  I  were  trying 
midst  of  the  moors,  at  sunset.  It  is  stony  to  take  away  the  honor  of  your  churches, 
ground,  and  boggy ;  he  cannot  go  one  foot  Not  so ;  I  am  trying  to  prove  to  you  the 
farther  that  night.  Down  he  lies,  to  honor  of  your  houses  and  your  hills;  not 
sleep,  on  Wharnside,  where  best  he  may,  that  the  Church  is  not  sacred  —  but  that 
gathering  a  few  of  the  stones  together  40  the  whole  Earth  is.  I  would  have  you 
to  put  under  his  head ;  —  so  wild  the  feel,  what  careless,  what  constant,  what 
place  is,  he  cannot  get  anything  but  infectious  sin  there  is  in  all  modes  of 
stones.  And  there,  lying  under  the  broad  thought,  whereby,  in  calling  your 
night,  he  has  a  dream ;  and  he  sees  a  churches  only  '  holy,'  you  call  your 
ladder  set  up  on  the  earth,  and  the  top  45  hearths  and  homes  'profane';  and  have 
of  it  reaches  to  heaven,  and  the  angels  separated  yourselves  from  the  heathen  by 
of  God  are  seen  ascending  and  descending  casting  all  your  household  gods  to  the 
upon  it.  And  when  he  wakes  out  of  his  ground,  instead  of  recognizing,  in  the 
sleep,  he  says,  '  How  dreadful  is  this  place  of  their  many  and  feeble  Lares, 
place ;  surely,  this  is  none  other  than  the  5o  the  presence  of  your  One  and  Mighty 
house   of   God,   and  this   is   the   gate   of      Lord  and  Lar. 

heaven.'     This    place,   observe;   not    this  'But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  our 

church :  not  this  city ;  not  this  stone,  even,  Exchange?'  you  ask  me,  impatiently, 
which  he  puts  up  for  a  memorial  —  the  My  dear  friends,  it  has  just  everything 
piece  of  flint  on  which  his  head  has  lain.  55  to  do  with  it ;  on  these  inner  and  great 
But  this  place;  this  windy  slope  of  questions  depend  all  the  outer  and  little 
Wharnside;    this    moorland    hollow,    tor-      ones;   and   if  you   have   asked   me  down 

47 


738  JOHN  RUSKIN 


here  to  speak  to  you,  because  you  had  tecture  ^  has  always  been  the  work  of  the 
before  been  interested  in  anything  I  have  commonalty,  not  of  the  clergy.  What, 
written,  you  must  know  that  all  I  have  you  say,  those  glorious  cathedrals  —  the 
yet  said  about  architecture  was  to  show  pride  of  Europe- — did  their  builders  not 
this.  The  book  I  called  'The  Seven  5  form  (iothic  architecture?  No;  they  cor- 
Lamps '  was  to  show  that  certain  right  rupted  (lothic  architecture.  Gothic  was 
states  of  temper  and  moral  feeling  were  formed  in  the  Ijaron's  castle,  and  the 
the  magic  powers  by  which  all  good  burgher's  street.  It  was  formed  by  the 
architecture,  without  exception,  had  been  thoughts,  and  hands,  and  powers  of  free 
produced.  '  The  Stones  of  Venice  '  had,  10  citizens  and  warrior  kings.  By  the  monk 
from  beginning  to  end,  no  other  aim  than  it  was  used  as  an  instrument  for  the  aid 
to  show  that  the  Gothic  architecture  of  of  his  superstition ;  when  that  superstition 
Venice  had  arisen  out  of,  and  indicated  became  a  beautiful  madness,  and  the  best 
in  all  its  features,  a  state  of  pure  national  hearts  of  Euro])e  vainly  dreamed  and 
faith,  and  of  domestic  virtue;  and  that  its  15  pined  in  the  cloister,  and  vainly  raged 
Renaissance  architecture  had  arisen  out  and  perished  in  the  crusade  —  through 
of,  and  in  all  its  features  indicated,  a  that  fury  of  perverted  faith  and  wasted 
state  of  concealed  national  infidelity,  and  war,  the  Gothic  rose  also  to  its  loveliest, 
of  domestic  corruption.  And  now,  you  most  fantastic,  and,  finally,  most  foolish 
ask  me  what  style  is  best  to  build  in;  and  20  dreams ;  and,  in  those  dreams,  was  lost, 
how  can  I  answer,  knowing  the  meaning  I   hope,   now,   that   there   is   no   risk  of 

of  the  two  styles,  but  by  another  question  your  misunderstanding  me  when  I  come 
—  do  you  mean  to  build  as  Christians  to  the  gist  of  what  I  want  to  say  to- 
or  as  Infidels?  And  still  more  —  do  you  night;  —  when  I  repeat,  that  every  great 
mean  to  build  as  honest  Christians  or  as  25  national  architecture  has  been  the  result 
honest  Infidels?  as  thoroughly  and  con-  and  exponent  of  a  great  national  religion, 
fessedly  either  one  or  the  other?  You  You  can't  have  bits  of  it  here,  bits  there 
don't  like  to  be  asked  such  rude  qucs-  — you  must  have  it  everywhere,  or  no- 
tions. I  cannot  help  it;  they  are  of  much  where.  It  is  not  the  monopoly  of  a 
more  importance  than  this  Exchange  30  clerical  company  —  it  is  not  the  exponent 
business;  and  if  they  can  be  at  once  an-  of  a  theological  dogma  —  it  is  not  the 
swered,  the  Exchange  business  settles  hieroglyphic  writing  of  an  initiated 
itself  in  a  moment.  But,  before  I  press  priesthood;  it  is  the  manly  language  of  a 
them  farther,  I  must  ask  leave  to  explain  people  inspired  by  resolute  and  common 
one  point   clearly.  35  purpose,  and  rendering  resolute  and  com- 

In  all  my  past  work,  my  endeavor  has      nion    fidelity    to    the    legible   laws   of    an 
been   to    show    that    good    architecture    is      undoubted  God. 

essentially    religious  —  the    production    of  Now,  there  have  as  yet  been  three  dis- 

a  faithful  and'  virtuous,  not  of  an  in-  tinct  schools  of  European  architecture, 
fidel  and  corrupted  people.  But  in  the  40  I  say,  European,  because  Asiatic  and 
course  of  doing  this,  I  have  had  also  to  African  architectures  belong  so  entirely 
show  that  good  architecture  is  not  to  other  races  and  climates,  that  there  is 
ecclesiastical.  People  are  so  apt  to  look  no  question  of  them  here;  only,  in 
upon  religion  as  the  business  of  the  passing,  I  will  simply  assure  you  that 
clergy,  not  their  own,  that  the  moment  4^  whatever  is  good  or  great  in  Egypt,  and 
they  hear  of  anything  depending  on  Syria,  and  India,  is  just  good  or  great 
'  religion,'  they  think  it  must  also  have  for  the  same  reasons  as  the  buildmgs  on 
depended  on  the  priesthood;  and  I  have  our  side  of  the  Bosphorus.  We  Euro- 
had  to  take  what  place  was  to  be  oc-  peans,  then,  have  had  three  great  re- 
cupied  between  these  two  errors,  and  5°  hgions :  the  Greek  which  was  the  wor- 
fight  both,  often  with  seeming  contradic-  sjiip  of  the  God  of  Wisdom  and  Power; 
tion.  Good  architecture  is  the  work  of  the  Medieval,  which  was  the  Worship 
good  and  believing  men;  therefore,  you  of  the  God  of  Judgment  and  Consola- 
sav.  at  least  some  people  say.  'Good  tion;  the  Renaissance  which  was  the 
architecture    must    essentially    have    been  55  worship  of  the  God  of  Pride  and  Beauty ; 

the    work   of   the   clergy,   not   of   the    laity.'  1  And  all   other   arts,    for   the  most   part;   even   of 

No  —  a    thousand    times    no;    good    archi-        incredulous   and    secularly-minded   commonalties. 


TRAFFIC  739 


these  three  we  have  had  —  they  are  past,      ardent    affection    or    ultimate    hope ;    but 

—  and  now,  at  last,  we  English  have  got  with  a  resolute  and  continent  energy  of 
a  fourth  religion,  and  a  God  of  our  own,  will,  as  knowing  that  for  failure  there 
about  which  I  want  to  ask  you.  But  I  was  no  consolation,  and  for  sin  there 
must  explain  these  three  old  ones  first.       5  was  no  remission.     And  the  Greek  archi- 

I    repeat,    first,    the    Greeks    essentially      tecture  rose   unerring,   bright,   clearly  de- 
worshipped  the  God  of  Wisdom;   so  that      fined,  and  self-contained, 
whatever  contended  against  their  religion,  Next    followed    in    Europe    the    great 

—  to  the  Jews  a  stumbling  block, —  was,  Christian  faith,  which  was  essentially  the 
to  the  Greeks  —  Foolishness.  lo  religion    of    Comfort.     Its    great   doctrine 

The  first  Greek  idea  of  Deity  was  that  is  the  remission  of  sins;  for  which  cause 
expressed  in  the  word,  of  which  we  keep  it  happens,  too  often,  in  certain  phases 
the  remnant  in  our  words  '  Di-uvna\'  of  Christianity,  that  sin  and  sickness 
and  'Z?/-vine' — the  god  of  Day,  Jupiter  themselves  are  partly  glorified,  as  if,  the 
the  revealer.  Athena  is  his  daughter,  15  more  you  had  to  be  healed  of,  the  more 
but  especially  daughter  of  the  Intellect,  divine  was  the  healing.  The  practical 
springing  armed  from  the  head.  We  are  result  of  this  doctrine,  in  art,  is  a  con- 
only  with  the  help  of  recent  investiga-  tinual  contemplation  of  sin  and  disease, 
tion  beginning  to  penetrate  the  depth  and  of  imaginary  states  of  purification 
of  meaning  couched  under  the  Athenaic  20  from  them ;  thus  we  have  an  architecture 
symbols:  but  I  may  note  rapidly,  that  her  conceived  in  a  mingled  sentiment  of 
xgis,  the  mantle  with  the  serpent  fringes,  melancholy  and  aspiration,  partly  severe, 
in  which  she  often,  in  the  best  statues,  partly  luxuriant,  which  will  bend  itself 
is  represented  as  folding  up  her  left  to  every  one  of  our  needs,  and  every  one 
hand  for  better  guard,  and  the  Gorgon  25  of  our  fancies,  and  be  strong  or  weak 
on  her  shield,  are  both  representative  with  us,  as  we  are  strong  or  weak  our- 
mainly  of  the  chilling  horror  and  sadness  selves.  It  is,  of  all  architecture,  the 
(turning  men  to  stone,  as  it  were,)  of  basest,  when  base  people  build  it  —  of 
the  outmost  and  superficial  spheres  of  all,  the  noblest,  when  built  by  the  noble, 
knowledge  —  that  knowledge  which  sepa- 30  And  now  note  that  both  these  religions 
rates,  in  bitterness,  hardness,  and  sorrow,  —  Greek  and  Medieval  —  perished  by 
the  heart  of  the  full-grown  man  from  falsehood  in  their  own  main  purpose. 
the  heart  of  the  child.  For  out  of  im-  The  Greek  religion  of  Wisdom  perished 
perfect  knowledge  spring  terror,  dissen-  in  a  false  philosophy  — '  Oppositions  of 
sion,  danger,  and  disdain ;  but  from  per-  3s  science,  falsely  so  called.'  The  Mediaeval 
feet  knowledge,  given  by  the  full-revealed  religion  of  Consolation  perished  in  false 
Athena,  strength  and  peace,  in  sign  of  comfort;  in  remission  of  sins  given 
which  she  is  crowned  with  the  olive  lyingly.  It  was  the  selling  of  absolution 
spray,    and   bears   the    resistless    spear.  that  ended  the  Medieval  faith;  and  I  can 

This,  then,  was  the  Greek  conception  40  tell  you  more,  it  is  the  selling  of  absolu- 
of  purest  Deity,  and  every  habit  of  Hfe,  tion  which,  to  the  end  of'  time,  will 
and  every  form  of  his  art  developed  them-  mark  false  Christianity.  Pure  Christianity 
selves  from  the  seeking  this  bright,  se-  gives  her  remission  of  sins  only  by  cnd- 
rene,  resistless  wisdom;  and  setting  ing  them;  but  false  Christianity  gets  her 
himself,  as  a  man,  to  do  things  evermore  45  remission  of  sins  by  compounding  for 
rightly     and     strongly;^     not     with     any      them.     And    there     are     many    ways     of 

1  It   is   an    error   to    suppose   that   the   Greek  wor-  compounding       for       them.      We       English 

ship,   or  seeking,   was  chiefly   of   Beauty.     It   was   es-  have    beautiful    little   quiet   WayS   of   buying 

sentially    of     Rightness    and     Strength,     founded    on  absolution,     whether     in     low     Church^     or 

Forethought:   the  principal  character  of  Greek  art  is  50  j^jj^       far     more      CUnning     than      any     of 

not    Beauty,     but    design:     and    the    Dorian     Apollo-  *>         ,                                               o                           ■' 

worship    and    Athenian    Virgin-worship    are    both    ex-  ^  etzel  S    trading. 

pressions  of  adoration  of  divine  Wisdom  and  Purity.  Then,     thirdly,     there     followed     the     re- 
Next  to  these  great   deities  rank,   in   power  over   the  JJ^Jon    gf    pleasure,     in    which     all     EuropC 
national    mind,    Dionvsus    and    Ceres,    the    givers    of  ^           -i      ir     ^        i                            i-            •         j       Ji 
human   strength   and   life:    then,    for   heroic   example.^  g^ve     itself     tO     luxury,     endmg     HI     death. 

Hercules.    There   is  no   N'enus-worship   among   the"  First,   bals  uiasques  in  every  saloon.   and 

Greeks  in  the  great  times:  and  the  Muses  are  essen-  then  guillotilies  ill  every  Square.  And 
tially     teachers     of     Truth,     and     of     its     harmonies.  H     ^^^  ^^  WOrshipS     isSUC     ill     VaSt 

Compare  Aratra   Pentelici,   §   200.  •^ 


740  JOHN  RUSKIN 


temple  building.  Your  Greek  worshipped  you  know,  all  beautiful  architecture  must 
Wisdom,  and  built  you  the  Parthenon —  be  adorned  with  sculpture  or  painting; 
the  Virgin's  temple.  The  Medieval  wor-  and  for  sculpture  or  painting,  you  must 
shipped  Consolation,  and  built  you  Virgin  have  a  subject.  And  hitherto  it  has  been 
temples  also  —  but  to  our  Lady  of  Salva-  5  a  received  opinion  among  the  nations  of 
tion.  Then  the  Revivalist  worshipped  the  world  that  the  only  right  subjects  for 
beauty,  of  a  sort,  and  built  you  Versailles,  either,  were  heroisms  of  some  sort, 
and  the  Vatican.  Now,  lastly,  will  you  Even  on  his  pots  and  his  flagons,  the 
tell  me  what  zve  worship,  and  what  zuc  Greek  put  a  Hercules  slaying  lions,  or 
build?  10  an   Apollo   slaying   serpents,   or    Bacchus 

You  know  we  are  speaking  always  of  slaying  melancholy  giants,  and  earth- 
the  real,  active,  continual,  national  wor-  liorn  despondencies.  On  his  temples,  the 
ship;  that  by  which  men  act  while  they  Greek  put  contests  of  great  warriors  in 
live;  not  that  which  they  talk  of  when  founding  states,  or  of  gods  with  evil 
they  die.  Now,  we  have,  indeed,  a  15  spirits.  On  his  houses  and  temples  alike, 
nominal  religion,  to  which  we  pay  tithes  the  Christian  put  carvings  of  angels  con- 
of  property  and  sevenths  of  time;  but  we  qucring  devils;  or  of  hero-martyrs  ex- 
have  also  a  practical  and  earnest  reli-  changing  this  world  for  another;  subjects 
gion,  to  which  we  devote  nine-tenths  of  inappropriate,  I  think,  to  our  direction  of 
our  property  and  sixth-sevenths  of  our  20  exchange  here.  And  the  Master  of 
time.  And  we  dispute  a  great  deal  about  Christians  not  only  left  his  followers 
the  nominal  religion;  but  we  are  all  without  any  orders  as  to  the  sculpture  of 
unanimous'  about  this  practical  one,  of  affairs  of  exchange  on  the  outside  of 
which  I  think  you  will  admit  that  the  buildings,  but  gave  some  strong  evidence 
ruling  goddess  may  be  best  generally  25  of  his  dislike  of  affairs  of  exchange  within 
described  as  the  '  Goddess  of  Getting-on,'  them.  And  yet  there  might  surely  be  a 
or  '  Britannia  of  the  Market.'  The  Athe-  heroism  in  such  affairs ;  and  all  commerce 
nians  had  an  '  Athena  Agoraia,'  or  become  a  kind  of  selling  of  doves,  not 
Athena  of  the  Market ;  but  she  was  a  impious.  The  wonder  has  always  been 
subordinate  type  of  their  goddess,  while  30  great  to  me  that  heroism  has  never  been 
our  Britannia  Agoraia  is  the  principal  supposed  to  be  in  anywise  consistent  with 
type  of  ours.  And  all  your  great  archi-  the  practice  of  supplying  people  with 
tectural  works,  are,  of  course,  built  to  food,  or  clothes ;  but  rather  with  that  of 
her.  It  is  long  since  you  built  a  great  quartering  one's  self  upon  them  for  food, 
cathedral;  and  how  you  would  laugh  at  35  and  stripping  them  of  their  clothes, 
me,  if  I  proposed  building  a  cathedral  on  Spoiling  of  armor  is  a  heroic  deed  in 
the  top  of  one  of  these  hills  of  yours,  to  all  ages ;  but  the  selling  of  clothes,  old 
make  it  an  Acropolis !  But  your  railroad  or  new,  has  never  taken  any  color  of 
mounds,  vaster  than  the  walls  of  Babylon ;  magnanimity.  Yet  one  does  not  see  why 
your  railroad  stations,  vaster  than  the  40  feeding  the  hungry  and  clothing  the 
temple  of  Ephesus,  and  innumerable;  naked  should  ever  become  base  business, 
your  chimneys  how  much  more  mighty  even  when  engaged  in  on  a  large  scale, 
and  costly  than  cathedral  spires!  your  H  one  could  contrive  to  attach  the  notion 
harbor  piers;  your  warehouses;  your  ex-  of  conquest  to  them  anyhow!  so  that, 
changes !  —  all  these  are  built  to  your  45  supposing  there  were  anywhere  an  ob- 
great  Goddess  of  'Getting-on';  and  she  stinate  race,  who  refused  to  be  comforted, 
has  formed,  and  will  continue  to  form,  one  might  take  some  pride  in  giving  them 
your  architecture,  as  long  as  you  worship  compulsory  comfort !  ^  and  as  it  were, 
her;  and  it  is  quite  vain  to  ask  me  to  'occupying  a  country'  with  one's  gifts, 
tell  you  how  to  build  to  her;  you  know  50  instead  of  one's  armies  ?  H  one  could 
far  better  than  I.  only    consider    it    as    much    a   victory    to 

There  might  indeed,  on  some  theories,  get  a  barren  field  sown,  as  to  get  an 
be  a  conceivably  good  architecture  for  eared  field  stripped ;  and  contend  who 
Exchanges  —  that  is  to  say,  if  there  were  should  build  villages,  instead  of  who 
any  heroism  in  the  fact  or  deed  of  ex- ss  should  'carry'  them!  Are  not  all  forms 
change,  which  might  be  typically  carved     of    heroism,    conceivable    in    doing    these 

on     the     outside     of     your     building.      For,  1  Quite  serious,  all  this,  thniigh  it  reads  like  jest. 


TRAFFIC 


741 


serviceable  deeds?  You  doubt  who  is  spear,  she  might  have  a  weaver's  beam; 
strongest?  It  might  be  ascertained  by  and  on  her  shield,  instead  of  St.  George's 
push  of  spade,  as  well  as  push  of  sword.  Cross,  the  Milanese  boar,  semi-fleeced, 
Who  is  wisest?  There  are  witty  things  with  the  town  of  Gennesaret  proper,  in 
to  be  thought  of  in  planning  other  busi-  5  the  field,  and  the  legend  '  In  the  best 
ness  than  campaigns.  Who  is  bravest?  market,'^  and  her  corselet,  of  leather. 
There  are  always  the  elements  to  fight  folded  over  her  heart  in  the  shape  of  a 
with,  stronger  than  men;  and  nearly  as  purse,  with  thirty  slits  in  it  for  a  piece 
merciless.  of  money  to   go   in   at,   on   each   day   of 

The    orily    absolutely    and    unapproach- 10  the    month.     And    I   doubt   not    but    that 
ably  heroic  element  in  the  soldier's  work      people  would  come  to  see  your  exchange, 
seems   to   be  —  that   he   is   paid   little    for      and   its   goddess,   with   applause, 
it  — and   regularly:  while  you   traffickers,  Nevertheless,    I    want    to    point    out    to 

and  exchangers,  and  others  occupied  in  you  certain  strange  characters  in  this 
presumably  benevolent  business,  like  to  15  goddess  of  yours.  "  She  differs  from  the 
be  paid  much  for  it  —  and  by  chance.  great  Greek  and  Medieval  deities  essen- 
I  never  can  make  out  how  it  is  that  a  tially  in  two  things  —  first,  as  to  the  con- 
knight-eTrant  does  not  expect  to  be  paid  tinuance  of  her  presumed  power;  sec- 
for  his  trouble,  but  a  peddler-tvrzni  al-  ondly,  as  to  the  extent  of  it. 
ways  does;  —  that  people  are  willing  to  20  1st,  as  to  the  Continuance, 
take  hard  knocks   for  nothing,  but  never  The    Greek    Goddess    of   Wisdom    gave 

to  sell  ribbons  cheap ;  — that  they  are  continual  increase  of  wisdom,  as  the 
ready  to  go  on  fervent  crusades  to  re-  Christian  Spirit  of  Comfort  (or  Com- 
cover  the  tomb  of  a  buried  God,  but  forter)  continual  increase  of  comfort, 
never  on  any  travels  to  fulfil  the  orders  25  There  was  no  question,  with  these,  of  any 
of  a  living  one;  — that  they  will  go  any-  limit  or  cessation  of  function.  But  with 
where  barefoot  to  preach  their  faith,  but  your  Agora  Goddess,  that  is  just  the 
must  be  well  bribed  to  practise  it,  and  most  important  question.  Getting  on — 
are  perfectly  ready  to  give  the  Gospel  but  where  to?  Gathering  together  — 
gratis,   but   never   the   loaves   and   fishes.^  33  but  how  much?     Do  you  mean  to  gather 

If  you  choose  to  take  the  matter  up  always  —  never  to  spend?  If  so,  f  wish 
on  any  such  soldierly  principle,  to  do  you  joy  of  your  goddess,  for  I  'am  just 
your  commerce,  and  your  feedmg  of  as  well  off  as  you,  without  the  trouble 
nations,  for  fixed  salaries;  and  to  be  as  of  worshipping  her  at  all.  But  if  you 
particular  about  giving  people  the  best  3-,  do  not  spend,  som.ebody  else  will  —  some- 
food,  and  the  best  cloth,  as  soldiers  are  body  else  must.  And  it  is  because  of  this 
about  giving  them  the  best  gunpowder,  (among  many  other  such  errors)  that  I 
I  could  carve  something  for  you  on  your  have  fearlessly  declared  your  so-called 
exchange  worth  looking  at.  But  I  can  science  of  Political  Economy  to  be  no 
only  at  present  suggest  decorating  its  ^o  science;  because,  namely,  it  has  omitted 
frieze  with  pendent  purses;  and  making  the  study  of  exactly  the  most  important 
its  pillars  broad  at  the  base,  for  the  branch  of  the  business  — the  studv  of 
sticking  of  bills.  And  in  the  innermost  spending.  For  spend  you  must,  and  as 
chambers  of  it  there  might  be  a  statue  much  'as  you  make,  ultimately.  You 
of  Britannia  of  the  Market,  who  may  45  gather  corn :  —  will  you  bury  England 
have,  perhaps  advisably,  a  partridge  for  ^nder  a  heap  of  grain ;  or  will  you,  When 
her  crest,  typical  at  once  of  her  courage  you  have  gathered,  finally  eat?  You 
in  fighting  for  noble  ideas,  and  of  her  gather  gold :  — will  you  make  your 
interest  in  game;  and  round  its  neck  house-roofs  of  it,  or  pave  your  streets 
the  inscription  m  golden  letters,  Perrciu- 50  with  it?  That  is  still  one  way  of  spend- 
fovit   quae   non  peperitr     Then,    for   her      ing  it.     But  if  you  keep  it,  that  you  may 

1  Please  think  over  this  paragraph,   too  briefly  and        get    more,    I'll    give    yOU    more;     I  '11    give 

antithetically   put,   but   one   of  those   which   I   am      yo^  ^11  the  gold  you  want  —  all  vou  can 

happiest    in    having    written.  •  •  -r  .    i,  i     '  mi 

Uerem.  xvii.  ii  (best  in  Septuagint  and  Vulgate).      miagine  —  if  VOU  Can  tell  me  what  you  11 

•As  the  partridge,  fostering  what  she  brought  not  55  do  With  it.  \  OU  shall  have  thousands  Ot 
forth,    so    lie   that   getteth   riches,   not   by   right    shall 

leave  them   in   the  midst  of  his  days,  and  at  his  end  »  Meaning    fully,    '  We    have    brought    our    pigs    to 

shall   be  a   fool.'  it.' 


742  JOHN  RUSKIN 


gold  pieces;  —  thousands  of  thousands —  stables,  and  coach-houses;  a  moderately 
millions  —  mountains,  of  gold:  where  sized  park;  a  large  garden  and  hot- 
will  you  keep  them?  Will  you  put  an  houses;  and  pleasant  carriage  drives 
Olympus  of  silver  ujion  a  golden   Pclion      through    the    shruhl)eries.     In    this    man- 

—  make  Ossa  like  a  wart?  Do  you  think  5  sion  are  to  live  the  favored  votaries  of 
tiie  rain  and  dew  would  then  come  down  the  Goddess;  the  English  gentleman,  with 
to  you,  in  the  streams  from  such  moun-  his  gracious  wife,  and  his  beautiful  fam- 
tains,  more  blessedly  than  they  will  down  ily;  always  able  to  have  the  boudoir  and 
the  mountains  which  God  has  made  for  the  jewels  for  the  wife,  and  the  beauti- 
you,  of  moss  and  whinstone?  But  it  is '°  ful  ball  dresses  for  the  daughters,  and 
not  gold  that  you  want  to  gather!  What  hunters  for  the  sons,  and  a  shooting  in 
is  it?  greenbacks?  No;  not  those  neither,  the  Highlands  for  himself.  At  the  bot- 
What  is  it  then  —  is  it  ciphers  after  a  torn  of  the  bank,  is  to  be  the  mill;  not 
capital  I?  Cannot  you  practise  writing  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  with 
ciphers,  and  write  as  many  as  you  want? '5  a  steam  engine  at  each  end,  and  two  in 
Write  ciphers  for  an  hour  every  morn-  the  middle,  and  a  chimney  three  hundred 
ing,  in  a  big  book,  and  say  every  even-  feet  high.  In  this  mill  are  to  be  in  con- 
ing, I  am  worth  all  those  naughts  more  stant  employment  from  eight  hundred  to 
than  I  was  yesterday.  Won't  that  do?  a  thousand  workers,  who  never  drink. 
Well,  what  in  the  name  of  Plutus  is  it  20  never  strike,  always  go  to  church  on 
you  want?  Not  gold,  not  greenbacks,  Sunday,  and  always  express  themselves 
not  ciphers  after  a  capital   I?     You  will      in  respectful  language. 

have  to  answer,  after  all,  'No;  we  want.  Is   not   that,   broadly,   and   in  the   main 

somehow  or  other,  money.'s  worth.'  features,  the  kind  of  thing  you  propose  to 
Well,  what  is  that?  Let  your  Goddess  25  yourselves ?  It  is  very  pretty  indeed, 
of  Getting-on  discover  it,  and  let  her  seen  from  above;  not  at  all  so  pretty, 
learn  to  stay  therein.  seen    from    below.     For,    observe,    while 

II.  But  there  is  yet  another  question  to  to  one  family  this  deity  is  indeed  the 
be  asked  respecting  this  Goddess  of  Get-  Goddess  of  Getting-on,  to  a  thousand 
ting-on.  The  first  was  of  the  continu-  30  families  she  is  the  Goddess  of  not  Get- 
ance  of  her  power;  the  second  is  of  its  ting-on.  'Nay,'  you  say,  'they  have  all 
extent.  their  chance.'     Yes,  so  has  every  one   in 

Pallas  and  the  Madonna  were  supposed  a  lottery,  but  there  must  always  be  the 
to  be  all  the  world's  Pallas,  and  all  same  number  of  blanks.  '  Ah  I  but  in 
the  world's  Madonna.  They  could  35  a  lottery  it  is  not  skill  and  intelligence 
teach  all  men,  and  they  could  com-  which  take  the  lead,  but  blind  chance.' 
fort  all  men.  But,  look  strictly  into  the  W'hat  then !  do  you  tliink  the  old  prac- 
nature  of  the  power  of  your  Goddess  of  tice,  that  '  they  should  take  who  have 
Getting-on;  and  you  will  find  she  is  the  the  power,  and  they  should  keep  who 
Goddess  —  not  of  everybody's  getting  on  40  can,'   is   less   iniquitous,   when   the   power 

—  but  only  of  somebody's  getting  on.  has  become  power  of  brains  instead  of 
This  is  a  vital,  or  rather  deathful,  dis-  fist?  and  that,  though  we  may  not  take 
tinction.  Examine  it  in  your  own  ideal  advantage  of  a  child's  or  a  woman's 
of  the  state  of  national  life  which  this  weakness,  we  may  of  a  man's  foolish- 
Goddess  is  to  evoke  and  maintain.  l4Sness?  'Nay,  but  finally,  work  must  be 
asked  you  what  it  was,  when  I  was  last  done,  and  some  one  must  be  at  the  top, 
here ;  ^ —  you  have  never  told  me.  Now,  some  one  at  the  bottom.'  Granted,  my 
shall  I  try  to  tell  you?  friends.     Work     must     always     be,     and 

Your  ideal  of  human  life  then  is.  I  captains  of  work  must  always  be;  and 
think,  that  it  should  be  passed  in  a  pleas- so  if  you  in  the  least  remember  the  tone 
ant  undulating  world,  with  iron  and  coal  of  any  of  my  writings,  you  must  know 
everywhere  underneath  it.  On  each  that  they  are  thought  unfit  for  this  age, 
pleasant  bank  of  this  world  is  to  be  a  because  they  are  always  insisting  on  need 
beautiful    mansion,    with    two   wings;    and      of   governm'ent,   and    speaking  w-ith    scorn 

55  of    liberty.     But    I    beg    vou    to    observe 

I'The    Two    Paths,'    p.    115    (small    edition),    and        .,     ,       ,  •  •_,       Alffprenre    between 

p.  99  of  vol.  X  of  the  ■  Revised  Series  of  the  ^"'^"^  ^"^^^  }^  ^  ^ '"^  aiHerence  netwcen 
Entire  Works.'  being  captains  or  governors  of  work,  and 


TRAFFIC  743 


taking  tlie  profits  of  it.     It  does  not  fol-      of  these,  better  or  worse  shall  come ;  and 
low,  because  you  are  general  of  an  army;      it  is  for  you  to  choose  which, 
that  you  are  to  take  all  the  treasure,  or  I  know  that  none  of  this  wrong  is  done 

land,  it  wins  (if  it  fight  for  treasure  or  with  deliberate  purpose.  I  know,  on  the 
land)  ;  neither,  because  you  are  king  of  a  5  contrary,  that  you  wish  your  workmen 
nation,  that  you  are  to  consume  all  the  well;  that  you  do  much  for  them,  and 
profits  of  the  nation's  work.  Real  kings,  that  you  desire  to  do  more  for  them, 
on  the  contrary,  are  known  invariably  by  if  you  saw  your  way  to  such  benevolence 
their  doing  quite  the  reverse  of  this, —  safely.  I  know  that  even  all  this  wrong 
by  their  taking  the  least  possible  quan- 10  and  misery  are  brought  about  by  a 
tity  of  the  nation's  work  for  themselves.  warped  sense  of  duty,  each  of  you  striv- 
There  is  no  test  of  real  kinghood  so  in-  ing  to  do  his  best;  but  unhappily,  not 
fallible  as  that.  Does  the  crowned  crca-  knowing  for  whom  this  best  should  be 
ture  live  simply,  bravely,  unostcnta-  done.  And  all  our  hearts  have  been  be- 
tiously?  probably  he  is  a  King.  Does  he  15  trayed  by  the  plausible  impiety  of  the 
cover  his  l)ody  with  jewels,  and  his  table  modern  economist,  that  '  To  do  the  best 
with  delicates?  in  all  probability  he  is  for  yourself,  is  finally  to  do  the  best 
not  a  King.  It  is  possible  he  may  be,  for  others.'  Friends,  our  great  Master 
as  Solomon  was ;  but  that  is  when  the  said  not  so ;  and  most  absolutely  we  shall 
nation  shares  his  splendor  with  him.  20  find  this  world  is  not  made  so.  Indeed, 
Solomon  made  gold,  not  only  to  be  in  to  do  the  best  for  others,  is  finally  to  do 
his  own  palace  as  stones,  but  to  be  in  the  best  for  ourselves;  but  it  will  not  do 
Jerusalem  as  stones.  But  even  so,  for  to  have  our  eyes  fixed  on  that  issue, 
the  most  part,  these  splendid  kinghoods  The  Pagans  had  got  beyond  that.  Hear 
expire  in  ruin,  and  only  the  true  king- 25  what  a  Pagan  says  of  this  matter;  hear 
hoods  live,  which  are  of  royal  laborers  what  were,  perhaps,  the  last  written 
governing  loyal  laborers;  who,  both  lead-  words  of  Plato, —  if  not  the  last  actually 
ing  rough  lives,  establish  the  true  dynas-  written  (for  this  we  cannot  know),  yet 
ties.  Conclusively  you  will  find  that  be-  assuredly  in  fact  and  power  his  parting 
cause  you  are  king  of  a  nation,  it  does  not  3°  words  —  in  which,  endeavoring  to  give 
follow  that  you  are  to  gather  for  your-  full  crowning  and  harmonious  close  to 
self  all  the  wealth  of  that  nation;  neither,  all  his  thoughts,  and  to  speak  the  sum 
becaQse  you  are  king  of  a  small  part  of  of  them  by  the  imagined  sentence  of  the 
the  nation,  and  lord  over  the  means  of  Great  Spirit,  his  strength  and  his  heart 
its  maintenance  —  over  field,  or  mill,  or  35  fail  him,  and  the  words  cease,  broken  off 
mine. —  are   you   to   take   all   the   produce      forever. 

of   that    piece    of   the    foundation    of    na-  They  are  at  the  close  of  the  dialogue 

tional  existence  for  yourself.  called    '  Critias,'    in    which    he    descrilDes, 

You  will  tell  me  I  need  not  preach  partly  from  real  tradition,  partly  in  ideal 
against  these  things,  for  I  cannot  mend  40  dream,  the  early  state  of  Athens ;  and  the 
them.  No,  good  friends,  I  cannot ;  but  genesis,  and  order,  and  religion,  of  the 
you  can,  and  you  will;  or  something  else  fabled  isle  of  Atlantis;  in  which  genesis 
can  and  will.  Even  good  things  have  he  conceives  the  same  first  perfection  and 
no  abiding  power  —  and  shall  these  evil  final  degeneracy  of  man,  which  in  our 
things  persist  in  victorious  evil?  All  45  own  Scriptural  tradition  is  expressed  by 
history  shows,  on  the  contrary,  that  to  be  saying  that  the  Sons  of  God  intermar- 
the  exact  thing  they  never  can  do.  ried  with  the  daughters  of  men,  for  he 
Change  must  come;  but  it  is  ours  to  supposes  the  earliest  race  to  have  been 
determine  whether  change  of  growth,  or  indeed  the  children  of  God ;  and  to  have 
change  of  death.  Shall  the  Parthenon  be  5o  corrupted  themselves,  until  '  their  spot 
in  ruins  on  its  rock,  and  Bolton  priory  was  not  the  spot  of  his  children.'  And 
in  its  meadow,  but  these  mills  of  yours  this,  he  says,  was  the  end;  that  indeed 
be  the  consummation  of  the  buildings  of  '  through  many  generations,  so  long  as  the 
the  earth,  and  their  wheels  he  as  the  God's  nature  in  them  yet  was  full,  the\ 
wheels  of  eternity?  Think  you  that  ^5  were  submissive  to  the  sacred  laws,  and 
'men  may  come,  and  men  may  go,'  but  carried  themselves  lovingly  to  all  that 
—  mills  —  go   on    forever?     Not    so;    out      had  kindred  with  them  in  divineness;  for 


744  JOHN  RUSKIN 


their    uttermost    spirit    was    faithful    and  The  rest  is  silence.     Last  words  of  the 

true,  and  in  every  wise  great;  so  that,  chief  wisdom  of  the  heathen,  spoken  of 
in  all  meekness  of  wisdom,  they  dealt  this  idol  of  riches ;  this  idol  of  yours;  this 
with  each  other,  and  took  all  the  chances  golden  inia.c^c  hi^h  hy  measureless  cubits, 
of  life;  and  despising  all  things  except  5  set  up  where  your  green  fields  of  Eng- 
virtue,  they  cared  little  what  hapi)ened  land  are  furnace-burnt  into  the  likeness 
day  by  day,  and  bore  lightly  the  burden  of  the  plain  of  Dura:  this  idol,  forbidden 
of  gold  and  of  possessions;  for  they  saw  to  us,  first  of  all  idols,  by  our  own 
that,  if  only  their  common  love  and  vir-  Master  and  faith;  forbidden  to  us  also 
tue  increased,  all  these  things  would  be  10  by  every  human  lip  that  has  ever,  in 
increased  together  with  them;  but  to  set  any  age  or  people,  been  accounted  of  as 
their  esteem  and  ardent  pursuit  upon  able  to  speak  according  to  the  purposes 
material  possession  would  be  to  lose  that  of  God.  Continue  to  make  that  forbid- 
first,  and  their  virtue  and  affection  to-  den  deity  your  principal  one,  and  soon 
gether  with  it.  And  by  such  reasoning,  r,  no  more  art,  no  more  science,  no  more 
and  what  of  the  divine  nature  remained  pleasure  will  be  possible.  Catastrophe 
in  them,  they  gained  all  this  greatness  will  come;  or  worse  than  catastrophe, 
of  which  we  have  already  told ;  but  when  slow  moldering  and  withering  into  Hades, 
the  God's  part  of  them  faded  and  became  But  if  you  can  fix  some  conception 
extinct,  being  mixed  again  and  again,  20  of  a  true  human  state  of  life  to  be 
and  effaced  by  the  prevalent  mortality;  striven  for  —  life  good  for  all  men  as 
and  the  human  nature  at  last  exceeded,  for  yourselves  —  if  you  can  determine 
they  then  became  unable  to  endure  the  some  honest  and  simple  order  of  exist- 
courses  of  fortune ;  and  fell  into  shape-  ence ;  following  those  trodden  ways  of 
lessness  of  life,  and  baseness  in  the  sight  25  wisdom,  which  are  pleasantness,  and 
of  him  who  could  see,  having  lost  every-  seeking  her  quiet  and  withdrawn  paths, 
thing  that  was  fairest  of  their  honor;  which  are  peace ;  ^ —  then,  and  so  sane- 
while  to  the  blind  hearts  which  could  not  tifying  wealth  into  '  commonwealth,'  all 
discern  the  true  life,  tending  to  happiness,  your  art,  your  literature,  your  daily  la- 
it  seemed  that  they  were  then  chiefly  30  bors,  your  domestic  affection,  and  citi- 
noble  and  happy,  being  filled  with  all  zen's  duty,  will  join  and  increase  into 
iniquity  of  inordinate  possession  and  one  magnificent  harmony.  You  will 
power.  Whereupon,  the  God  of  gods,  know  then  how  to  build,  well  enough ; 
whose  Kinghood  is  in  laws,  beholding  you  will  build  with  stone  well,  but  with 
a  once  just  nation  thus  cast  into  misery,  35  flesh  better;  temples  not  made  with 
and  desiring  to  lay  such  punishment  upon  hands,  but  riveted  of  hearts;  and  that  kind 
them  as  might  make  them  repent  into  of  marble,  crimson-veined,  is  indeed 
restraining,     gathered     together     all     the      eternal. 

p-ods  into  his  dwelling-place,  which  from  ,  ... 

heaven's   center   overlooks   whatever  ^^<' ^iT^^Z^t^-^^-i  'S:£,^°t!  'Z 

part  m  creation;  and  having  assembled  somewhat  fanciful  Hnd;  yet  we  may  profitably  make 
them,    he    said  ' —  it   in    reading   the   English. 


I 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON   (1809-1892)^ 

Tennyson  was  bom  at  Somersby  Rectory  in  Lincolnshire.  The  rich  level  landscape  of 
the  reclaimed  fen  district  is  clearly  visible  in  his  poems.  He  soon  began  to  imitate  the 
English  masters  of  verse  and  the  compositions  'written  between  15  and  17'  in  Poems  by 
Two  Brothers  (1827)  show  his  transitory  allegiance  to  Byron  and  Scott.  At  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  he  took  the  Newdigate  prize  in  1829  with  a  blank  verse  poem  on  Tiin- 
buctoo,  and  the  next  year  issued  Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical.  Numerous  coUegiaus,  of  whom 
many  were  afterward  eminent  in  scholarship  and  affairs,  became  his  sworn  admirers  and 
steadily  announced  that  a  new  poet  had  arrived.  Poems  (1833)  showed  a  further  advance 
in  quality  and  scope,  but  this  and  the  preceding  volume  were  ridiculed  by  the  reviews 
for  certain  obvious  affectations  and  slips  of  taste  and  Tennyson  waited  nine  years  before 
publishing  again.  During  this  interval,  he  set  himself  with  great  earnestness  to  comprehend 
the  thoughts  and  movements  of  his  time,  enriched  his  mind  by  constant  study  of  the  classics 
and  of  English  literature,  recreated  the  best  of  his  old  poems  and  composed  with  great 
deliberation  his  new  ones.  When  his  two  volumes  of  1842  appeared,  such  poems  as  The  Lady 
of  tihalott  and  The  Palace  of  Art  had  been  transformed  and  with  them  came  Ulysses,  Morte 
d' Arthur,  Locksley  Hall  and  many  others  of  moderate  length,  every  one  exquisitely  tempered 
and  wrought.  His  reputation  was  immediately  secure,  and  steadily  increased  during  fifty 
years  more  of  continuous  authorship.  In  18.50  he  received  the  '  laurel  greener  from  the 
brows  of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base.'  The  Pri)iccss  had  already  appeared  and  In  Mcmoriam 
which  had  been  growing  since  the  death  of  his  friend  Arthur  Hallam  in  1833,  now  sealed 
his  title  not  only  to  the  laureateship  but  to  the  position  of  chief  spiritual  guide  to  his  age. 
Maud  (1855)  represented  something  of  a  departure  from  his  previous  methods  toward  a  less 
restrained  style  and  a  more  vigorous  grasp  on  the  realities  of  life,  a  departure  which  he 
carried  still  farther  in  some  of  his  '  ballads  '  and  in  realistic  studies  such  as  The  Northern 
Farmer.  The  chief  enterprise  of  his  later  years,  however,  was  The  Idylls  of  the  King,  at 
which  he  wrought  from  185G-59,  and  again  in  1868-72,  when  the  poem  became  substantially 
complete.  For  nearly  ten  years  his  chief  energies  were  given  to  the  production  of  his  seven 
dramas ;  of  these  Queen  Mary,  Harold,  and  Becket  were  all  written  by  1879,  though  the  last 
was  not  published  until  several  years  later.  From  1880  until  his  death  in  1892  every  few 
years  added  another  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems.  At  least  in  his  lyrics,  Tennyson's 
voice  remained  to  the  last,  '  unchanged  to  hoarse  or  mute,'  a  '  clear  call  '  with  only  a  few 
dark  overtones  caught  from  the  perplexities  of  the  new  era  into  which  his  life  extended. 
In  the  few  years  since  his  death,  we  have  moved  fast  and  far  from  the  platforms  of  the 
Victorian  age ;  its  problems  are  not  our  problems,  and  still  less  its  solutions.  Our  interest, 
Ihen,  shifts  more  and  more  from  Tennyson's  '  message,'  which  was  of  his  time,  and  attaches 
to  the  rich  and   instructed  beauty  of  his  art,  which  is  imperishable. 


MARIANA 

With  blackest  moss,  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held   the   pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange : 
Unlifted   was   the   clinking   latch; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon    the    lonely   moated    grange. 

She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,  she  said ; 
She   said,   '  I    am   aweary,   aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 


Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even; 

Her  tears   fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven,     is 

Either  at   morn   or  eventide. 
After    the    flitting    of    the    bats. 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by. 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats,  2° 
She  only  said,  '  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night,  25 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow: 


745 


746 


ALFRED  TExNNYSON 


The  cock  sung  out   an  hour  ere   light ; 
From   the   dark    fen   the   oxen's   low 
Came  to  her:  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn,       30 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About    the    lonely    moated    grange. 

She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She   said,    '  I    am    aweary,    aweary,       35 
I   would  that   I   were   dead !  ' 

About   a   stone-cast    from   the   wall 

A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  clustered  marish-mosses  crept.  4° 

Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The   level    waste,   the   rounding   gray. 

She  only  said,  '  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said;  46 

She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

And  ever   when   the  moon   was   low. 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away,  so 
In   the   white   curtain,   to   and    fro, 
She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But   when  the  moon  was  very  low, 
And   wild   winds  bound  within  their  cell. 
The    shadow   of    the   poplar    fell  55 

Upon    her    bed,    across    her    brow. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh   not,'   she   said; 
She    said,    '  I    am    aweary,    aweary, 
I  would  that  I   were  dead ! '  60 

All   day   within   the   dreamy  house. 

The  doors  upon  their   hinges  creaked ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane ;  the  mouse 
Behind  the  moldering  wainscot   shrieked. 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about,  65 

Old  faces  glimmered  through  the  doors. 
Old    footsteps  trod  the   upper   floors. 
Old  voices  called  her   from  without. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said;  70 

She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !  ' 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 
The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 

Which   to  the   wooing   wind   aloof  75 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her   sense;   but  most   she   loathed   the   hour 
When   the  thick-niuated   sunbeam   lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower.      80 


Then,   said    she,    '  I    am    very   dreary. 
He    will    not   come,'   she    said; 

She  wept:  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God,  that  I  were  dead !  ' 

(1830) 


SONG 


A   spirit   haunts  the   year's   last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers:       J 
To  himself  he   talks;  ■ 

For   at    eventide,    listening   earnestly. 
At    his    work    you    may    hear    him    sob 
and   sigh  5 

In  the  walks ; 

Earthward    he    boweth    the    heavy 
stalks 
Of  the  moldering  flowers: 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily    hangs    the    hollyhock,  n 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hushed,  and  close. 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 
An   hour   before   death;  is 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul 

grieves 
At  the  moist  rich   smell  of  the   rotting 
leaves. 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath. 
And   the   year's    last    rose.  20 

Heavily   hangs   the   broad   sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 
Heavily    hangs    the   tiger-lily. 

C1830) 


THE  POET 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime   was  born, 

With    golden    stars    above; 
Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of 
scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 

He    saw    through    life    and    death,    through 
good  and  ill.  s 

He  saw  through  his  own  soul. 
The   marvel   of   the   everlasting   will 

An  open  scroll. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 


747 


Before     him     lay;     with     echoing     feet     he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame:  "> 

The   viewless   arrows  of   his  thoughts   were 
headed 
And  winged  with  flame, 

Like    Indian    reeds    blown    from    his    silver 
tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung,       is 

Filling  with   light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them   earthward  till  they   lit ; 
Then,    like    the    arrow-seeds    of    the    field 
flower, 
The  fruitful  wit  ^o 

Cleaving    took    root,    and    springing    forth 
anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance  grew 

A  flower  all  gold. 

And  bravely  furnished  all  abroad  to  fling 
The  winged  shafts  of  truth,  26 

To   throng  with   stately  blooms  the   breath- 
ing   spring. 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So   many   minds   did   gird   their   orbs    with 
beams. 
Though  one  did  fling  the  fire;  30 

Heaven    flowed    upon    the    soul    in    many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus    truth    was    multiplied    on    truth,    the 
world 
Like  one  great  garden  showed, 
And  through  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  up- 
curled,  35 
Rare   sunrise   flowed. 

And    Freedom   reared   in   that   august   sun- 
rise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When    rites   and    forms   before   his   burning 
eyes 
Melted  like  snow.  40 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 
Sunned  by  those  orient  skies ; 

But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 


And    in    her    raiment's    hem    was    traced    in 
flame  45 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All   evil   dreams  of   power  —  a   sacred  name, 

And  when  she  spake. 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran. 
And  as  the   lightning  to  the  thunder 

Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder,  52 

So    was    their   meaning   to   her    words.     No 
sword 
Of   wrath    her   right   arm   whirled. 
But    one    poor    poet's    scroll,    and    with    his 
word  55 

She  shook  the  world. 

(1830) 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

PART    I 

On    either    side   the    river    lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye. 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To    many-towered    Camelot ;  3 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The   island   of   Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver,  'o 

Little   breezes   dusk   and   shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers,     is 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And    the    silent    isle    imbowers 

The   Lady   of   Shalott. 

By   the    margin,    willow-veiled. 

Slide   the   heavy  barges   trailed  20 

By  slow  horses ;  and  unbailed 

The    shallop    flitteth    silken-sailed 

Skimming  down  to   Camelot; 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand?  25 

Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of   Shalott? 

Only  reapers,   reaping  early 

In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly  30 

From   the   river   winding   clearly. 


748 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Down  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers   '  'T  is  the   fairy  35 

Lady  of  Shalott.' 

PART  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 

A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 

A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay  4° 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth   steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The   Lady  of   Shalott.  45 

And  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year. 
Shadows   of    the    world    appear. 
There   she    sees   the   highway   near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot;  5° 

There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls. 

Pass  onward   from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad,  55 

An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad. 
Or   long-haired   page   in  crimson   clad. 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue      6o 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath   no   loyal   knight  and  true. 

The   Lady   of    Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 

To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights,  65 

For  often  through  the  silent  nights 

A   funeral,  with  plumes   and   lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot ; 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed;  7o 

*  I   am  half   sick  of   shadows,'   said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III 

A   bow-shot   from   her   bower-eaves. 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves  76 

Of   bold    Sir    Lancelot. 
A    red-cross   knight    for   ever    kneeled. 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That   sparkled   in  the   yellow   field,  8" 

Beside   remote    Shalott. 


The  gcniiny  bridle  glittered   free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 

Hung   in   the   golden    Galaxy. 

The    bridle    bells    rang    merrily  85 

A    he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And    from   his   blazoned    baldric    slung 
A   mighty   silver    bugle    lumg, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside    remote    Shalott.  90 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jeweled   shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The    helmet    and    the    helmet -feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down   to   Camelot ;  95 

As  often  through  the  purple  night. 
Below  the   starry   clusters   bright. 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves   over   still    Shalott. 

His   broad   clear  brow   in   sunlight   glowed ; 
On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on   he   rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and   from  the  river  105 

He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
'  Tirra  lirra,'  by  the   river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She   left  the  web,   she   left  the   loom. 
She  made  three  paces  through  the  room,  no 
She   saw   the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  looked  down  at  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirrow  cracked  from  side  to  side;     "5 
'  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,'  cried 

The   Lady  of   Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  east-wind   straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning. 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining  '-■ 

Over    towered    Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath    a    willow    left   afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote     125 

The   Lady   of  Shalott. 

And   down   the  river's  dim   expanse 

Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 

Seeing  all   his  own  mischance  — 

With  a  glassy  countenance  '3o 

Did   she   look  to    Camelot. 
And   at   the  closing  of  the  day 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART 


749 


She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her   far  away, 

The   Lady  of   Shalott.  '35 

Lying,    robed    in    snowy   white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and   right  — 
The    leaves    upon    her    falling   light  — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She   floated   down   to    Camelot ;  140 

And   as   the   boat-head    wound   along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They    heard    her    singing    her    last    song, 

The    Lady    of    Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy,  145 

Chanted    loudly,    chanted    lowly. 
Till    her    blood    was    frozen    slowly 
And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly 

Turned   to   towered    Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reached   upon   the   tide  150 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she   died, 

The   Lady   of   Shalott. 

Under   tower   and   balcony, 
By  garden-wall    and   gallery,  i55 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent    into    Camelot. 
Out    upon    the    wharfs    they    came. 
Knight,  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame,         160 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 

And    in   the   lighted   palace   near 

Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer;  165 

And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear, 

All   the   knights   at   Camelot ; 
But    Lancelot   mused   a   little    space; 
He   said,   'She   has   a   lovely   face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace,  170 

The  Lady  of   Shalott.' 

(1833) 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART 

I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house. 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  '  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear    soul,    for    all   is    well.' 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnished 
brass,  s 

I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From   level   meadow-bases   of   deep  grass 
Suddenly    scaled    the    light. 


Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair,       10 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In   her   high   palace   there. 

And     '  while    the    world    runs    round    and 
round,'  I  said, 
'  Reign  thou   apart,  a  quiet  king. 
Still   as,   while   Saturn  whirls,  his   steadfast 
shade  'S 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.' 

To   which   my   soul    made   answer   readily : 

'Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me. 
So   royal-rich   and   wide.'  20 

Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West,  and  South 
and    North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A    flood    of    fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran 
a  row  25 

Of  cloisters,  branched  like  mighty  woods. 
Echoing   all    night    to    that    sonorous   flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the   roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands,  3° 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the 
sky 
Dipped  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those   four  jets   four  currents  in  one 
swell 
Across    the    mountain    streamed   below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell,  35 
Lit   up  a  torrent-bow. 

And   high   on  every  peak  a   statue   seemed 

To   hang   on   tiptoe,   tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steamed 
From  out  a  golden  cup.  40 

So  that  she  thought,  '  And  who  shall  gaze 
upon 
My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And   that   sweet   incense   rise?' 

For    that     sweet    incense    rose    and    never 
failed,  45 

And,  while  day   sank  or  mounted   higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-railed, 
Burnt  like  a   fringe  of  fire. 


750 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stained  and 
traced, 
Would  seem  slow-flaniing  crimson  fires  so 
From   shadowed   grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And   tipped   with    frost-like  spires. 


Full   of   long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Through  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did 
pass,  55 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full   of  great   rooms  and  small  the  palace 
stood. 
All    various,    each    a    perfect    whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul.  60 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and 
blue, 
Showing    a    gaudy    summer-morn. 
Where  with  puffed  cheek  the  belted  hunter 
blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One   seemed  all  dark  and   red  —  a  tract   of 
sand,  65 

And   some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit    with   a   low    large   moon. 

One  showed  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves, 

You   seemed  to   hear  them  climb  and    fall 

And    roar    rock-thwarted    under    bellowing 

caves,  71 

Beneath   the   windy   wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain. 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With   shadow-streaks   of   rain.  76 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In   front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind.  80 

And  one  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and 
slags. 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barred  with  long  white  cloud  the  scorn- 
ful crags. 
And   highest,    snow   and    fire. 

And   one,   an   English  home  —  gray  twilight 
poured  85 


On    dewy    pastures,    dewy    trees, 
Softer     than     sleep  —  all     things     in     order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient   Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but   every  landscape  fair. 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind,  9" 

Or  gay,   or  grave,  or   sweet,   or   stern,   was 
there, 
Not    less    than    truth   designed. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture   sunny-warm. 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx,  95 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-walled  city  on  the  sea, 
Near   gilded   organ-pipes,   her   hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  Saint  Cecily; 
An    angel    looked    at    her.  100 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bowed  to  see 
The  dying   Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said.  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic   Uther's  deeply-wounded   son   105 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watched  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear. 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw  no 

The  wood-nymph,  stayed  the  Ausonian  king 
to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrailed. 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cania  slowly  sailed  n5 
A  summer   fanned  with  spice. 

Or   sweet    Europa's   mantle   blew   unclasped, 
From   off  her   shoulder  backward   borne , 
From  one  hand  drooped  a  crocus;  one  hand 
grasped 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn.  "^^ 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried    in    the    eagle's   down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  through  the  sky 
Above    the    pillared    town. 

Nor  these  alone;  but  every  legend  fair       1^5 

Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not   less  than  life,  designed. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART 


751 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that 
swung, 
Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound; 
And   with    choice   paintings   of   wise   men    I 
hung  131 

The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 

Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild ; 
And    there    the    world-worn    Dante    grasped 
his  song,  135 

And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest; 

A   million   wrinkles  carved  his   skin ; 
A  hundred  winters  snowed  upon  his  breast. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin.  mo 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an   arch  high   up   did   lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  planned        145 

With  cycles  of  the  human   tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

'    The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 
I        Toiled    onward,    pricked    with    goads    and 
I  stings;  iSo 

Here  played,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
1  The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings; 

j    Here   rose,    an    athlete,    strong   to   break   or 
bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And    here    once   more    like    some    sick   man 
declined,  155 

And  trusted  any  cure. 

I  But  over   these   she  trod;   and   those   great 

I  bells 

'<  Began  to  chime.     She  took  her  throne; 

I  She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  oriels, 

,  To  sing  her  songs  alone.                        160 

And    through    the    topmost    oriels'    colored 
flame 
Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below ; 
Plato  the   wise,  and  large-browed  Verulam, 
The   first  of   those   who   know. 

And   all   those   names   that   in   their   motion 
were  165 

Full-welling   fountain-heads   of   change. 
Betwixt    the    slender    shafts    were    blazoned 
fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange;  I 


Through  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  em- 
erald,   blue, 
Flushed  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes,     ^7° 
And    from    her    lips,    as   morn    from    Mem- 
non,  drew 
Rivers   of  melodies. 

No    nightingale    delighteth    to   prolong 

Her   low   preamble   all   alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echoed  song 
Throb  through  the  ribbed  stone;  176 

Singing    and     murmuring    in    her     feastful 
mirth. 
Joying  to    feel   herself   alive. 
Lord  over  Nature,  lord  of  the  visible  earth, 
Lord    of   the   senses   five;  180 

Communing    with    herself:    'All    these    are 
mine. 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'T  is  one  to  me.'     She  —  when  young  night 
divine 
Crowned  dying  day  with  stars. 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils  — 

Lit    light    in    wreaths   and    anadems,        186 
And  pure  quintessences   of  precious   oils 
In  hollowed  moons  of  gems, 

To   mimic   heaven;    and   clapped   her   hands 
and  cried, 
'  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight  190 

In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich  and  wide 
Be  flattered  to  the  height. 

'  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well ! 
O  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise,     '95 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

'  O   Godlike  isolation   which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count   thee  perfect  gain. 
What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of 

swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain.  200 

'In   filthy  sloughs  they  roll   a  prurient   skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in. 
And  drives  them   to  the  deep.' 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate 
.'\nd    of   the    rising    from   the   dead,       -06 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplished  Fate; 
And  at  the  last  she  said : 


752 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


'I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl,      -'"' 
I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But   contemplating    all.' 


Full  oft  the   riddle  of  the   painful   earth 
Flashed  through  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne.  -''' 

And  so  she  throve  and  prospered;  so  three 
years 
She  prospered;  on  the  fourth  she  fell. 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears, 
Struck  through  with  pangs  of  hell.     220 

Lest  she  should   fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal   deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turned 
her  sight,  --5 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought. 
Wrote  '  Mene,  mene,'   and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born 
Scorn    of    herself;    again,    from    out    that 
mood  231 

Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

'What!    is   not  this   my  place   of   strength,' 
she  said, 
'  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me. 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were 
laid  235 

Since   my  first   memory  ?  ' 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain    shapes ;    and    unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of 
blood. 
And  horrible  nightmares,  240 

And     hollow     shades     enclosing    hearts     of 
flame, 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all. 
On    corpses    three-months-old    at    noon    she 
came. 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light     245 

Or  power  of  movement,  seemed  my  soul. 
Mid  onward-sloping  motions   infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 


A  still  salt  pool,  locked  in  with  bars  of  sand, 
Left  on  the  shore,  that  hears  all  night     -'So 
rile  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the 
land 
Their  moon  led  waters  white. 

A   star  that  with  the  choral   starry  dance 
Joined  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance  255 
Rolled  round  by  one  fixed  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curled. 

'  No  voice,'  she  shrieked  in  that  lone  hall, 

'  No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of  this 

world : 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all ! '  260 

She,   moldering  with   the  dull   earth's   mold- 
ering   sod, 
In  wrapt  tenfold  in   slothful   shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place   and  name ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally,       26s 

And  nothing  saw,   for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity. 
No  comfort  anywhere; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with   fears. 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time,       270 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 
And  all   alone  in  crime : 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seemed  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall  276 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveler  walking  slow, 

In  doubt   and   great   perplexity, 
A  little  before  moonrise  hears  the  low 

Moan  of  an  unknown  sea;  280 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a  sound 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts ;  then  thinketh,  '  I  have 
found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die.' 

She  howled  aloud,  '  I  am  on  fire  within.  283 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die?  ' 

So   when    four  years   were  wholly  finished, 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away.  290 

'  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,'  she  said, 
*  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 


753 


'Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that 
are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance   I   may  return  with  others  there. 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt.'  296 

(1833-1842) 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 

I    read,    before    my    eyelids    dropped    their 
shade, 
The  Legend  of  Good  Women,  long  ago 
Sung    by    the    morning    star    of    song,    who 
made 
His  music  heard  below ; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet 
breath  S 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 

Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong  gales 
Hold    swollen   clouds    from    raining,   though 
my  heart,  " 

Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged    both    mine    eyes    with    tears.     In 
every  land 
I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth. 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand  i5 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those   far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

Peopled    the    hollow    dark,    like    burning 

stars. 

And  I   heard   sounds  of  insult,   shame,  and 

wrong, 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars ;  20 

And  clattering  flints  battered  with  clanging 
I  hoofs; 

j  And    I    saw   crowds   in   columned    sanctu- 

I  aries, 

j      And  forms  that  passed  at  windows  and  on 
I  roofs 

Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold ;  heroes  tall    25 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and   parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 
Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And    high    shrine  doors   burst   through    with 
heated  blasts 


That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of 
fire;  30 

White    surf    wind-scattered    over    sails    and 
masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higher; 

Squadrons    and    squares    of    men    in   brazen 
plates. 
Scaffolds,    still     sheets    of    water,    divers 
woes. 
Ranges     of    glimmering    vaults     with     iron 
grates,  35 

And  hushed  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to 

land 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same 

way. 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand. 

Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray.  40 

I  started  once,  or  seemed  to  start  in  pain. 
Resolved   on   noble   things,   and    strove   to 
speak. 
As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the 
brain. 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 

A  cavalier   from  off  his   saddle-bow,       46 
That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguered  town ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

All    those    sharp    fancies,    by    down-lapsing 
thought 
Streamed  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did 
creep  S'> 

Rolled   on    each    other,   rounded,   smoothed, 
and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wandered  far 
In  an  old  wood;   fresh-washed  in  coolest 
dew 
The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue.  56 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and  lean 

Upon   the   dusky  brushwood   underneath 
Their   broad   curved   branches,   fledged   with 
clearest  green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath.  60 

The   dim    red    Morn   had   died,   her   journey 
done, 
And   with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight 
plain. 


754 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


llalf-fallcMi  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There    was    no    motion    in    the    dumb    dead 
air,  65 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As    that    wide    forest.     Growths    of   jasmine 
turned 
Their     liumid     arms     festooning     tree     to 
tree,  70 

And  at  the  root  through  lush  green  grasses 
burned 
The  red  anemone. 

I    knew    the    flowers,    I    knew    the    leaves,    I 

knew 

The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 

On     those     long,     rank,     dark     wood-walks 

drenched   in   dew,  75 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green. 
Poured    back    into    my    empty    soul     and 
frame 
The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame.  80 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  undertone 
Thrilled  through  mine  ears  in  that  unbliss- 
ful  clime, 
Pass   freely  through ;  the  wood  is  all   thine 
own, 
Until  the  end  of  time.' 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call,  §5 

Stiller     than     chiseled     marble,     standing 
there ; 
A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely   fair. 

Her    loveliness    with    shame    and    with    sur- 
prise 
Froze    my    swift    speech;    she    turning    on 
my  face  90 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

'  I    had    great    beauty ;    ask    thou    not    my 
name : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 
Many    drew    swords   and    died.     Where'er    I 
came  95 

I  brought  calamity.' 


'No    marvel,    sovereign    lady:    in    fair    field 

Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died,' 
I  answered  free ;  and  turning  1  appealed 
To  one   that   stood   beside.  100 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 
To    her     full     height    her    stately    stature 
draws ; 
'  My    youth,'    she    said,    '  was    blasted    with 
a   curse : 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

'  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place 
Which    men    called    Aulis    in    those    iron 
years;  ■'^(J 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face; 
I,  blinded   with   my   tears, 

'Still   strove   to   speak:   my  voice   was   thick 
with  sighs 
As  in   a  dream.     Dimly  1  could  descry 
The   stern   black-bearded   kings   with   wolfish 
eyes,  ''o 

Waiting   to   see   me   die. 

'The  high  masts  flickered  as  they  lay  afloat; 

The    crowds,    the    temples,    wavered,    and 

the   shore; 

The    bright    death    quivered    at    the    victim's 

throat ; 

Touched;  and  I  knew  no  more.'  115 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow: 
'  I    would    the    white    cold    heavy-plunging 
foam. 
Whirled    by   the   wind,   had    rolled   me   deep 
below. 
Then    when    I    left    my    home.' 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  through  the  silence 

drear,  '-" 

As   thunder-drops   fall   on   a   sleeping   sea : 

Sudden    I    heard    a    voice   that   cried   '  Come 

here, 

That    1    may    look    on    thee.' 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise. 
One     sitting     on     a     crimson     scarf     un- 
rolled; '-.s 
A    queen,     with     swarthy    cheeks    and    bold 
black    eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,   flashing   forth  a  haughty  smile,  began : 

'  I    governed    men    by    change,    and    so    I 

swayed 

All   moods.     'T  is   long   since   T   have   seen   a 

man.  130 

Once,  like  the  moon,   I  made 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 


755 


'  The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 
I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe.  '35 

'Nay  — yet    it   chafes   me   that   I   could   not 
bend 
One  will ;   nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine 
eye 
That  dull  cold-blooded  Cresar.     Prythce, 
friend, 
Where  is   Mark  Antony? 

'  The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sub- 
lime 140 
On    Fortune's    neck ;    we    sat    as    God    by 
God; 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

'  We    drank    the    Libyan    Sun    to    sleep,    and 
lit 
Lamps  which  out-burned  Canopus.     O,  my 
life  "45 

In  Egypt!  O,  the  dalliance  and  the  wit. 
The    flattery    and    the    strife, 

'And  the  wild  kiss,  when   fresh   from  war's 
alarms. 
My    Hercules,    my    Roman    Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leaped  into  my  arms, 
Contented   there  to  die!  'Si 

'  And  there  he  died :  and  when  I  heard  my 
name 
Sighed  forth  with  life,  I  would  not  brook 
my  fear 
Of   the    other:    with    a   worm    I    balked    his 
fame. 
What  else  was  left?  look  here!  " —      '55 

With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 

The  polished  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid    bare.     Thereto    she    pointed     with     a 

laugh, 

Showing    the    aspic's    bite. —  159 

'  I  died  a  Queen.     The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 
A     name      for     ever !  —  lying     robed     and 
crowned 
Worthy    a    Roman    spouse.' 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did   fall  down  and 

glance  165 

From  tone  to  tone,  and   glided  through  all 

change 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 


When   she  made  pause  I  knew  not    for  de- 
light 
Because    with     sudden    motion     from     the 
ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  filled  with 
light  >7o 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still    with    their   fires    Love   tipt    his    keenest 

darts  : 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 

All     beams    of    Love,     melting    the    mighty 

hearts 

Of    captains    and    of    kings.  175 

Slowly   my   sense   undazzlcd.     Then    I   heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  through   the 
lawn. 
And    singing   clearer   than    the    crested    bird 
That   claps   his   wings   at   dawn  : 

'The  torrent  brooks  of  hallowed  Israel       180 
From    craggy    hollows    pouring,    late    and 
soon, 
Sound  all   night  long,  in  falling  through  the 
dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

'  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed   Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams 
divine;  '85 

All  night  the  splintered  crags  that  wall   the 
dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine.' 

As  one  that   museth   where   broad   sunshine 
laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  through  the 
door 
Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves       190 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,   and   anthem    sung,   is   charmed    and 
tied 
To   where    he    stands, —  so    stood    I,    when 
that    flow 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To    save   her    father's    vow,  '95 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went  along 
From   Mizpah's  towered  gate  with   welcome 
light. 
With   timbrel   and   with   song. 

My  words  leaped  forth :  '  Heaven  heads  the 
count  of  crimes  ^00 

With    that    wild   oath.'     She   rendered   an- 
swer high; 


756 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


'Not  so,  nor  once  alone;  a  thousand  times 
I    would    be    born    and    die. 

'  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose 

root  204 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath, 

Feeding  the   flower;   but   ere   my   flower  to 

fruit 

Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

'My  God,   my  land,  my   father  —  these  did 
move 
Me    from    my    bliss   of    life,    that    Nature 
gave. 
Lowered    softly    with    a   threefold    cord    of 
love  210 

Down    to   a    silent    grave. 

*  And   I   went  mourning,  "  No   fair  Hebrew 

boy 

Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers" — emptied  of  all  joy. 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song.  215 

'Leaving  the  olive-gardens   far  below. 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 
The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath    the    battled    tower.  219 

'  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.     Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by 
one. 
Or,   from  the  darkened  glen, 

'  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame. 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills.     225 
I  heard  him,  for  he  spake,  and  grief  became 
A    solemn    scorn    of    ills. 

'When  the  next  moon  was  rolled  into  the 
sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equaled  my  de- 
sire, 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die      230 
For    God    and    for   my    sire! 

'It    comforts    me    in    this    one    thought   to 
dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell. 
Sweetens    the    spirit    still.  ^35 

'Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hewed     Ammon,     hip    and     thigh,     from 
Aroer 
On  Arnon  unto  Minneth.'     Here  her  face 
Glowed,  as   I   looked  at   her. 


She   locked   her   lips;    she   left   me   where   I 

stood :  240 

'  Glory  to  God,'  she  sang,  and   past   afar, 

Thridding  the  somber  boskage  of  the  wood, 

Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively. 

As   one   that    from   a   casement   leans   his 
head,  245 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly, 
And    the    old    year    is    dead. 

'Alas!  alas!  '  a  low  voice,  full  of  care. 
Murmured  beside  me:  'Turn  and  look  on 
me ;  249 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
H  what  I  was  I  be. 

'  Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and 
poor ! 
O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light! 
Those   dragon   eyes  of  angered   Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night.'  255 

She  ceased  in  tears,   fallen   from  hope  and 
trust; 
To  whom  the   Egyptian :   '  O,  you  tamely 
died! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist, 
and  thrust 
The  dagger  through  her  side.' 

With    that    sharp    sound    the    white    dawn's 

creeping  beams,  260 

Stolen  to  my  brain   dissolved  the  mystery 

Of  folded  sleep.     The  captain  of  my  dreams 

Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broadened  on  the  borders  of  the  dark 

Ere   I   saw   her,   who  clasped   in   her   last 

trance  265 

Her    murdered    father's    head,    or    Joan    of 

Arc, 

A  light  of  ancient  France; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 
Who    kneeling,    with    one    arm    about    her 
king. 
Drew     forth    the    poison    with    her    balmy 
breath,  270 

Sweet   as   new  buds   in   spring. 

No   memory  labors   longer   from   the   deep 
Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden 
ore 
That    glimpses,    moving    up,    than   I     from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er  275 


OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE  HEIGHTS 


757 


Each    little    sound    and    sight.     With    what 
dull  pain 
Compassed,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again ! 
But    no    two    dreams    are    like. 

As  when   a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been 
blest,  280 

Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past  years, 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  expressed 
By  sighs  or  groans  or  tears ; 

Because  all  words,  though  culled  with  choic- 
est art,  284 
Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 
Wither  beneath   the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faints,   faded  by  its  heat. 

(1833) 


SAINT  AGNES'  EVE 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes : 

May  my  soul   follow  soon ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant   down   the    snowy   sward, 
Still   creeping   with   the   creeping   hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 
Make   thou   my   spirit    pure   and   clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this   first   snowdrop   of   the  year 

That  in   my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark, 

To  yonder   shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder   argent   round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My    spirit    before    thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To   that   I   hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord !  and  far, 

Through  all  yon   starlight  keen. 
Draw   me,   thy   bride,   a   glittering   star, 

In   raiment   white   and   clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  and  go ; 
All    heaven   bursts    her    starry   floors, 
And  strows  her  lights  below. 
And  deepens  on  and  up!  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and   far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The    Sabbaths    of    Eternity, 

One    Sabbath    deep    and    wide  — 


A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 
The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride ! 


(1837) 


YOU  ASK  ME,  WHY,  THOUGH  ILL  AT 
EASE 

You  ask  me  why,  though  ill  at  ease, 
Within    this    region    I    subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till,  5 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 
A  land  of  just  and  old  renown,  'o 

Where   Freedom   slowly   broadens   down 

From  precedent  to  precedent: 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head. 
But,  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought  i5 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce   a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute,  20 

Though   power   should  make   from  land   to 
land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Though  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth,  25 

Wild  wind !     I  seek  a  warmer  sky. 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 

(1842) 


OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE 
HEIGHTS 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights: 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice. 
Self-gathered  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 


758 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Then  stepped  she  down  through  town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race,  •» 

And  part  by  part  to  men  revealed 

The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 
From  her   isle-altar   gazing  down, 

Who,  Godlike,  grasps  the  triple  forks,         'S 
And,  king-like,   wears  the  crown: 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     jNIay  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ;  ^o 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make    bright     our     days     and     light     our 
dreams, 
Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The   falsehood   of   extremes! 

(1842) 


SIR  GALAHAD 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men. 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because   my  heart  is   pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high,  5 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The  splintered  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel: 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands,         1° 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How   sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end,  »5 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bowed  in  crypt  and  shrme: 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  ^o 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  through  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes,        25 

A  light  before  me  swims. 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there;  3o 

The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide. 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 


Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 
The   silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 

The  shrill  bell   rings,  the  censer   swings,     35 
And   solemn   chants   resound  between. 

Sometimes  on   lonely   mountain-meres 

I   find  a   magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board :  no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark:  40 

A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision!  blood  of  God!  4S 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Through  dreaming  towns  I  go,  5o 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,    ringing,    springs    from    brand    and 
mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads,  55 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But   blessed    forms   in   whistling   storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.        60 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease,  65 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This   mortal  armor  that  I  wear,  7o 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touched,  are  turned  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  through  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony  75 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
'  O  just  and   faithful  knight  of  God ! 

Ride  on !  the  prize  is  near.'  ^° 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale. 
All-armed   I   ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 

(1842) 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR 


759 


A  FAREWELL 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea. 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet,  then  a  river: 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder-tree, 

And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 
And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

(1842) 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur;  then,  because  his  wound  was 

deep,  5 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights. 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That    stood    on    a    dark    strait    of    barren 

land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  ocean,  and  on  one       n 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then    spake    King    Arthur    to    Sir    Bedi- 
vere: 
'  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this   world   holds   record.     Such   a 

sleep  16 

They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that 

we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight    our    souls    with    talk    of    knightly 

deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls  20 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Though    Merlin   sware   that    I    should   come 

again 
To   rule   once   more  —  but   let   what   will   be 

be, 


I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm  25 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand   Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride;  for  thou  rememberest 

how 
In   those   old   days,   one   summer  noon,   an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed    in    white    samite,    mystic,    wonder- 
ful, 31 
Holding    the    sword and   how   I    rowed 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known;     35 
But  now  delay  not;  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere; 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word.' 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'  It    is   not   meet.    Sir    King,   to   leave   thee 

thus,  40 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  through  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch   what   I   see,   and   lightly   bring  thee 

word.' 
So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And    in    the    moon    athwart    the    place    of 

tombs,  46 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old    knights,    and    over    them    the    sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  step- 
ping down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock,  so 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the   skirts  of  a  long  cloud,   ran 

forth 
And   sparkled    keen   with    frost   against    the 

hilt ;  55 

For    all    the    haft    twinkled    with    diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth  work 
Of  subtlest  jewelery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 
In  act  to  throw ;  but  at  the  last  it  seemed  61 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted    water-flags, 
That  whistled  stifle  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So    strode    he    back    slow    to    the    wounded 

king.  65 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 

'  Hast    thou    performed    my    mission    which 

I  gave? 


76o 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


What   is    it   thou    hast    seen,   or   what   hast 
heard  ? 
And  answer  made  tlic  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds,  7'J 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.' 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,   faint  and 
pale : 
'  Thou    hast    betrayed    thy    nature    and    thy 

name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight ;  75 

For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As    thou    art    lief    and    dear,    and    do    the 
thing  80 

I  bade  thee,  watch;  and  lightly  bring  me 
word.' 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt,  85 
How    curiously    and    strangely    chased,    he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 
'  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many 
men.  9^ 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were 

done? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were   it   well   to   obey  then,   if   a   king   de- 
mand 95 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  king   is   sick,   and  knows   not  what  he 

does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored    in    some    treasure-house    of    mighty 
kings,  loi 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  "  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  lake; 
Nine   years    she    wrought    it,    sitting    in    the 
deeps  'OS 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills." 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after- 
time 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence; 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were 
lost.' 
So  spake  he,  clouded   with   his   own  con- 
ceit, '•" 


And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 

And   so   strode   back   slow   to   the   wounded 

king. 
Then      spoke      King      Arthur,      breathing 

heavily: 
'  What   is   it   thou   hast   seen,   or   what   hast 

heard?  ' 
And    answer    made    the    bold     Sir    Bedi- 
vere: 115 
'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.' 
To  whom   replied   King  Arthur,  much   in 

wrath: 
'  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!     Woe  is  me!  120 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou 

art. 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all,     '^5 
Thou    wouldst   betray   me    for   the   precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And   the   third  time  may  prosper,   get   thee 

hence;  130 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.' 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,     leaping     down     the     ridges     lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the   bulrush-beds,   and   clutched   the 

sword,  135 

And    strongly    wheeled    and    threw    it.     The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled 

in   an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn. 
Seen    where    the    moving    isles    of    winter 

shock  '40 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur ; 
But  ere  he  dipped  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished 

him  145 

Three    times,    and    drew    him    under    in    the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker 

breath : 
'  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out ;   what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR 


761 


And    answer    made    the    bold    Sir    Bedi- 

vere: 
'  Sir    King,    I    closed    mine   eyelids,   lest    the 

gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not    though    I    live    three    lives    of    mortal 

men,  J55 

So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling 

him ; 
But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in    white    samite,    mystic,    wonder- 
ful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished 

him  160 

Three    times,    and    drew    him   under    in    the 

mere.' 
And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing 

hard: 
*  My  end  draws  nigh ;  't  is  time  that  I  were 

gone. 
Make    broad    thy    shoulders    to    receive    my 

weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I  fear     165 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die.' 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere  170 

Remorsefully   regarded   through  his   tears, 
And  would  have   spoken,  but  he   tound   not 

words, 
Then   took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on   one 

knee, 
O'er   both    his    shoulders    drew    the    languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore   him  through   the  place   of 

tombs. 
But,    as   he    walked.    King    Arthur    panted 

hard,  176 

Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed  the 

king. 
Muttering     and     murmuring     at     his     ear, 

■  Quick,  quick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.'  180 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to 

ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he 

walked, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a 

goad.  185 

Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And    barren    chasms,    and    all    to    left    and 

right 


The  bare  black  cliff  clanged   round  him,  as 

he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten     with     the     dint     of     armed 

heels —  190 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 
Then   saw   they  how   there   hove   a   dusky 

barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath    them ;    and    descending    they    were 

ware  195 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with   stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,   black-hooded,   like   a   dream  — 

by  these 
Three    queens    with    crowns    of    gold  —  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony  200 

Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All    night   in   a    waste    land,    where    no    one 

comes, 
Or    hath    come,    since    the    making    of    the 

world. 
Then  murmured  Arthur,  '  Place  me  in  the 

barge,' 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those 

three  queens  205 

Put    forth   their   hands,   and   took   the   king, 

and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed 

his   hands. 
And    called   him   by   his   name,   complaining 

loud,  210 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped    with    dark   blood;    for   all    his    face 

was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the   withered  moon 
Smote  by  the   fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dashed  with 

drops  215 

Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High    from   the  dais-throne  —  were   parched 

with    dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mixed  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 

his  lips.  220 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  king; 
Not    like    that    Arthur    who,    with    lance    in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 
Shot    through    the    lists    at    Camelot,    and 

charged 


762 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings.     22s 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall   I  go? 
Where    shall    I    hide   my    forehead    and    my 

eyes? 

For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 

When     every     morning     brought     a     noble 

chance,  ^^° 

And    every    chance    brought    out    a    noble 

knight. 
Such   times   have   been   not    since   the    light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But    now    the    whole    round    table    is    dis- 
solved ^^4 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And    the    days    darken    round    me,    and    the 

years. 
Among     new     men,     strange     faces,     other 
minds.' 
And    slowly   answered    Arthur    from    the 
barge : 
'The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place   to 
new,  "'*° 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 
Lest   one   good    custom    should   corrupt    the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May    he    within    himself    make    pure!    but 
thou,  ^-^5 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let 

thy  voice 
Rise    like    a    fountain    for    me    night    and 
day.  ^49 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 
If,    knowing    God,    they    lift    not    hands    of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 

friend  ? 
For    so    the    whole    round    earth    is    every 

way 
Bound    by    gold    chains    about    the    feet    of 
God.  255 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed   I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To    the    island-valley    of    Avilion  ;  259 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,    happy,    fair    with    orchard 
lawns 


And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer 
sea, 

Where     I    will    heal    me    of    my    grievous 
wound.' 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail  26s 

Moved     from    the    brink,    like    some     full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold   plume,  and  takes  the 
flood 

With   swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedi- 
vere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull    270 

Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 
dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

(1842) 


ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By    this    still    hearth,    among    these    barren 

crags, 
Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know 

not  me.  S 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel ;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I  have  enjoyed 
Greatly,    have    suf!^ered    greatly,    both    with 

those 
That    loved   me,   and   alone ;    on   shore,   and 

when  9 

Through   scudding  drifts  the   rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea.     I  am  become  a  name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much    have    I    seen    and    known, —  cities    of 

men 
And    manners,    climates,    councils,    govern- 
ments. 
Myself    not    least,    but    honored    of    them 

all;  '5 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all   experience   is  an  arch   wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untraveled  world  whose  margin 

fades  20 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  though  to  breathe  were  life!     Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me         25 
Little  remains ;  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal   silence,  something  more, 


LOCKSLEY  HALL 


763 


j       A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  my- 

I  self, 

I       And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire       30 
I       To  follow   knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
'       Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  scepter  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,   discernnig  to   fulfil         3S 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A   rugged  people,  and   through   soft   degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centered  in  the  sphere 

!      Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail         40 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

'      Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 

When   I   am  gone.     He  works   his   work,    I 
mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her 

sail : 
There    gloom    the    dark,    broad     seas.     My 

mariners,  45 

Souls    that    have    toiled    and    wrought,    and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are 

old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil.  5° 
Death  closes  all ;  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks; 
The  long  day  wanes ;  the  slow  moon  climbs ; 

the  deep  55 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my 

friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The    sounding    furrows ;     for    my    purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths     60 
Of  ail  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Though    much   is   taken,   much   abides ;    and 

though  t)5 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old 

days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we  are, 

we  are; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 

will  69 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

(1842) 


LOCKSLEY   HALL 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a   little,   while   as 

yet  't  is  early  morn  : 
Leave    me    here,    and    when    you    want    me, 

sound   upon   the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old, 

the  curlews  call, 
Dreary    gleams    about    the    moorland    flying 

over  Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks 
the  sandy  tracts,  s 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 

Many  a  night   from  yonder  ivied  casement, 

ere  I  went  to  rest. 
Did   I    look  on  great   Orion    sloping   slowly 

to  the  West. 

Many    a    night    I    saw    the    Pleiads,    rising 

through  the   mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-tlies  tangled  in  a 

silver  braid.  10 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wandered,  nourish- 
ing a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the 
long  result  of  Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful 

land  reposed ; 
When    I    clung    to    all    the   present    for    the 

promise  that  it  closed : 

When  I  dipped  into  the  future  far  as  human 
eye   could   see;  15 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 
wonder  that  would  be. — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon 
the  robin's  breast ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  him- 
self another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the 

burnished   dove ; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's   fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love.  20 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 

should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute 

observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  '  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 
speak  the  truth  to  me, 


>64 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Tru.,t  inc,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 
being  sets  to  thee.' 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 
color  and  a  light,  ^s 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 
northern  night. 

And  she  turned  — her  bosom  shaken  with  a 

sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
All   the   spirit   deeply   dawning   in  the   dark 

of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  'I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing 
they  should  do  me  wrong ' ; 

Saying,  '  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? '  weep- 
ing, '  I  have  loved  thee  long.'  30 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and  turned 

it  in  his  glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in 

golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  might; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling, 
passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we 
hear  the  copses  ring,  35 

And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with 
the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many    an    evening   by   the    waters    did    we 

watch  the  stately  ships. 
And    our    spirits    rushed    together    at    the 

touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted!  O  my  Amy, 
mine  no  more ! 

O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !  O  the  bar- 
ren, barren  shore!  40 

Falser  than  all   fancy   fathoms,   falser  than 

all  songs  have  sung. 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

shrewish  tongue! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?  having  known 
me  —  to  decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  nar- 
rower heart  than  mine ! 

Yet  it  shall  be;  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level 
day  by  day,  45 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to 
sympathize  with  clay. 


thou    art 


As    the   husband    is,   the    wif( 

mated  with  a  clown. 
And   the   grossiicss   of   his   nature   will   have 

weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He    will    hold    thee,    when   his   passion    shall 

have  spent  its  novel  force. 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer 

than  his  horse.  50 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy;  think  not 

they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him,  it  is  thy  duty;  kiss  him,  take  his 

hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain 

is  overwrought; 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him 

with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things 
to  understand —  53 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  though  I 
slew  thee  with  my  hand  1 

Better  thou  and   I  were  lying,  hidden   from 

the  hearts'  disgrace, 
Rolled  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in 

a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 

the  strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 

the  living  truth  !  60 

Cursed   be  the   sickly   forms  that   err    from 

honest  Nature's  rule ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened 

forehead   of   the    fool ! 

Well  — 't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster !  — 
hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved  — 

Would  to  God  —  for  I  had  loved  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which 
bears  but  bitter  fruit?  65 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such 

length  of  years  should  come 
As  the   many-wintered   crow  that   leads   the 

clanging   rookery   home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  rec- 
ords of  the  mind? 

Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her, 
as   I  knew  her,  kind  ?  7o 


LOCKSLEY  HALL 


765 


I  remember  one  that  perished ;   sweetly  did 

she  speak  and  move ; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 

at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for 

the  love  she  bore? 
No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly;  love  is  love 

for  evermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorned  of  devils!  this  is 
truth  the  poet  sings,  7S 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remem- 
bering happier  things. 

Drug  thy   memories,  lest  thou   learn   it,   lest 

thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In   the   dead   unhappy   night,    and    when   the 

rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou 

art   staring  at  the   wall, 
\Vhere    the    dying    night-lamp    flickers,    and 

the  shadows  rise  and  fall.  80 

Tlien  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing 

to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To    thy    widowed    marriage-pillows,    to    the 

tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  '  Never,  never,'  whis- 
pered by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the 
ringing  of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 
kindness  on  thy  pain.  85 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow;  get  thee 
to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a 
I  tender  voice  will  cry, 

'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain 
'  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby   lips    will    laugh   me   down;    my   latest 
rival  brings  thee  rest. 
I      Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from 
\  the  mother's  breast.  9° 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a 
I  dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his;  it  will  be 
1  worthy  of  the  two. 

0,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 
I  petty   part, 

!      With    a    little    hoard    of    maxims    preaching 
down  a  daughter's  heart. 


'  They  were  dangerous  guides,  the  feelings 
—  she  herself  was  not  exempt —  95 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered' — Perish  in 
thy  self -contempt! 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy!  where- 
fore should  I  care? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I 
wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  light- 
ing upon  days  like  these? 

Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys.  Joo 

Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors,  all  the 

markets   overflow. 
I    have    but    an    angry    fancy;    what    is    that 

which   I   should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the 

foeman's   ground. 
When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in  vapor,  and  the 

winds   are   laid   with    sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 
that  Honor  feels,  105 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling 
at  each  other's  heels. 

Can    I   but   relive    in   sadness?     I    will    turn 

that  earlier  page. 
Hide   me    from   my   deep    emotion,    O    thou 

wondrous   Mother-Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt 

before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 

tumult  of  my  life;  no 

Yearning   for  the  large  excitement  that  the 

coming  years  would  yield. 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves 

his  father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near 

and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London   flaring 

like  a  dreary  dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 
before  him  then,  "5 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among 
the  throngs  of  men ; 

Men,   my   brothers,   men    the    workers,    ever 

reaping   something  new  ; 
That   which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of 

the  things  that  they  shall  do. 


^(^ 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


For  I  dipped  into  the  future,  far  as  human 

eye  could  see. 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be;  120 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  ar- 
gosies of  magic  sails, 

Pilot  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down 
with  costly  bales; 

Heard   the  heavens   fill   with   shouting,   and 

there   rained   a   ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in 

the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south-wind  rushing  warm,  125 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
through   the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer,  and 

the  battle-flags  were   furled 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of 

the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold 

a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapped 

in  universal  law.  130 

So   I   triumphed   ere   my   passion   sweeping 

through  me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me 

with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to   which  all  order   festers,  all  things 

here  are   out   of  joint; 
Science   moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping 

on  from  point  to  point; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion, 
creeping  nigher,  135 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a 
slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  in- 
creasing purpose   runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with 
the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest 

of  his  youthful  joys, 
Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for 

ever  like  a  boy's?  "40 

Knowledge  coaies,  but  wisdom   lingers,  and 

1   linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is 

more  and  more. 


Knowledge   comes,   but   wisdom  lingers,   and 

he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
I'ull   of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the 

stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding 
on  the  bugle-horn,  MS 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a 
target    for  their   scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such 

a  moldered  string? 
I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have 

loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness     to     be     wroth     with     weakness ! 

woman's   pleasure,   woman's   pain  — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded 

in  a  shallower  brain:  150 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  pas- 
sions, matched  with  mine. 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as 
water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  noth- 
ing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my 
life  began  to  beat, 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my 
father  evil-starred  ; —  155 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish 
uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to 
wander  far  away. 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gate- 
ways of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons 
and  happy  skies. 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  clus- 
ter, knots  of  Paradise.  160 

Never    comes    the    trader,    never    floats    an 

European  flag, 
Slides     the     bird     o'er     lustrous     woodland, 

swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops    the   heavy-blossomed   bower,    hangs 

the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple 

spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more 
than  in  this  march  of  mind.  '^5 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 


THE  POET'S  SONG 


1^ 


There  the  passions  cramped  no  longer  shall 
I  have  scope  and  breathing  space ; 

!     I    will   take   some   savage   woman,    she   shall 
rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive, 
and  they  shall  run, 
•     Catch   the  wild   goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl 
their  lances  in  the  sun;  '7o 

I    Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the 

rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
!    Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  mis- 
'  erable  books  — 

Fool,    again    the    dream,    the    fancy!    but    I 
know  my  words  are  wild, 
j    But   I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than 
the   Christian  child. 

i    I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of 
j  our  glorious  gains,  "75 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 
beast  with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to  me 

were  sun  or  clime  ! 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost 

files  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

one  by  one, 
Than   that  earth  should   stand  at  gaze  like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon!  i8o 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward, 

forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the 

ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

into   the   younger   day ; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 

Cathay. 

Mother- Age, —  for  mine  I  knew  not, —  help 
me  as  when  life  begun;  i8s 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the 
lightnings,  weigh  the  sun. 

I  O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 
j  hath  not  set. 

i  Ancient    founts  of  inspiration  well   through 
I  all  my   fancy  yet. 

i 

I    Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell 
to  Locksley  Hall ! 


Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for 
me  the  roof-tree   fall.  190 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening 

over  heath  and  holt. 
Cramming    all    the    blast    before    it,    in    its 

breast   a   thunderbolt. 

Let   it    fall   on   Locksley  Hall,   with   rain   or 

hail,  or  fire  or  snow ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward, 

and  I  go. 

(1842) 


BREAK,   BREAK,   BREAK 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well   for  the  fisherman's  boy,  S 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O   well    for   the   sailor   lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven   under  the   hill ;  'o 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me.  16 

(1842) 


THE  POET'S  SONG 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  passed   by   the   town    and   out   of   the 
street, 
A   light   wind   blew    from   the  gates   of   the 
sun, 
And    waves    of    shadow    went    over    the 
wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place,       5 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopped  as  he  hunted  the  fly, 
The  snake  slipped  under  a  spray,  10 

The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his 
beak, 
And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 


768 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


And   the   nightingale   thought,   '  1    have   sung 
many   songs, 
But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be     'S 
•  When  the  years  have  died  away.' 

(1842) 


SONGS 

From   THE   PRINCESS 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what   they 
mean, 
Tears    from  the   depth   of   some   divine   de- 
spair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And    thinking    of    the    days    that    are     no 
more.  5 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a 
sail. 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 

That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 
more.  '« 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of   half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The    casement    slowly   grows    a   glimmering 

square ; 
So   sad,   so   strange,   the   days   that   are   no 

more.  ^  s 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And     sweet    as    those     by     hopeless     fancy 

feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O    Death    in    Life,    the    days    that    are    no 
more !  -o 

(1847) 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

iiig,  5 

Blow,   bugle;   answer,   echoes,   dying,    dying, 
dying. 


fiy- 


O,  hark,  O,  hear!   how  thin  and  clear, 
And   thinner,   clearer,    farther   going ! 

O,  sweet  and   far   from  cliff  and   scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  !     10 

l^.low,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 

Blow,   bugle ;   answer,   echoes,   dymg,   dyilig, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll   from  soul  to  soul,  '5 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes   Hy- 
ing, 
And   answer,   echoes,  answer,   dying,    dying, 
dying. 

(1850) 


Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drums 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And   gives  the  battle  to  his  hands: 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow,  5 

He  sees  his  brood   about  thy  knee ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 
(1850) 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She   nor    swooned   nor   uttered   cry: 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

'  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.' 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden   from  her  place. 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stepped, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 
'  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.' 

(1850) 


Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the 
sea; 
The    cloud    may    stoop    from    heaven    and 

take  the   shape, 
With    fold    to    fold,    of    mountain    or    of 
cape ; 


IN  MEMORIAM 


769 


But    O    too    fond,    when    have    I    answered 
thee? 

Ask    mc    no    more.  s 

Ask   me    no    more :    what    answer    should    I 
give? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
Yet,   O   my    friend,   I   will   not   have   thee 
die! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thcc  live ; 
Ask   me   no   more.  Jo 

Ask   me   no    more :   thy   fate   and   mine    are 
sealed ; 
I    strove    against    the    stream    and    all    in 

vain ; 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main. 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more.  is 

(1850) 


IN  MEMORIAM  A.  H.   H. 

OBIIT    MDCCCXXXIII 

Strong   Son   of   God,   immortal   Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face. 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace. 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade ;      s 
Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 
Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 

Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust; 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why,      10 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art  just. 

Thou   seemest   human   and   divine, 
The   highest,   holiest   manhood,   thou : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how;     i5 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little   systems  have  their   day. 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be; 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee. 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they.      20 

We  have  but  faith :   we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness :   let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more,  25 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
49 


That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 
May  make  one  music  as  before. 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear :       30 
But   help   thy   foolish   ones  to   bear ; 

Help  thy  vain   worlds   to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seemed  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seemed    my  worth  since  I  began ; 

For  merit  lives   from  man  to  man,  35 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief   for  one   removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom   I   found  so   fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I    find    him   worthier   to   be   loved.  40 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries. 
Confusions   of   a   wasted   youth; 
Forgive  them  where   they   fail   in   truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


O    Sorrow,   cruel   fellowship, 
O   Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O    sweet    and    bitter    in    a    breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip? 

'  The   stars,'   she  whispers,  '  blindly  run ; 
A  web  is  woven  across  the  sky, 
From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun ; 

'  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands  — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own, — 

A   hollow   form   with   empty  hands.' 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind. 
Embrace  her  as   my  natural   good; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood. 

Upon   the   threshold    of   the   mind? 

XIX 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The  darkened  heart  that  beat  no  more : 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore. 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The    salt   sea-water   passes   by. 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hushed  nor  moved  along. 
And  hushed  my  deepest  grief  of  all,     1 


770 


ALFRED  TEN NV SON 


When   tilled    with   tears   that   cannot    fall, 
1  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  Hows  down,  the  wave  again 

Is   vocal    in    its    wooded    walls; 

My  deeper  anguish  also   falls,  '5 

And    I    can    speak    a    little   then. 

XXVII 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage. 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods ; 

I   envy  not  the  beast  that   takes  s 

His   license   in    the    field   of   time, 
Unfettered    by   the    sense    of    crime. 

To  whom   a   conscience   never   wakes; 

Nor,   what   may   count   itself   as   blest. 
The   heart   that   never   plighted   troth        ><> 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth ; 

Nor   any   want-begotten   rest. 

I   hold   it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I   feel  it,  when  I   sorrow  most ; 

'T  is  better  to  have   loved  and  lost         'S 
Than    never   to   have    loved   at   all. 

LV 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave. 
Derives   it   not    from   what    we   have 

The  likest   God  within  the   soul? 

Are   God   and    Nature   then   at   strife,  5 

That    Nature   lends   such   evil   dreams? 
So  careful   of  the  type  she  seems. 

So  careless  of  the  single  life; 

That    I,   considering    everywhere 

Her   secret   meaning   in   her   deeds,  lo 

And  finding  that   of   fifty  seeds 

She   often   brings   but   one   to   bear, 

I    falter    where    I    firmly   trod. 
And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon   the   great   world's   altar-stairs,       '5 

That    slope    through    darkness    up    to    God, 

I   stretch  lame  hands  of   faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and   call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And    faintly  trust   the   larger   hope.  20 


Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been. 
As   some   divinely   gifted   man. 


Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And   on   a   simple   village  green ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar,  s 

And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance. 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And    grapples    with    his    evil    star; 

Who   makes   by    force   his   merit   known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden   keys,       'o 
To  mold  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  in  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope,  is 

The  center  of  a  world's  desire; 

Yet   feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 

When   all   his   active   powers   are   still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hdl, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream,  20 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While   yet   beside   its   vocal    springs 
He  played  at  counselors  and  kings 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  male ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pam  his  native  lea        25 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or   in   the   furrow   musing   stands : 

'  Does  my  old   friend   remember  me  ? ' 

LXVII 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west 

There   comes   a   glory  on   the   walls; 

Thy  marble  bright   in   dark  appears,  s 

As    slowly   steals   a    silver    flame, 
Along   the    letters   of   thy   name. 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The   mystic  glory  swims  away; 

From  ofi'  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies;     'f 
And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipped  in  gray: 

And  then   I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil   from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost  '5 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

LXXXVIII 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet. 
Rings   Eden  through  the   budded   quicks, 
O,  tell   me   where   the   senses   mix, 

O,  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 


MAUD 


771 


Whence  radiate:  fierce  extremes  employ      s 
Thy   spirits   in   the   darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the   midmost  heart   of  grief 

Thy   passion    clasps    a    secret    joy; 

And  I  —  my  harp  would  prelude  woe  — 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings,  1° 

The   glory   of   the   sum    of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

CXXIII 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

0  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou  seen ! 
There   where   the   long  street  roars,  hath 

been 
The  stillness  of  the  central   sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow  5 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds   they  shape  themselves  and   go. 

But    in    my    spirit    will    I    dwell. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true;   10 
For  though   my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 

I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell, 

cxxx 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And    in   the   setting   thou   art    fair. 

What   art   thou  then?    I   cannot   guess;     5 
But  though  I  seem  in  star  and  flower. 
To    feel    thee   some  diffusive   power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less. 

My  love  involves  the  love  before; 
My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ;  lo 

Though  mixed  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 

I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


t     Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh; 
I         I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice; 

I   prosper,  circled   with  thy  voice; 
I     I  shall  not  lose  thee  though  I  die. 


cxxxi 
O   living  will  that   shalt  endure 
When  all  that   seems   shall   suffer  shock, 
Rise  in   the  spiritual   rock, 
Flow    through    our    deeds    and    make    them 
pure, 

That   we   may  lift    from   out   of   dust  5 

A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears. 


A   cry  above   the  conquered  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until    we    close   with    all    we    loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 

(1850) 


MAUD;  A  MONODRAMA 
PART  I 

I 

I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little 
wood, 

Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with 
blood-red  heath, 

The  red-ribbed  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  hor- 
ror of  blood, 

And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  asked  her,  an- 
swers '  Death.' 

For   there   in   the   ghastly  pit    long   since    a 

body  was  found,  5 

His  who  had  given  me  life  —  O   father!   O 

God !  was  it  well  ?  — 
Mangled    and    flattened,    and    crushed,    and 

dinted    into   the   ground: 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him 

when   he    fell. 

Did  he  fling  himself  down?  who  knows?  for 
a    vast    speculation    had    failed. 

And  ever  he  muttered  and  maddened,  and 
ever  wanned   with   despair,  10 

And  out  he  walked,  when  the  wind  like  a 
broken    worlding   wailed. 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruined  wood- 
lands  drove  through   the   air. 

I   remember  the  time,   for  the  roots  of  my 

hair  were  stirred 
By  a  shuflied  step,  by  a  dead  weight  trailed, 

by  a  whispered   fright. 
And    my   pulses    closed    their    gates    with    a 

shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heard  'S 

The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide 

the  shuddering  night. 

Villainy  somewhere!  whose?  One  says,  we 
are    villains   all. 

Not  he:  his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by 
me  be  maintained. 

But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  es- 
tate and  the  Hall, 


772 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Dropped  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that 
had  left  us  flaccid  and  drained. 

Why    do    they    prate    of    the    blessings    of 

Peace?  we  have  made  them  a  curse,  20 
Pickpockets,   each  hand  lusting   for  all  that 

is    not    its    own ; 
And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is 

it   better   or    worse 
Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war 

on  his  own  hearthstone? 

But    these    are    the    days    of    advance,    the 

works  of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have   faith  in 

a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word?  -=5 

Is  it  peace  or  war?     Civil  war,  as  I  think, 

and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing 

the   sword. 

Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the 

print 
Of     the     golden     age  —  why     not,     I     have 

neither  hope  nor  trust; 
May  make  my  heart  'as  a  millstone,  set  my 

face   as   a   flint,  30 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die;  who  knows? 

we  are  ashes  and  dust. 

Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring 
the    days    gone    by. 

When  the  poor  are  hoveled,  and  hustled  to- 
gether, each  sex,  like  swine. 

When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only 
not  all  men  lie ; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard  —  yes!  —  but  a  com- 
pany forges  the  wine.  35 

And   the  vitriol   madness   flushes  up   in  the 

ruffian's  head. 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane   rings  to  the   yell  of 

the   trampled    wife, 
And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to 

the    poor    for    bread, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very 

means    of    life, 

And    Sleep   must   lie   down   armed,    for   the 

villainous    center-bits  4° 

Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the 

moonless  nights, 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few 

last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To    pestle    a    poisoned     poison    behind    his 

crimson  lights. 


When   a   Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe 

for    a    burial    fee. 
And    Timour-Mammon   grins    on    a    pile   of 

children's    bones,  45 

Is  it  peace  or  war?  better,  war!  loud  war  by 

land   and   by   sea, 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a 

hundred  thrones. 

For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder 

round  by  the  hill. 
And  the  rushing  battle-bolt   sang   from   the 

three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 
That     the     smooth-faced     snubnosed     rogue 

would  leap   from  his  counter  and  till,  50 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his 

cheating  yardwand,  home. — 

What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged 

in  his  mood? 
Must  /  too  creep   to   the   hollow   and   dash 

myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the   law  that   I   made, 

nevermore  to  brood 
On    a    horror    of    shattered    limbs    and    a 

wretched  swindler's  lie?  55 

Would  there  be  sorrow   for  mc?  there  was 

love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love    for    the    silent    thing    that    had    made 

false    haste    to    the    grave  — 
Wrapt    in    a    clock,    as    I     saw    him,    and 

thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah,   God, 

as    he    used    to    rave. 

I   am  sick  of  the  Hall,  and  the  hill,   I   am 

sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main.  60 

Why  should   I   stay?   can   a   sweeter  chance 

ever  come  to   me   here? 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as 

the  nerves  of  pain. 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I   fled   from   the  place 

and    the   pit   and   the    fear? 

Workmen  up  at  the  Hall !  —  they  are  coming 

back  from  abroad ; 
The    dark    old    place    will    be    gilt    by    the 

touch   of  a  millionaire;  65 

I   have   heard,   I   know   not   whence,   of   the 

singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 
I    played    with    the    girl    when    a   child ;    she 

promised   then   to  be   fair. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings,  and 
tumbles    and    childish    escapes, 

Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing 
joy    of    the    Hall, 


MAUD 


773 


Alaud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my 
father    dangled    the    grapes,  70 

Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon- 
faced darling  of  all, — 

What    is    she    now?     My    dreams    are    bad. 

She    may    bring    me    a    curse, 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor;   she 

will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,    for   the   fiend  best   knows   whether 

woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  myself,  and  the  Devil 

may  pipe  to   his  own.  75 


III 

Cold  and  clear-cut   face,  why  come  you  so 

cruelly   meek, 
Breaking   a    slumber   in    which   all    spleenful 

folly   was   drowned. 
Pale    with    the   golden    beam   of    an    eyelash 

dead   on  the   cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a 

gloom   profound; 
Woman-like,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a 

transient   wrong  80 

Done   but   in   thought   to   your   beauty,    and 

ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and   fading  and  growing  upon  me 

without  a  sound, 
Luminous,    gem-like,    ghost-like,    death-like, 

half  the  night  long 
Growing    and    fading    and    growing,    till    I 

could  bear  it  no  more, 
But    arose,    and   all    by   myself    in    my   own 

dark  garden  ground,  85 

Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung 

shipwrecking  roar, 
Now   to   the   scream   of   a   maddened   beach 

dragged   down   by   the   wave. 
Walked  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly  glim- 
mer, and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in 

his  grave. 


A  voice  by  the  cedar  tree  90 

In    the    meadow    under   the    Hall ! 
She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 
A    passionate    ballad    gallant    and    gay, 
A   martial    song   like   a   trumpet's   call ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of   life,       95 
In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 
Singing   of   men   that   in    battle   array. 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife. 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land.  '0° 


Maud    with    her   exquisite    face. 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  'an  English 
green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 
grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  can- 
not   die,  los 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid 
and  mean. 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice,     no 

A  glory  I   shall  not  find. 

Still!    I    will    hear    you    no    more. 

For    your    sweetness    hardly    leaves    me    a 

choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and   adore. 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice.  117 

XI 

O,   let   the   solid   ground 

Not   fail   beneath   my   feet 
Before  my  life  has  found  120 

What   some   have    found   so   sweet; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter   if   I  go  mad, 
I   shall  have  had  my  day. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure,  "S 

Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before    I    am   quite   quite    sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 

Then   let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad,  130 

I   shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden, 

When   twilight   was    falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

They  were  crying  and  calling.  135 

Where   was   Maud?  in  our  wood; 

And  I  —  who  else  ?  —  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

Birds  in  our  wood   sang  HO 

Ringing  through  the  valleys, 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In    among   the   lilies. 


774 


ALFRED   1  EX XV SON 


1   kissed   Iicr   sleiulcT   liaiul, 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately;  MS 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor! 
O.    Maud    were   sure   of   heaven  'So 

If  lowluiess  could  save  her! 

I  know  the  way  she  went 

Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 
For  her  feet  have  touched  the  meadows 

And  left  the  daisies  rosy.  'ss 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud? 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door,  '^o 

And    little    King    Charley    snarling! 

Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 


XVII 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

From  the  shining  fields,  165 

Go,  not,  happy  day. 

Till  the  maiden   yields. 
Rosy   is   the   West, 

Rosy    is    tlie    South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks,  170 

And  a  rose  her   mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters   from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  ships;  i75 

Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  through  the  West; 
Till    the    red   man   dance  '80 

By  his   red  cedar-tree. 
And   the   red   man's   babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush    from   West  to   East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West,  185 

Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  through  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the   West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks,  »9o 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


XVHI 
I    have    led    her    home,    my    love,    my    only 

friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on  193 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wished- for  end. 
Full    to    the    banks,    close    on   the    promised 

good. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now   the  dry-tongued   laurels'   pattering 

talk 
Seemed    her    light    foot    along    the    garden 

walk,  -200 

And    shook    my    heart    to    think    she    comes 

once   more ; 
But  even  then   I   heard  her  close  the  door; 
The  gates  of  heaven   are  closed,  and   she  is 

gone. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor    will    be   when    our    summers    have   de- 
ceased. 20s 
O,   art  thou  sighing   for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  de- 
licious   East, 
Sighing   for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  though  thy  limbs  have  here  in- 
creased, 
Upon    a    pastoral    slope    as    fair,  210 

And  looking  to  the   South  and  fed 
With  honeyed  rain  and  delicate  air. 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her   whose  gentle   will   has   changed   my 

fate. 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame. 
And    over    whom    thy    darkness,   must    have 
spread  216 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers    of   the   thornless   garden,    there 
Shadowing     the     snow-limbed      Eve      from 
whom  she  came? 

Here   will    I    lie,    while  these   long   branches 
sway,  220 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play. 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn 
As   when    it   seemed    far   better   to   be   born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-hardened  hand  225 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  under- 
stand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes. 
Cold    fires,    yet    with    power    to    burn  ^and 
brand  '  *3o 


MAUD 


775 


His  nothingness  into  man. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I 

Who    in    this    stormy    gulf    have    found    a 

pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would  die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple 

girl  ?  —  236 

Would   die,    for   sullen-seeming  Death   may 

give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  't  is  sweet  to 

live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass ; 
It  seems  that  I  .am  happy,  that  to  me       241 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

Not  die,  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And    teach    true    life   to    fight    with    mortal 

wrongs,  245 

O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking 

songs. 
Spice    his    fair    banquet    with    the    dust    of 

death  ? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving 

kiss,  249 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 
'  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love   himself 

more   dear.' 

j     Is  that  enchanted   moan   only  the   swfell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 

Of   twelve   sweet  hours  that  past   in   bridal 

white,  256 

I      And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 

t      But   now    by   this    my    love   has   closed   her 

sight. 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stolen 
away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies 
dwell  260 

Among    the    fragments    of    the    golden    day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  af- 
fright! 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 
spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 

My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own,  fare- 
well ;  265 

It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go. 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and   fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 


Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 
glow 

Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 
bright?  270 

/   have   climbed   nearer   out   of   lonely   Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  be- 
low, 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart 
can    tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe. 

That  seems  to  draw  —  but  it  shall  not  be  so : 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well.  276 

XXI 

Rivulet   crossing   my   ground. 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This    garden-rose    that    I    found. 

Forgetful   of    Maud   and   me,  280 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall. 

And    trying    to    pass    to    the    sea ; 

0  rivulet,    born    at    the    Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee—  285 

HI   read   her   sweet   will    right  — 
On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 
Saying  in  odor  and  color,  '  Ah,  be 
Among  the  roses  to-night.' 

XXII 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,  290 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I   am   here  at   the   gate   alone; 
And     the     woodbine     spices     are     wafted 
abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown     295 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high. 

Beginning    to    faint    in    the    light    that    she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves. 
To   faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die.  301 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The    flute,    violin,    bassoon ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 

To    the    dancers    dancing  "in    tune ;        305 
Till  a  silence   fell   with  the  waking  bird. 

And   a  hush  with  the   setting  moon. 

1  said  to  the  lily,  '  There  is  but  one, 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone?  3io 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.' 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And   half   to   the   rising   day; 


77^ 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away.  3iS 

I   said  to  the  rose,  'The  brief  night  goes 

In   babble   and    revel   and   wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For   one   that   will   never   be   thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,'  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

'Forever   and    ever,   mine.'  321 

And   the    soul    of   the    rose   went    into    my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clashed  in  the  Hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall  3^5 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the 
wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your   feet       330 

In    violets   blue    as   your    eyes. 
To   the   woody   hollows   in   which   we   meet 

And    the    valleys    of    Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree;  335 

The   white   lake-blossom   fell   into  the   lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake,  34o 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 
Come   hither,   the   dances   are   done. 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one;  345 

Shine    out,    little   head,    sunning   over    with 
curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear;  35o 

She  is  commg,  my  life,  my  fate. 
The    red    rose   cries,    '  She    is   near,    she    is 
near ; ' 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  '  She  is  late ; ' 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  I  hear,  I  hear ; ' 

And  the  lily  whispers,  '  I  wait.' 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet;  3S6 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 


My  heart  would  hear  lier  and  beat. 
Were    it    earth    in    an   earthy   bed; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat,  360 

Had   I   lain   for  a  century  dead; 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


PART    II 

II 
See  what  a  lovely  shell. 
Small   and  pure   as  a  pearl,  36s 

Lying  close  to   my    foot. 
Frail,   but   a   work   divine, 
Made  so  fairly  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute,  370 

A  miracle  of  design! 

What  is  it?  a  learned  man 

Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 

Let  him  name  it  who  can, 

The  beauty  would  be  the  same.  375 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 

Void    of    the    little    living    will 

That   made  it  stir  on  the   shore. 

Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 

Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow   frill?  380 

Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurled, 

A    golden    foot   or   a    fairy  horn 

Through  his  dim  water- world? 

Slight,  to  be  crushed  with  a  tap 

Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand,  38s 

Small,  but  a  work  divine. 

Frail,  but   of   force   to  withstand. 

Year  upon  year,  the  shock 

Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 

The  three-decker's  oaken   spine  39° 

Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 

Here  on  the  Breton  strand! 

Breton,  not  Briton  ;  here 

Like  a  shipwrecked  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear —  395 

Plagued  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A   disease,   a  hard  mechanic   ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below. 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye,        400 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main  — 

Why  should  it  look  like  Maud? 

Am  I  to  be  overawed 

By    what    I    cannot    but    know 

Is  a  juggle  born  of  the  brain?  405 


MAUD 


m 


Back  from  the  Breton,  coast, 

Sick   of   a  nameless    fear, 

Back  to   the   dark  sea-line 

Looking,  thinking  of  all   I   have  lost; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear;  4io 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 

For  years,  a  measureless  ill. 

For  years,  for  ever,  to  part  — 

But  she,  she  would  love  me  still ; 

And  as  long,  O  God,  as  she  4is 

Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me. 

So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt. 

Shall    I    nurse    in   my   dark   heart, 

However  weary,   a   spark  of  will 

Not   to   be   trampled    out.  420 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when   fraught 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye, — 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought. 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense  426 

For  a   shell,   or  a   flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by ! 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When   he   lay  dying  there,  430 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and  thought 

It  is  his  mother's  hair. 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead? 

Whether  I  need  have  fled  435 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood? 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good. 

While   I   am   over   the   sea ! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by,      440 

But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and  high, 

Whatever  happen  to  me ! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep, 

Powers  of  the  height.  Powers  of  the  deep. 

And  comfort  her  though  I  die.  446 

!  HI 

I      Courage,   poor   heart   of   stone, 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 
i      Thou  canst  not  understand 
i      That   thou  art  left   for   ever  alone:  45o 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone. — 

Or,   if   I   ask  thee  why. 

Care   not   thou  to  reply; 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die.  4SS 

I      O  that  't  were  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 


To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again ! 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 

In  the   silent  woody  places 

By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth. 

We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 

Mixed  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 

Than   anything  on    earth. 


460 


46s 


A  shadow  flits  before  me. 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee, 

Ah   Christ,  that   it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be !  471 

It    leads   me    forth    at    evening. 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels  475 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights. 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 

Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 

The  delight  of  early  skies;  480 

In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 

For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes. 

For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 

The  delight  of   happy  laughter. 

The    delight    of    low    replies.  485 

'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 

And   a  dewy   splendor    falls 

On  the  little  flower  that  clings 

To  the  turrets  and  the  walls; 

'T   is   a   morning  pure   and   sweet,  49o 

And  the  light  and  shadow   fleet; 

She  is  walking  in  the  meadow. 

And  the  woodland  echo  rings; 

In   a  moment  we  shall  meet; 

She  is  singing  in  the  meadow,  495 

And  the   rivulet  at  her   feet 

Ripples    on    in    light    and    shadow 

To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old. 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head,  500 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye? 

But  there   rings   on  a   sudden,  a  passionate 

cry. 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead. 
And  a   sullen   thunder   is   rolled ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city,  505 

And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity^ 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 


778 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


That   abiding  phantom   cold!  sio 

Get    thee   hence,    nor    come    again, 

Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 

Pass,   thou  death-like  type  of  pain, 

Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 

'T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain  S'S 

That  will  show  itself  without. 

Then    I    rise,    the    eave-drops    fall, 

And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 

The    great    city    sounding    wide; 

The   day   comes,    a   dull    red   ball  S20 

Wrapt   in   drifts   of   lurid   smoke 

On  the  misty  river-tide. 

Through  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame; 

It   crosses   here,    it   crosses   there,  s^s 

Through  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

Alas,  for  her  that  met  me,  53o 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came   glimmering  through   the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evcnfall. 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall!  S3S 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend 

From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 

In  the  chamber  or  the  street. 

As  she  looks  among  the  blest. 

Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend  S4o 

Or  to  say  '  Forgive  the  wrong,' 

Or  to  ask  her,  '  Take  me,  sweet. 

To  the  regions  of  thy  rest '  ? 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets  545 

And  will  not  let  me  be; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets. 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me. 

Always  J  long  to  creep  550 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

(185s) 


SONG:     From   GUINEVERE 

'Late,   late,   so    late!    and   dark   the   night 
and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late!  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 


'  No    light    had    we ;    for    that    we    do    re- 
pent; 
And   learning  this,  the  bridegroom   will   re- 
lent. 5 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'  No  light !  so  late !  and  dark  and  chill  the 
night ! 
O,  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light! 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so 
sweet?  'o 

O,  let  us  in,  though  late,  to  kiss  his  feet! 
No,  no,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now.' 

(I8S9) 


TITHONUS 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall. 
The     vapors     weep     their     burthen     to     the 

ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills   the  field  and   lies  be- 
neath. 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality  5 

Consumes;  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
.A  white-haired  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 
The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded    mists,    and    gleaming    halls    of 

morn.  10 

Alas !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who     madest     him     thy     chosen,     that     he 

seemed 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God ! 
I  asked  thee,  '  Give  me  immortality.'  'S 

Then  didst  thou   grant  mine  asking  with  a 

smile. 
Like  wealthy  men   who  care  not   how  they 

give. 
But    thy    strong    Hours    indignant    worked 

their  wills, 
And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and  wasted 

me, 
And  though  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 

maimed  ^o 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth. 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth. 
And   all    I    was,   in   ashes.     Can   thy   love. 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  though  even  now. 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide,      ^s 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with 

tears 
To    hear   me?     Let   me   go;    take    back   thy 

gift; 


NORTHERN  FARMER 


779 


Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance  3° 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for 

all? 
A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart ;  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was 

born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoul- 
ders pure,  35 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renewed. 
Thy    cheek    begins    to    redden    through    the 

gloom, 
Thy    sweet    eyes    brighten    slowly    close    to 

mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild 

team 
Which    love    thee,    yearning    for    thy    yoke, 

arise,  40 

And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosened 

manes. 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 
Lo!  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek.  45 
Why   wilt    thou    ever    scare    me    with    thy 

tears. 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt. 
In  days  far-oflf,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true? 
'  The    Gods    themselves    cannot    recall    their 

gifts.' 
Ay  me !  ay  me !  with  what  another  heart  so 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch  —  if  I  be  he  that  watched  — 
The  lucid  outline   forming  round  thee ;   saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into   sunny  rings ; 
Changed   with   thy  mystic   change,   and    felt 

my  blood  55 

Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimsoned 

all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 
Mouth,     forehead,    eyelids,    growing    dewy- 
warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kissed 
Whispering   I   knew   not  what   of   wild   and 

sweet,  61 

Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 
Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East ; 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold     66 
Are    all    thy    lights,    and    cold    my   wrinkled 

feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,   when  the 

steam 
Floats  up   from   those  dim   fields  about   the 

homes 


Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die,  70 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground; 
Thou    secst    all    things,    thou    wilt    see    my 

grave; 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn ; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts,  75 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 

(i860) 


MILTON 

(alcaics) 
O  mighty-mouthed  inventor  of  harmonies, 

O  skilled  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternily, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of   England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages: 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel,  5 

Starred    from  Jehovah's  gorgeous   armories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset! 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring,     'o 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean. 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of   India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm-woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even.   16 
(1863) 


NORTHERN  FARMER 

OLD   STYLE 

Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  Hggin' 

'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse  ?    thoort    novvt    o'    a    noorse ;    whoy. 

Doctor  's  abean  an'  agoan  ; 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale,  but  I 

beant  a  fool ; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin'  to  break 

my  rule. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what 's 

nawways  true ;  5 

Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things 

that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I 

bean   'ere. 
An'    I  've    'ed   my  quart   ivry  market-noight 

for  foorty  year. 

Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  ere 

o'  my  bed. 
'  The  Amoighty  "s  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen, 

my  friend,'  a  said,  10 


78o 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an'  's  toithe  were 

due,  an'  I  gicd  it  in  bond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  boa.  I  reckons  I  'annot  sa 
mooch  to  larn. 

But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Har- 
ris's barne. 

Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire 
an'  choorch  an'  staate,  is 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  nivcr  agin 
the  raate. 

An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  choorch  afoor  moy 
Sally  wur  dead. 

An'  'eard  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buz- 
zard-clock ower  my  'ead, 

An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I 
thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 

An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said,  an' 
I  coom'd  awaay.  20 

Bessy  Marris's  barne!  tha  knaws  she  laaid 

it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad 

un,  shea. 
'Siver,   I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass,  tha 

mun  imderstond ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  *um,  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says 

it  easy  an'  f rea  :  25 

*  The  Amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen, 

my  friend,'  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun 

said  it  in  'aaste; 
But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weak,  an'  I  'a 

stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?  naw,  naw, 

tha  was  not  born  then; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eard  'um 

mysen ;  3o 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,  fur  I  'eard  'um 

about  an'  about, 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raaved 

an'  rembled  'um  out. 

Reaper's   it   wur;    fo'   they   fun   'um  theer 

a-laaid  of  'is   faace 
Down  i'  the  woild  'enemies  afoor  I  coom'd 

to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  — toaner  'ed   shot   'um 

as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize  — but 

git  ma  my  aale. 


Dubbut    loook   at   the   waaste;    theer   warn't 

not  feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook 

at  it  now  — 
Warn't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer 

's  lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor  yows  upon  it,  an'  some  on  it  down 

i'  seead.  40 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a 

stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year   I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd   plow 

thruff  it  an'  all, 
If   Godamoighty  an'  parson   'ud   nobbut   let 

ma  aloan, — 
Mea,  wi'  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's, 

an  lond  o'  my  oan. 

Do    Godamoighty   knaw   what   a's    doing   a- 

taakin'  o'  mea?  45 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an  yonder 

a  pea; 
An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  dear, 

a'  dear! 
And     I     'a     managed     for     Squoire     coom 

Michaelmas  thutty  year. 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a 

'aapoth  o'  sense. 
Or  a  mowt  a'  taaen  young  Robins  —  a  niver 

mended  a  fence;  so 

But    Godamoighty   a    moost    taake    mea    an' 

taake  ma  now, 
Wi'   aaf  the   cows   to   cauve   an'   Thurnaby 

hoalms  to  plow ! 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas 

ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen,  naw  doubt,  '  What  a  man 

a   bea    sewerloy!' 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin' 

fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'All;  ss 

I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy 

duty  boy  hall. 

Squoire  's  i'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons 

'ull  'a  to  wroite. 
For  whoa  's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot 

muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea  thot  a  weant  niver  give 

it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins  —  a  niver  rem- 

bles  the   stoans.  60 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi' 

'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'   an'   maazin'   the   blessed    fealds   wi' 

the  divil's  oan  team. 


THE  REVENGE 


781 


Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they 

says  is  sweet, 
But  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn 

abear  to  see  it. 

What    atta    stannin'    theer    fur,    an'    doesn 

bring  ma  the  aale?  65 

Doctor  's  a  'toattler,  lass,  an  a's  hallus  i'  the 

owd  taale ; 
I    weant   break    rules    fur    Doctor,    a   knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  floy; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy 

I  mun  doy. 

(1864) 


THE  REVENGE 


A    BALLAD    OF    THE    FLEET 


At  Flores  in  the  Azores   Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville  lay, 
And   a   pinnace,    like   a   fluttered   bird,   came 

flying  from   far  away  ; 
'Spanish    ships    of    war    at    sea!    we    have 

sighted    fifty-three !  ' 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  :     '  'Fore 

God  I  am  no  coward  ; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,   for  my  ships 

are   out   of   gear,  5 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly, 

but    follow   quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line;  can  we  fight 

with  fifty-three  ? ' 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville :     '  I  know 

you  are  no  coward ; 
You   fly   them    for   a   moment  to   fight   with 

them  again. 
But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying 

sick  ashore.  '° 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left 

them,  my  Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms 

of  Spain.' 


So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five 
ships  of  war  that  day. 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  sum- 
mer heaven ; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick 
men  from  the  land  '5 

Very  careful  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 


And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  be- 
low : 

For  we  brought  them  all   aboard. 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they 
were  not  left  to  Spain,  2° 

To  the  thumb-screw  and  the  stake,  for  the 
glory  of  the   Lord. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the 

ship  and  to  fight 
And    he    sailed    away    from    Flores    till    the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight. 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the 

weather   bow. 
'Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly?  25 

Good   Sir   Richard,   tell   us   now. 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 
There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this 

sun  be  set.' 
And    Sir   Richard   said   again :      '  We   be   all 

good  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  chil- 
dren of  the  devil,  30 
For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don  or 

devil  yet.' 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and  we 

roared   a   hurrah,   and   so 
The    little    Revenge    ran    on    sheer    into    the 

heart  of  the  foe. 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her 

ninety  sick  below ; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half 

to  the  left  were  seen,  35 

And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  through  the 

long   sea-lane    between. 


Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down 

from  their  decks  and  laughed. 
Thousands   of   their   seamen   made   mock   at 

the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 
By  their   mountain-like   San    Philip   that,   of 

fifteen   hundred   tons,  40 

And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her 

yawning  tiers  of  guns. 
Took    the    breath    from    our    sails,    and    we 

stayed. 


And   while  now  the  great   San   Philip  hung 

above  us  like  a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will   fall 
Long  and  loud. 


782 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Four  galleons  drew  away 

From   the   Spanish   ileet   that  day, 

And   two   upon   the   larboard   and   two   upon 

the   starboard   lay, 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 


But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought  herself   and    went,  so 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left 
her  ill  content ; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  ihcy 
fought   us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 
pikes  and  musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  tnncs  we  shook  'em  off  as  a 
dog  that  shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came 
out  far  over  the  summer  sea,  56 

But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the 
one  and  the   fifty-three. 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their 
high-built   galleons  came, 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with 
her  battle-thunder  and  flame ; 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew 
back  with  her  dead  and  her  shame.       60 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shat- 
tered, and  so  could  fight  us  no  more  — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this 
in  the  world  before? 


For  he  said,  '  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! ' 
Though  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short 

summer  night  was  gone,  65 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left 

the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it 

suddenly  dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the 

side  and  the  head. 
And  he  said,  '  Fight  on !  fight  on !  ' 


And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 
smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea,    70 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay 
round  us  all  in  a  ring ; 

But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they 
feared  that  we  still  could  sting, 

So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 

And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 

But  in  perilous  plight  were  we,  75 


Seeing    forty    of    our    poor    hundred    were 

slain. 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maimed   for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  des- 
perate   strife; 
And  the   sick  men  down   in   the   hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold. 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and 

the  powder   was   all   of   it   spent ;  80 

And   the   masts   and   the   rigging   were   lying 

over  the   side ; 
P>ut   Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride : 
'  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and 

a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  !  85 

And  a  day  less  or  more 
At   sea  or  ashore. 
We   die  —  does   it   matter   when? 
Sink    me    the    ship.    Master    Gunner  —  sink 

her,  split  her  in  twain! 
Fall    into   the   hands    of    God,   not    into   the 

hands  of   Spain  !  '  9° 

XII 

And  the  gunner  said,  '  Ay,  ay,'  but  the  sea- 
men made  reply : 

'  We  have  children,  we  have  wives. 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we 
yield,  to  let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike 
another  blow.'  95 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 
yielded  to  the  foe. 

XIII 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flag- 
ship bore  him  then. 

Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir 
Richard  caught  at  last. 

And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their 
courtly   foreign  grace  ;  99 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried : 

'  1  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a 
valiant   man   and   true ; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound 
to  do. 

With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Gren- 
ville  die !  ' 

And  he   fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 


XIV 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been 
so  valiant  and  true,  '"S 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 
Spain  so  cheap 


I 


VASTNESS 


783 


That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and 

his  English  few ; 
Was   he  devil   or   man?     He   was   devil    for 

aught  they  knew, 
But   they   sank   his   body  with   honor   down 

into  the  deep, 
And     they     manned    the     Revenge    with     a 

swarthier  alien  crew,  "<* 

And    away    she    sailed    with    her    loss    and 

longed  for  her  own  ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruined 

awoke  from  sleep, 
And    the    water    began    to    heave    and    the 

weather  to  moan, 
And    or    ever    that    evening    ended    a    great 

gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by 

an  earthquake  grew,  "S 

Till  it  smote  on   their  hulls  and  their  sails 

and  their  masts  and  their  flags, 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the 

shot-shattered  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little   Revenge   herself   went  down 

by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

(1878) 

TO  VIRGIL 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest  Ilion's  lofty 

temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion   falling,  Rome  arising,  wars,  and  filial 

faith,  and  Dido's  pyre ; 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language  more  than 
he  that  sang  the  '  Works  and  Days,' 

All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy  flashing  out 
from  many  a  golden  phrase ; 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland,  tilth 
and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  and  herd ;  5 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses  often  flower- 
ing in  a  lonely  word; 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus  piping  under- 
neath his  beechen  bowers; 

Poet  of  the  poet-satyr  whom  the  laughing 
shepherd  bound  with   flowers; 

Chanter  of  the  PoUio,  glorying  in  the  bliss- 
ful years  again  to  be. 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow,  unla- 
borious  earth  and  oarless  sea;  10 

Thou  that  seest  Universal  Nature  moved  by 

Universal  Mind ; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness  at  the  doubtful 

doom  of  human  kind; 


Light  among  the  vanished  ages;  star  that 
gildest  yet  this  phantom  shore ; 

Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows,  kings  and 
realms  that  pass  to  rise  no  more ; 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer,  fallen  every 
purple  Caesar's  dome —  '5 

Though  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm  sound 
forever  of  Imperial   Rome  — 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perished,  and 
the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island  sundered 
once  from  all  the  human  race, 

I  salute  thee,  Mantovano,  I  that  loved  thee 

since  my  day  began, 
Wielder     of     the     stateliest     measure     ever 

molded  by  the  lips  of  man.  20 

(1882) 


'FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE' 

Row  us  out   from  Desenzano,  to  your   Sir- 

mione   row ! 
So   they   rowed,    and  there   we   landed  — '  O 

venusta  Sirmio !  ' 
There  to  me  through  all  the  groves  of  olive 

in  the  summer  glow, 
There    beneath    the    Roman   ruin   where  the 

purple   flowers  grow. 
Came  that  '  Ave  atque  Vale '  of  the   Poet's 

hopeless  woe,  5 

Tenderest    of    Roman    poets    nineteen    hun- 
dred years  ago, 
'  Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  ' —  as  we  wandered 

to  and  fro, 
Gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter  of  the  Garda 

Lake  below. 
Sweet   Catullus's   all-but-island,   olive-silvery 

Sirmio ! 

(1883) 


VASTNESS 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe   sighs 

after  many  a  vanished   face, 
Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with 

the  dust  of  a  vanished  race. 

Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  —  as  this  poor 

earth's  pale  history  runs, — 
What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the 

gleam  of  a  million  million  of  suns? 

Lies    upon    this    side,    lies    upon    that    side, 
truthless  violence  mourned  by  the  wise,  5 


784 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a 
popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  lies ; 

Stately    purposes,    valor    in    battle,    glorious 

annals  of  army  and  fleet. 
Death    for    the    right    cause,    death    for    the 

wrong  cause,  trumpets  of  victory,  groans 

of  defeat; 

Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk,  and 
Charity  setting  the  martyr  aflame; 

Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of 
Freedom,  and  recks  not  to  ruin  a  realm 
in  her  name.  '° 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the 
gloom  of  doubts  that  darken  the  schools; 

Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand, 
followed  up  by  her  vassal  legion  of 
fools ; 

Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her 
spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and  her 
corn ; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbors,  famish- 
ing populace,  wharves  forlorn ; 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise; 

gloom  of  the  evening,  Life  at  a  close;  ^5 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  downway 

with   her   flying  robe  and   her  poisoned 


Pain  that  has  crawled   from  the   corpse  of 

Pleasure,  a  worm  which  writhes  all  day, 

and  at  night 
Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper, 

and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse  of  the 

light ; 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded  har- 
lots; honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the  bone; 

Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty;  Flattery 
gilding  the  rift  in  a  throne;  20 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trumpet 
a  jubilant  challenge  to  Time  and  to 
Fate; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on 
all  the  laureled  graves  of  the  great; 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crowned  with  mar- 
riage, no  regrets  for  aught  that  has 
been. 

Household  happiness,  gracious  children, 
debtless  competence,  golden   mean ; 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and 
pigmy  spites  of  the  village  spire;         ^5 


Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle, 
and  vows  that  are  snapped  in  a  mo- 
ment of  fire; 

He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  min 
ute,  and  died  in  the  doing  it,  flesh  with- 
out mind ; 

He  that  has  nailed  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till 
Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his  kind; 

Spring  and  Sunmier  and  Autumn  and  Win- 
ter, and  all  these  old  revolutions  of 
earth ; 

All  new-old  revolutions  of  Empire  —  change 
of  the  tide  —  what  is  all  of  it  worth?  30 

What     the     philosophies,    all  the     sciences, 

poesy,    varying   voices   of  prayer? 

All    that    is    noblest,    all    that  is    basest,    all 

that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair? 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in 
being  our  own  corpse-coffins  at   last? 

Swallowed  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence, 
drowned  in  the  deeps  of  a  meaningless 
Past? 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom, 
or  a  moment's  anger  of  bees  in  their 
hive? —  35 

Peace,  let  it  be !  for  I  loved  him,  and  love 
him  for  ever :  the  dead  are  not  dead 
but   alive.  (1885) 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar. 

When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep,      s 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  bound- 
less deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark!  'o 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  though   from  out  our  bourne  of   Time 
and    Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face  »s 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

(1889) 


ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812-1889). 

'  Browning,  born  in  Camberwell,  a  London  suburb,  was  the  son  of  a  clerk  in  the  Bank 
}  of  England,  who  gave  him  a  good  education  and  encouraged  his  youthful  inclination  towards 
'  poetry.  His  first  poem,  Pauline,  the  Fragment  of  a  Confession,  was  published  anonymously 
'  in  1833 ;  it  is  strongly  marked  by  the  influence  of  Shelley,  and  gives  only  a  hint  of  its 
1  author's  later  style.  After  a  visit  to  Russia,  he  produced  Paracelsus  (1835),  which  shows 
a  considerable  advance  in  artistic  power,  especially  in  the  delineation  of  character.  It 
brought  about  an  invitation  from  Macready,  the  leading  actor-manager  of  the  day,  to  write  a 
play,  and  in  response  Strafford  was  written  and  acted  in  1837,  with  only  moderate  success. 
I  Browning  wrote  other  plays,  some  for  the  stage  and  others  for  the  study,  A  Blot  in  the 
\  'Scutcheon  being  his  best  tragedy,  and  Colomhe's  Birthday  his  best  comedy.  Meanwhile  he 
)  was  working  at  a  long  narrative  poem,  Sordello,  discussing  the  philosophic  issues  raised  in 
,  connection  with  the  life  of  a  medieval  troubadour ;  for  the  historical  background  he  made 
I  elaborate  studies  in  the  British  Museum  and  in  Italy,  to  which  he  paid  his  first  visit  in 
I  1838.  Sordello  was  published  in  1840,  and  had  an  unfavorable  reception,  owing  to  its 
;  extraordinarily  concise  and  allusive  style,  which  made  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  understand. 
i  Browning  was  compelled  to  issue  his  next  volumes  in  very  cheap  form  at  his  own  expense; 
j  the  early  numbers  of  the  Bells  and  Pomegranates  series,  as  he  called  it,  could  be  bought  for 
I  a  few  cents.  The  first  issue,  a  dramatic  poem  entitled  Pippa  Passes,  at  once  became  popular, 
j  but  many  years  elapsed  before  the  injury  done  to  the  poet's  reputation  by  Sordcllo  was  over- 
ij  come. 

\      The  crucial  event  in  Browning's  life  and  in  his  poetic  career  was  his  marriage  in  1846 
j  to  the  most  gifted  of  English  poetesses,  Elizabeth  Barrett :  owing  partly  to  the  state  of  her 
I  health   and   partly   to   her   father's   disapproval   of   the   match,   they   lived   in   Italy,   chiefly   at 
!  Florence,   till    Mrs.    Browning's   death    in    18G1.     During   his   married    life    Browning   produced 
|his  best  work  —  the  dramatic  monologues  included  in  the  volume  known  as  Men  and  Women 
(1S55).     His  wife's  influence  is  also  to  be  discerned  in  another  collection  of  shorter  poems, 
\  Dramatis    Persona;    (18G4),    and    in    his    longest    narrative    poem,    llie    Ring    and    the    Book 
(18G8-9),  an   elaborate   treatment  of  a   Roman  murder  trial,  of  which   Browning   found   the 
pleadings  in  an   old  book  he  picked  up   from  a  second-hand  book  stall   at   Florence.     He  did 
not   return   to  Florence  after  the  death  of  his  wife,   but   resided  in   London,  and  slowly  won 
for  himself  a  leading  place  in  public  esteem  along  with  Tennyson,  with  whom  he  was  on  very 
friendly  terms.     His  later  work  is  marred  by  an  excessive  tendency   to  philosophical  specula- 
tion and  psychological  analysis  as  well  as  grotesqueness  of  expression,   but   these  defects  are 
naturally  most  noticeable  in  his  longer  poems.     He  continued  to  produce  beautiful  lyrics  and 
dramatic  monologues  of  unsurpassed  power  and  intensity  until  his  death  at  Venice  in  1889. 

It   is  probably   by   his   shorter   rather   than   by   his   longer  poems   that   Browning   will   hold 
his  place  among  the  leading  English  poets.     He  is  unsurpassed  as  a  master  of  the  dramatic 
monologue  —  a  short  poem  in  which   the  speaker  reveals  his  soul  at  some  critical  moment  by 
1  telling  his  thoughts  or  his  story  to  someone  else.     Although  Browning  had   unusual   metrical 
I  facility,   he   indulged  at   times   in   abrupt   transitions   and   grotesque   rimes   which  give   to   his 
'  work  an  appearance  of  oddity  and  sometimes  of  obscurity.     The  charge  of  intentional  obscurity 
'  sometimes  leveled  against  him  is,  of  course,  absurd.     He  wrote  to  an  admirer  who  drew  at- 
tention to  this  accusation:     'I  can  have  little  doubt  that  my  writing  has  been   in  the  main 
too  hard  for  many  I  should  have  been  pleased  to  communicate  with ;   but   I   never  designedly 
I  tried  to  puzzle  people,  as  some  of  my  critics  have  supposed.     On  the  other  hand,  I  never  pre- 
j  tended  to  offer  such  literature  as  should  be  a  substitute   for  a  cigar  or  a  game  at  dominoes 
I  to  an   idle  man.     So,   perhaps,   on   the  whole   I   get   my   deserts,   and   something  over  —  not   a 
!  crowd,  but  a  few  I  value  more.'     Swinburne's  comment  was  that  Browning  is  '  something  too 
much  the  reverse  of  obscure ;  he  is  too  brilliant  and  subtle  for  the  ready   reader  of  a   ready 
writer  to  follow  with  any  certainty  the  track  of  an  intelligence  which  moves  with  such  inces- 
1  sant   rapidity.     ...     He  never  thinks   but  at   full   speed ;    and   the   rate   of   his   thought   is 
j  to  that  of  another  man's  as  the  speed  of  a  railway  to  that  of  a  waggon,  or  the  speed  of  a 
:  telegraph  to  that  of  a  railway.'     Fortunately  for'  the  ordinary  reader,  his  best  poems  are  not 
!  his  most  diflicult  ones,  and   the  patient  student  will   find   that  even  his  worst  are  marked   by 
!  extraordinary   intellectual  vigor  and  insight   into  character.     While  his   reputation   has  hardly 
j  kept  the  supreme  place  given  to  it  by  his  admirers  at  the  close  of  the  Victorian  era,  he  remains 
I  one  of  the  greatest  figures  in  English  poetry,  remarkable  alike  for  his  message  to  his  time  and 
I  for  the  skill  and  power  with  which  he  delivered  it. 
'  50  785 


786 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


SONGS    FROM    '  PirPA    PASSES 


ALL    SERVICE    RANKS    THE    SAME    WITH    GOD 

All  service  ranks  the  same  vifith  God  : 

If  now,  as   formerly  he  trod 

Paradise,  his  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work  —  God's  puppets,  best  and  worst,  s 

Are  we:  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 


THE    YEAR   S    AT    THE    SPRING 

The  year 's  at  the   spring 
And  day  's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning  's  at   seven  ; 
The   hill-side  's   dew-pearled  ; 
The  lark  's  on   the   wing ; 
The  snail  's  on  the  thorn  : 
God  's  in  his  heaven  — 
All 's  right  with  the  world ! 


GIVE  HER  BUT  A  LEAST  EXCUSE  TO  LOVE  ME 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me ! 

When  — where  — 

How  —  can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me, 

If   fortune   fixed  her   as   my   lady  there, 

There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me?         s 

('Hist!' — said   Kate  the   Queen; 

But   'Oh!' — cried   the   maiden,   binding   her 

tresses, 
'  'T  is  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes!") 

Is    she    wronged? — To    the    rescue    of    her 

honor,  lo 

My  heart! 
Is  she  poor?  —  What  costs  it  to  be  styled  a 

donor? 
Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 
But  that   fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this 

upon  her ! 
('Nay,   list!' — bade   Kate  the  Queen;        '5 
And    still    cried    the    maiden,    binding    her 

tresses, 
'  'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen. 
Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses ! ') 

(1841) 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That 's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall. 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     1  call 

That   piece   a    wonder,   now:    Fra    Pandolf's 

hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 


Will    t   please  you   sit   and   look   at   her?     I 

said  5 

'Fra  Pandolf'  by  design,   for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
'i"he  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned   (since  none  puts 

by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  10 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they 

durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the 

first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was 

not 
Her    husband's    presence    only,    called    that 

spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps     is 
Fra   Pandolf   chanced   to   say,   'Her   mantle 

laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,'  or  '  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the   faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat:'  such 

stuff 
Was     courtesy,     she     thought,     and     cause 

enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made 

glad, 
Too  easily  impressed;   she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  every- 
where. 
Sir,  't  was  all  one !     My  favor  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West,  ^6 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke    in    the    orchard    for    her,    the    white 

mule 
She  rode  with   round  the  terrace  —  all  and 

each 
Would  draw   from  her  alike  the  approving 

speech,  30 

Or    blush,    at    least.     She    thanked    men, — 

good !  but  thanked 
Somehow  —  I    know    not    how  —  as    if    she 

ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill  35 
In    speech — (which    I    have   not) — to   make 

j'our  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and   say,  '  Just 

this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark' — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  ex- 
cuse, 
—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I 

choose 


COUNT  GISMOND 


787 


Never    to    stoop.     Oh,    sir,    she    smiled,    no 

doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  with- 
out 
Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;   I  gave 

commands ;  45 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she 

stands 
As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise?     We'll 

meet 
The  company  below  then.     I  repeat. 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretense       50 
Of  mine   for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
I     Though     his     fair     daughter's     self,     as     I 

avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we  '11  go 
I     Together       down,       sir.     Notice       Neptune, 

though. 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity,         5S 
■     Which    Claus   of    Innsbruck   cast    in   bronze 


for  me ! 


(1842) 


COUNT    GISMOND 


AIX     IN     PROVENCE 


Christ  God  who  savest  man,  save  most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me! 

Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post, 
Chose  time  and  place  and  company 

To  suit  it ;  when  he  struck  at  length  5 

My  honor,  't  was  with  all  his  strength. 


And  doubtlessly  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 

Few  half  so  happy  as  1  seemed,  10 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 


I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 

To    please    themselves;    't    was    all    their 
deed  ; 
God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face;         '5 

If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 
My     cousins'      hearts,      they      should      have 

dropped 
A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 


They,   too.   so  beauteous !     Each   a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast; 


Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I   mean, 

As  I  do.     E'en  when   I   was  dressed, 
Had   cither  of  them   spoke,  instead 
Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head! 


But  no :  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing  ^S 

My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs. 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs —  30 


And  come  out  on  the  morning-troop 

Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek. 

And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 
Under  the  canopy — (a  streak 

That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun,  33 

Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun)  — 


And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 
And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 

Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 

My  queen's-day  —  Oh,  I  think  the  cause  40 

Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 

Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud ! 


Howe'er  that  be,  all   eyes  were  bent 
Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 

Theirs   down ;    't  was   time   I   should    present 

The    victor's   crown,   but     .     .     .     there,    't 

will  last  46 

No  long  time     .     .     .     the  old  mist  again 

Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain  I 


See!     Gismond 's  at  the  gate,   in  talk 

With  his  two  boys :     I  can  proceed.         5° 

Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 
Forth   boldly  —  to    my    face,   indeed  — 

But  Gauthier,  and  he  thundered,  '  Stay!  ' 

And  all  stayed.     '  Bring  no  crowns,  1   say ! 


'  Bring  torches  !     Wind  the  penance-sheet  S5 
About   her !     Let  her  shun  the  chaste. 

Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet! 
Shall  she  whose  body  I  embraced 

A   night   long,   queen  it   in   the  day? 

For  honor's  sake  no  crowns,   I   say !  '  60 


I?     What  I  answered?     As  I  live, 
I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 


788 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  tlie  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?     No  more  says  the  soul. 


Till  out  strode  Gismond  ;  then  T  knew 
That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 

His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 
I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 

Himself  to  Satan;  who  would  spend 

A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end? 


He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  mouth 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote         75 
In     blood     men's     verdict     there.     North, 
South, 

East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead. 

And  damned,  and  truth   stood  up  instead. 


This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  of  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event : 

God  took  that  on  him  —  I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond   for  my  part :   I   did. 


Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let  83 

His  armorer  just  brace  his  greaves, 

Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 
The  while !     His  foot     ...     my  memory 
leaves 

No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 

He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on.  9° 


And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 
Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground: 
Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  sleight 

O'  the  sword,  but  open-breasted   rove,       95 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 


Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet 
And  said,  '  Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 

From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death  I  ic 

Say,  hast  thou  lied?'     And,  'I  have  lied 

To  God  and  her,'  he  said,  and  died. 


Then  Gismond.  kneeling  to  me,  asked 
—  What   safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no 
word 


Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 

My  powers    for  ever,  to  a  third 
Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest 
Until    I    sank   upon    his   breast. 


Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world;  and  scarce  I  felt        no 
His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 

A   little   shifted   in   its   belt ; 
For   he    began    to    say   the    while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 


So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude  »'S 

Wc  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 

Return.     My   cousins   have   pursued 
Their   life,   untroubled   as   before 

I   vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 

God  lighten!     May  his  soul  find  grace!       120 


Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great    brow;    though    when    his    brother's 
black 
Full    eye    shows    scorn,    it     .     .     .     Gismond 
here? 
And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back? 
I  just  was  telling  Adcla  125 

How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 

(1842) 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 


You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A   mile  or   so   away, 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 

Stood    on    our    storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive   with   its   mind. 


Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  '  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall,  '° 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,' — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;    nor   bridle   drew  'S 

Until   he   reached   the  mound. 


Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy. 

And    held    himself   erect 
By    just    his    horse's    mane,    a    boy: 

You    hardly   could   suspect  — 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 


789 


(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 
Scarce    any    blood   came   through) 

You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 
Was    all    but    shot    in    two. 


*  Well,'  cried  he,  '  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  !  26 

The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your   flag-bird   flap  his   vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire,  3° 

Perched  him!'    The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his 
plans 

Soared  up  again   like  fire. 


i    The  chief's   eye  flashed ;   but  presently 
;        Softened   itself,   as    sheathes 


\    A   film   the   mother-eagle's    eye  3S 

When    her   bruised    eaglet   breathes ; 
You  're     wounded !  '     '  Nay,'     the     soldier's 

pride 
Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
I  'm  killed,   Sire !  '     And  his  chief  beside, 
Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead.  40 

(1842) 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 

That    second    time    they    hunted    me 
From   hill   to  plain,    from   shore   to   sea. 
And   Austria,   hounding    far  and   wide 
Her  blood-hounds  through  the  country-side, 
Breathed  hot  and  instant  on  my  trace, —     5 
1    made    six    days    a    hiding-place 
Of  that   dry  green  old  aqueduct 
Where    I    and    Charles,    when    boys,    have 

plucked 
The   fire-flies    from   the   roof  above, 
Bright  creeping  through  the  moss  they  love : 
—  How    long    it    seems    since    Charles    was 

lost!  II 

Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 
The   country   in   my  very   sight; 
And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 
The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay  15 

With  signal  fires ;  well,  there  I  lay 
Close   covered   o'er   in   my   recess. 
Up  to   the  neck  in   ferns  and  cress. 
Thinking    on    Metternich    our    friend. 
And  Charles's  miserable  end,  20 

And  much  beside,  two  days ;  the  third, 
Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 
The   peasants    from   the   village   go 
To  work  among  the  maize ;  you  know, 
With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring  ^s 


Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string 
With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 
And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 
To  keep  the  sun's  heat   from  the  wine ; 
These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line,  30 

And,  close  on   them,   dear  noisy  crew. 
The  peasants  from  the  village,  too; 
For   at   the   very   rear   would   troop 
Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 
To  help,  I  knew.     When  these  had  passed,  35 
1  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last. 
Taking  the  chance:  she  did  not  start, 
Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart. 
One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 
And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground.       40 
A  wild  bush  grows  and  hides  my  crypt ; 
She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she  stripped 
A   branch    off,   then    rejoined   the   rest 
With  that;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast. 
Then  I  drew  breath ;  they  disappeared :      45 
It  was   for  Italy  I   feared. 

An  hour,  and   she   returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove   was  thrown. 
Meanwhile   came   many   thoughts;   on   me 
Rested   the   hopes   of   Italy.  so 

I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,  when  't  was  told  her,  could  not  fail 
Persuade    a   peasant   of    its    truth; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay,  55 

And  no  temptation  to  betray. 
But    when    I    saw   that   woman's    face, 
Its  calm   simplicity  of  grace. 
Our    Italy's    own    attitude 
In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood,     60 
Planting  each   naked    foot   so   firm, 
To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm  — 
At  first   sight  of  her   eyes,  I   said, 
'  I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 
They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate  65 

The  Austrians  over   us;   the   State 
Will  give  you  gold  —  oh,  gold  so  much  — 
If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 
And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know. 
If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe.  7° 

Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and  drink. 
And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink. 
And   carry   safe   what   I   shall   write 
To   Padua,  which  you  '11  reach  at  night 
Before  the  duomo  shuts;  go  in,  75 

And    wait    till    Tenebrae    begin; 
Walk    to    the    third    confessional. 
Between   the   pillar   and   the  wall. 
And  kneeling  whisper,  IP' hence  comes  peace  f 
Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease ;  8° 

And   if   the   voice   inside   returns. 
From   Christ  and  Freedom;  what  concerns 


790 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


The  cause  of  Peace  f—ior  answer,  slip 
My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip; 
Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done       85 
Our    mother    service  —  I,    the    son, 
As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land ! ' 

Three  mornings  more,  she  took  her  stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes: 
I  was  no  surer  of  sunrise  90 

Than  of  her  coming.     We  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She   had    a    lover  —  stout   and   tall, 
She  said  —  then  let  her  eyelids   fall, 
'He  could  do  much' — as  if  some  doubt     95 
Entered  her  heart, —  then,  passing  out, 
'  She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 
Had  other  thoughts;  herself  she  knew; 
And  so  she  brought  me   drink  and   food. 
After    four   days,   the   scouts   pursued        ^°° 
Another   path ;    at   last   arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  me:  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 
But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own  i°s 

Upon  her  head  — '  This  faith  was  shown 
To    Italy,    our    mother ;    she 
Uses   my   hand   and   blesses   thee.' 
She   followed   down  to  the   sea-shore; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more.  "° 

How  very  long  since   I   have   thought 
Concerning  — much  less  wished   for  — aught 
Beside   the   good    of    Italy, 
For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die ! 
I  never  was  in  love;  and  since  "S 

Charles  proved   false,  what   shall   now  con- 
vince 
My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend? 
However,   if    I   pleased   to    spend 
Real    wishes    on    myself  —  say,    three  — 
I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be.         i-o 
I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 
I    felt  his   red   wet  throat  distil 
In    blood    through    these    two    hands.     And 
next 

—  Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed  — 
Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part,       J^s 
Should  die   slow  of   a  broken   heart 
Under  his  new  employers.     Last 

—  Ah,  there,  what  should  I  wish?     For  fast 
Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 

If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length  '30 

My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 
They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared! 
My    brothers    live    in    Austria's    pay 

—  Disowned    me    long    ago,    men    say ; 
And   all   my   early   mates   who   used  i3S 
To  praise  me  so  — perhaps  induced 


More  than  one  early   step  of   mine  — 

Are   turning    wise :    while    some    opine 

'  Freedom  grows  license,'   some  suspect 

'  Haste  breeds  delay,'  and  recollect  140 

They   always   said,    such   premature 

Beginnings  never  could  endure! 

So,  with   a  sullen   '  All 's   for  best,' 

The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 

I   think  then,   I   should   wish   to   stand       '45 

This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land. 

Over   the    sea   the   thousand    miles, 

And   know   if  yet   that   woman    smiles 

With  the  calm  smile;  some  little   farm 

She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt;  what  harm  'So 

If   I   sat  on   the  door-side  bench. 

And,  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 

Fantastically   in   the   dust, 

Inquired   of    all    her    fortunes  —  just 

Her   children's   ages  and   their   names,        '55 

And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 

For  each  of  them.     I  'd  talk  this  out. 

And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 

Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 

Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way.  160 

So    much    for    idle    wishing  —  how 
It   steals  the  time!     To  business   now. 

(1845) 


THE   LOST   LEADER 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us. 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which   fortune  bereft 
us. 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out 
silver,  5 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  serv- 
ice ! 
Rags  —  were    they    purple,    his    heart    had 
been  proud ! 
We   that   had   loved   him    so,   followed   him, 
honored    him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye,     'o 
Learned     his     great     language,     caught     his 
clear  accents, 
Alade  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakspere  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us. 
Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us, —  they  watch 
from  their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  free- 
men, '5 
—  He    alone    sinks    to    the    rear    and    the 
slaves! 


SAUL 


791 


We    shall    march    prospering, —  not    through 
his  presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,—  not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds    will    be    done, —  while    he    boasts    his 
quiescence, 
Still    bidding   crouch   whom   the   rest   bade 
aspire ;  -'^ 

Blot    out    his    name,    then,    record    one    lost 
soul   more, 
One   task   more   declined,   one   more    foot- 
path  untrod. 
One    more    devil's-triuniph    and    sorrow    for 
angels. 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult 
to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back 
to  us!  -5 

There     would     be     doubt,    hesitation     and 
pain, 
Forced    praise    on    our    part  —  the    glimmer 
of  twilight, 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best    fight    on    well,    for    we    taught    him  — 
strike   gallantly, 
Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own  ; 
Then    let    him    receive    the    new    knowledge 
and  wait  us,  31 

Pardoned    in     heaven,    the    first    by    the 
throne ! 

(1845) 


HOME-THOUGHTS    FROM    ABROAD 


Oh,  to  be  in  England, 

Now  that  April 's  there, 

And   whoever   wakes  in   England 

Sees,    some   morning,   unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood 

sheaf  5 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While    the    chaffinch    sings    on    the    orchard 

bough 
In    England  —  now! 


And    after    April,    when   May   follows. 
And    the    white-throat    builds,    and    all    the 

swallows!  10 

Hark,    where    my    blossomed    pear-tree     in 

the   hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's 

edge  — 
That 's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song 

twice  over. 


Lest   you    should    think   he    never   could    re- 
capture IS 
The     first    fine    careless     rapture ! 
And     though     the     fields     look     rough     with 

hoary    dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
—  Far     brighter     than     this     gaudy     mclon- 
flovver !  20 

(1845) 


HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA 

Nobly,    nobly.    Cape    Saint    Vincent    to    the 

Northwest    died    away ; 
Sunset   ran,  one  glorious   blood-red,   recking 

into    Cadiz    Bay ; 
Bluish   'mid  the  burning  water,   full   in   face 

Trafalgar    lay; 
In   the   dimmest   Northeast    distance   dawned 

Gibraltar,  grand  and  gray ; 
'  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me :  how 

can    I    help    England  ?  ' —  say,  5 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God 

to  praise  and  pray. 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over 

Africa. 

(1845) 
SAUL 


I 
Said  Abner,  '  At   last   thou  art  come !     Ere 

I    tell,   ere   thou   speak, 
Kiss    my    cheek,    wish    me    well !  '     Then    I 

wished  it,  and  did  kiss  his  cheek. 
And  he:  'Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for 

thy  countenance   sent. 
Neither    drunken    nor    eaten    have    we;    nor 

until   from  his  tent 
Thou   return   with  the  joyful   assurance   the 

King   liveth   yet,  5 

Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with 

the   water   be   wet. 
For   out   of   the   black  mid-tent's    silence,   a 

space   of   three   days. 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants, 

of  prayer  nor  of  praise. 
To    betoken    that    Saul   and   the    Spirit    have 

ended   their   strife. 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch 

sinks  back  upon  life. 


'Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved!  God's 

child  with  his  dew 
On   thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies 

still    living   and    blue 


792 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings, 

as  if  no  wild  lieat 
Were    now    raging    to    torture    the    desert.' 


Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and 
rose  on  my  feet,  '5 

And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder. 
Tlic  tent  was   unloopcd ; 

I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and 
under   I    stooped  ; 

Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass- 
patch,  all  withered  and  gone. 

That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I 
groped   my   way  on 

Til!  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open. 
Then   once   more   I   prayed,  20 

And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and 
was  not  afraid 

But  spoke,  '  Here  is  David,  thy  servant ! ' 
And    no   voice    replied. 

At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  black- 
ness ;   but  soon   I   descried 

A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness 
—  the     vast,    the    upright 

Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion  ;  and 
slow   into   sight  25 

Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  black- 
est   of    all. 

Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the 
tent    roof,    showed    Saul. 


He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both 
arms  stretched  out  wide 

On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  center, 
that  goes  to  each  side ; 

He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there 
as,   caught   in   his   pangs  30 

And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent  all 
heavily    hangs. 

Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  de- 
liverance come 

With  the  spring-time, —  so  agonized  Saul, 
drear  and  stark,  blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, —  took  off  the  lilies 
we  twine   round   its   chords 

Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noon- 
tide —  those   sunbeams   like    swords !     35 

And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep 
know,  as,  one  after  one. 

So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till 
folding    be    done. 

They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes, 
for  lo,  they  have   fed 


Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  with- 
in  the   stream's   bed  ; 

And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as 
star   follows   star  40 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, —  so 
blue  and  so  far! 


—  Then   the  tune,   for  which   quails  on  the 

cornland   will   each   leave   his   mate 
To   fly   after  the  player;   then,   what   makes 

the  crickets  elate 
Till    for    boldness    they    fight    one    another; 

and  then,  what  has  weight 
To    set    the   quick    jerboa   a-musing    outside 

his    sand-house —  45 

There  are   none   such  as   he   for  a  wonder, 

half    bird    and    half    mouse! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them 

our   love   and   our   fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children, 

one    family  here. 


Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers, 
their    wine-song,    when   hand 

Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good 
friendship,  and  great  hearts  expand       5° 

And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's 
life. —  And  then,  the  last   song 

When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  jour- 
ney— 'Bear,  bear  him  along 

With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead 
flowerets!     Are  balm-seeds  not  here 

To  console  us?  The  land  has  none  left 
such  as  he  on  the  bier. 

Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother ! ' 

—  And  then,  the  glad  chaunt  55 
Of     the     marriage, —  first     go     the     young 

maidens,  next,  she  whom  we  vaunt 
As    the   beauty,   the  pride   of   our   dwelling. 

—  And   then,   the  great  march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and 

buttress  an  arch 

Naught  can  break;  who  shall  harm  them, 
our  friends  ?  —  Then,  the  chorus  in- 
toned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory 
enthroned.  60 

But  I  stopped  here :  for  here  in  the  dark- 
ness Saul  groaned. 


And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such 
silence,   and   listened   apart; 

And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shud- 
dered :  and  sparkles  'gan  dart 


SAUL 


793 


From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban,  at 
once   with   a  start, 

All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies 
courageous  at  heart.  ^5 

So  the  head;  but  the  body  still  moved  not, 
still    hung    there    erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pur- 
sued it  unchecked, 

As  I  sang:  — 


'Oh,    our    manhood's    prime    vigor!     No 
spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle   is   stopped   in   its  playing  nor 

sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,    the    wild    joys    of    living!    the    leaping 
from  rock  up  to  rock,  7° 

The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir- 
tree,  the  cool   silver   shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the 

hunt  of  the  bear, 
And    the     sultriness     showing    the     lion     is 

couched   in   his   lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over 

with  gold  dust  divine, 
And   the  locust-flesh   steeped   in   the   pitcher, 
the    full   draft   of   wine,  75 

And    the    sleep    in    the    dried    river-channel 

where  bulrushes  tell 
That   the   water   was   wont   to    go    warbling 

so   softly   and   well. 
How   good   is   man's   life,   the   mere   living? 

how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the   soul   and   the   senses 

forever   in   joy! 
Hast    thou    loved    the    white    locks    of    thy 
father,  whose  sword  thou  didst  guard  8o 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies, 

for  glorious  reward? 
Didst    thou     see    the     thin     hands    of     thy 

mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 
The   low   song  of   the   nearly-departed,   and 

hear  her   faint  tongue 
Joining    in    while    it    could    to    the    witness, 

"  Let  one  more  attest 

I    have    lived,    seen    God's    hand    through    a 

lifetime,   and   all    was    for  best?"         §5 

Then    they     sung    through    their    tears     in 

strong  triumph,  not  much,  but  the  rest. 

And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest, 

the  working  whence  grew 
Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles, 

the    spirit    strained   true: 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood  —  that  boy- 
hood   of    wonder    and    hope. 
Present   promise   and   wealth   of   the    future 
beyond  the  eye's  scope, —  9" 


Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch ;  a 
people   is   thine  : 

And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly, 
on    one    head    combine ! 

On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength, 
love   and    rage    (like   the    throe 

That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and 
lets  the  gold  go), 

High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it, 
fame  crowning  them, —  all  95 

Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  crea- 
ture—  King    Saul.' 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit,— heart, 

hand,  harp  and  voice, 
Each    lifting    Saul's    name    out    of    sorrow, 

each   bidding   rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for  — 

as  when,  dare  I  say. 
The    Lord's    army,    in    rapture    of    service, 
strains  through  its  array,  »°° 

And      upsoareth      the      cherubim-chariot  — 

'  Saul !  '  cried   I,  and  stopped. 
And    waited    the    thing    that    should    follow. 

Then  Saul,  who  hung  propped 
By    the    tent's    cross-support    in    the    center, 

was  struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye   seen   when    Spring's   arrowy   sum- 
mons goes  right  to  the  aim, 
And   some   mountain,   the   last   to   withstand 
her,  that  held   (he  alone,  'os 

While    the    vale    laughed    in    freedom    and 

flowers)    on   a   broad   bust   of    stone 
A   year's    snow   bound   about    for   a   breast- 
plate,—  leaves  grasp  of  the  sheet? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunder- 
ously   down    to    his    feet, 
And    there    fronts    you,    stark,    black,    but 

alive  yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings 
of   ages   untold —  "° 

Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles, 

each  furrow  and  scar 
Of    his    head    thrust    'twixt    you    and    the 

tempest  —  all    hail,    there    they    are! 
—  Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure, 

again  hold  the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young 

to  the  green  on  his  crest 
For    their    food    in   the    ardors    of    summer. 
One  long  shudder  thrilled  "5 

All    the   tent   till   the   very   air   tingled,   then 

sank  and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me, 

released    and    aware. 
What    was    gone,    what    remained?     All    to 
traverse   "twixt  hope  and  despair; 


794 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Death  was  past,  life  not  come:  so  he 
waited.     Awhile  his  right  hand 

Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes  left  too 
vacant,   forthwith  to  remand  '-° 

To  their  place  what  new  objects  should 
enter:  't  was  Saul  as  before. 

I  looked  up,  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes, 
nor   was    hurt    any   more 

Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye 
watch    from   the   shore, 

At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean  — a 
sun's    slow    decline 

Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence, 
o'erlap    and    entwine  '^s 

Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  in- 
tensely;   so,    arm    folded    arm 

O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  sub- 
sided. 


What  spell  or  what  charm 
(For,  awhile  there  was  trouble  within  me), 

what  next  should  I  urge 
To    sustain    him    where    song    had    restored 

him?  —  Song  tilled  to  the  verge 
His   cup   with  the   wine  of  this   life,  press- 
ing all  that  it  yields  130 
Of    mere     fruitage,    the    strength    and    the 

beauty :   beyond,  on   what   fields. 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to 

brighten   the  eye. 
And   bring  blood  to  the   lip,  and   commend 

them   the   cup  they  put   by? 
He  saith,  'It  is  good;'  still  he  drinks  not: 

he  lets  me  praise  life. 
Gives   assent,  yet   would   die   for   his   own 

part.  135 

XII 

Then    fancies   grew   rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture, 

when  round  me  the  sheep 
Fed     in     silence  —  above,     the     one     eagle 

wheeled   slow   as   in   sleep; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the 

world  that  might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip 

'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky: 
And    I    laughed  — '  Since    my    days    are    or- 
dained to  be  passed  with  my  flocks,  140 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the 

plains  and  the  rocks. 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and 

image  the  show 
Of  mankind   as   they   live  in   those    fashions 

I   hardly  shall  know ! 
Schemes    of    life,    its    best    rules    and    right 
^         uses,    the    courage    that    gains. 


And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men 
strive  for!'     And  now  these  old  trains 

Of  vague  thought  came  again;  I  grew 
surer;  so,  once  more  the  string  '4^ 

Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as 
thus  — 


'  Yea,  my  King,' 
I  began  —  'thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere 

comforts    that    spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common 

by  man  and  by  brute : 
In   our   flesh   grows  the  branch   of   this   life, 

In  our  soul  it  bears  fruit.  >5o 

Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree, 

—  how   its    stem    trembled    first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler; 

then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round  ;  and  thou  mind- 

cst   when  these  too,  in  turn 
Broke    a-bloom    and    the    palm-tree    seemed 

perfect :  yet  more  was  to  learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm- 
fruit.     Our  dates  shall  we  slight,  'SS 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sor- 
row?   or    care    for    the    plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  pro- 
duced them  ?     Not  so  !  stem  and  branch 
Shall    decay,   nor   be   known    in    their    place, 

while  the  palm-wine  shall  stanch 
Every   wound   of   man's   spirit   in   winter.     I 

pour  thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the   fate  it  was  fit   for ! 

the  spirit  be  thine !  '60 

By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee, 

thou    still    shalt   enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when  unconscious, 

the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush    that    life,   and   behold    its   wine    run- 
ning !     Each  deed   thou   hast  done 
Dies,   revives,  goes   to   work   in   the   world; 

until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds 

spoil  him,  though  tempests  efface,       '65 
Can    find    nothing    his    own    deed    produced 

not,  must  everywhere  trace 
The    results    of    his    past    summer-prime, — 

so,   each   ray  of  thy  will. 
Every    flash    of    thy    passion    and    prowess, 

long   over,   shall   thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor, 

till   they  too  give   forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons;  who  in  turn,  fill 

the   South   and   the   North  170 

With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of. 

Carouse  in  the  past ! 
But   the   license  of   age   has   its   limit ;   thou 

diest  at  last: 


SAUL 


79: 


As    the    lion    when    age    dims    his    eyeball, 

the  rose  at  her  height, 
So  with  man  — so  his  power  and  his  beauty 

for  ever  take  flight. 
No!     Again  a  long  draft  of  my  soul-wine! 

Look   forth  o'er  the  years!  '75 

Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  ac- 
tual ;  begin  with  the  seer's ! 
Is    Saul    dead?     In    the    depth    of    the    vale 

make  his  tomb  —  bid  arise 
A    gray   mountain   of    marble    heaped    four- 
square, till,  built  to  the  skies,* 
Let    it    mark    where    the    great    First    King 

slumbers:  whose  fame  would  ye  know? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where 

the  record  shall  go  '^° 

In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe,  —  Such 

was    Saul,   so   he  did ; 
With   the   sages   directing  the  work,  by   the 

populace  chid, — 
For    not    half,    they'll    affirm,    is    comprised 

there !     Which   fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar, 

whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  't  is  level  before  them)  their 

praise,  and  record  '^s 

With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story,— 

the  statesman's  great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment. 

The  river  's  a-wave 
With  smooth  paper- reeds  grazing  each  other 

when  prophet-winds  rave : 
So  the  pen   gives  unborn   generations   their 

due  and  their  part 
In   thy    being!     Then,    first    of   the    mighty, 

thank  God  that  thou  art ! '  190 

XIV 

And  behold  while  I  sang  ...  but  O 
thou  who  didst  grant  me  that  day, 

And  before  it  not  seldom  has  granted  thy 
help  to  essay, 

Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure, —  my 
shield  and  my  sword 

In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant, 
thy  word  was  my  word,— 

Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit 
of  human  endeavor  '95 

And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could, 
gazed  hopeless  as  ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me  — 
till,  mighty  to  save. 

Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  dis- 
tance —  God's  throne  from  man's  grave ! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending  —  my 
voice  to  my  heart 

Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  mar- 
vels last  night  I  took  part,  200 


As    this    morning    I    gather    the    fragments, 

alone  with  my  sheep. 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish 

like  sleep! 
For  I   wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while 

Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoul  • 

der,  and   Kidron   retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine.  20s 


XV 

I  say  then, —  my  song 
While    I    sang   thus,   assuring   the   monarch, 

and,  ever  more  strong. 
Made  a   proffer  of  good  to   console  him  — 

he  slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.     The 

right  hand  replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure, 

adjusted  the  swathes 
Of    his    turban,    and    see  —  the    huge    sweat 

that  his  countenance  bathes,  210 

He  wipes   off  with  the   robe ;   and   he  girds 

now  his  loins  as  of  yore, 
And    feels    slow    for    the    armlets    of    price, 

with  the  clasp  set  before. 
He    is    Saul,    ye    remember    in    glory, —  ere 

error  had  bent 
The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion ; 

and  still,  though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you, 

the   same,    God   did   choose,  215 

To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate, 

never  quite  lose. 
So    sank    he    along    by    the    tent-prop,    till, 

stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments, 

he  leaned  there  awhile. 
And   sat   out   my   singing, —  one   arm   round 

the   tent-prop,   to   raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack  — 

till  I  touched  on  the  praise  220 

I    foresaw   from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the 

man  patient  there; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp   falling   forward. 

Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That   he   sat,  as   I   say,   with   my  head   just 

above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around 

me,  like  oak  roots  which  please 
To    encircle    a    lamb    when    it    slumbers.     I 

looked  up  to  know  225 

If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace: 

he  spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he 

laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on 

my  brow :   through   my  hair 


796 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


The  largo  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent 

back  my  head,  with  kind  power  — 
All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men 

do  a  flower.  *-Jo 

Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes 

that    scrutinized    mine  — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him  !  but 

where  was  the  sign? 
I  yearned  —  '  Could   I   help  thee,   my   father, 

inventing   a   bliss, 
I   would  add,  to  that  life  of  the   past,   both 

the   future  and  this; 
I    would   give   thee   new    life   altogether,    as 

good,  ages  hence,  235 

As  this  moment, —  had  love  but  the  warrant, 

love's  heart  to  dispense !  ' 


Then   the   truth    came   upon   me.     No    harp 
more  —  no   song  more !    outbroke  — 


'  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation : 

I  saw  and  I  spoke: 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose, 

received  in  my  brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork 

—  returned  him  again  -40 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure :  I  spoke 

as   I   saw, 
I   report,  as  a   man  may  of   God's   work  — 

all  "s  love,  yet  all 's   law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me. 

Each  faculty  tasked 
To  perceive  him  has  gained  an  abyss,  where 

a  dewdrop  was  asked. 
Have   I    knowledge?   confounded   it   shrivels 

at  Wisdom  laid  bare.  -45 

Have    I    forethought?    how    purblind,    how 

blank,  to  the  Infinite  Care ! 
Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  suc- 
cess? 
I    but    open    my    eyes, —  and    perfection,    no 

more  and  no  less. 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and 

God  is  seen  God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the 

soul   and   the  clod.  ^S" 

And    thus    looking    within    and    around    mc, 

I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bend- 
ing upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to 

God's    all-complete. 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb 

to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this 

deity  known,  255 


I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some 

gift  of  my  own. 
There  's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  e.xercise,  hard 

to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance   (I  laugh 

as   I   think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot 

ye,   I   worst 
V.'cn  the  Giver  in  one  gift. —  Behold,  I  could 

love  if   I  durst!  260 

i'.ut  I  sink,  the  pretension  as   fearing  a  man 

may  o'ertake 
(iod's  own   speed   in  the  one  way  of  love: 

I   abstain    for  love's   sake. 
—  What,    my    soul  ?    see    thus    far    and    no 

farther?  when  doors  great   and   small, 
Ninc-and-ninety     flew     ope     at     our     touch, 

should  the  hundredth  appal  ? 
In    the   least   things   have   faith,   yet   distrust 

in  the  greatest  of  all?  265 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's 

ultimate   gift. 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with 

it?     Here,  the  parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator, —  the 

end,  what  Began? 
Would   I   fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do 

all    for  this  man. 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him, 

who  yet  alone  can?  270 

Would   it   ever  have   entered  my  mind,   the 

bare   will,  much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the 

marvelous   dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to 

make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  in- 
sphering  the  whole? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm 

tears  attest),  -75 

These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and 

give  one  more,  the  best  ? 
Ay,   to    save   and   redeem   and   restore   him, 

maintain   at   the   height 
This    perfection, —  succeed    with    life's    day- 
spring,  death's  mniute  of   night? 
Interpose  at  the  diflicult  minute,  snatch  Saul 

the  mistake, 
Saul   the   failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — 

and  bid  him  awake  280 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude, 

to  find  himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — 

a  new  harmony  yet 
To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended  —  who 

knows? — or   endure! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of 

the  rest  to  make  sure; 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 


797 


By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  in- 
tensified bliss,  285 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by 
the  struggles  in  this. 


'  I   believe   it !     'T  is  thou,   God,  that   givest, 

't  is  I  who  receive  : 
In   the   first    is   the   last,    in   thy    will   is    my 

power  to  believe. 
All's  one  gift:  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover, 

as  prompt  to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these 

arms  to  the  air.  290 

From  thy  will,   stream   the   worlds,   life   and 

nature,   thy   dread    Sabaoth : 
/  will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me!     Why 

am  I  not  loth 
To    look    that,   even    that    in    the    face    too? 

Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think     but     lightly     of     such     impuissance? 

What  stops  my  despair? 
This  ;  — 't  is  not  what  man  Does  which   ex- 
alts him,  but  what  man  Would  do !     -95 
See  the  King  —  I  would  help  him  but  can- 
not,  the   wishes    fall   through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him   from  sorrow, 

grow  poor  to  enrich. 
To   fill   up   his   life,   starve   my   own   out,    I 

would  —  knowing    which, 
I    know    that    my    service    is    perfect.     Oh, 

speak  through  me  now ! 
Would    I    suffer    for   him   that    I    love?     So 

wouldst  thou  —  so  wilt  thou  !  300 

So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablcst, 

uttermost  crown  — 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave 

up  nor  down 
One  spot   for  the  creature  to   stand   in !     It 

is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,   wave  of  hand,   that   salvation 

joins  issue  with  death! 
As    thy    Love    is    discovered    almighty,    al- 
mighty be  proved  305 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and   for   it,  of 

being  Beloved ! 
He    who    did    most,    shall    bear    most ;    the 

strongest   shall   stand   the   most   weak. 
'T  is   the   weakness   in   strength,    that    I    cry 

for !  my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In   the  Godhead !     I   seek  and   I   find  it.     O 

Saul,  it  shall  be 
A   Face  like  my   face  that   receives  thee ;   a 

Man   like  to  me,  310 

Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  for  ever : 

a  Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall   throw   open   the   gates   of   new   life   to 

thee!     See   the   Christ   stand!' 


I  know  not  too  well  how  I   found  my  way 

home  in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to 

left  and  to  right. 
Angels,   powers,   the   unuttered,   unseen,   the 

alive,  the  aware  :  31s 

I   repressed,   I   got  through   them   as   hardly, 

as   strugglingly   there. 
As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished 

for  news  — 
Life  or  death.     The  whole  earth  was  awak- 
ened, hell   loosed  with  her  crews ; 
And   the   stars   of   night   beat   with   emotion, 

and  tingled  and  shot 
Out   in   fire  the   strong  pain   of  pent   knowl- 
edge :   but  I   fainted  not,  320 
For  the  hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and 

supported,    suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it   with   quiet, 

and  holy  behest. 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the 

earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon    at    the    dawn,    all    that    trouble    had 

withered    from    earth  — 
Not  so  much,  but  I   saw  it  die   out   in  the 

day's  tender  birth;  3^5 

In    the    gathered    intensity    brought    to    the 

gray  of  the  hills; 
In   the   shuddering    forests'   held   breath ;    in 

the  sudden  wind-thrills; 
In    the    startled    wild    beasts    that    bore    off, 

each  with  eye  sidling  still. 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread ;  in 

the  birds  stiff  and  chill 
That    rose    heavily    as    I    approached    them, 

made  stupid  with  awe :  330 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, —  he 

felt  the  new  law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid   faces 

upturned  by  the  flowers ; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar 

and  moved  the  vine-bowers : 
And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured, 

persistent   and   low. 
With   their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices 

— '  E'en  so,  it  is  so!  '  335 

(1845-1855) 


LOVE   AMONG    THE   RUINS 


Where    the    quiet-colored    end    of    evening 
smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 


798 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray 
or  stop  5 

As   they   crop  — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  groat  and  gay 

(So  they  say), 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since  '° 

Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wield- 
ing  far 

Peace  or  war. 


jsTow, —  the   country   does    not   even   boast   a 
tree, 
As  you  see. 
To    distinguish    slopes    of    verdure,    certain 
rills  "5 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to  (else  they  run 

Into  one). 
Where    the   domed   and    daring   palace    shot 
its    spires 
Up  like  f^res  2° 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all. 
Made  of  marble,   men  might  march  on  nor 
be  pressed. 
Twelve  abreast. 


And    such    plenty    and    perfection,    see,    of 
grass  ^5 

Never  was ! 
Such    a    carpet    as,    this    summer-time,    o'cr- 
spreads 
And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone. 

Stock  or  stone  —  3° 

Where    a    multitude    of    men    breathed    joy 
and  woe 
Long  ago; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread 
of    shame 
Struck  them   tame; 
And   that   glory   and    that    shame   alike,    the 
gold  35 

Bought   and   sold. 


Now,— the   single   little   turret   that    remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the   caper   overrooted,   by   the   gourd 

Overscored,  4° 

While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blos- 
som winks 

Through  the  chinks  — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  an- 
cient time 

Sprang  sublime, 


And  a  burning  ring,  all   round,  the  chariots 
traced  45 

As   they   raced. 
And   the   monarch   and   his   minions   and  his 
dames 
Viewed  the   games. 


y\nd    I   know  — while   thus   the   quiet-colored 
eve 
Smiles  to  leave  5° 

To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 

In   such  peace. 
And  the   slopes  and   rills   in  undistinguished 
gray 
Melt  away  — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 
Waits  me  there  s6 

In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught 
soul 
For  the  goal. 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now, 
breathless,  dumb 
Till  I  come.  60 


But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side. 

Far  and   wide. 
All   the   mountains   topped   with   temples,   all 
the  glades' 
Colonnades, 
All    the    causeys,    bridges,    aqueducts, —  and 
then,  65 

All   the   men  ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will 
stand. 
Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  em- 
brace 
Of  my  face,  7° 

Ere   we   rush,    ere   we   extinguish   sight    and 
speech 
Each  on  each. 


VII 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And    they    built    their    gods    a    brazen    pillar 
high  75 

As  the  sky, 
Yet    reserved    a    thousand    chariots    in    full 
force  — 
Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that 
burns ! 
Earth's  returns  80 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPl'S                                         799 

For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and 

sin  ! 

IX 

Shut  them   in, 

That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

With   their   triumphs   and   their   glories 

and 

Not  tu-night: 

the  rest! 

I  must   bury   sorrow                                  35 

Love  is  best. 

Out  of   sight : 

(1855) 

X 

—  Must  a  little  weep.  Love, 

A    WOMAN'S    LAST   WORD 

(Foolish   me!). 

J 

And  so   fall  asleep,  Love 

Let 's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee.                                    4° 

Strive  nor  weep : 

(1855) 

All  be  as  before.  Love, 

—  Only  sleep ! 

II 

A  TOCCATA   OF  GALUPPl'S 

What  so  wild  as  words  are? 

S 

I 

I  and  thou 

Oh 

Galuppi,  Baldassare,  this  is  very  sad  to 

In   debute,  as  birds  are, 

finrl  1 

Hawk  on  bough ! 

I    can    hardly    misconceive    you ;     it    would 

prove  me  deaf  and  blind ; 

Ill 

Bu 

although  I  take  your  meaning,  't  is  with 

See  the  creature  stalking 

such  a  heavy  mind ! 

While  we  speak ! 

10 

Hush   and   hide   the  talking, 

II 

Cheek  on  cheek. 

Here   you   come    with    your   old   music,    and 

IV 

here's  all   the  good  it  brings 

What  so   false  as  truth  is. 

What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where 

False  to  thee? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is 

the  merchants   were   the  kmgs,                 s 

IS 

Wh 

ere  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used 
to  wed  the   sea   with   rings? 

Shun  the  tree  — 

V 

Ill 

Where  the  apple  reddens 

Ay 

because  the  sea's  the  street  there;  and 

Never  pry  — 

't  is  arched  by     .     .     .     what  you  call 

Lest    we    lose    our    Edens, 

.     Shylock's   bridge   with   houses   on    it, 

Eve  and    L 

20 

where  they  kept  the  carnival : 

I    was  never  out  of  England  —  it 's  as   if   I 

VI 

saw  it  all. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm ! 

IV 

Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when 

With  thine  arm ! 

the  sea  was  warm  in  May?                    10 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning 

VII 

ever  to  mid-day. 

Teach  me,  only  teach.  Love ! 

25 

When    they   made   up    fresh    adventures    for 

As  I  ought 

the   morrow,   do  you   say  ? 

I  will   speak  thy  speech.  Love, 

Think  thy  thought  — 

v 

Was   a   lady   such   a   lady,   cheeks   so   round 

VIII 

and  lips  so  red, — 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

On 

her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a 

Both    demands, 

30 

bell-flower  on  its  bed. 

Laymg  Hcsh   and   spirit 

O'er    the    breast's    superb    abundance    where 

In   thy  hands. 

a  man  might  base  his  head?                    is 

Soo 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them  —  they'd 

break  talk  off  and  afford 
—  She,  to  bite  her  mask's  l)lack  velvet  —  he, 

to  finger  on  his  sword, 
While  you   sat  and  played  Toccatas,   stately 

at    the    clavichord? 


What?  Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive, 
sixths  diminished,   sigh  on   sigh, 

Told  them  something?  Those  suspensions, 
those    solutions — 'Must    we    die?'         -'o 

Those  commiserating  sevenths — 'Life  might 
last !  we  can  but  try ! ' 


'Were  you  happy?' — 'Yes.' — 'And  are  you 
still   as   happy?' — 'Yes.     And  you?' 

— '  Then,  more  kisses !  ' — '  Did  /  stop  them, 
when  a  million  seemed  so  few?' 

Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must 
be  answered  to ! 


So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.  Oh,  they 
praised  you,  I  dare  say !  ^5 

'  Brave  Galuppi !  that  was  music  !  good  alike 
at  grave  and  gay ! 

I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear 
a  master  play  !  ' 


Then   they   left   you    for   their   pleasure :    till 

in   due  time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothmg,  some 

with  deeds  as  well  undone. 
Death   stepped  tacitly  and   took  them  where 

they  never  see  the  sun.  3o 

XI 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take 

my    stand   nor   swerve. 
While   I   triumph  o'er  a   secret   wrung   from 

nature's  close  reserve. 
In    you    come    with   your    cold    music    till    I 

creep  through  every  nerve. 


Yes,    you,    like    a    ghostly    cricket,    creaking 

where   a  house  was  burned : 
'  Dust     and     ashes,     dead     and     done     with, 
Venice  spent  what  Venice  earned.  35 

The   soul,   doubtless,   is   immortal  —  where   a 

soul  can  be  discerned. 


'Yours     for    instance:    you    know    physics, 

something   of   geology, 
Mathematics   are   your   pastime ;    souls   shall 

rise   in   their   degree ; 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, —  you'll  not 

die,  it  cannot  be ! 


'  As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born 
to  bloom  and   drop,  4o 

Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth 
and   folly  were  the  crop: 

^Vhat  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when 
the  kissing  had  to  stop? 


'  Dust  and  ashes !  '     So  you  creak  it,  and  I 

want  the  heart  to  scold. 
Dear    dead    women,    with    such    hair,    too  — 

what  's   become   of   all   the   gold 
Used   to   hang   and    brush   their   bosoms?     I 

feel  chilly  and  grown  old.  45 

(1855) 


MY   STAR 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like   the    angled    spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red,  5 

Now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They   would    fain   see,   too. 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue! 
Then    it    stops    like    a    bird ;    like    a    flower, 
hangs    furled;  "o 

They    must     solace    themselves     with    the 
Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore 
I    love   it. 

(1855) 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 


I   said  —  Then,   dearest,   since   't  is   so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all   my  love  avails. 
Since  all,   my   life   seemed   meant    for,    fails, 
Since    this    was    written    and    needs    must 
be—  5 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 


80 1 


i\Iy  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 

Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness! 

Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, —  I  claim 

Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 

—  And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame,  'o 

Your   leave   for   one   more   last    ride   with 
me. 

II 
My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers ; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through. 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two  '5 

With   life  or  death  in  the  balance:  right! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again  ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain : 
I  and  my  mistress,   side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride,  20 

So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who   knows   but   the   world   may  end   to- 
night ? 

Ill 
Hush!  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 
All    billowy-bosomed,    over-bowed 
By  many  benedictions  —  sun's  25 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once  — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,   sunset,   moonrise,   star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near,    3° 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here !  — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered  —  joy  and  fear! 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 


Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll  3S 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What   need  to   strive   with   a  life   awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this. 
So  might   I  gain,  so  might   I  miss.  40 

Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell  ? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 


Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds?  45 

Why,   all   men   strive,  and  who   succeeds? 
We  rode ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew. 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the   world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, —  All  labor,  yet  no  less  50 

Bear   up   beneath   their   unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast. 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me ;  here  we  ride. 
51 


What  hand  and  brain  went  evet    paired?  s6 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  but   felt  the  fleshly  screen? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave.      60 
There  's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A    soldier's    doing!    what    atones? 
They     scratch     his     name     on     the     Abbey- 
stones.  6s 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 


What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?     Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best,  70 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'T  is   something,  nay  't  is  nmch  :   but   then. 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best   for   men? 
Are  you  —  poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time  — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime  73 

Than  we  who  never  have  turned  a  rhyme? 

Sing,  riding  's  a  joy !     For  me,  I  ride. 


And  you,  great  sculptor  —  so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that 's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn    80 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say. 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend,      85 
'  Greatly  his  opera's   strains  intend. 
But  in  music  we  know  how   fashions  end! 

I  gave  my  youth;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 


Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us?     Had  fate 
Proposed   bliss   here    should   sublimate         90 
My  being  —  had   I   signed   the  bond  — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond. 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal. 
This  glory-garland   round  my  soul,  95 

Could   I   descry   such  ?     Try  and   test ! 
I   sink  back  shuddering   from  the  quest. 
Earth    being    so    good,    would    heaven    seem 

best? 
Now,    heaven    and    she    are    beyond    this 

ride. 


And  yet  —  she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 


8o2 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither   Hfe's   flower   is   lirst   discerned, 

We,  fixed  so.  ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still   ride  on,  we  two,  los 

With   life   for  ever  old  yet   new, 
Oianged  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The    instant    made    eternity, — 
And   heaven   just   prove  that   I    and   she 

Ride,   ride  together,   for  ever   ride?         "o 
(1855) 


MEMORABILIA 


Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain. 
And  did  he  stop  and   speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new ! 


But  you  were  living  before  that. 
And  also  you  are  living  after; 

And  the  memory  I   started  at  — 
My    starting   moves    your    laughter ! 


I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone       ^ 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 


For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A   moulted    feather,   an   eagle-feather!         i5 
Well,   I    forget  the   rest. 

(1855) 


'DE    GUSTIBUS— ' 

Your  ghost  will   walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane. 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice —         5 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

flaking  love,  say, — 

The    happier    they ! 
Draw    yourself    up    from    the    light    of    the 

moon. 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon,     >o 

With  the   beanflowers'   boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune. 

And   May,  and  June ! 


What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled,  '5 

In   a  gash   of   the   wind-grieved   Apcnnine. 

Or  look   for  me,  old   fellow  of  mine, 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 

O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) —  ~o 

In  a  sea-side  house  to  the   farther  South, 

Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth. 

And     one     sharp     tree — 'tis     a     cypress  — 

stands, 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough    iron-spiked,    ripe    fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands  -26 

To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 
While,  in  the  house,   forever  crumbles         30 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A   girl  bare-footed  brings,   and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons. 
And  says  there's  news  to-day  —  the  king  35 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing. 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling : 
—  She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 
Italy,   my   Italy! 
Queen    Mary's    saying   serves    for   me  —    40 

(When    fortune's   malice 

Lost  her  Calais)  — 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved   inside  of   it,  '  Italy.' 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she:  45 

So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be ! 

(1855) 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

CALLED    'the    FAULTLESS    PAINTER* 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your 
heart  ?  ^ 

1  '11    work    then    for    your    friend's     friend, 
never   fear,  5 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way. 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too,  his  own  price. 
And   shut  the  money  into  this  small   hand 
When    next    it    takes    mine.     Will    it?    ten- 
derly? 
Oh,  I  '11  content  him, —  but  to-morrow.  Love  ! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think,  " 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As    if  —  forgive    now  —  should    you    let    me 
sit 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 


803 


Here    by    the    window    with    your    hand    in 

mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole,     "S 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,    quietly   the   evening   through, 
I   might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself,  -' 

And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast   she  curls 

inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you  must 

serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 
It  saves  a  model.     So !  keep  looking  so  —  ^5 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on   rounds  ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect 

ears. 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !  oh,  so  sweet  — 
i\Iy  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,     30 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
While   she  looks  —  no  one's :   very   dear,  no 

less. 
You   smile?   why,   there's   my  picture   ready 

made, 
There  's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony ! 
A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, —  35 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,   at   the   point   of  your   first   pride   in 

me 
(That's  gone  you  know), —  but   I,   at  every 

point; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned 

down 
To   yonder   sober   pleasant    Fiesole.  4° 

There 's  the  bell   clinking   from  the   chapel- 
top  ; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  de- 
crease. 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything.  45 
Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A    twilight-piece.     Love,    we    are    in    God's 

hand. 
How  strange  now   looks  the   life   he  makes 
us   lead  ;  50 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 
I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 
This     chamber     for     example  —  turn     your 

head  — 
All    that 's    behind    us !     You    don't    under- 
stand 
Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art.        55 
But    you    can    hear    at    least    when    people 
speak : 


And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 
—  It  is  the  thing,  Love !  so  such  thing  should 

be  — 
Behold  Madonna!  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,        60 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 
Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week. 
And    just    as    much    they    used    to    say    in 

France.  66 

At  any  rate,  't  is  easy,  all  of  it ! 
No    sketches    first,    no    studies,    that 's    long 

past : 
I   do  what  many  dream   of  all   their   lives, 
— Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do,  7° 
And    fail    in    doing.     I    could    count    twenty 

such 
On   twice   your   fingers,    and    not    leave    this 

town, 
Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others 

strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afioat, — 
Yet   do  much   less,   so   much   less.   Someone 

says,  76 

(I    know    his    name,    no    matter) — so    much 

less! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia :  I  am  judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and   stopped- 

up  brain,  80 

Heart,    or    whate'er    else,    than    goes    on    to 

prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand 

of   mine. 
Their    works    drop    groundward.    but    them- 
selves,  I   know. 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that  "s  shut  to 

me. 
Enter     and     take     their     place     there     sure 

enough,  85 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the 

world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men !  at  a  word  — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils 

too. 
I,  painting  from  myself,  and  to  myself,      9° 
Know    what    I    do,    am    unmoved    by    men's 

blame 
Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 
Morello's  outline  there  is   wrongly  traced, 
His  hue  mistaken;   what  of  that?  or  else. 
Rightly   traced    and    well    ordered  ;    what    of 

that  ?  95 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain 

care? 


8o4 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Ah,    but    a    man's    reach    should    exceed    his 

grasp, 
Or    what's    a    heaven    for?     All    is    silver- 
gray 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art:  the  worse! 
I   know  both  what   I   w\int  and  what  might 

gain,  100 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
'  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself. 
Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world !  ' 

No  doubt. 
Yonder  's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago.         los 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all. 
Pouring   his   soul,   with   kings   and   popes   to 

see. 
Reaching,    that    heaven    might    so    replenish 

him, 
Above   and   through    his   art  —  for    it    gives 

way;  no 

That     arm     is     wrongly     put  —  and     there 

again  — 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines. 
Its  body,  so  to  speak:   its  soul  is   right. 
He   means   right  —  that,  a  child  may  under- 
stand. 
Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it:  ns 
But     all     the     play,     the     insight     and     the 

stretch  — 
Out  of  me,  out  of  me!     And  wherefore  out? 
Had   you    enjoined   them    on    me,    given   me 

soul. 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you! 
Nay,    Love,    you    did    give    all    I    asked,    I 

think —  120 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But    had    you  —  oh,    with   the    same    perfect 

brow, 
And    perfect    eyes,    and    more    than    perfect 

mouth. 
And    the    low    voice    my    soul    hears,    as    a 

bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a 

mind !  i  -6 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there 

urged 
'  God  and  the  glory !  never  care  for  gain. 
The   present  by  the   future,   what   is   that? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo!  uo 
Rafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!' 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems: 
Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 
Beside,     incentives    come     from    the     soul's 

self; 
The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo?     136 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 


And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 
Yet    the    will's    somewhat  —  somewhat,    too, 

the  power  — 
.And    thus    we    half-men    struggle.     At    the 

end,  "40 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That   I   am   something  underrated   here. 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the 

truth. 
I   dared  not,  do  you   know,  leave  home  all 

day.  '4S 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 
But   they   speak  sometimes;    I   must  bear   it 

all. 
Well    may   they   speak !     That    Francis,   that 

first   time. 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 
I    surely    then    could    sometimes    leave    the 

ground,  isi 

Put  on  the  glory,   Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In    that    humane    great    monarch's    golden 

look, — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the 

smile,  I5S 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me. 
All    his    court    round    him,    seeing    with    his 

eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of 

souls  I'o 

Profuse,    my    hand    kept    plying    by    those 

hearts, — 
And,    best    of    all,    this,    this,    this    face    be- 
yond. 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work. 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward!  164 
A  good   time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless     .     .     .  but 

I    know  — 
'T   is   done   and   past ;    't   was   right,   my   in- 
stinct   said ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 
And   I'm   the   weak-eyed  bat   no   sun   should 

tempt 
Out   of   his  grange   whose   four   walls   make 

his    world.  '/o 

How   could   it   end   in   any  other   way? 
You   called   me,   and    I   came   home   to   your 

heart. 
The  triumph  was  —  to  reach  and  stay  there ; 

since 
I   reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 
Let    my    hands    frame    your    face    in    your 

hair's  gold,  175 

You  beautiful  Lucrczia  that  are  mine! 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 


805 


'  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The   Roman's   is   the   better   when   you   pray, 
Ihit  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife' — 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both     pictures     in     your     presence ;     clearer 

grows  '81 

My  better   fortune,   I   resolve   to  think. 
For,   do   you   know,   Lucrezia,   as   God   lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To    Rafael     ...     I    have    known     it    all 

these  years     ...  '85 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his 

thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
'  Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry    little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares 

how,  '90 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you   are,   pricked   on  by  your  popes   and 

kings, 
Would    bring   the    sweat    into    that   brow   o'f 

yours ! ' 
To     Rafael's!  —  And     indeed     the     arm     is 

wrong. 
I  hardly  dare     .     .     .     yet,  only  you  to  see. 
Give   the   chalk   here  —  quick,   thus    the   line 

should  go !  196 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he  's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 
Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth 
(What  he?   why,   who  but   Michel   Agnolo? 
Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?). 
If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 
Is,     whether     you're  —  not     grateful  —  but 

more  pleased.  202 

Well,   let  me  think  so.     And   you  smile   in- 
deed ! 
This     hour     has    been     an     hour !     Another 

smile? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night  -205 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 
I   mean   that   I   should   earn   more,   give   you 

more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there's  a  star; 
Morello  's   gone,   the   watch-lights    show   the 

wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them 

by.  210 

Come    from    the    window,    Love, —  come    in, 

at   last, 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me;  oft  at  nights. 
When    I    look   up   from   painting,   eyes   tired 

out,  2  I  5 

The    walls    become    illumined,    brick     from 

brick 
Distinct,    instead    of    mortar,    fierce    bright 

gold. 


That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them   with  ! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go? 
That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 
Must     see    you  —  you,    and    not    with    me? 

Those  loans?  221 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled   for 

that? 
Well,   let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to 

spend  ? 
While    hand    and    eye    and    something    of    a 

heart 
Are  left   me,   work's  my  ware,  and   what's 

it  worth  ?  225 

I  '11  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray   remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How    I    could    paint,    were    I    but    back    in 

France, 
One    picture,    just    one   more  —  the    Virgin's 

face,  230 

Not    yours    this    time!     I    want    you    at    my 

side 
To    hear   them  —  that    is,    Michel    Agnolo  — 
Judge   all   I   do   and   tell   you   of   its   worth. 
Will  you?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your   friend 
I   take  the  subjects   for  his  corridor,  235 

Finish    the    portrait    out    of    hand  —  there, 

there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If    he    demurs;    the    whole    should    prove 

enough 
To  pay   for  this   same   Cousin's   freak.     Be- 
side, 
What  's  better  and  what 's  all  I  care  about, 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff!      241 
Love,  does  that  please  you?     Ah,  but  what 

does   he. 
The    Cousin !    what    does    he   to    please   you 

more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  1  would  change  still  less.     245 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis!  —  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied. 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is 

said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want.     250 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich !     Let  each  one  bear  his 

lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor 

they  died: 
And   I  have  labored   somewhat   in  my  time 
And    not    been   paid    profusely.     Some   good 

son  255 

Paint    my    two    hundred    pictures  —  let    him 

try! 


8o6 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


No     doubt,     there 's     something     strikes     a 

balance.     Yes, 
You    loved    me   quite    enough,    it    seems    to- 
night 
This    must    suffice    me    here.     What    would 

one   have? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one   more 
chance  —  ^*'° 

Four  great  walls  in  the  new  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife. 
While  I  have  mine!  So  — still  they  over- 
come 2^5 
Because  there  's  still  Lucrezia, —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle !     Go,  my  Love. 

(1855) 


THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL 

A    PICTURE    AT    FANG 
I 

Dear    and   great    Angel,    wouldst   thou    only 
leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him, 
for  me  ! 
Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspend- 
ing, 5 
Thy    flight,    may'st    see    another    child    for 
tending. 
Another   still,  to   quiet  and   retrieve. 


Then    I    shall    feel    thee    step    one    step,    no 
more. 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where 
I  gaze, 
—  And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er     'o 
With   those   wings,   white   above   the   child 
who    prays 
Now   on   that   tomb  —  and   I    shall    feel   thee 

guarding 
Me,  out  of  all   the  world;    for  me,  discard- 
ing 
Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes 
its   door. 


I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head  15 

Because   the   door   opes,   like   that   child,   I 

know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God !     And  wilt  thou  bend 

me    low 


Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  to- 
gether, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's 

spread?  2' 


If   this   was   ever  granted,   I    would   rest 
My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing 
hands 
Close-covered     both     my     eyes     beside     thy 
breast, 
Pressing     the     brain,     which     too     much 
thought   expands,  25 

Back  to   its  proper   size   again,   and   smooth- 
ing 
Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  sooth- 
ing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppressed. 


How   soon   all   worldly  wrong  would   be   re- 
paired ! 
I   think  how  I   should   view  the  earth  and 
skies  30 

And    sea,    when    once    again    my    brow    was 
bared 
After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O    world,    as    God    has    made    it !     All    is 

beauty: 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 
What    further  may  be   sought    for  or  de- 
clared? 35 


Guercino  drew  this  angel  I   saw  teach 
(Alfred,    dear    friend !)— that    little   child 
to  pray. 
Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 
Pressed      gently, —  with      his      own      head 
turned   away 
Over   the   earth    where   so   much    lay   before 
him  40 

Of    work   to   do,    though   heaven    was   open- 
ing   o'er    him, 
And  he  was   left   at   Fano  by  the  beach. 


We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 

To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there. 
And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content  45 
—  My    angel    with    me    too :    and    since    I 
care 
For    dear    Guercino  's    fame     (to    which    in 

power 
And   glory   comes  this   picture   for  a   dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent)  — 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 


807 


And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly    so 
At  all   times,  and  has  else  endured   some 
wrong  — 
I   took  one  thought  his  picture  struck   from 
me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 
My  love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old 

friend? 
How  rolls  the   Wairoa  at  your   world's   far 
end?  55 

This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

(1855) 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

SHORTLY    AFTER    THE    REVIV.XL    OF    LEARNING    IN 
EUROPE 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse. 

Singing    together. 
Leave    we    the    common    crofts,    the    vulgar 
thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain,  5 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow : 
Look   out   if  yonder  be   not   day  again 

Rimming  the   rock-row! 
That's  the  appropriate  country;  there,  man's 
thought. 

Rarer,  intenser,  10 

Self-gathered   for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and 
crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top,         '5 

Crowded  with  culture ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No!  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit.  -20 

Thither  our  path  lies;  wind  we  up  the 
heights : 

Wait   ye    the   warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He 's    for  the   morning. 
Step    to    a    tune,    square    chests,    erect    each 
head,  25 

'Ware    the    beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous  calm  and  dead. 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe 
and  croft. 

Safe  from  the  weather!  30 

He,   whom   we   convoy  to   his   grave   aloft, 

Singing    together. 


He    was    a    man    born    with    thy    face    and 
throat. 
Lyric   Apollo! 
Long  he  lived  nameless:  how  should  spring 
take  note  3S 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone ! 

Cramped  and  diminished. 
Moaned     he,     '  New     measures,     other     feet 
anon ! 
My  dance   is   finished?'  40 

No,    that's    the     world's    way:     (keep    the 
mountain-side, 
IMake    for   the   city!) 
He   knew    the    signal,    and    stepped    on    with 
pride 
Over    men's    pity ; 
Left  play   for  work,  and  grappled  with  the 
world  45 

Bent  on  escaping: 
'  What 's  in  the  scroll,'  quoth  he,  '  thou  keep- 
est    furled? 
Show  me  their  shaping. 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and 
sage,— 
Give  !  ' —  So,  he  gowned  him,  so 

Straight   got   by   heart   that   book   to   its   last 
page: 
Learned,   we    found   him. 
Yea,  but  we   found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like 
lead. 
Accents  uncertain  : 
'  Time    to    taste    life,'    another    would    have 
said,  ss 

'  Up  with   the  curtain  !  ' 
This    man    said    rather,    '  Actual    life    comes 
next  ? 
Patience  a  moment! 
Grant    I    have    mastered    learning's    crabbed 
text. 
Still   there  's   the   comment.  60 

Let    me    know   all !     Prate   not    of    most   or 
least. 
Painful    or    easy! 
Even    to    the    crumbs    I  'd    fain    eat    up    the 
feast. 
Ay,    nor    feel    queasy.' 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live,       65 

When  he  had  learned  it, 
When    he    had    gathered    all    books    had    to 
give ! 
Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then   execute  the  parts  — 
Fancy  the  fabric  7° 

Quite,    ere    you    build,    ere    steel    strike   fire 
from   quartz, 
Ere  mortar  dab  brick. 


8o8 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

there  's  the 


He    said, 


(.Here's  the  town-gate  reached 
market-place 
Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace     75 

(Hearten    our    chorus!) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live — 

No  end  to  learning. 
Earn  the  means  first  — God  surely  will  con- 
trive 
Use    for    our    earning.  ^° 

Others  mistrust  and  say,  '  But  time  escapes : 
Live  now  or  never  ! ' 

What's    time?     Leave    Now    for 
dogs  and  apes ! 
Man  has  Forever!' 
Back  to  his  book  then:  deeper  drooped  his 
head;  ^^ 

Calculus    racked    him: 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead: 

Tussis   attacked   him. 
•  Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest ! '—  not  he  ! 
(Caution   redoubled,  ^o 

Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly!) 

Not   a   whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his   studies,   fresher  than    at   first, 

Fierce    as    a    dragon 
He   (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst)   95 

Sucked    at    the    flagon. 
Oh,    if    we    draw    a    circle    premature. 

Heedless   of    far   gain. 
Greedy   for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad    is    our    bargain!  ^°° 

Was    it    not    great?     did    not   he    throw    on 
God 
(He  loves  the  burthen)  — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 
Perfect  the  earthen, 
not  he   magnify  the  mind,   show   clear 
Just  what  it  all  meant?  'o^ 

would    not    discount    life,    as    fools    do 
here. 
Paid   by   instalment, 
ventured    neck    or    nothing  — heaven's 
success 
Found,  or  earth's  failure:  I'o 

'Wilt    thou    trust    death    or    not?'     He    an- 
swered   '  Yes : 
Hence    with    life's   pale    lure!' 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it   and   does   it ; 
This  high  man,   with  a  great  thing  to  pur- 
sue, "5 
Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That   low   man   goes  on   adding  one  to  one, 

His   hundred  's    soon   hit ; 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit,  '^' 


should  he  need 


Did 
He 

He 


That,  has  the  world  here 
the  next, 
Let   the   world   mind   him  ! 
This,    throws    himself    on    God,    and    unpcr- 
plexed 
Seeking  shall   find   Him. 
So,    with    the   throttling   hands    of   death    at 
strife,  '-'5 

Ground  he  at  grammar ; 
Still,    through    the    rattle,    parts    of    speech 
were  rife: 
While   he   could   stammer 
He    settled    Iloti's    business  —  let    it    be !  — 
Properly   based    Oun  —  '3° 

Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  Dc, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper 
place  : 
Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the   feathered  race,   us 

Swallows  and  curlews! 
Here  's    the    top-peak,    the   multitude   below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there: 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know  — 

Bury   this   man   there?  '4° 

Here  —  here 's     his     place,     where     meteors 
shoot,  clouds   form. 
Lightnings  are  loosened. 
Stars    come    and    go!     Let    joy    break    with 
the  storm, 
Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects:   '45 

Loftily    lying. 
Leave  him  —  still  loftier  than  the  world  sus- 
pects, 
Living  and   dying. 

(1855) 


ONE  WORD  MORE 


There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming   me   the   fifty   poems    finished! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together : 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 


Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets,  5 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 
Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 
Else  he  only  used  to  draw   Madonnas : 
These,  the  world  might  view  —  but  one,  the 

volume. 
Who    that    one,    you    ask?     Your    heart   in- 
structs you. 


ONE  WORD  MORE 


809 


Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime? 
Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 
Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 
Where    it    lay    in    place    of    Rafael's    glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving —  's 
Cheek,     the     world     was     wont     to     hail     a 

painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's? 


You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael,     20 
Would  we  not?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas  — 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that   visits   Florence  in   a   vision. 
Her,  that 's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle.       25 


You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 
Guido   Reni,   like   his   own   eye's   apple. 
Guarded    long   the    treasure-book   and    loved 

it. 
Guido  Reni  dying,  all   Bologna 
Cried,  and  the  world  cried   too,  '  Ours,  the 

treasure !  '  30 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 


Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom   to   please  ?     You   whisper  '  Beatrice.' 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced 

it 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded  35 

Still    by    drops    of    that    hot    ink    he    dipped 

for, 
When,    his     left-hand    i'    the    hair    o'    the 

wicked. 
Back    he    held    the    brow    and    pricked    its 

stigma. 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed    him,    laughed    to    see    the    writing 
rankle,  40 

Let   the   wretch   go   festering   through   Flor- 
ence) — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated. 
Hated   wickedness   that   hinders   loving, 
Dante,   standing,   studying   his   angel  — 
In   there  broke  the   folk  of   his   Inferno.     45 
Says    he — 'Certain    people    of  •importance' 
(Such  he  gave  his   daily  dreadful   line   to) 
'  Entered     and     would    seize,     forsooth,     the 

poet.' 
Says  the  poet  — '  Then   I  stopped  my  paint- 
ing.' 


You   and    I    would   rather   see   that   angel,  so 
Painted   by  the   tenderness   of   Dante, 
Would  we  not?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 


You  and   I   will   never  see  that  picture. 
While   he   mused    on    love    and    Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel,  55 
In  they  broke,  those  'people  of  importance': 
We    and    Bice    bear    the    loss    forever. 


What  of  Rafael's   sonnets,   Dante's  picture? 
This :    no   artist    lives   and    loves,  that   longs 

not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and   for  one  only       60 
(Ah,     the     prize!),     to     find     his     love     a 

language 
Fit  and   fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 
Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others. 
Not,    this    one    time,    art    that 's    turned    his 

nature. 
Ay,   of  all   the  artists   living,   loving,  65 

None  but  would   forego  his  proper  dowry. 
Does  he  paint?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, 
Does    he    write?    he     fain    would    paint    a 

picture, — 
Put    to   proof   art   alien   to   the   artist's, 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only,      70 
So   to   be  the   man  and    leave  the   artist. 
Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 


IX 

Wherefore?  Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's 
abatement ! 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the 
water. 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him. 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal,  76 

Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the 
minute. 

Desecrates,  belike,   the   deed   in    doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remem- 
ber, 

So   he   smote   before,   in    such   a   peril,        80 

When  they  stood  and  mocked  —  '  Shall  smit- 
ing  help   us?  ' 

When  they  drank  and  sneered  —  '  A  stroke 
is  easy!  ' 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went 
their  journey, 

Throwing  him  for  thanks  — '  But  drought 
was    pleasant.' 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual 
triumph ;  85 

Thus   the   doing   savors   of   disrelish; 


7SI0 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  some- 
what; 
O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 
Carelessness  or  consciousness  —  the  gesture, 
For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him,  90 
Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 
Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  pre- 
lude— 
'  How  shouldst  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and 

save   us  ? ' 
Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel  — 
'  Egypt's    flesh-pots  —  nay,    the   drought    was 
better.'  95 


Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 

Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  bril- 
liance. 

Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial 
fiat. 

Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 


Did   he   love   one    face    from   out  the   thou- 
sands '00 
(Were    she    Jethro's    daughter,    white    and 

wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  Ethiopian  bondslave) 
He    would    envy   yon    dumb,    patient    camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert,  105 
Ready   in   the   desert  to   deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard   and    life    together    for   his    mistress. 


XII 

I   shall   never,   in  the  years  remaining. 
Paint     you     pictures,    no,     nor     carve     you 

statues,  "o 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me ; 
So  it  seems :  I  stand  on  my  attainment, 
This   of   verse   alone,   one   life   allows    me; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 
Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing:  i'5 
All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own. 

Love! 


Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us  — 
Shade    so   finely   touched,   love's   sense   must 

seize    it. 
Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly. 
Lines    I    write    the    first    time    and    the    last 

time.  1^0 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush. 
Curbs  the  liberal   hand,   subservient   proudly, 
Cramps   his    spirit,   crowds   its   all    in    little. 
Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art   familiar. 
Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 


He  who  blows  through  bronze  may  breathe 
through    silver,  126 

Fitly   serenade   a   slumbrous   princess. 
He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I  do. 


XIV 
Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy,     '3o 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service. 
Speak    from    every    mouth, —  the    speech,    a 

poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving: 
I     am    nn'ne    and    yours  —  the    rest    be    all 
men's,  '35 

Karshish,  Cleon,  Norbert,  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person. 
Not  as  Lippo,  Roland,  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sen- 
tence : 
Pray    you,     look    on    these    my    men     and 
women,  mo 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished; 
Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also ! 
Poor  the   speech;   be   how   I   speak,   for  all 
things. 

XV 

Not  but  that  you  know  me !     Lo,  the  moon's 

self! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence,  145 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight,  i 

Came    she,    our    new    crescent    of    a   hair's-      | 

breadth  1 

Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato,     ^5° 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder. 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished. 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs. 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver. 
Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish.  156 


XVI 

What,    there 's    nothing   in    the    moon    note- 
worthy? 
Nay:  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal. 
Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy). 
All  her  magic   ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos). 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal,  161 
Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steers- 
man — 
Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace. 
Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret. 
Dumb    to    Homer,    dumb    to    Keats  —  him, 
even !  165 


ABT  VOGLER 


8ii 


Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mor- 
tal— 
When    she    turns    round,    comes    again     in 

heaven, 
Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better! 
Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg- 
Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders,  170 
Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crys- 
tals? 
Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 
Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  moun- 
tain ? 
I\roscs,  Aaron,  Nadab,  and  Abihu 
Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  High- 
est, 17s 
Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 
Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 
Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved 

work, 
When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also! 


What  were  seen?  None  knows,  none  ever 
shall  know.  'So 

Only  this  is  sure  —  the  sight  were  other. 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Flor- 
ence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  crea- 
tures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world 
with,  185 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her ! 

xvin 
This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love! 
This  to  you  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets! 
Ah,  but  that 's  the  world's  side,  there  's  the 

wonder, 
Thus   they  see  you,  praise  you,   think   they 

know  you!  '9° 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise 

you  — 
Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them. 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight. 
Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel       '95 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of. 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 


Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it. 
Drew      one     angel  —  borne,      see,     on      my 
bosom!  201 

R.  B.     (1855) 


ABT  VOGLER 


AFTER    HE   HAS   BEEN   EXTEMl'GRIZING   UPON    THE 
MUSICAL    INSTRUMENT    OF    HIS    INVENTION 


Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold 
music  I  Luild, 
Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to 
their  work. 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch, 
as   when   Solomon  willed 
Arnn'es    of    angels    that    soar,    legions    of 
demons  that  lurk, 
Alan,  brute,  reptile,  fly,—  alien  of  end  and  of 
aim,  5 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high, 
hell-deep   removed, — 
.Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named 
the  ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure 
the  princess  he  loved ! 


Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful 
building  of  mine. 
This  which  my  keys   in  a  crowd   pressed 
and  importuned  to  raise!  'o 

Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dis- 
part now  and  now  combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their 
master  his  praise ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind 
plunge  down  to  hell. 
Burrow    awhile    and    build,    broad    on    the 
roots  of  things. 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based 
me  my  palace  well,  15 

Founded  it,   fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the 
nether  springs. 


Ill 
And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like 
the  excellent  minion  he  was. 
Ay,   another  and  yet  another,   one   crowd 
but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  trans- 
parent as  glass. 
Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place 
to  the  rest :  -'" 

For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips 
with  fire. 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  fes- 
tal night  — 
Outlining    round    and    round    Rome's    dome 
from  space  to  spire) 


8l2 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Up,   the  pinnacled   glory   reached,   and   the 
pride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 


IV 
In  sight?     Not  half!    for  it  seemed,  it  was 
certain,  to  match  man's  birth,  ^5 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  im- 
pulse as  I ; 
And    the    emulous    heaven    yearned    down, 
made  effort  to  reach  the  earth. 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  pas- 
sion, to  scale  the  sky : 
Novel   splendors  burst   forth,  grew   familiar 
and  dwelt  with  mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed 
its  wandering  star;  3" 

Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze :  and  they  did 
not  pale  nor  pine. 
For  earth   had   attained    to   heaven,   there 
was  no  more  near  nor  far. 


Nay  more ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked 
in  the  glare  and  glow, 
Presences    plain    in    the    place;    or,    fresh 
from  the   Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier 
wind  should  blow,  35 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to 
their  liking  at  last ; 
Or    else    the    wonderful    Dead    who    have 
passed  through  the  body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an 
old  world  worth  their  new : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now ;  what  was, 
as  it  shall  be  anon  ; 
And  what  is, —  shall  I  say,  matched  both? 
for  I  was  made  perfect  too.  4o 


All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds 
to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 
All    through    my   soul    that    praised    as    its 
wish  flowed  visibly  forth. 
All  through  music  and  me  I     For  think,  had 
I  painted  the  whole. 
Why,  there  it  had   stood,  to  see,  nor  the 
process   so   wonder-worth : 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse  —  still, 
effect  proceeds  from  cause,  45 

Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear 
how  the  tale  is  told  ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience 
to  laws, 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist- 
list  enrolled:  — 


VII 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the 
will  that  can. 
Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them 
and,  lo,  they  are !  5o 

And  I   know   not   if,  save   in   this,   such  gift 
be  allowed  to  man 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a 
fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in 
itself  is  naught; 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world  —  loud,  soft, 
and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use !     I  mix  it  with  two  in 
my  thought ;  55 

And  there !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen ;  con- 
sider and  bow  the  head ! 


Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music 
I  reared ; 
Gone !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises 
that  come  too  slow ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can 
say  that  he  feared. 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone 
thing  was  to  go.  6o 

Never  to  be  again !     But  many  more  of  the 
kind 
As    good,    nay,    better    perchance :    is    this 
your  comfort  to  me? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling 
with  my  mind 
To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same 
God :   ay,  what  was,   shall  be. 


Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  in- 
effable Name?  65 
Builder   and   maker,   thou,   of   houses   not 
made  with  hands ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who 
art  ever  the  same? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that 
thy  power   expands? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good !     What 
was,  shall  live  as  before; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  imply- 
ing sound ;  70 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil, 
so  much  good  more; 
On    the    earth    the    broken    arcs;    in    the 
heaven  a  perfect  round. 


All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of 
good  shall  exist; 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA 


813 


Not   its   semblance,  but   itself;   no   beauty, 
nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  sur- 
vives  for  the  melodist  75 
When    eternity    affirms   the   conception    of 
an  hour. 
The  high   that   proved  too  high,  the  heroic 
for  earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose 
itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and 
the  bard ; 
Enough   that   he  heard   it  once:    we   shall 
hear  it  by  and  by.                                  80 


And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's 
evidence 
For  the  fullness  of  the  days?    Have  we 
withered  or  agonized? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that 
singing   might   issue   thence? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  har- 
mony should  be  prized? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to 
clear,  85 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of 
the  weal  and  woe: 
'     But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers 
[  in  the  ear; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome :  't  is  we 
musicians  know. 

XII 

I      Well,  it  is  earth  with  me ;   silence  resumes 

her  reign: 
[         I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly 
I  acquiesce.  90 

Give  me  the  keys.     I   feel   for  the  common 
chord  again. 
Sliding    by    semitones    till    I    sink    to    the 
minor, —  yes. 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on 
alien  ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from 
into  the  deep ; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my 
resting-place  is  found,  95 

The  C  Major  of  this  life:  so,  now  I  will 
try  to  sleep. 

(1864) 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 


Grow  old  along  with  me  I 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 


The    last    of    life,    for    which    the    first    was 

made : 
Our   times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith,  '  A  whole  I  planned,  s 

Youth   shows  but   half;   trust   God:    see  all, 

nor  be  afraid  ! ' 


II 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth   sighed,   '  Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?' 
Not  that,  admiring  stars,  10 

It  yearned,  '  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars  ; 
Mine   be   some   figured   flame   which   blends, 
transcends  them  all !  ' 


Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years. 
Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark  I     i5 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished   and   finite   clods,   untroubled   by   a 
spark. 


Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed. 
Were  man  but  formed  to   feed  - 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast; 
Such    feasting  ended,   then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?     Frets  doubt 
the  maw-crammed  beast  ? 


Rejoice  we  are  allied  25 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive ! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that   take,    I 
must  believe.  30 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each   sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but 

go! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ;  35 

Learn,    nor   account    the    pang;    dare,   never 

grudge  the  throe  I 

VII 

For   thence, —  a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 


8i4 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What   I  aspired  to  he,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 
A   brute   I   might   have  been,   but   would   not 
sink  i'  the  scale. 

VIII 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  Hesh  has  sou!  to  suit. 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want 

play?  45 

1\i  man,  propose  this  test  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How    far   can    that   project   thy  soul    on   its 

lone  way? 


Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 
I  own  the  Past  profuse  so 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain   treasured   up  the   whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  '  How  good 
to  live  and  learn  '? 


Not  once  beat  '  Praise  be  thine !  oS 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too : 
Perfect  I  call  thy  plan: 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 
Maker,  remake,  complete, —  I  trust  what  thou 
shalt  do!  '  60 


For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold  65 

Possessions  of  the  brute, —  gain  most,  as  we 
did  best! 

XII 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

'  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I    strove,    made    head,    gained    ground    upon 

the  whole ! ' 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  7° 

Let  us  cry,  '  All  good  things 
Are   ours,   nor   soul   helps   flesh   more,  now, 

than  flesh  helps  soul !  ' 


XIII 

Therefore   I   summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage, 


Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its 
term  :  75 

Thciicc  shall   I   pass,  approved 

A   man,   for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  ])rute ;  a  God  though  in 
the  germ. 

XIV 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  80 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new  : 
Fearless  and  unperplexed. 
When  I  wage  battle  next. 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  in- 
due. 


Youth  ended,  I  shall  try  85 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 
And   I   shall   weigh  the  same. 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 
Young,    all    lay    in    dispute;    I    shall    know, 
being  old.  90 


For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots — 'Add  this  to  the  rest,  9S 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another 
day.' 

XVII 
So,  still  within  this  life. 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
'  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  1°° 

That  acquiescence  vain  : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved 
the  Past.' 

XVIII 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day:  los 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints    of    the    proper    craft,    tricks    of    the 
tool's  true  play. 

XIX 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should   strive,  through  acts   uncouth,         "o 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA 


815 


Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found 

made : 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age :  wait  death  nor 

be  afraid! 


XX 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right  "S 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be    named    here,    as    thou    callest    thy    hand 

thine  own. 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee 

feel  alone.  »2o 


Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned. 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained,  '-5 

Right?     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us 
peace  at  last ! 

XXII 

Now,  who   shall  arbitrate? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 
Shun  what  1  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

Match  me :  we  all  surmise, 
They,   this   thing,   and   I,   that:    whom   shall 
my  soul  believe? 

XXIII 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called    '  work,'   must   sentence   pass. 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the 

price;  '35 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand. 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value 

in  a   trice: 


But   all,   the   world's   coarse   thumb, 
i       And  finger  failed  to  plumb,  140 

1       So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
i       .All   instincts   immature, 
I       .A.11  purposes  unsure. 

That   weighed   not   as   his   work,  yet   swelled 
the  man's  amount : 


Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed  us 

Into  a  narrow  act. 

Fancies    that    broke    through    language    and 

escaped  ; 
All  I  could  never  be. 
All,  men  ignored  in  me. 
This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the 

pitcher  shaped.  «5o 

XXVI 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel. 

That  metaphor!  and   feel 

Why  time  spins    fast,   why   passive  lies  our 

clay, — ■ 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound. 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round,  155 

'Since    life    fleets,    all    is   change;    the    Past 

gone,  seize  to-day  !  ' 

XXVII 

Fool!     All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand 

sure: 
What  entered  into  thee,  160 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's   wheel    runs    back   or   stops :      Potter 

and  clay  endure. 

XXVIII 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This    Present,   thou,    forsooth,    wouldst    fain 

arrest:  '^s 

Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent. 
Try    thee    and    turn    thee    forth,    sufficiently 

impressed. 

XXIX 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  '7o 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 
What  though  about   thy  rim. 
Skull-things   in   order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner 
stress? 

XXX 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up!  '75 

To  uses  of  a  cup! 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's 
peal. 


8i6 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


The  new  wine's  foaming  How, 
The  Master's  lips  a-glow ! 
Thou,      heaven's      consunmiate      cup,      what 
nced'st  thou  with  eartli's  wheel?  i8o 

XXXI 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,   God,   who   moldest  men ; 

And    since,    not    even    while    the    whirl    was 

worst, 
Did  I  — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife,  i8s 

Bound    dizzily, —  mistake    my    end,    to    slake 

thy  thirst. 

XXXII 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work. 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past 
the  aim  ! 

My  times  be  in  thy  hand!  190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  1 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  com- 
plete the  same ! 

(1864) 


PROSPICE 

Fear  death?  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat. 

The  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the   snows  begin,  and   the  blasts  de- 
note 
I  am  nearing  the  place. 
The   power   of   the   night,   the   press   of  the 
storm,  5 

The  post  of  the   foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible 
form. 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  at- 
tained, 
And  the  barriers  fall,  1° 

Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon 
be  gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes, 
and  forbore,  '5 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my 
peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's 
arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  -" 


For  sudden  the   worst   turns  the  best  to  the 
brave, 
The  black  miimte  's  at  end, 
Antl  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that 
rave, 
Shall  dwindle,  shall   blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out 
of  pain,  25 

Then   a   light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul!     I  shall  clasp  thee 
again. 
And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

(1864) 


HERVE  RIEL 


On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hun- 
dred ninety-two. 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French, —  woe  to 
France ! 

And,   the    thirty-first    of    May,   helter-skelter 
through  the  blue. 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal 
of   sharks   pursue. 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  Saint  Malo 
on    the    Ranee,  5 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


'T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the 

victor  in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great 
ship,  Damfreville; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all;  'o 

And  they  signaled  to  the  place 
'Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us 

quick  —  or,   quicker  still. 
Here  's  the  English  can  and  will !  ' 


Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk 

and  leapt  on  board;  '5 

'  Why,    what    hope   or   chance    have    ships 

like  these  to  pass?'  laughed  they: 
'  Rocks   to  starboard,   rocks  to  port,  all  the 

passage  scarred  and  scored. 
Shall     the     "  Formidable "     here     with     her 

twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think    to    make    the    river-mouth    by    the 

single  narrow  way. 
Trust  to  enter  where  't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft 

of  twenty  tons,  20 


HERV£  RIEL 


817 


And  with  flow  at   full  beside? 

Now,  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?  Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will   leave  the  bay!' 


Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  : 

'  Here  's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you 

have  them  take  in  tow 
All  that 's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together 

stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound?  30 

Better  run  the  ships  aground !  ' 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
'  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  ves- 
sels on  the  beach!  35 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


'  Give  the  word !  '     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck 
amid  all  these 
—  A    Captain?     A    Lieutenant?     A    ]\Iate  — 
first,  second,  third?  40 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete ! 
But    a    simple    Breton    sailor    pressed    by 
Tourville  for  the  fleet, 
A    poor    coasting-pilot    he,    Herve    Riel    the 
Croisickese. 


And    '  What    mockery    or    malice    have    we 

here?'  cried  Herve  Riel:  45 

'Are  you  mad,  you   Malouins?     Are  you 

cowards,    fools,   or   rogues? 

Talk   to   me   of    rocks   and   shoals,   me    who 

took  the  soundings,  tell 
On    my   fingers    every   bank,    every    shallow, 
every   swell 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the 
river  disembogues  ? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?     Is  it  love 
the  lying  's  for?  50 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot 
of   Solidor. 
Burn    the    fleet    and    ruin    France?     That 
were  worse  than  fifty  Hogues ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !     Sirs, 
believe  me  there's  a  way!  55 

52 


Only  let  me  lead  the  line. 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer. 
Get  this  "  Formidable  "  clear. 
Make   the    others    follow    mine, 
And    I    lead    them,    most    and    least,    by    a 
passage   I   know  well,  60 

Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound  ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 
—  Keel   so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life.— here's  my 
head!'  cries   Ilarve   Riel.  6^ 


Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
'Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take    the    helm,    lead    the    line,    save    the 
squadron  !  '  cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief.  70 

Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were 
the   wide   sea's   profound!  75 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock. 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock. 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that 
grates  the  ground. 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past,  80 

All  are  harbored  to  the  last. 
And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  'Anchor!'— 

sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come  — too  late! 


So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm : 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave  85 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
'  Just  our   rapture   to   enhance. 
Let  the  English  rake  the  bay. 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance  90 

As  they  cannonade  away ! 
'Neath   rampired  Solidor  pleasant   riding  on 

the  Ranee!  ' 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's 

countenance! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

'  This  is   Paradise   for  Hell !  95 

Let   France,  let   France's   King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing! 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 
'  Herve  Riel !  ' 


8i8 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


As  he  stepped  in  front  once-  more, 
Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 

Just  the  same  man  as  before. 


Then  said  Damfreville,  'My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
"Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand   whate'er  you   will, 
France   remains  your   debtor   still. 
Ask    to    heart's    content    and    have! 
name's  not  Damfreville.' 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 

On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke,  "5 

As   the  honest   heart   laughed   through 

Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 

'  Since   I   needs  must   say  my  say. 

Since  on  board   the  duty  's  done, 

And    from   Malo   Roads   to   Croisic    Point, 
what  is  it  but  a  run?—  '^° 

Since  't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the   others   go   ashore  — 
Come!     A  good  whole  holiday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call 
the  Belle  Aurore  ! ' 
That    he    asked    and    that    he    got,— nothing 


Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 
In   his   Croisic  keeps  alive  the   feat   as   it 
befell: 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack,  '30 

In  memory  of   the  man   but    for   whom  had 
gone  to  wrack 
AH    that    France    saved     from    the    fight 
whence  England  bore  the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank!  '35 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come 
to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and   for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor   France,  love  thy 
wife  the  Belle  Aurore!  '4" 

(1871) 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC 


Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 

Till,  that  May-morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across: 

Violets  were  born  ! 

Sky  —  what   a   scowl   of  cloud 

Till,  near  and   far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud: 

Splendid,  a  star  ! 

World  — how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace 
Till   God's  own   smile  came  out: 

That  was  thy  face ! 


EPILOGUE 


I 
What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
—  Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me!) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme,  '6 

Greek  or  Latin?     Greek,  you  said. 
While  your  shoulder  propped   my  head. 


Anyhow  there  's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more. 
That  a  poet    (pray,  no  petting!) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 


Well,  he  had  to  sing,  not  merely 
Sing  but  play  the  lyre ; 

Playing    was    important    clearly 
Quite   as   singing:    I   desire, 

Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 

For  a  purpose  that 's  behind. 


There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round, 
—  Judges  able,  I  should  mention. 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears! 


None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly. 
Played  in  time  and  tune, 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC 


819 


Till   the  judges,   weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon,  40 
Sure  to  smile  '  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out:  take  the  prize!' 


When,  a  mischief!      Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed? 
Oh,  and   afterwards  eleven,  45 

Thank  you  !     Well,  sir,—  who  had  guessed 
Such  ill  luck  in  store?— it  happed 
One   of    those   same   seven    strings    snapped. 

vii 
All  was  lost,  then!     No!  a  cricket 

(What  'cicada?'     Pooh!)  so 

—  Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 

For  mere  love  of  music  —  flew 
With  its   little  heart  on   fire, 
Lighted  on  the  crippled   lyre. 


So  that  when  (Ah,  joy!)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted   finger. 

What  does  cricket  else  hut  fling 
Fiery  heart   forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat? 


Ay,  and  ever  to  the  ending, 
Cricket  chirps  at  need, 

Executes  the  hand's   intending, 
Promptly,    perfectly, —  indeed 

Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 

With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 


Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry   with   one   assent, 
'  Take    the   prize  —  a   prize   who   grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  thrilled  us  forth  F  sharp ! ' 


Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature. 

Once  its  service  done? 
That  's  no  such  uncommon   feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 


No !     This  other  on  returning 
Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 


8s 


Satisfied   his   bosom's   yearning: 

(Sir,   1   hope   you   understand!) 
—  Said  '  Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me!  ' 


So,  he  made  himself  a   statue: 

Marble  stood,  life-size; 
On    the   lyre,   he   pointed   at   you. 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize; 
Never  more  apart  you   found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned.  90 


XIV 

That's  the  tale:   its  application? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Through    his   poetry   that 's  —  Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize! 


If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue  's  built. 
Tell  the  gazer  '  'T  was  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt         100 
Sweet  and   low,  when   strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped? 


'  For  as  victory  was  nighest, 
While    1    sang   and    played, — 

With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest. 
Right   alike,— one   string   that   made 

"  Love  "  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 

Never  to  be  heard  again, — 


'  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered. 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 
"  Love,   Love,  Love,"  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  somber  drone.' 


XVIII 

But  you  don't  know  music!     Wherefore  ' 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a  — poet?     All  I  care  for 

Is  — to   tell   him   that    a   girl's 
'  Love '   comes   aptly  in   when   gruflf 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough!)       i 

(1878) 


820 


"ROBERT  BROWNING 


PHEIDIPPIDES 

Xaipere,    viKuifitv. 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river 

and  rock ! 
Gods  of  my  birthplace,  dsemons  and  heroes, 

honor  to  all ! 
Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron, 

co-equal  in  praise 
—  Ay,    with    Zeus   the    Defender,   with    Her 

of  the  aegis  and  spear ! 
Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,  praised 

be  your  peer,  s 

Now,    henceforth    and    for    ever, —  O    latest 

to  whom  I  upraise 
Hand    and    heart    and    voice!     For    Athens, 

leave  pasture  and  flock ! 
Present  to  help,  potent  to  save.  Pan  —  patron 

I  call! 

Archons    of    Athens,    topped    by   the    tettix, 

see,  I  return ! 
See,  't  is  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spec- 
ter that   speaks !  ^° 
Crowned  with  the  myrtle,  did  you  command 

me,  Athens  and  you, 
'  Run,     Pheidippides,    run    and    race,    reach 

Sparta  for  aid! 
Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She?  ' 

Your  command  I  obeyed, 
Ran    and    raced:    like    stubble,    some    field 

which  a  fire  runs  through, 
Was   the   space   between   city   and   city :   two 

days,   two   nights   did   I   burn  is 

Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,   down  pits 

and  up  peaks. 

Into  their  midst  I  broke:  breath  served  but 

for  '  Persia  has  come. 
Persia    bids    Athens    proffer    slaves'-tribute, 

water  and  earth ; 
Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria  —  but  Athens, 

shall  Athens  sink. 
Drop    into    dust    and    die  —  the    flower    of 

Hellas  utterly  die,  2° 

Die  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta, 

the  stupid,  the  stander-by? 
Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do 

you  stretch  o'er  destruction's  brink? 
How, —  when  ?     No  care  for  my  limbs  !  — 

there  's  lightning  in  all  and  some  — 
Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips 

give  it  birth ! ' 

O     my     Athens  —  Sparta     love     thee  ?     Did 
Sparta  respond?  -5 


Every    face   of   her   leered   in    a  furrow   of 

envy,   mistrust. 
Malice, —  each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter 

of  gratified  hate! 
Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast 

for  excuses.     I  stood 
Quivering, —  the  limbs  of  me  fretting  as  fire 

frets,  an  inch  from  dry  wood: 
'  Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still 

they  debate?  30 

Thunder,  thou  Zeus !     Athene,  are  Spartans 

a  quarry  beyond 
Swing  of  thy  spear?     Phoibos  and  Artemis, 

clang  them  "  Ye  must "  ! ' 


No  bolt  launched  from  Qlumpos!    Lo,  their 

answer  at  last ! 
'  Has  Persia  come, —  does  Athens  ask  aid, — 

may  Sparta  befriend? 
Nowise   precipitate   judgment  —  too   weighty 

the  issue  at  stake !  35 

Count    we    no    time    lost    time    which    lags 

through   respect  to  the  gods ! 
Ponder   that   precept   of   old,    '  No   warfare, 

whatever  the  odds 
In  your   favor,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half- 
orbed,  is  unable  to  take 
Full-circle  her   state  in  the   sky!'    Already 

she  rounds  to  it  fast : 
Athens    must    wait,    patient    as    we  —  who 

judgment  suspend.'  40 


Athens,— except  for  that  sparkle, —  thy 
name,   I  had  moldered  to  ash ! 

That  sent  a  blaze  through  my  blood ;  off,  off 
and  away  was  I  back, 

—  Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose 
on  the  false  and  the  vile ! 

Yet  '  O  gods  of  my  land !  '  I  cried,  as  each 
hillock    and    plain. 

Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rush- 
ing past   them    again,  4S 

'Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of 
honors   we  paid  you   erewhilc? 

Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,  the  fulsome 
libation !     Too   rash 

Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  serv- 
ice so  slack! 

'  Oak  and  olive  and  bay, —  I  bid  you  cease 

to  enwreathe 
Brows    made    bold   by  your    leaf!     Fade   at 

the   Persian's  foot,  5° 

You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should 

never  adorn  a  slave! 


PHEIDIPPIDES 


821 


Rather    I    hail    thee,    Parnes, —  trust    to    thy 

wild    waste    tract! 
Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain!     What 

matter  if  slacked 
My    speed    may    hardly   be,    for    homage    to 

crag  and   to  cave 
No   deity   deigns   to   drape   with   verdure? — - 

at  least  I  can  breathe,  S5 

Fear   in   thee   no    fraud    from   the   blind,   no 

lie    from    the   mute !  ' 


Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over   Fames' 

ridge; 
Gully  and  gap  I  clambered  and  cleared  till, 

sudden,  a  bar 
Jutted,    a    stoppage    of    stone    against    me, 

blocking  the   way. 
Right !  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse, 

the  fissure  across:  60 

'  Where   I   could   enter,   there    I    depart    liy ! 

Night   in    the    fosse? 
Athens     to     aid?     Though     the     dive     were 

through  Erebos,  thus  I  obey  — 
Out  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely 

arise !     No  bridge 
Better ! ' —  when  —  ha !   what  was   it   I  came 

on,  of   wonders   that   are? 


There,    in    the    cool    of    a    cleft,    sat    he  — 

majestical  Pan !  65 

Ivy  drooped  wanton,  kissed  his  head,  moss 

cushioned  his  hoof : 
AH    the    great    god    was    good    in    the    eyes 

grave-kindly  —  the  curl 
Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a 

mortal's  awe 
As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the  goat-thighs 

grand    I    saw. 
'  Halt,  Pheidippides  ! '—  halt  I  did,  my  brain 

of  a  whirl:  70 

'  Hither  to  me!     Why  pale  in  my  presence? ' 

he   gracious    began : 
'How  is  it, —  Athens,  only  in  Hellas,  holds 

me   aloof? 


'  Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,  makes 

me   no    feast ! 
Wherefore?     Than      I      what     godship      to 

Athens  more   helpful   of  old? 
Ay,     and     still,    and     forever     her     friend ! 

Test    Pan,    trust    me!  75 

Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,   laugh   Persia   to 

scorn,  have   faith 
In    the    temples    and    tombs !     Go,     say    to 

Athens,  "  The  Goat-God  saith  : 


When   Persia  —  so  much   as   strews   not   the 

soil  —  is  cast  in  the  sea. 
Then   praise   Pan   who   fought  in   the   ranks 

with    your   most    and    least, 
Goat-thigh  to  greaved-thigh,  made  one  cause 

with  the  free  and  the  bold !  "  80 


'  Say  Pan  saith  :  "  Let  this,  foreshowing  the 

place,  be  the  pledge  !  "  ' 
(Gay,    the    liberal    hand    held   out    this   her- 
bage   I    bear 
—  Fennel, —  I     grasped     it     a-tremble     with 

dew — 'Whatever   it   bode) 
'  While,  as  for  thee     .     .  '     But  enough ! 

He  was  gone.     If  I   ran  hitherto  — 
Be  sure  that  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran 

no  longer,  but  flew.  85 

Parnes  to  Athens  —  earth  no  more,  the  air 

was  my   road : 
Here  am  I  back.     Praise  Pan,  we  stand  no 

more    on    the    razor's    edge ! 
Pan    for  Athens,   Pan    for  me!     I  too  have 

a  guerdon  rare ! 


Then     spoke     Miltiades.     '  And     thee,     best 

runner  of   Greece, 
Whose    limbs    did    duty   indeed, —  what    gift 

is  promised  thyself?  9° 

Tell  it  us  straightway, —  Athens  the  mother 

demands  of  her  son  ! ' 
Rosily  blushed   the  youth:    he  paused;   but, 

lifting   at   length 
His   eyes   from  the  ground,  it  seemed  as  he 

gathered  the  rest  of  his   strength 
Into  the  utterance —  '  Pan  spoke  thus :  "  For 

what   thou   hast   done 
Count  on  a  worthy  reward !     Henceforth  be 

allowed  thee  release  95 

From  the   racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in 

praise  or  in  pelf  !  " 


'  I   am   bold  to  believe,   Pan  means   reward 

the   most   to   my  mind ! 
Fight    I    shall,    with    our    foremost,    where- 

ever  this  fennel  may  grow, — ■ 
Pound  —  Pan    helping    us  —  Persia    to    dust, 

and,   under   the    deep, 
W' helm    her    away    forever ;    and    then, —  no 

Athens  to  save, —  'oo 

Marry  a  certain  maid,   I  know   keeps    faith 

to  the  brave, — 
Flie  to  my  house  and  home :  and,  when  my 

children    shall    creep 
Close   to   my  knees, —  recount   how   the   God 

was    awful    yet    kind, 


822 


ROBERT  BROWKING 


Promised    their    sire    reward   to    the    full  — 
rewarding   him  —  so  !  ' 


Unforeseeing  one!     Yes,   he    fought  on  the 

Marathon  day:  i°5 

So,    when    Persia    was    dust,   all    cried    '  To 

Akropolis ! 
Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more!  the  meed 

is    thy    due ! 
"Athens   is   saved,  thank   Pan,"  go   shout!' 

He    flung    down    his    shield, 
Ran    like    fire    once    more:    and    the    space 

'twixt  the  Fennelfield 
And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which 

a  fire   runs  through,  no 

Till    in    he    broke:    'Rejoice,    we    conquer!' 

Like    wine    through    clay, 
Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died 

—  the  bliss! 
So,  to  this  day,  when   friend  meets   friend, 

the  word   of   salute 
Is  still  'Rejoice' — his  word  which  brought 

rejoicing   indeed. 
So     is     Pheidippides     happy     forever, —  the 

noble  strong  man  ''5 

Who  could  race  like  a  god,  bear  the  face  of 

a  god,  whom   a  god  loved  so  well ; 
He    saw   the   land   saved   he   had   helped   to 

save,  and   was   suffered  to  tell 
Such      tidings,      yet      never      decline,      but, 

gloriously  as  he  began, 
So  to  end  gloriously  —  once  to  shout,  there- 
after   be    mute : 
'  Athens  is  saved  !  ' —  Pheidippides  dies  in  the 

shout   for  his  meed.  i^o 

(1879) 


ASOLAXDO 

EPILOGUE 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time. 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will   they  pass  to   where  —  by  death,    fools 

think,    imprisoned  — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom 
you  loved  so. — 

—  Pity  me  ?  5 

Oh,    to    love    so,    be    so   loved,   yet    so    mis- 
taken ! 
What  had  I  on  earth  to   do 
With    the    slothful,    with   the    mawkish,    the 

unmanly  ? 
Like   the   aimless,   helpless,    hopeless,    did    I 
drivel 

— 'Being  —  who?  10 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched 
breast  forward, 
Never  doubted   clouds   would   break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted, 

wrong    would    triumph, 
Held    we    fall    to    rise,    are    baffled   to    fight 
better. 

Sleep  to  wake.  15 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work- 
time 
Greet    the  unseen  with  a  cheer ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either 

should  be, 
'  Strive  and   thrive  !  '   cry   '  Speed, —  fight   on, 
fare   ever 

There  as  here ! '  20 

(1890) 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1888) 

From  his  father.  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  afterward  headmaster  of  Rugby,  Matthew  Arnold 
may  well  have  inherited  the  academic  tastes  that  dominated  his  life.  After  a  schooling  at 
Winchester  and  Rugby,  Arnold  won  a  classical  scholarship,  in  1841,  at  Balliol  College, 
Oxford.  During  his  second  year  at  the  university,  he  gained  the  Newdigate  prize  by  a 
poem  on  Cromwell,  and  in  1845  he  was  elected  to  a  fellowship  at  Oriel  College.  Arnold 
abandoned  Oxford  presently,  however,  iu  order  to  become  private  secretary  to  the  Marquis 
of  Lausdowne,  who  procured  for  him,  in  1851,  an  appointment  as  inspector  of  schools,  from 
which  he  was  released  only  a  short  time  before  his  death.  In  1848  he  became  known  to  a 
small  circle  of  readers  by  his  first  volume  of  poems,  The  Strayed  Reseller  and  other  Poems, 
and  during  the  next  few  years  his  poetical  influence  greatly'  increased,  especially  through 
the  poems  contained  in  Poems  by  Matthew  Arnold  (1853),  a  volume  to  which  he  prefaced 
a  notable  critical  essay  on  poetry.  In  1857  Arnold  was  elected  to  the  professorship  of 
poetry  at  Oxford,  which  he  held  for  ten  years,  and  which  provided  him  the  stimulus  for 
writing  certain  of  his  best  critical  essays.  The  substantial  classic  On  Translating  Homer: 
Three  Lectures  given  at  Oxford  (18G1)  was  followed  by  Essays  in  Criticism  (18G5),  which 
promptly  fascinated  and  influenced  English  readers,  as  did  also  the  published  lectures.  On 
the  Study  of  Celtic  Literature  (1867).  From  pure  literary  criticism  Arnold  passed,  for  a 
time,  to  studies  in  religion,  ethics,  and  politics,  such  as  Culture  and  Anarchy  (18G9), 
Friendship's  Garland  (1871),  Literature  and  Dogma  (1873),  and  Last  Essays  on  Church 
and  Religion  (1877).  He  returned  subsequently,  however,  to  literary  criticism,  occupying 
himself  largely  in  editing,  in  making  selections  from  poets,  and  in  writing  prefaces.  In 
1883  Arnold  received  a  civil  service  pension  of  £'J50,  which  enabled  him  to  retire  from  his 
duties  as  inspector  of  schools.  In  the  winter  of  1883-84,  he  lectured  in  America,  as  he  did 
also  in  188G.  The  lectures  delivered  during  his  first  American  tour  were  published  in  1885 
as  Discourses  in  America. 

Arnold's  poetry,  small  in  volume,  is  of  almost  invariable  excellence.  Although  it  makes 
no  strong  popular  appeal,  it  has  always  held  a  large  audience  through  its  grace,  gravity, 
and  melody.  As  a  critic.  Arnold  is  preeminent.  For  a  generation  or  two  his  canons  of 
poetry,  securely  expressed  in  a  poised,  gentle,  and  precise  style,  have  dominated  English 
literary  criticism. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  Let   me    be    permitted    to   quote    these 

'  The   future  of  poetry  is  immense,  be-  words  of  my  own,  as  uttering  the  thought 

cause    in    poetry,    where    it   is   worthy   of  which  should,  in  my  opinion,  go  with  us 

its  high  destinies,  our  race,  as  time  goes  and  govern  us  in  all  our  study  of  poetry, 

on,    will    find    an    ever    surer    and    surer  5  I"  the  present  work  it  is  the  course  of 

stay.     There  is  not  a  creed  which  is  not  one    great     contributory    stream     to    the 

shaken,   not   an   accredited   dogma   which  world-river  of  poetry  that  we  are  invited 

is    not   shown    to   be   questionable,    not    a  to  follow.     We  are  here  invited  to  trace 

received       tradition       which       does       not  the      stream      of      English      poetry.     But 

threaten    to    dissolve.     Our    religion    has  10  whether    we    set    ourselves,    as    here,    to 

materialized  itself  in  the  fact,  in  the  sup-  follow   only   one    of   the    several    streams 

posed    fact ;    it    has   attached    its   emotion  that    make    the    mighty    river    of    poetry, 

to  the   fact,   and   now   the   fact   is   failing  or    whether   we    seek   to   know   them    all, 

it.     But    for    poetry    the    idea    is    every-  our    governing    thought     should    be    the 

thing:    the    rest    is    a    world    of    illusion,  is  same.     We    should    conceive    of    poetry 

of    divine    illusion.     Poetry    attaches    its  worthily,    and    more    highlv    than    it    has 

emotion  to  the  idea;  the  idea  is  the  fact.  been   the   custom   to   conceive   of   it.     We 

The  strongest  part  of  our  religion  to-day  should  conceive  of  it  as  capable  of  higher 

is  its  unconscious  poetry.'  ^^ses    and  called  to  higher  destinies,  than 

823 


824  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


those  which  in  general  men  have  as-  sound  and  unsound  or  only  half-sound, 
signed  to  it  hitherto.  More  and  more  true  and  untrue  or  only  half-true.  It  is 
mankind  will  discover  that  we  have  to  charlatanism,  conscious  or  unconscious, 
turn  to  poetry  to  interpret  life  for  us,  whenever  we  confuse  or  obliterate  these, 
to  console  us,  to  sustain  us.  Without  5  And  in  poetry,  more  than  anywhere  else, 
poetry,  our  science  will  appear  incom-  it  is  unpermissible  to  confuse  or  obliter- 
plete;  and  most  of  what  now  passes  with  ate  them.  For  in  poetry  the  distinction 
us  for  religion  and  philosophy  will  be  between  excellent  and  inferior,  sound  and 
replaced  by  poetry.  Science,  I  say,  will  unsound  or  only  half-sound,  true  and  un- 
appear  incomplete  without  it.  For  finely  lo  true  or  only  half-true,  is  of  paramount 
and  truly  does  Wordsworth  call  poetry  importance.  It  is  of  paramount  impor- 
*  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  tance  because  of  the  high  destinies  of 
the  countenance  of  all  science;'  and  what  poetry.  In  poetry,  as  a  criticism  of  life 
is  a  countenance  without  its  expression  ?  under  the  conditions  fixed  for  such  a 
Again,  Wordsworth  finely  and  truly  calls  15  criticism  by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and 
poetry  '  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  poetic  beauty,  the  spirit  of  our  race  will 
knowledge : '  our  religion,  parading  evi-  find,  we  have  said,  as  time  goes  on  and 
dences  such  as  those  on  which  the  popu-  as  other  helps  fail,  its  consolation  and 
lar  mind  relies  now;  our  philosophy,  stay.  But  the  consolation  and  stay  will 
pluming  itself  on  its  reasonings  al)out  20  be  of  power  in  proportion  to  the  power  of 
causation  and  finite  and  infinite  being;  the  criticism  of  life.  And  the  criticism  of 
what  are  they  but  the  shadows  and  life  will  be  of  power  in  proportion  as  the 
dreams  and  false  shows  of  knowledge?  poetry  conveying  it  is  excellent  rather 
The  day  will  come  when  we  shall  won-  than  inferior,  sound  rather  than  unsound 
der  at  ourselves  for  having  trusted  to  25  or  half-sound,  true  rather  than  untrue  or 
them,    for   having   taken   them    seriously;      half-true. 

and  the  more  we  perceive  their  hollow-  The  best  poetry  is  what  we  want;  the 

ness,  the  more  we  shall  prize  '  the  breath  best  poetry  will  be  found  to  have  a  power 
and  finer  spirit  of  knowledge '  offered  to  of  forming,  sustaining,  and  delighting  us, 
us  by  poetry.  30  as   nothing  else   can.     A   clearer,   deeper 

But  if  we  conceive  thus  highly  of  the  sense  of  the  best  in  poetry,  and  of  the 
destinies  of  poetry,  we  must  also  set  our  strength  and  joy  to  be  drawn  from  it, 
standard  for  poetry  high,  since  poetry,  is  the  most  precious  benefit  which  we 
to  be  capable  of  fulfilling  such  high  can  gather  from  a  poetical  collection  such 
destinies,  must  be  poetry  of  a  high  order  35  as  the  present.  And  yet  in  the  very 
of  excellence.  We  must  accustom  our-  nature  and  conduct  of  such  a  collection 
selves  to  a  high  standard  and  to  a  strict  there  is  inevitably  something  which  tends 
judgment.  Sainte-Beuve  relates  that  Na-  to  obscure  in  us  the  consciousness  of  what 
poleon  one  day  said,  when  somebody  our  benefit  should  be,  and  to  distract 
was  spoken  of  in  his  presence  as  a  40  us  from  the  pursuit  of  it.  We  should 
charlatan :  '  Charlatan  as  much  as  you  therefore  steadily  set  it  before  our  minds 
please;  but  where  is  there  not  charlatan-  at  the  outset,  and  should  compel  our- 
ism?'  'Yes,'  answers  Sainte-Beuve,  'in  selves  to  revert  constantly  to  the  thought 
politics,  in  the  art  of  governing  mankind,      of  it  as  we  proceed. 

that  is  perhaps  true.  But  in  the  order  of  45  Yes;  constantly,  in  reading  poetry,  a 
thought,  in  art,  the  glory,  the  eternal  sense  for  the  best,  the  really  excellent, 
honor  is  that  charlatanism  shall  find  no  and  of  the  strength  and  joy  to  be  drawn 
entrance ;  herein  lies  the  inviolableness  from  it,  should  be  present  in  our  minds 
of  that  noble  portion  of  man's  being.'  and  should  govern  our  estimate  of  what 
It  is  admirably  said,  and  let  us  hold  fast  50  we  read.  But  this  real  estimate,  the  only 
to  it.  In  poetry,  which  is  thought  and  true  one,  is  liable  to  be  superseded,  if  we 
art  in  one,  it  is  the  glory,  the  eternal  are  not  watchful,  by  two  other  kinds  of 
honor,  that  charlatanism  shall  find  no  en-  estimate,  the  historic  estimate  and  the 
trance;  that  this  noble  sphere  be  kept  in-  personal  estimate,  both  of  which  are  fal- 
violate  and  inviolable.  Charlatanism  is  55  lacious.  A  poet  or  a  poem  may  count 
for  confusing  or  obliterating  the  distinc-  to  us  historically,  they  may  count  to  us 
tions     between     excellent     and     inferior,      on    grounds    personal    to    ourselves,    and 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  825 

they  may  count  to  us  really.  They  may  goes  too  far  when  he  says  that  '  the  cloud 
count  to  us  historically.  The  course  of  of  glory  playing  round  a  classic  is  a  mist 
development  of  a  nation's  language,  as  dangerous  to  the  future  of  a  literature 
thought,  and  poetry,  is  profoundly  inter-  as  it  is  intolerable  for  the  purposes  of 
esting;  and  by  regarding  a  poet's  work  5  history.'  'It  hinders,'  he  goes  on,  'it 
as  a  stage  in  this  course  of  development  hinders  us  from  seeing  more  than  one 
we  may  easily  bring  ourselves  to  make  single  point,  the  culminating  and  excep- 
it  of  more  importance  as  poetry  than  in  tional  point;  the  summary,  fictitious  and 
itself  it  really  is,  we  may  come  to  use  a  arbitrary,  of  a  thought  and  of  a  work. 
language  of  quite  exaggerated  praise  in  10  It  substitutes  a  halo  for  a  physiognomy, 
criticizing  it;  in  short,  to  overrate  it.  it  puts  a  statue  where  there  was  once  a 
So  arises  in  our  poetic  judgments  the  man,  and  hiding  from  us  all  trace  of  the 
fallacy  caused  by  the  estimate  which  we  labor,  the  attempts,  the  weaknesses,  the 
may  call  historic.  Then,  again,  a  poet  or  failures,  it  claims  not  study  but  vcnera- 
a  poem  may  count  to  us  on  grounds  15  tion ;  it  does  not  show  us  how  the  thing  is 
personal  to  ourselves.  Our  personal  af-  done,  it  imposes  upon  us  a  model.  Above 
finities,  likings,  and  circumstances,  have  all,  for  the  historian  this  creation  of 
great  power  to  sway  our  estimate  of  this  classic  personages  is  inadmissible;  for  it 
or  that  poet's  work,  and  to  make  us  attach  withdraws  the  poet  from  his  time,  from 
more  importance  to  it  as  poetry  than  in  2°  his  proper  life,  it  breaks  historical  re- 
itself  it  really  possesses,  because  to  us  it  lationships,  it  blinds  criticism  by  con- 
is,  or  has  been,  of  high  importance.  ventional  admiration,  and  renders  the 
Here  also  we  overrate  the  object  of  our  investigation  of  literary  origins  unac- 
interest,  and  apply  to  it  a  language  of  ceptable.  It  gives  us  a  human  personage 
praise  which  is  quite  exaggerated.  And  25  no  longer,  but  a  God  seated  immovable 
thus  we  get  the  source  of  a  second  fallacy  amidst  his  perfect  work,  like  Jupiter  on 
in  our  poetic  judgments,— the  fallacy  Olympus;  and  hardly  will  it  be  possible 
caused  by  an  estimate  which  we  may  call  for  the  young  student,  to  whom  such 
personal.  work  is  exhibited  at  such  a  distance  from 

Both   fallacies   are  natural.     It  is   evi-  30  him,  to  believe  that  it  did  not  issue  ready 
dent    how    naturally    the    study    of    the      made  from  that  divine  head.' 
history  and  development  of  a  poetry  may  All  this  is  brilliantly  and  tellingly  said, 

incline  a  man  to  pause  over  reputations  but  we  must  plead  for  a  distinction. 
and  works  once  conspicuous  but  now  ob-  Everything  depends  on  the  reality  of  a 
scure,  and  to  quarrel  with  a  careless  35  poet's  classic  character.  If  he  is  a  dubi- 
public  for  skipping,  in  obedience  to  mere  ous  classic,  let  us  sift  him;  if  he  is  a 
tradition  and  habit,  from  one  famous  false  classic,  let  us  explode  him.  But  if 
name  or  work  in  its  national  poetry  to  he  is  a  real  classic,  if  his  work  belongs 
another,  ignorant  of  what  it  misses,  and  to  the  class  of  the  very  best  ( for  this  "is 
of  the  reason  for  keeping  what  it  keeps,  40  the  true  and  right  meaning  of  the  word 
and  of  the  whole  process  of  growth  in  classic,  classical),  then  the  great  thing 
its  poetry.  The  French  have  become  for  us  is  to  feel  and  enjoy  his  work  as 
diligent  students  of  their  own  early  deeply  as  ever  we  can,  and  to  appreciate 
poetry,  which  they  long  neglected;  the  the  wide  difference  between  it  and  all 
study  makes  many  of  them  dissatisfied  45  work  which  has  not  the  same  high  char- 
with  this  so-called  classical  poetry,  the  acter.  This  is  what  is  salutary,  this  is 
court-tragedy  of  the  seventeenth  century,  what  is  formative;  this  is  the  great 
a  poetry  which  Pellisson  long  ago  re-  benefit  to  be  got  from  the  study  of  poetry, 
proached  with  its  want  of  the  true  poetic  Everything  which  interferes  with  it, 
stamp,  with  its  politcsse  sterile  et  ram-  50  which  hinders  it,  is  injurious.  True,  we 
pante  [sterile  and  servile  politeness],  must  read  our  classic  with  open  eyes,  and 
but  which  nevertheless  has  reigned  in  not  with  eyes  blinded  with  superstition ; 
France  as  absolutely  as  if  it  had  been  we  must  perceive  when  his  work  comes 
the  perfection  of  classical  poetry  indeed.  short,  when  it  drops  out  of  the  class  of 
The  dissatisfaction  is  natural ;  yet  a  lively  55  the  very  best,  and  we  must  rate  it,  in 
and  accomplished  critic,  M.  Charles  such  cases,  at  its  proper  value.  But  the 
d'Hericault,  the  editor  of  Clement  Marot,     use  of  this  negative  criticism  is   not  in 


826  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


itself,  it  is  entirely  in  its  enabling  us  to  benefit,  the  benefit  of  clearly  feeling  and 
have  a  clearer  sense  and  a  deeper  en-  of  deeply  enjoying  the  really  excellent, 
joyment  of  what  is  truly  excellent.  To  the  truly  classic  in  poetry,  that  we  do 
trace  the  labor,  the  attempts,  the  weak-  well,  I  say,  to  set  it  fixedly  before  our 
nesses,  the  failures  of  a  genuine  classic,  5  minds  as  our  object  in  studying  poets 
to  acquaint  oneself  with  his  time  and  his  and  poetry,  and  to  make  the  desire  of 
life  and  his  historical  relationships,  is  attaining  it  the  one  principle  to  which, 
mere  literary  dilettantism  unless  it  has  as  the  Imitation  says,  whatever  we  may 
that  clear  sense  and  deeper  enjoyment  for  read  or  come  to  know,  we  always  return, 
its  end.  It  may  be  said  that  the  more  lo  Cum  mitlta  legcris  et  cognovcris,  ad 
we  know  about  a  classic  the  better  we  timim  semper  oportet  rcdire  principium 
shall  enjoy  him;  and,  if  we  lived  as  long  [When  you  have  read  and  known  many 
as  Methuselah  and  had  all  of  us  heads  things,  you  ought  always  to  revert  to  the 
of  perfect  clearness  and  wills  of  perfect      one  beginning]. 

steadfastness,  this  might  be  true  in  fact  15  The  historic  estimate  is  likely  in  es- 
as  it  is  plausible  in  theory.  But  the  case  pecial  to  affect  our  judgment  and  our 
here  is  much  the  same  as  the  case  with  language  when  we  are  dealing  with  an- 
the  Greek  and  Latin  studies  of  our  cient  poets;  the  personal  estimate  when 
schoolboys.  The  elaborate  philological  we  are  dealing  with  poets  our  contempo- 
groundwork  which  we  require  them  to  20  raries,  or  at  any  rate  modern.  The  ex- 
lay  is  in  theory  an  admirable  prepara-  aggerations  due  to  the  historic  estimate 
tion  for  appreciating  the  Greek  and  Latin  are  not  in  themselves,  perhaps,  of  very 
authors  worthily.  The  more  thoroughly  much  gravity.  Their  report  hardly  en- 
we  lay  the  groundwork,  the  better  we  ters  the  general  ear;  probably  they  do 
shall  be  able,  it  may  be  said,  to  enjoy  ^5  not  always  impose  even  on  the  literary 
the  authors.  True,  if  time  were  not  so  men  who  adopt  them.  But  they  lead  to 
short,  and  schoolboys'  wits  not  so  soon  a  dangerous  abuse  of  language.  So  we 
tired  and  their  power  of  attention  ex-  hear  Caedmon,  amongst  our  own  poets, 
hausted;  only,  as  it  is,  the  elaborate  compared  to  Milton.  I  have  already 
philological  preparation  goes  on,  but  the  30  noticed  the  enthusiasm  of  one  accom- 
authors  are  little  known  and  less  enjoyed,  plished  French  critic  for  '  historic  ori- 
So  with  the  investigator  of  '  historic  gins.'  Another  eminent  French  critic, 
origins '  in  poetry.  He  ought  to  enjoy  M.  Vitet,  comments  upon  that  famous 
the  true  classic  all  the  better  for  his  document  of  the  early  poetry  of  his  na- 
investigations ;  he  often  is  distracted  from  35  tion,  the  Chanson  de  Roland.  It  is  in- 
the  enjoyment  of  the  best,  and  with  the  deed  a  most  interesting  document.  The 
less  good  he  overbusies  himself,  and  is  joculator  or  jongleur  Taillefer,  who  was 
prone  to  overrate  it  in  proportion  to  the  with  William  the  Conqueror's  army  at 
trouble  which  it  has  cost  him.  Hastings,    marched    before    the    Norman 

The  idea  of  tracing  historic  origins  40  troops,  so  said  the  tradition,  singing  'of 
and  historical  relationships  cannot  be  ab-  Charlemagne  and  of  Roland  and  of 
sent  from  a  compilation  like  the  present.  Oliver,  and  of  the  vassals  who  died  at 
And  naturally  the  poets  to  be  exhibited  Roncevaux ' ;  and  it  is  suggested  that  in 
in  it  will  be  assigned  to  those  persons  the  Chanson  de  Roland  by  one  Turoldus 
for  exhibition  who  are  known  to  prize  45  or  Theroulde,  a  poem  preserved  in  a 
them  highly,  rather  than  to  those  who  manuscript  of  the  twelfth  century  in  the 
have  no  special  inclination  towards  them.  Bodleian  Library  at  Oxford,  we  have 
Moreover  the  very  occupation  with  an  certainly  the  matter,  perhaps  even  some 
author,  and  the  business  of  exhibiting  of  the  words  of  the  chaunt  which  Tail- 
him,  disposes  us  to  affirm  and  amplify  50  lefer  sang.  The  poem  has  vigor  and 
his  importance.  In  the  present  work,  freshness;  it  is  not  without  pathos.  But 
therefore,  we  are  sure  of  frequent  tempta-  M.  Vitet  is  not  satisfied  with  seeing  in 
tion  to  adopt  the  historic  estimate,  or  the  it  a  document  of  some  poetic  value,  and 
personal  estimate,  and  to  forget  the  real  of  very  high  historic  and  linguistic  value: 
estimate;  which  latter,  nevertheless,  we  55  he  sees  in  it  a  grand  and  beautiful  work. 
must  employ  if  we  are  to  make  poetry  a  monument  of  epic  genius.  In  its  gen- 
yield  us  its  full  benefit.     So  high  is  that      eral  design  he  finds  the  grandiose  concep- 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 


827 


tion,  in  its  details  he  finds  the  constant 
union  of  simplicity  with  greatness,  which 
are  the  marks,  he  truly  says,  of  the 
genuine  epic,  and  distinguish  it  from  the 
artificial  epic  of  literary  ages.  One  5 
thinks  of  Homer;  this  is  the  sort  of 
praise  which  is  given  to  Homer,  and  justly 
given.  Higher  praise  there  cannot  well 
be,  and  it  is  the  praise  due  to  epic  poetry 
of  the  highest  order  only,  and  to  no  other.  1° 
Let  us  try,  then,  the  Chanson  de  Roland 
at  its  best.  Roland,  mortally  wounded, 
lays  himself  down  under  a  pine  tree,  with 
his  face  turned  toward  Spain  and  the 
enemy :  i5 

De  plusurs  choses  a  remembrer  li  prist 

De  tantes  teres  cume  li  bcrs  cunquist, 

De  dulce  France,  dcs  humes  de  sun  lign, 

De  Carlemagne  sun  seignor  ki  Tnurrit.^  20 


may  be  very  dissimilar.  But  if  we  have 
any  tact  we  shall  find  them,  wiien  we  have 
lodged  them  well  in  our  minds,  an  in- 
fallible touchstone  for  detecting  the  pres- 
ence or  absence  of  high  poetic  quality, 
and  also  the  degree  of  this  quality,  in  all 
other  poetry  which  we  may  place  beside 
them.  Short  passages,  even  single  lines, 
will  serve  our  turn  quite  sufficiently. 
Take  the  two  lines  which  I  have  just 
quoted  from  Homer,  the  poet's  comment 
on  Helen's  mention  of  her  brothers;  or 
take  his 

'A  SetAw  Ti  o-^oJt  hofiev  ITr/A^t   avaKTi 
Oi'YjTM  ;   (i/xets   8'   icTTOv  ayripio   t'  dOavdrw   re. 
■I]  Lva  hv(TT7)V0LCJi  fxer'  di'Spdatv  a'Aye'  exrjTov ;  '' 

the  address  of  Zeus  to  the  horses  of 
Peleus;   or,   take  finallv,   his 


Kat  ae,  yepov,  to  irplv  fikv  aKovo/xep  oX/Slov 
That    is    primitive    work,    I    repeat,  with      dyai  '^ 
an   undeniable  poetic   quality   of   its   own. 
It   deserves   such   praise   and   such   praise  ^5  the   words   of  Achilles   to   Ft' 


is    sufficient 
Homer: 


for 


But    now    turn    to 


"lis  <f)dTO,  TOV<;  8'  i]8r]  KaT(.\€v  <^vat^oos  ata 
£V  AaKeSatjLiovt  avdi,  4>iXr]  iv  TrarpiSi  yair).-  ^° 

We  are  here  in  another  world,  another 
order  of  poetry  altogether;  here  is  rightly 
due  such  supreme  praise  as  that  which 
M.  Vitet  gives  to  the  Chanson  de  Roland.  35 
If  our  words  are  to  have  any  meaning, 
if  our  judgments  are  to  have  any  solidity, 
we  must  not  heap  that  supreme  praise 
upon  poetry  of  an  order  immeasurably 
inferior.  ^° 

Indeed  there  can  be  no  more  useful 
help  for  discovering  what  poetry  belongs 
to  the  class  of  the  truly  excellent,  and 
can  therefore  do  us  most  good,  than  to 
have  always  in  one's  mind  lines  and  ex-  4S 
pressions  of  the  great  masters,  and  to 
apply  them  as  a  touchstone  to  other 
poetry.  Of  course  we  are  not  to  require 
this    other    poetry    to    resemble    them :    it 

'  '  Then  began  lie  to  call  many  things  to  re- 
membrance,—  all  the  lands  which  his  valor  con- 
quered, and  pleasant  I'rance,  and  the  men  of  his 
lineage,  and  Charlemagne  his  liege  lord  who  nour- 
ished  him.' —  Chanson   de  Roland,    iii.  939-942. 

^  '  So    said    she;    they    long    since    in    Earth's    soft 

arms    were   reposing,  ^5 

There,     in     their    own     dear    land,     their    father- 
land,   Laceda'nion.' 
Iliad,  iii.  243-4  (.translated  by  Dr.  Hawtrey). 


lam,  a  sup- 
pliant before  him.  Take  that  incompar- 
able line  and  a  half  of  Dante,  Ugolino's 
tremendous  words : 

lo  no  piangeva ;   si  dentro  impietrai. 
Piangevan    elli     .     . 

take  the  lovely  words  of  Beatrice  to 
Virgil; 

lo  son  fatta  da  Die,  sua  merce,  tale, 
Che   la   vostra  niiseria   non   mi   tange, 
Ne  fiamma   d'esto   incendio   non 
m'assale     .     .     .     '^ 

take  the  simple,  but  perfect,  single  line: 

In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace.'^ 

Take  of  Shakespeare  a  line  or  two  of 
Henry  the  Fourth's  expostulation  with 
sleep : 

Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 

'  Ah,  unhappy  pair,  why  gave  we  you  to  K^ns 
Peleus,  to  a  mortal?  but  ye  are  without  old  age. 
and  immortal.  Was  it  that  with  men  born  to  mis- 
ery   ye    mi.uht    have    sorrow?' — Iliad,    xvii.    443-445. 

^  '  Nay,  and  thou  too,  old  man,  in  former  days 
wast,   as   we  hear,   happy.' —  Iliad,   xxiv.   543. 

"'I  wailed  not.  so  of  stone  grew  I  within;  — 
they    wailed.' —  Inferno,    xxxiii.    39,    40. 

*  '  Of  such  sort  hath  God.  thanked  be  his  mercy, 
made  me,  that  your  misery  toucheth  me  not,  neither 
doth   the   flame   of   this   fire   strike    me.' —  Inferno,   ii. 


9'    93- 


In   His  will  is 


our  peace. 


Paradtso,  iii 


828  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Seal    up    the    ship-boy's    eyes,    and    rock   his  being  perused   in   the  prose  of  the   critic, 

brains  Nevertheless   if   we   are   urgently   pressed 

In  cradle  of  the  riulc  imperious  to    give    some    critical    account    of    them, 

surge    ...  we  may  safely,  perhaps,  venture  on   lay- 

.     .     .  5  ing  down,   not   indeed  how   and   why   the 

and  take,  as  well,  Hamlet's  dying  request  characters  arise,   but  where  and   in  what 

to  Horatio:  they  arise.     They  are   in  the  matter  and 

-.    ,         ...              ,    ,,          •     M      ,       .  substance  of  the  poetry,  and  they  are  in 

If  thou  dulst  ever  hold  me  m  thy  heart,  .^^  ^^^,^^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^/ j^_    ^p^^^^,^  ^^  ^^           ^,^^ 

Absent  thee  from  fehcUy  awhile,  .0  substance    and    matter    on    the    one    hand, 

And   m   this   harsh    world   draw   thy   breath  ^^^^  ^^^j^  ^^^^  ^^^^^^^^^^  ^^^  ^,^^  ^^^^^^^  ,^^^^ 

'"  ^^'"  a  mark,  an  accent,  of  high  beauty,  worth, 


To  tell   my  story 


and  power.     But  if  we  are  asked  to  de- 


Take  of  Milton  that  Miltonic  passage:  j-^^^  ^^^.^  ^^'^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^^^  .^  ^,^^  ^,^^^^^^^_ 

Darkened  so,  yet  shone  '^  our  answer  must  be  :     No,  for  we  should 

Above  them  all  the  archai'iRe] ;  but  his  face  thereby    be    darkening    the    question,    not 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and      clearing  it.     The  mark  and  accent  are  as 

care  given  by  the  substance  and  matter  of  that 

Sat  on  his  faded  cheek    .    .    .  poetry,  by  the  style  and  manner  of  that 

20  poetry,  and  of  all  other  poetry  which  is 
add  two  such  lines  as :  akin  to  it  in  quality. 

.  Only  one  thing  we  may  add  as  to  the 

And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield  substance   and   matter   of  poetry,    guiding 

And     what     IS     else     not     to     be     over-      ourselves   by   Aristotle's   profound   obser- 
'^°'"^    •    •    •  25  vation  that  the  superiority  of  poetry  over 

,  ^   .  ,       .  ,      ,  .  .        ,  ,         history  consists  in  its  possessing  a  higher 

and  finish  with  the  exquisite  close  to  the      ^^^^^^  ^^^  ^  higher  seriousness  {^t\oaocl>o.- 
loss  of  Proserpine,  the  loss  ^^^^^  ^^v  a^ovSat6repov)   [more  philosophic 

.     .     .    which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain  and    more    serious].     Let    us    add,    there- 

To  seek  her  through  the  world.  3o  fore,  to  what  we  have  said,  this :  that  the 

substance  and  matter  of  the  best  poetry 
These  few  lines,  if  we  have  tact  and  can  acquire  their  special  character  from 
use  them,  are  enough  even  of  themselves  possessing,  in  an  eminent  degree,  truth 
to  keep  clear  and  sound  our  judgments  and  seriousness.  We  may  add  yet  fur- 
about  poetry,  to  save  us  from  fallacious  35  ther,  what  is  in  itself  evident,  that  to  the 
estimates  of  it,  to  conduct  us  to  a  real  style  and  manner  of  the  best  poetry  their 
estimate.  special   character,   their    accent,   is   given 

The  specimens  I  have  quoted  differ  by  their  diction,  and,  even  yet  more,  by 
widely  from  one  another,  but  they  have  their  movement.  And  though  we  distin- 
in  common  this:  the  possession  of  the  40  guish  between  the  two  characters,  the  two 
very  highest  poetical  quality.  H  we  are  accents,  of  superiority,  yet  they  are 
thoroughly  penetrated  by  their  power,  we  nevertheless  vitally  connected  one  with 
shall  find  that  we  have  acquired  a  sense  the  other.  The  superior  character  of 
enabling  us,  whatever  poetry  may  be  laid  truth  and  seriousness,  in  the  matter  and 
before  us,  to  feel  the  degree  in  which  a  45  substance  of  the  best  poetry,  is  insepa- 
high  poetical  quality  is  present  or  want-  rable  from  the  superiority  of  diction  and 
ing  there.  Critics  give  themselves  great  movement  marking  its  style  and  manner, 
labor  to  draw  out  what  in  the  abstract  The  two  superiorities  are  closely  related, 
constitutes  the  characters  of  a  high  and  are  in  steadfast  proportion  one  to  the 
quality  of  poetry.  It  is  much  better  50  other.  So  far  as  high  poetic  truth  and 
simply  to  have  recourse  to  concrete  ex-  seriousness  are  wanting  to  a  poet's  matter 
amples :  —  to  take  specimens  of  poetry  and  substance,  so  far  also  we  may  be 
of  the  high,  the  very  highest  quality,  and  sure,  will  a  high  poetic  stamp  of  diction 
to  say:  The  characters  of  a  high  quality  and  movement  be  wanting  to  his  style 
of  poetry  are  what  is  expressed  there.  iS  ^nd  manner.  In  proportion  as  this  high 
They  are  far  better  recognized  by  being  stamp  of  diction  and  movement,  again, 
felt  in  the  verse  of  the  master,   than   by      is  absent  from  a  poet's  style  and  manner, 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 


we  shall  find,  also,  that  high  poetic  truth  mance-setting  which  was  common  to  them 
and  seriousness  are  absent  from  his  sub-  all,  and  which  gained  the  ear  of  Europe, 
stance  and  matter.  was     French.     This    con:  tituted    for    the 

So  stated,  these  are  but  dry  generali-  French  poetry,  literature,  and  language,  at 
ties;  their  whole  force  lies  in  their  ap-  5  the  height  of  the  Middle  Age,  an  un- 
plication.  And  I  could  wish  every  student  challenged  predominance.  The  Italian 
of  poetry  to  make  the  application  of  them  Brunetto  Latini,  the  master  of  Dante, 
for  himself.  Made  by  himself,  the  appli-  wrote  his  Treasure  in  French  because,  he 
cation  would  impress  itself  upon  his  mind  says,  'la  parlcnre  en  est  plus  dclitable  et 
far  more  deeply  than  made  by  mt.io  plus  commune  a  toutcs  gens.'  In  the 
Neither  will  my  limits  allow  me  to  make  same  century,  the  thirteenth,  the  French 
any  full  application  of  the  generalities  romance-writer,  Christian  of  Troyes,  for- 
above  propounded;  but  in  the  hope  of  mulates  the  claims,  in  chivalry  and  letters, 
bringing  out,  at  any  rate,  some  signifi-  of  France,  his  native  country,  as  follows: 
cance    in    them,    and    of    establishing    an  15 

important   principle   more   firmly   by   their  Or  vous  ert  par  ce  livre  apris, 

means,  I  will,  in  the  space  which  remains  Que  Grcsse  ot  de  chevalerie 

to    me,     follow    rapidly     from    the    com-  Le  premier  los  ct  de  clergie; 

mencement    the    course    of    our    English  Puis  vint  chevalerie  a  Rome, 

poetry  with  them  in  my  view.  20  Et  de  la  clergie  la  some, 

Once  more  I  return  to  the  early  poetry  Qui    ore    est    en    France   venue, 

of  France,  with  which  our  own  poetry,  in  Diex  domst  qu'ele  1  soit  retenue, 

its  origins,  is  indissolubly  connected.     In  Et  que  li  bus  li  abehsse 

the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  that  Tcint   que  de   France  n^isse 

seed-time    of    all    modern    language    and  25         L'onor  qui  s  1  est  arestee ! 
literature,    the    poetry    of    France    had    a 

clear  predominance  in  Europe.  Of  the  *  Now  by  this  book  you  will  learn  that 
two  divisions  of  that  poetry,  its  produc-  first  Greece  had  the  renown  for  chivalry 
tions  in  the  langue  d'  oil  and  its  produc-  and  letters ;  then  chivalry  and  the  primacy 
tions  in  the  langue  d'  oc,  the  poetry  of  30  in  letters  passed  to  Rome,  and  now  it  is 
the  langue  d'  oc,  of  southern  France,  of  come  to  France.  God  grant  it  may  be 
the  troubadours,  is  of  importance  because  kept  there;  and  that  the  place  may  please 
of  its  effect  on  Italian  literature ;  —  the  it  so  well,  that  the  honor  which  has  come 
first  literature  of  modern  Europe  to  strike  to  make  stay  in  France  may  never  depart 
the    true    and    grand    note,    and   to   bring  35  thence !  ' 

forth,  as  in  Dante  and  Petrarch  it  brought  Yet    it    is    now    all    gone,    this    French 

forth,  classics.  But  the  predominance  of  romance-poetry,  of  which  the  weight  of 
French  poetry  in  Europe,  during  the  substance  and  the  power  of  style  are  not 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  is  due  unfairly  represented  by  this  extract  from 
to  its  poetry  of  the  langue  d'  oil,  the  40  Christian  of  Troyes.  Only  by  means  of 
poetry  of  northern  France  and  of  the  the  historic  estimate  can  we  persuade  our- 
tongue  which  is  now  the  French  Ian-  selves  now  to  think  that  any  of  it  is  of 
guage.     In  the  twelfth  century  the  bloom      poetical  importance. 

of   this   romance-poetry   was   earlier   and  But    in    the    fourteenth    century    there 

stronger  in  England,  at  the  court  of  our  45  comes  an  Englishman  nourished  on  this 
Anglo-Norman  kings,  than  in  France  it-  poetry,  taught  his  trade  by  this  poetry, 
self.  But  it  was  a  bloom  of  French  getting  words,  rime,  meter  from  this 
poetry;  and  as  our  native  poetry  formed  poetry;  for  even  of  that  stanza  which  the 
itself,  it  formed  itself  out  of  this.  The  Italians  used,  and  which  Chaucer  derived 
romance-poems  which  took  possession  of  50  immediately  from  the  Italians,  the  basis 
the  heart  and  imagination  of  Europe  in  and  suggestion  was  probably  given  in 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  are  France.  Chaucer  (I  have  already  named 
French;  'they  are,'  as  Southey  justly  him)  fascinated  his  contemporaries,  but 
says,  '  the  pride  of  French  literature,  nor  so  too  did  Christian  of  Troyes  and  Wol- 
have  we  anything  which  can  be  placed  55  fram  of  Eschenbach.  Chaucer's  power  of 
'in  competition  with  them.'  Themes  were  fascination,  however,  is  enduring;  his 
supplied   from   all   quarters;   but  the   ro-      poetical    importance    does    not    need    the 


830  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


assistance  of  the  historic  estimate,  it  is  his  diction,  the  lovely  charm  of  his  move- 
real.  He  is  a  genuine  source  of  joy  and  ment,  he  makes  an  epoch  and  founds  a 
strength  which  is  flowing  still  for  us  and  tradition.  In  Spenser,  Shakspere,  Mil- 
will  flow  always.  He  will  be  read,  as  ton,  Keats,  we  can  follow  the  tradition 
time  goes  on,  far  more  generally  than  s  of  the  liquid  diction,  the  fluid  movement, 
he  is  read  now.  His  language  is  a  cause  of  Chaucer;  at  one  time  it  is  his  liquid 
of  difficulty  for  us;  but  so  also,  and  I  diction  of  which  in  these  poets  we  feel 
think  in  quite  as  great  a  degree,  is  the  the  virtue,  and  at  another  time  it  is  his 
language  of  Burns.  In  Chaucer's  case,  fluid  movement.  And  the  virtue  is  ir- 
as  in  that  of  Burns,  it  is  difficulty  to  be  10  resistible, 
unhesitatingly  accepted  and  overcome.  Bounded   as   is   my   space,   I   must   yet 

If  we  ask  ourselves  wherein  consists  find  room  for  an  example  of  Chaucer's 
the  immense  superiority  of  Chaucer's  virtue,  as  I  have  given  examples  to  show 
poetry  over  the  romance-poetry,  why  it  is  the  virtue  of  the  great  classics.  I  feel 
that  in  passing  from  this  to  Chaucer  we  is  disposed  to  say  that  a  single  line  is 
suddenly  feel  ourselves  to  be  in  another  enough  to  show  the  charm  of  Chaucer's 
world,  we  shall  find  that  his  superiority  verse;  that  merely  one  line  like  this: 
is  both  in  the  substance  of  his  poetry  and 

in  the  style  of  his  poetry.     His  superiority  O  martyr  souded  1  in  virginitee! 

in  substance  is  given  by  his  large,  free,  20 

simple,  clear  yet  kindly  view  of  human  has  a  virtue  of  manner  and  movement 
life, —  so  unlike  the  total  want,  in  the  such  as  we  shall  not  find  in  all  the  verse 
romance-poets,  of  all  intelligent  command  of  romance-poetry;  —  but  this  is  saying 
of  it.  Chaucer  has  not  their  helpless-  nothing.  The  virtue  is  such  as  we  shall 
ness ;  he  has  gained  the  power  to  survey  2^  not  find,  perhaps,  in  all  English  poetry, 
the  world  from  a  central,  a  truly  human  outside  the  poets  whom  I  have  named  as 
point  of  view.  We  have  only  to  call  to  the  special  inheritors  of  Chaucer's  tradi- 
niind  the  Prologue  to  The  Canterbury  tion.  A  single  line,  however,  is  too  little 
Talcs.  The  right  comment  upon  it  is  if  we  have  not  the  strain  of  Chaucer's 
Dryden's :  '  It  is  sufficient  to  say,  accord-  3°  verse  well  in  our  memory ;  let  us  take  a 
ing  to  the  proverb,  that  here  is  God's  stanza.  It  is  from  The  Prioress's  Talc, 
plenty.'  And  again:  '  He  is  a  perpetual  the  story  of  the  Christian  child  murdered 
fountain  of  good  sense.'  It  is  by  a  large,  in  a  Jewry :  — 
free,  sound  representation  of  things,  that 

poetry,    this    high    criticism    of    life,    has  3S  My  throte  is  cut  unto  my  nekke-bone, 
truth  of  substance ;  and  Chaucer's  poetry      Saide  this  chdd,  and  as  by  way  of  kinde 
has  truth   of   substance.  I  ^^1°"'^  have  deyd,  yea,  longe  time  agone ; 

Of  this  style  and  manner,  if  we  think      F"."^  J""  ^^}'''^:  ^^  f  '"  bookesfinde. 
first   of  the   romance-poetry   and   then   of      ^^  "''  J^^^  ^is  glory  last  and  be  in  minde 
Chaucer's  divine  liquidness  of  diction,  his  ^o  And  for    he  worship  of  his  mother  dere 
divine  fluidity  of  movement,  it  is  difficult      ^et  may  I  sing  O  Alma  loud  and  clere. 
to  speak  temperately.     They  are  irresist-      ,,.     j  .1     ,  j       ■     j    .u-      t-  1 

ible,    and    justify    all    the    rapture    with      Wordsworth    has    modernized    this    Tale, 
which   his   successors   speak  of  his  '  gold      ?"d   to   feel  how  delicate   and  evanescent 
dew-drops     of     speech.'     Johnson     misses  ^s  is  the   charm   of  verse,   we  have  on  y   to 
the  point  entirely  when  he  finds  fault  with      '^^^  Wordsworth  s  first  three  lines  of  this 
Dryden  for  ascribing  to  Chaucer  the  first      ^^anza  after  Chaucer  s:- 
refinement  of  our  numbers,  and  says  that      ,,    ,,       .  ■        .      ^    ^u    u         t  . 
Cower    also    can    show    smooth    numbers      My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow, 
and   easy   rimes.     The   refinement   of   our  5o  Sa.d^  Uijs  young  child,   and   by   the   law   of 

numbers  means  something  far  more  than      t     u     u  u         a-  a  u 

^,  .         A         ^-  \  -n  -.1        1   should  have  died,  yea,  many  hours  ago, 

this.     A  nation  may  have  versifiers  with 

smooth  numbers  and  easy  rimes,  and  vet      ^,          ,  .        ,         .   j      t*     •         f*  .-, 
,                      ,         ^         4.     11      /-I                 The     charm     is     departed.     It     is     often 

may  have  no  real  poetry  at  all.     Chaucer          •  1    ^i,  <.  .1  r    r      -j       ^    „.-,^i 

•      4.U  s:  ,.u          £                 1     j-j    -c     1-  1,  cc  said    that  the    power    of    liquidness    and 

is    the  father    of    our    splendid    English  ^^n   r,-,     ■  r-i           •                       j         ^     f 

.  ,       •              ,       11      r    rr     r  1                fluidity  m  Chancers  verse  was  dependent 

poetry;  he    is   our     well    of    English    un-                 -  ^ 

defiled,'    because    by    the    lovely    charm    of  "The    French   sonde;  soldered,   fixed   fast. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  831 


upon  a  free,  a  licentious  dealing  with  largeness,  freedom,  shrewdness,  benig- 
language,  such  as  is  now  impossiI)le;  upon  nity;  but  it  has  not  this  high  seriousness. 
a  liberty,  such  as  Burns  too  enjoyed,  of  Homer's  criticism  of  life  has  it,  Dante's 
making  words  like  neck,  bird,  into  a  dis-  has  it,  Shakspere's  has  it.  It  is  this 
syllable  by  adding  to  them,  and  words  5  chiefly  which  gives  to  our  spirits  what 
like  cause,  rime,  into  a  dissyllable  by  they  can  rest  upon ;  and  with  the  increas- 
sounding  the  e  mute.  It  is  true  that  ing  demands  of  our  modern  ages  upon 
Chaucer's  fluidity  is  conjoined  with  this  poetry,  this  virtue  of  giving  us  what  we 
liberty,  and  is  admirably  served  by  it;  can  rest  upon  will  be  more  and  more 
but  we  ought  not  to  say  that  it  was  de-  10  highly  esteemed.  A  voice  from  the  slums 
pendent  upon  it.  It  was  dependent  upon  of  Paris,  fifty  or  sixty  years  after 
his  talent.  Other  poets  with  a  like  liberty  Chaucer,  the  voice  of  poor  Villon  out  of 
do  not  attain  to  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer;  his  life  of  riot  and  crime,  has  at  its  happy 
Burns  himself  does  not  attain  to  it.  moments  (as,  for  instance,  in  the  last 
Poets  again,  who  have  a  talent  akin  to  15  stanza  of  La  Belle  Heaulmiere^)  more 
Chaucer's,  such  as  Shakspere  or  Keats,  of  this  important  poetic  virtue  of  serious- 
have  known  how  to  attain  to  his  fluidity  ness  than  all  the  productions  of  Chaucer, 
without  the  like  liberty.  But  its  apparition  in  Villon,  and  in  men 

And  yet  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great      like  Villon,  is  fitful;  the  greatness  of  the 
classics.     His   poetry   transcends    and    ef-  20  great  poets,  the  power  of  their  criticism 
faces,   easily   and   without   effort,    all   the      of  life,  is  that  their  virtue  is  sustained, 
romance-poetry  of  Catholic  Christendom;  To    our    praise,    therefore,    of    Chaucer 

it  transcends  and  effaces  all  the  English  as  a  poet  there  must  be  this  limitation; 
poetry  contemporary  with  it,  it  tran-  he  lacks  the  high  seriousness  of  the  great 
scends  and  effaces  all  the  English  25  classics,  and  therewith  an  important  part 
poetry  subsequent  to  it  down  to  the  age  of  their  virtue.  Still,  the  main  fact  for 
of  Elizabeth.  Of  such  avail  is  poetic  us  to  bear  in  mind  about  Chaucer  is  his 
truth  of  substance,  in  its  natural  and  sterling  value  according  to  that  real  es- 
necessary  union  with  poetic  truth  of  style,  timate  which  we  firmly  adopt  for  all 
And  yet,  I  say,  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  30  poets.  He  has  poetic  truth  of  substance, 
great  classics.  He  has  not  their  accent,  though  he  has  not  high  poetic  seriousness, 
What  is  wanting  to  him  is  suggested  by  and  corresponding  to  his  truth  of  sub- 
the  mere  mention  of  the  name  of  the  stance  he  has  an  exquisite  virtue  of  style 
first  great  classic  of  Christendom,  the  im-  and  manner.  With  him  is  born  our  real 
mortal  poet  who  died  eighty  years  before  35  poetry. 

Chaucer,— Dante.     The    accent    of    such  But  "for  my  present  purpose  I  need  not 

verse  as  dwell   on   our    Elizabethan   poetry,   or   on 

In  la  sua.  volontadee  nostra  pace    .    .     .         the  continuation  and  close  of  this  poetry 

in    Milton.     We   all    of   us   profess   to   be 
is  altogether  beyond  Chaucer's  reach ;  we  40 

praise   him,   but   we    feel  that   this   accent   is  ^  T^e  name  Heaulmiere  is  said  to  be  derived  from 

out  of  the  question  for  him.     It  may  be      L''vmA'"Vii"rl ''°''"  "i,"  "'l''  '^>' 5°"^'"f  ^- 

.  ,       ,  .  ^  .,  /     ,  In    \  illon  s   ballad,   a  poor  old  creature   of  tbis  class 

said     that     it     was     necessarily    out     of     the        laments    her    days    of    youth    and    beauty.     The    last 

reach  of  any  poet  in  the  England  of  that      stanza  of  the  ballad  runs  thus:  — 

stage   of   growth.     Possibly ;    but   we    are  45 

to  adopt  a   real,   not  a  historic,  estimate  ^'"^'  '«  ^°''  '^""p^  regretons 

of  poetry.     However  we  may  account  for  ^stes^ba'::  rc;oTpe:ons,'"  ^°""' 

Its    absence,     something    is    wanting,     then,  Tout    en    ung    tas    comme    pelottes; 

to   the   poetry   of   Chaucer,   which   poetry  A  petit  feu  de  chenevottes 

must  have  before  it  can  be  placed  in  the  50  ^°^^  ailum6es,   tost   estainctes. 

glorious  class  of  the  best.     And  there  is  «  "t  ^"^"i  t,"T°;;"™.l„,„. 
no  doubt  what   that   something   is.     It   is 

the     aTTOLiSaidrr^s,     the     high     and     excellent  'Thus  amongst  ourselves  we  regret  the  good  time, 

seriousness,  which  Aristotle   assigns   as  one        poor  silly  old  things,   low-seated  on   our   heels,   all   in 

of  the  grand  virtues  of  poetry.  The  sub-  5^  ^  'l*'^''  '"''•'  '°  '"^">'  ''3"^=  ^y  =»  "'"^  ^^^  of  '"^™i'- 
stance  of  Chaucer's  poetry,  his  view  of  :2'di~„",:f  SoS'-"  r^i',,,  ^:Z^:^l 
things     and     his     criticism     of    life,     has      one.' 


8^2  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


agreed  in  the  estimate  of  this  poetry;  we  a  man,  on  all  sides,  of  such  energetic 
all  of  us  recognize  it  as  great  poetry,  and  genial  power?  And  yet,  if  we  are 
our  greatest,  and  Shakspere  and  Milton  to  gain  the  full  benefit  from  poetry,  we 
as  our  poetical  classics.  The  real  esti-  must  have  the  real  estimate  of  it.  I  cast 
mate,  here,  has  universal  currency.  With  5  about  for  some  mode  of  arriving,  in  tlie 
the  next  age  of  our  poetry  divergency  jircsent  case,  at  such  an  estimate  witlioul 
and  difficulty  begin.  An  historic  estimate  offence.  And  perhaps  the  best  way  is  to 
of  that  poetry  has  established  itself;  and  begin,  as  it  is  easy  to  begin,  with  cordial 
the  question  is,  whether  it  will  l^e   found      praise. 

to    coincide    with    the    real    estimate.  lo      When    we    find    Chapman,    the    Eliza- 

The  age  of  Dryden,  together  with  our  bethan  translator  of  Homer,  expressing 
whole  eighteenth  century  which  followed  himself  in  his  preface  thus:  "Though 
it,  sincerely  believed  itself  to  have  pro-  truth  in  her  very  nakedness  sit  in  so  deep 
duced  poetical  classics  of  its  own,  and  a  pit,  that  from  Gades  to  Aurora  and 
even  to  have  made  advance,  in  poetry,  15  Ganges  few  eyes  can  sound  her,  I  hope 
beyond  all  its  predecessors.  Dryden  re-  yet  those  few  here  will  so  discover  and 
gards  as  not  seriously  disputable  the  confirm,  that,  the  date  being  out  of  her 
opinion  '  that  the  sweetness  of  English  darkness  in  this  morning  of  our  poet,  he 
verse  was  never  understood  or  practised  shall  now  gird  his  temples  with  the  sun,' 
by  our  fathers.'  Cowley  could  see  noth-  20  —  we  pronounce  that  such  a  prose  is  in- 
ing  at  all  in  Chaucer's  poetry.  Dryden  tolerable.  When  we  find  Milton  writing: 
heartily  admired  it,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  '  And  long  it  was  not  after,  when  I  was 
praised  its  matter  admirably;  but  of  its  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he,  who 
exquisite  manner  and  movement  all  he  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to 
can  find  to  say  is  that  '  there  is  the  rude  25  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable  things, 
sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune  in  it,  which  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem,' — we 
is  natural  and  pleasing,  though  not  pronounce  that  such  a  prose  has  its  own 
perfect.'  Addison,  wishing  to  praise  grandeur,  but  that  it  is  obsolete  and  in- 
Chaucer's  numbers,  compares  them  with  convenient.  But  when  we  find  Dryden 
Dryden's  own.  And  all  through  the  30  telling  us:  'What  Virgil  wrote  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  down  even  into  vigor  of  his  age,  in  plenty  and  at  ease, 
our  own  times,  the  stereotyped  phrase  of  I  have  undertaken  to  translate  in  my  de- 
approbation  for  good  verse  found  in  our  clining  years,  struggling  with  wants,  op- 
early  poetry  has  been,  that  it  even  ap-  pressed  with  sickness,  curbed  in  my 
proached  the  verse  of  Dryden,  Addison,  35  genius,  liable  to  be  misconstrued  in  all  I 
Pope,  and  Johnson.  write,' — then    we    exclaim    that  here    at 

Are  Dryden  and  Pope  poetical  classics?      last   we  have   the  true   English   prose,   a 
Is  the  historic  estimate,  which  represents      prose    such    as   we   would    all    gladly   use 
them    as    such,    and    which    has    been    so      if  we  only  knew  how.     Yet  Dryden  was 
long  established  that  it  cannot  easily  give  40  Milton's  contemporary, 
way,  the  real  estimate?     Wordsworth  and  But  after  the  Restoration  the  time  had 

Coleridge,  as  is  well  known,  denied  it ;  come  when  our  nation  felt  the  imperious 
but  the  authority  of  Wordsworth  and  need  of  a  fit  prose.  So,  too,  the  time  had 
Coleridge  does  not  weigh  much  with  the  likewise  come  when  our  nation  felt  the 
young  generation,  and  there  are  many  45  miperious  need  of  freeing  itself  from  the 
signs  to  show  that  the  eighteenth  century  absorbing  preoccupation  which  religion 
and  its  judgments  are  coming  into  favor  in  the  Puritan  age  had  exercised.  It  was 
again.  Are  the  favorite  poets  of  the  impossible  that  this  freedom  should  be 
eighteenth   century  classics?  brought  about  without  some  negative  ex- 

It  is  impossible  within  my  present  limits  50  cess,  without  some  neglect  and  impair- 
to  discuss  the  question  fully.  And  what  ment  of  the  religious  life  of  the  soul;  and 
man  of  letters  would  not  shrink  from  the  spiritual  history  of  the  eighteenth 
seeming  to  dispose  dictatorially  of  the  century  shows  us  that  the  freedom  was 
claims  of  two  men  who  are,  at  any  rate,  not  achieved  without  them.  Still,  the 
such  masters  in  letters  as  Dryden  and  55  freedom  was  achieved ;  the  preoccupation. 
Pope;  two  men  of  such  admirable  taleiil,  an  undoubtedly  baneful  and  retarding  one 
both  of  them,  and  one  of  them,  Dryden,      if  it  had  continued,  was  got  rid  of.     And 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  833 


as    with     religion    amongst    us     at     that      either  the  matter  or  the  inseparable  man- 
period,    so    it    was    also    with    letters.     A      ner  of  such  an  adequate  poetic  criticism; 
fit  prose  was  a  necessity ;  but  it  was  im-      whether  it  has  the  accent  of 
possible  that  a  fit  prose   should  establish 

itself  amongst  us  without  some  touch  of   5      Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile     .     .    . 
frost  to  the  imaginative  life  of  the  soul. 
The  needful  qualities  for  a  fit  prose  are  r 

regularity,   uniformity,  precision,  balance. 
The  men  of  letters,  whose  destiny  it  may  a    j     u      •     7 

be  to  bring  their  nation  to  the  attainment  10      And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome    .    .    . 
of  a  fit  prose,  must  of  necessity,  whether 
they  work   in  prose   or   in  verse,  give  a      or  of 
predominating,    an    almost    exclusive    at- 
tention to  the  qualities  of  regularity,  uni-  O   martyr   souded  in   virginitee ! 
formity,    precision,    balance.     But   an    al- 15 

most  exclusive  attention  to  these  qualities  j  answer :  It  has  not  and  cannot  have 
mvolves  some  repression  and  silencing  of  them;  it  is  the  poetry  of  the  builders  of 
P'^^ljy-  ,     T^     ,  ,         ^"  ^S^  of  prose  and  reason.     Though  they 

We  are  to  regard  Dryden  as  the  ^^ay  write  in  verse,  though  they  may  in 
puissant  and  glorious  founder,  Pope  as  20  ^  ^^^^^-^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^^^.^  ^f  ^^^  ^^^  ^^ 
the  splendid  high-priest,  of  our  age  ot  versification,  Dryden  and  Pope  are  not 
prose  and  reason  of  our  excellent  and  classics  of  our  poetry,  they  are  classics 
indispensable     eighteenth      century,     hor      Qf  q^.  prose 

the  purposes  of  their  mission  and  destiny  Qray    is    our    poetical    classic    of    that 

their  poetry,  like  their  prose,  is  admirable.  25  literature  and  age;  the  position  of  Gray 
Do  you  ask  me  whether  Dryden  s  verse,  jg  singular,  and  demands  a  word  of 
take  It  almost  where  you  will,  is  not  notice  here.  He  has  not  the  volume  or 
^°°'^  •  the  power  of  poets  who,  coming  in  times 

A        -11      t--.      TT-  J      ■  .1         J  ^oi'e   favorable,   have  attained  to  an  in- 

A     milk-white     Hind,     immortal     and     un-  3^  dependent  criticism  of  Hfe.     But  he  lived 

17  A  ^     "p°;  A  ■     .u     (       .  A       with  the  great  poets,  he  lived,  above  all, 

Fed  on  the  lawns  and  in  the  forest  ranged.      ^^j^,^     ^^^-  ^^^^^^^    '^^^^^^j^     perpetuali; 

I  answer:  Admirable  for  the  purposes  studying  and  enjoying  them ;  and  he 
of  the  inaugurator  of  an  age  of  prose  ^^"f^^  their  poetic  point  of  view  for  re- 
and  reason.  Do  you  ask  me  whether  ^^  Sfding  life,  caught  their  poetic  manner. 
Pope's  verse,  take  it  almost  where  you  ^^f  P°'"t  of  view  and  the  manner  are 
will,  is  not  good?  "f   self-sprung  in   him,  he  caught  them 

ot  others;  and  he  had  not  the  free  and 

To  Hounslow  Heath  I  point,  and  Banstead      ^^"1'-'^''"^     ",'^t.  °^     *^^'"-  ,  ^^\   whereas 

£)Q^yn  •  ^°  Addison  and  Pope  never  had  the  use  of 

Thence  comes  your  mutton,  and  these  chicks      ^hem.  Gray  had  the  use  of  them  at  times. 

my  own.  ^^  '^  the  scantiest  and  frailest  of  classics 

in  our  poetry,  but  he  is  a  classic. 
I  answer:  Admirable  for  the  purposes  And  now,  after  Gray,  we  are  met,  as 
of  the  high-priest  of  an  age  of  prose  and  45  we  draw  towards  the  end  of  the  eight- 
reason.  But  do  you  ask  me  whether  such  eenth  century,  we  are  met  by  the  great 
verse  proceeds  from  men  with  an  ade-  name  of  Burns.  We  enter  now  on  times 
quate  poetic  criticism  of  life,  from  men  where  the  personal  estimate  of  poets  be- 
whose  criticism  of  life  has  a  high  serious-  gins  to  be  rife,  and  where  the  real  es- 
ness,  or  even,  without  that  high  serious-  50  timate  of  them  is  not  reached  without 
ness,  has  poetic  largeness,  freedom,  difificulty.  But  in  spite  of  the  disturbing 
insight,  benignity?  Do  you  ask  me  pressures  of  personal  partiality,  of  na- 
whether  the  application  of  ideas  to  life  tional  partiality,  let  us  try  to  reach  a  real 
in  the  verse  of  these  men,  often  a  power-  estimate  of  the  poetry  of  Burns. 
ful  application,  no  doubt,  is  a  powerful-  By  his  English  poetry  Burns  in  gen- 
poefic  application  ?  Do  you  ask  me  eral  belongs  to  the  eighteenth  centurv, 
whether    the    poetry    of    these    men    has      and  has  little  importance   for  us. 

53 


834 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Mark      rutiliaii      Violence,      distained      with 

crimes, 
Rousing   elate    in    these   degenerate   times; 
View    unsuspecting    Innocence    a    prey, 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way;    5 
While  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The    life-blood    equal    sucks    of    Right    and 

Wrong ! 

Evidently  this  is  not  the  real  Burns,  or  lo 
his  name  and  fame  would  have  disap- 
peared long  ago.  Nor  is  Clarinda's  love- 
poet,  Sylvander,  the  real  Burns  either. 
But  he  tells  us  himself:  'These  English 
songs  gravel  me  to  death.  I  have  not  the  15 
command  of  the  language  that  I  have  of 
my  native  tongue.  In  fact,  I  think  that 
my  ideas  are  more  barren  in  English  than 
in  Scotch.  I  have  been  at  Duncan  Gray 
to  dress  it  in  English,  but  all  I  can  do  is  20 
desperately  stupid.'  We  English  turn 
naturally,  in  Burns,  to  the  poems  in  our 
own  language,  because  we  can  read  them 
easily;  but  in  those  poems  we  have  not 
the  real  Burns.  ^^ 

The  real  Burns  is  of  course  in  his 
Scotch  poems.  Let  us  boldly  say  that  of 
much  of  this  poetry,  a  poetry  dealing 
perpetually  with  Scotch  drink,  Scotch 
religion,  and  Scotch  manners,  a  Scotch-  3; 
man's  estimate  is  apt  to  be  personal.  A 
Scotchman  is  used  to  this  world  of  Scotch 
drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  man- 
ners ;  he  has  a  tenderness  for  it ;  he  meets 
its  poet  half  way.  In  this  tender  mood  3i 
he  reads  pieces  like  the  Holy  Fair  or 
Halloween.  But  this  world  of  Scotch 
drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  man- 
ners is  against  a  poet,  not  for  him,  when 
it  is  not  a  partial  countryman  who  reads  -1° 
him;  for  in  itself  it  is  not  a  beautiful 
world,  and  no  one  can  deny  that  it  is  of 
advantage  to  a  poet  to  deal  with  a  beauti- 
ful world.  Burn's  world  of  Scotch  drink, 
Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners,  is  45 
often  a  harsh,  a  sordid,  a  repulsive  world ; 
even  the  world  of  his  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night  is  not  a  beautiful  world.  No  doubt 
a  poet's  criticism  of  life  may  have  such 
truth  and  power  that  it  triumphs  over  its  5o 
world  and  delights  us.  Burns  may  tri- 
umph over  his  world,  often  he  does  tri- 
umph over  his  world,  but  let  us  observe 
how  and  where.  Burns  is  the  first  case 
we  have  had  where  tlie  bias  of  the  per-  55 
sonal  estimate  tends  to  mislead;  let  us 
.  look  at  him  closely,  he  can  bear  it. 


Many  of  his  admirers  will  tell  us  that 
we  have  Burns,  convivial,  genuine,  de- 
lightful, here: 

Leezc  me  on  drink !  it  gics  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college; 
It    kindles    wit,    it    waukcns    lair. 

It  pangs  us   fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be  't   whiskey  gill  or  penny  wheep 

Or   ony   stronger   potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 

To   kittle   up  our   notion 

By  night  or  day. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing 
in  Burns,  and  it  is  unsatisfactory,  not 
because  it  is  bacchanalian  poetry,  but  be- 
cause it  has  not  that  accent  of  sincerity 
which  bacchanalian  poetry,  to  do  it  jus- 
tice, very  often  has.  There  is  something 
in  it  of  bravado,  something  which 
makes  us  feel  that  we  have  not  the  man 
speaking  to  us  with  his  real  voice;  some- 
thing, therefore,  poetically  unsound. 

AVith  still  more  confidence  will  his  ad- 
mirers tell  us  that  we  have  the  genuine 
Burns,  the  great  poet,  when  his  strain 
asserts  the  independence,  equality,  dig- 
nity, of  men,  as  in  the  famous  song  For 
a'  that  and  a'  that: 

A   prince  can   mak'  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Here  they  find  his  grand,  genuine 
touches;  and  still  more,  when  this  puis- 
sant genius,  who  so  often  set  morality  at 
defiance,  falls  moralizing: 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But    never   tempt   th'   illicit   rove, 

Tho'   naething  should  divulge   it. 

I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin. 
The  hazard  o'  concealing. 

But  och !  it  hardens  a'  within. 
And  petrifies  the  feeling. 

Or  in  a  higher  strain  : 

Who  made   the  heart,   't  is  he  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  us; 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  835 


I 


He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone;  manner   which   goes   with   that   high   scri- 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias.  ousness     is     wanting     to     his     work.     At 

Then   at   the  balance   let  's  be  mute,  moments  he  touches  it  in  a  profound  and 

We  never  can  adjust  it ;  passionate    melancholy,    as    in    those    four 

What's  (fo;;^  we  partly  may  compute,  5  immortal     lines    taken    by    Byron     as     a 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted.  motto  for  The  Giaour,  but  which  have  in 

.                                                         .       ,  •  them   a   depth   of   poetic,  quality   such   as 

Or  in   a   better   strain   yet,   a   strain,   his  resides  in  no  verse  of  Byron's  own : 

admirers  will  say,  unsurpassable : 

10      Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly. 

To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime  Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 

To  weans  and  wife.  Never   met,   or  never  parted, 

That 's  the  true  pathos  and   sublime  We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 
Of  human   life. 

There  is  criticism  of  life  for  you,  the  "^  ^^"^  ^  ^^^^°'^  Pf'^  ^^  that  quality  Burns 
admirers  of  Burns  will  say  to  us;  there  \f'''''^  make ;  the  rest,  in  the  Farezvcll  to 
istheapplicationof  ideas  to  hfe!     There      Nancy,  xsv^rhx^gt 

is,  undoubtedly.  The  doctrine  of  the  ^  ^^^  ^l''\^.  ';^^\  ^^  the  real  estimate  of 
last-quoted  lines  coincides  almost  exactlv  Burns,  I  think,  by  conceiving  his  work 
with  what  was  the  aim  and  end.  Xeno- ^° ''^^  ^^''^^'"f  1^"^^  of  matter  and  truth  of 
phon  tells  us,  of  all  the  teaching  of  manner,  but  not  the  accent  or  the  poetic 
Socrates.  And  the  application  is  a  virtue  of  the  highest  masters.  His  gen- 
powerful  one;  made  by  a  man  of  vigor-  "^"^  .criticism  0  life,  when  the  sheer 
ous  understanding,  and  (need  I  say?)  a  P°^t  in  him  speaks,  is  ironic;  it  is  not: 
master  of  language.  25 

But   for  supreme  poetical  success  more      ^hou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
is  required  than  the  powerful  application      ^/'^^f  ^°^s  of  mme  fulfil, 
of  ideas  to  life  ;  it  must  be  an  application      ^ere  firm  I  rest,  they  must  be  best 
under    the    conditions    fixed    by   the    laws  ^^^^"^^  ^'^^^  ^'^  Thy  will! 

of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty.     Those  3° 

laws  fix  as  an  essential  condition,  in  the  It  is  far  rather:  Whistle  ozvre  the  lave 
poet's  treatment  of  such  matters  as  are  o' t !  Yet  we  may  say  of  him  as  of 
here  in  question,  high  seriousness ;  —  the  Chaucer,  that  of  life  and  the  world,  as 
high  seriousness  which  comes  from  ab-  they  come  before  him,  his  view  is  large, 
solute  sincerity.  The  accent  of  high  3=i  free,  shrewd,  benignant, —  truly  poetic, 
seriousness,  born  of  absolute  sincerity,  is  therefore ;  and  his  manner  of  rendering 
what  gives  to  such  verse  as  what  he  sees  is  to  match.     But  we  must 

note,   at  the  same  time,   his  great  differ- 
In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace    .     .    .  ence     from     Chaucer.     The     freedom     of 

^0  Chaucer  is  heightened,  in  Burns,  by  a 
to  such  criticism  of  life  as  Dante's,  its  fiery,  reckless  energy;  the  benignity  of 
power.  Is  this  accent  felt  in  the  pas-  Chaucer  deepens,  in  Burns,  into  an  over- 
sages  which  I  have  been  quoting  from  whelming  sense  of  the  pathos  of  things ; 
Burns?  Surely  not;  surely,  if  our  sense  — of  the  pathos  of  human  nature,  the 
is  quick,  we  must  perceive  that  we  have  -iS  pathos,  also,  of  non-human  nature.  In- 
not  in  those  passages  a  voice  from  the  stead  of  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer's  manner, 
very  inmost  soul  of  the  genuine  Burns ;  the  manner  of  Burns  has  spring,  bound- 
he  is  not  speaking  to  us  from  these  ing  swiftness.  Burns  is  by  far  the 
depths,  he  is  more  or  less  preaching.  greater  force,  though  he  has  perhaps  less 
And  the  compensation  for  admiring  such  so  charm.  The  world  of  Chaucer  is  fairer, 
passages  less,  from  missing  the  perfect  richer,  more  significant  than  that  of 
poetic  accent  in  them,  will  be  that  we  Burns:  but  when  the  largeness  and  free- 
shall  admire  more  the  poetry  where  that  dom  of  Burns  get  full  sweep,  as  in  Tarn 
accent  is  found.  o'  Shantcr,  or  still  more  in  that  puissant 

No;  Burns,  like  Chaucer,  comes  short  ss  and  splendid  production.  The  Jolly  Beg- 
of  the  high  seriousness  of  the  great  gars,  his  world  may  be  what  it  will,  his 
classics,    and    the    virtue    of    matter    and      poetic   genius   triumphs   over   it.     In   the 


836  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

world  of  the  Jolly  Beggars  there  is  more  On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 

than    hideousncss    and    squalor,    there    is  My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire, 

bestiality;  yet  the  piece  is  a  superb  poetic  But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning, 

success.     It    has    a    breadth,    truth,    and  That    their    flight    must    be    swifter    than 

power   which   make   the   famous   scene   in  5             ^''^    •     •     • 

Auerbach's     Cellar,     of     Goethe's     Faust,  of    Prometheus    Unbound,    how    salutary, 

seem    artificial    and    tame    beside    it,    and  how    very    salutary,    to    place    this    from 

which    are    only    matched    by    Shaksperc  Tani  Glen: 
and   Aristophanes. 

Here,  where  his  largeness  and  freedom  10  My  iniimie  does  constantly   dcave  me 
serve  him  so  admirably,  and  also  in  those  And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men; 
poems    and    songs,    where    to    shrewdness  They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me ; 
he  adds  infinite  archness  and  wit,  and  to  But   wha  can  think   sae  o'   Tarn  Glen, 
benignity  infinite  pathos,  where  his  man- 
ner is  flawless,  and  a  perfect  poetic  whole  15      But    we    enter    on    burning    ground    as 
is  the  result, —  in  things  like  the  address  we  approach  the  poetry  of  times  so  near 
to  the  Mouse  whose  home  he  had  ruined,  to  us,  poetry  like  that  of  Byron,  Shelley, 
in   things   like   Dunean   Gray,   Tarn   Glen,  and  Wordsworth,  of  which  the  estimates 
Whistle   and   I  'II   come   to   you,   my   lad,  are   so  often   not  only  personal,  but  per- 
Aiild  lang  syne   (the  list  might  be  made  20  gonal   with   passion.     For  my  purpose,   it 
much    longer), —  here   we   have   the    gen-  is   enough   to  have  taken   the   single  case 
uine    Burns,    of   whom   the   real    estimate  of   Burns,   the   first   poet   we   come   to   of 
must  be  high  indeed.     Not  a  classic,  nor  whose   work   the   estimate   formed   is  evi- 
with     the     excellent     o-TrouSatdrTjs     [seri-  dently   apt   to   be   personal,    and    to   have 
ousness]    of  the   great   classics,   nor   with  25  suggested    how    we    may    proceed,    using 
a  verse  rising  to  a  criticism  of  life   and  the  poetry  of  the  great  classics  as  a  sort 
a    virtue    like    theirs;    but    a    poet    with  of  touchstone,  to  correct  this  estimate,  as 
thorough   truth   of   substance  and   an   an-  we  had  previously  corrected  by  the  same 
swering  truth  of  style,  giving  us  a  poetry  means    the    historic    estimate    where    we 
sound   to   the   core.     We   all   of   us   have  30  met  with   it.     A  collection  like  the  pres- 
a  leaning  towards  the  pathetic,  and  may  ent,     with     its    succession     of    celebrated 
be  inclined  perhaps  to  prize   Burns  most  names    and    celebrated    poems,    offers    a 
for    his    touches    of    piercing,    sometimes  good  opportunity  to  us  for  resolutely  en- 
almost  intolerable,  pathos ;  for  verse  like :  deavoring     to     make     our     estimates     of 

35  poetry  real.     I  have   sought  to  point  out 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn  a  method  which  will  help  us   in  making 

From  mornin'  sun  till  dine;  them  so,   and  to  exhibit  it  in  use  so  far 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd,  as   to   put   any   one   who   likes   in   a   way 

Sin  auld  lang  syne    ...  of   applying  it   for   himself. 

40      At    any    rate    the    end    to    which    the 

,          ,       .            11             1       .               ,  method  and  the  estimate  are  designed  to 

where   he    is    as   lovely   as    he    is    sound  ^       ^^  which,  if  they 

But    perhaps    it    is    by    the    perfection    of  ,^^^  ^^                      f  ^^^^.^  ^^^J,^  ^^iJ 

soundness  of  his  lighter  and  archer  mas-      _  ^^  ^jf     ^^^^  ^j^^^,     ^^  ^^^j 

terpieces     that     he     is     poetically     most  ,    ,       ,      ,          ■       .u     k^.f    /u^   <•,-,, u, 

xf ,              r                T?       ^u          <•             •  45  and   deeply   to   enjoy   the   best,   the   trulv 

wholesome   for  us.     For  the  votary  mis-  ^^    ,      .      K  ^     „  ^.^         .-^    „„       'a     i^^    r^.'^ 

1  J    1                         1       ^-      i        r    01    II  classic,    in    poetry, —  is    an    end,    let    me 

led   by    a    personal    estimate   of    Shelley,      "-"i^^^^'  f       J'  » 

■^         ^      c          u          u                        A  say  it  once  more  at  parting,  of  supreme 

as   so   many   of   us   have    been,    are,    and  .   '                                   f         &>             j- 


be, —  of  that  beautiful  spirit  building 


importance.     We   are   often   told   that   an 


,  .  1       J     u  r  J  A       era   is   opening   in   which   we   are   to   see 

his     many-colored     haze     of    words     and  ,  .^    ,'       ,^ ^ ^^  ,   ^r  ^^^j^,.^ 

^  50  multitudes  of  a  common  sort  of  readers, 

images  ^^^   masses   of   a   common   sort   of   liter- 

...  .  ature;  that  such  readers  do  not  want  and 

Pinnacled   dim   in   the   intense   inane—  ^^^^j^  ^^^  ^gU^j^  anything  better  than  such 

literature,  and  that  to  provide  it  is  be- 
no  contact  can  be  wholesomer  than  the  55  coming  a  vast  and  profitable  industry. 
contact  with  Burns  at  his  archest  and  Even  if  good  literature  entirely  lost  cur- 
soundest.     Side  by  side  with  the  rency   with    the    world,    it   would    still    be 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 


837 


abundantly  worth  while  to  continue  to 
enjoy  it  by  oneself.  But  it  never  will 
lose  currency  with  the  world,  in  spite 
of  momentary  appearances ;  it  never  will 
lose  supremacy.  Currency  and  suprem- 
acy are  insured  to  it,  not  indeed  by  the 
world's  deliberate  and  conscious  choice, 
but  by  something  far  deeper, —  by  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  in  humanity. 

(1880) 


SHAKSPERE 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art   free. 
We  ask  and  ask:     Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill 
That  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea,  5 
Making  t-he  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling- 
place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the   foiled  searching  of  mortality: 
And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams 

know, 
Self-schooled,      self-scanned,      self-honored, 
self-secure,  10 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at.     Better 

so! 
All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 
All    weakness   that    impairs,    all    griefs    that 

bow. 
Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious  brow. 

(1849) 


THE  FORSAKEN   MERMAN 

Come,   dear  children,  let  us   away, 
Down    and    away    below ! 
Now  my  brothers   call   from   the  bay. 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now   the    salt   tides    seaward    flow,  s 

Now   the    wild    white    horses   play. 
Champ,  and  chafe,   and  toss   in  the  spray, 
Children   dear,   let   us   away! 
This   way,   this    way! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go,  10 

Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know : 

'  Margaret !   Margaret ! ' 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more!)  to  a  mother's  ear;  '5 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain: 

Surely    she   will   come   again ! 

Call    her   once   and   come   away; 


This   way,   this   way ! 

'  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay ;  20 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret.' 
Margaret !    Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down ; 
Call  no  more ! 

One   last   look  at  the  white-walled  town,  25 
And    the    little    gray   church    on    the    windy 

shore ; 
Then  come  down ! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day: 
Come  away,   come  away! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the   bay? 
In    the   caverns   where   we   lay. 
Through   the   surf   and   through   the   swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep,  35 

Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream. 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round, 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground ;  40 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine. 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye. 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye;  45 

When   did   music   come    this   way? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once!)   that  she  went  away? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me,  so 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 

She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended 

it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off 

bell. 
She  sighed,  she  looked  up  through  the  clear 

green  sea;  ss 

She  said :  '  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to- 
day. 
'T  will  be  Easter-time  in  the  world,  ah  me ! 
And    I   lose   my   poor   soul,   merman !    here 

with  thee.' 
I    said :    '  Go   up,    dear   heart,   through   the 

waves :  —  6° 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind 

sea-caves !  ' 
She   smiled,   she   went  up   through   the   surf 

in  the  bay. 
Children   dear,   was   it   yesterday? 


838 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone? 
'The    sea    grows    stormy:    the    Httle    ones 

moan  :  —  ^ 

Long   prayers,'    I    said,    '  in    the    world    they 

say; 
Come ! '   I    said ;    and    we    rose   through    the 

surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the   sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the   white 

walled  town; 
Through    the    narrow    paved    streets,    where 

all   was   still,  ^o 

To    the    little    gray    church    on    the    windy 

hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at 

their    prayers, 
But  we   stood   without  in  the  cold  blowing 

airs. 
We   climbed   on   the   graves,   on    the    stones 

worn    with    rains. 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small 

leaded  panes.  75 

She  sate  by  the  pillar;  we  saw  her  clear: 
'  Margaret,  hist !  come  quick,  we  are  here ! 
Dear  heart,'   I   said,  '  we  are  long  alone : 
The     sea    grows     stormy;    the    little     ones 

moan.' 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look,  80 

For  her  eyes  were  sealed  to  the  holy  book. 
Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come   away,    children,    call    no   more ! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more ! 

Down,  down,  down  !  ^5 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  — 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 
Singing  most   joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings:  'O  joy,  O  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with 
its  toy!  90 

For   the  priest,   and   the   bell,   and   the  holy 

well ; 
For   the   wheel    where    I    spun. 
And    the    blessed    light    of    the    sun ! ' 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill. 
Singing  most  joyfully,  95 

Till   the   spindle  drops   from  her  hand, 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the 
sand. 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare:  "0° 

And   anon    there   breaks   a   sigh, 

And    anon    there   drops    a   tear. 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye. 

And    a    heart    sorrow-laden; 

A  long,  long  sigh  '°5 


For  the  cold   strange  eyes  of   a   little   nier- 

maiden 
And   the   gleam   of   her   golden   hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children; 
Come  children,  come  down!  — 
The    hoarse    wind    blows    coldly;  "'o 

Lights   shine   in   the  town. 
She   will   start    from   her   slumber 
When    gusts    shake    the    door ; 
She   will    hear   the   winds   howling. 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar.  "S 

We   shall    see,   while    above   us 
The   waves   roar   and   whirl, 
A    ceiling    of    amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 

Singing:  'Here  came  a  mortal,  120 

But    faithless   was    she! 
And    alone    dwell    for    ever 
The   kings   of    the   sea.' 
But,  children,  at  midnight. 
When    soft   the   winds   blow,  125 

When   clear    falls  the   moonlight. 
When    spring-tides    are    low; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starred  with  broom. 
And    high    rocks    throw    mildly  '3o 

On   the  blanched   sands   a   gloom ; 
Up   the   still,  glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks,  we  will  hie. 
Over   banks   of   bright   seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry.  '35 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white,  sleeping  town ; 
At  the  church  on  the  hill-side: 
And  then  come  back  down. 
Singing:  'There  dwells  a  loved  one,  140 

But    cruel    is    she ! 
She  left  lonely  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea.' 

(1849) 

THE  BURIED  LIFE 

Light    flows    our    war    of    mocking    words, 

and  yet. 
Behold,  with  tears  mine  eyes  are  wet ! 
I    feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll. 
Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest. 
We  know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile!     5 
But  there  's  a  something  in  this  breast. 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest, 
And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile. 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine,  'o 

And    let    me    read    there,    love!    thy    inmost 
soul. 


THE  BURIED  LIFE 


839 


Alas!   is   even   love  too   weak 
To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak? 
Are    even    lovers    powerless    to    reveal 
To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel?       'S 
I   knew   the   mass   of   men   concealed 
Their  thoughts,   for   fear  that   if   revealed 
They   would   by   other   men   be   met 
With   blank  indifference,  or   with  blame   re- 
proved ; 
I  knew  they  lived  and  moved  20 

Tricked  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest        • 
Of  men,  and  alien  to  themselves  —  and  yet 
The     same     heart    beats    in    every    human 
breast ! 

But  we,  my  love !  —  doth  a  like  spell  be- 
numb 

Our  hearts,  our  voices?  —  must  we  too  be 
dumb?  25 

Ah!  well  for  us,  if  even  we, 
Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 
Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchained ; 
For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep- 
ordained  ! 

Fate,  which  foresaw  30 

How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be  — 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possessed, 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife. 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity  — 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey  36 
Even  in  his  own  despite  his  being's  law. 
Bade    through    the    deep    recesses    of    our 
breast 
I      The  unregarded  river  of  our  life 

Pursue   with   indiscernible   flow   its   way ;   40 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and   seem  to  be 
Eddying    at   large   in   blind   uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  world's  most  crowded 
streets,  45 

But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There    rises   an   unspeakable   desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life; 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 
In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course ;  5° 
A    longing   to    inquire 

Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  which  beats 
So  wild,  so  deep  in  us  —  to  know 
Whence  our  lives  come  and  where  they  go. 
And   many   a   man   in   his  own   breast   then, 
delves,  55 


But  deep   enough,   alas !   none   ever   mines. 
And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 
And    we    have    shown,    on    each,    spirit    and 

power  ; 
But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour. 
Been  on  our  own   line,  have  we  been  our- 
selves—  60 
Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 
The   nameless    feelings   that   course   through 

our    breast, 
But  they  course  on   for  ever  unexpressed. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do    '^s 
Is   eloquent,   is   well  —  but   'tis   not   true! 
And  then  we  will  no  more  be  racked 
With  inward  striving,  and  demand. 
Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 
Their   stupefying   power;  7° 

Ah,  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call ! 
Yet  still,   from  time  to  time,  vague  and  for- 
lorn, 
From    the     soul's    subterranean    depth    up- 
borne 
As    from    an    infinitely    distant    land. 
Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey  75 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only  —  but    this    is    rare  — 

When   a    beloved   hand    is    laid   in   ours, 

When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 

Of  the  interminable  hours,  80 

Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes   read  clear, 

When  our  world-deafened  ear 

Is  by  the  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caressed  — 

A     bolt    is     shot    back    somewhere     in     our 

breast. 
And   a   lost  pulse  of   feeling  stirs   again.  85 
The    eye    sinks    inward,    and    the    heart    lies 

plain. 
And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we 

would,    we    know. 
A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow. 
And  hears  its  winding  murnmr ;  and  he  sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the 

breeze.  90 

And   there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  for  ever  chase 
That  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 
And   then   he   thinks   he   knows  96 

The   hills    where   his   life   rose. 
And  the  sea  where  it  goes. 

(1852) 


840 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary  of  myself,  and   sick  of  asking 

What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  he, 

At  this  vessel's  prow   I   stand,   which  hears 

me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And    a    look    of    passionate    desire  s 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send : 

*  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calmed 

me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end ! 

*  Ah,    once    more,'    I    cried,    '  ye    stars,    ye 

waters. 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew;  'o 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you. 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you !  ' 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of 

heaven. 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer : 
'  Wouldst   thou   be  as   these   are?    Live   as 

they.  1 6 

'  Unaffrighted    by    the    silence    round    them, 
Undistracted    by   the    sights    they    see. 
These  demand  not  that  the  things   without 

them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy.       20 

'And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shin- 
ing, 

And   the    sea    its   long   moon-silvered   roll ; 

For  self -poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with 
noting 

All  the  fever  of  some  dififering  soul. 

'  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful  25 
In   what  state   God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring. 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see.' 

O  air-born  voice!  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear : 
'  Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know  that  he,  31 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery!' 

C1852) 


MORALITY 

We   cannot   kindle    when    we   will 
The    fire    which    in   the   heart    resides; 
The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still. 


In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed,      5 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled. 

With   aching  hands   and   bleeding    feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  't  were  done.  10 
Not  till   the  hours  of  light  return. 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul. 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask,  how  she  viewed  thy  self-control,         i5 
Thy  struggling,  tasked  morality  — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air. 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread. 
Whose  eye  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek,  20 

See,  on   her   face   a   glow   is   spread, 
A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek ! 

'  Ah,  child !  '  she  cries,  '  that  strife  divine. 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine? 

'  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow  —  25 

I    do    not    strive,    I    do   not    weep; 
I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 
In    joy,    and    when    I    will,    I    sleep. 
Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 
I   saw,   I   felt  it  once  —  but   where?     30 

'  I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space; 

I   felt  it  in  some  other  clime, 

I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

"T  was  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God.'         z(> 
(1852) 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUAI 


AN    EPISODE 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the  east, 
And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 
Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged 

in  sleep; 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not:  all  night  long  5 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on   his  bed; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his  tent. 
He    rose,    and    clad    himself,    and    girt    his 

sword, 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left  his 

tent, 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog,      ■" 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


841 


and 


tent, 
were 


and 


Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's  tent. 
Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  passed, 

which  stood 
Clustering    like    bee-hives    on    the    low    flat 

strand 
Of    Oxus,    where    the    summer    floods    o'er- 

flow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pa- 
mere:  1 5 
Through  the  black  tents  he  passed,  o'er  that 

low  strand, 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink,  the  spot  where  first 

a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the 

land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned  the 

top  20 

With  a  clay  fort :  but  that  was  fall'n 

now 
The   Tartars   built  there   Peran-Wisa's 
A    dome    of    laths,    and    o'er    it    felts 

spread. 
And   Sohrab  came  there,  and  went   in. 

stood 
Upon  the  thick-piled  carpets   in  the  tent,  ^5 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 
Of   rugs    and    felts,    and    near   him    lay   his 

arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the  step 
Was  dulled;  for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's 

sleep ; 
And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said :  30 
'Who   art   thou?    for   it   is    not   yet   clear 

dawn. 
Speak !  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm  ? ' 
But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said : 
'Thou  knowest  me,  Peran-Wisa:  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe  35 

Sleep;   but   I   sleep  not;   all  night  long  I   lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched;  40 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou    know'st    if,    since    from    Ader-baijan, 

first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars,  and  bore  arms, 
I  have  still  served  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown. 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man.  45 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that,  while  I  still  bear 

on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the 

world. 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
I  see  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone  —  49 


Rustum,   my    father;    who,    I   hoped,    should 

greet, 
Should    one    day    greet,    upon    some    well- 
fought   field. 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I 

ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day:  but  I        ss 
Will    challenge    forth    the    bravest    Persian 

lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man;  if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it;  if  I  fall  — 
Old  man,   the  dead  need  no   one,  claim  no 

kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight,      60 
Where   host    meets    host,    and    many   names 

are   sunk : 
But     of     a     single     combat     Fame     speaks 

clear.' 
He  spoke:  and  Peran-Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and   sighed,   and 

said : 
'  O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine !       65 
Canst    thou     not    rest    among    the    Tartar 

chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with 

us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever  first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk. 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen  ?  70 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with  us 
Unmurmuring;  in  our  tents,  while  it  is  war. 
And    when    't  is    truce,    then    in    Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all. 
To  seek  out  Rustum  —  seek  him  not  through 

fight :  75 

Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son ! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here, 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young,  79 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray: 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 
In  Seistan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old. 
Whether    that   his    own    mighty   strength   at 

last 
Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age ; 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the   Persian  King. 
There     go :  —  Thou     wilt     not  ?     Yet     my 

heart   forebodes  86 

Danger  of  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain    would    I    know    thee    safe    and    well, 

though  lost 
To   us :    fain   therefore   send   thee  hence,   in 

peace 


842 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


To  seek  thy  father,  not  sock  single  fights  90 
In  vain:  —  but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 
From   ravening?  and  who  govern   Rustum's 

son? 
Go:    I   will   grant  thee   what   thy   heart   de- 
sires.' 
So   said   he,   and   dropped    Sohrab's   hand, 

and  left  'J-* 

His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay. 
And   o'er  his  chilly   limbs   his   woolen   coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he 

took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  stafif,  no  sword; 
And    on    his    head    he    set    his    sheep-skin 

cap,  100 

Black,    glossy,    curled,    the    fleece    of    Kara- 

Kul; 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  called 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 
The   sun,  by  this,   had   risen,   and   cleared 

the  fog 
From    the    broad    Oxus    and    the    glittering 

sands:  io5 

And   from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen 

filed 
Into  the  open  plain;  so  Haman  bade; 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 
From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse, 

they   streamed:  i"' 

As   when,    some  gray   November  morn,  the 

files, 
In    marching    order    spread,    of    long-necked 

cranes, 
Stream     over     Casbin,     and     the     southern 

slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries. 
Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed,  southward 

bound  '  ■  5 

For  the   warm    Persian   sea-board :    so   they 

streamed. 
The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King's  guard. 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps   and   with 

long  spears ; 
Large  men,  large  steeds;  who  from  Bokhara 

come  "9 

And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares. 
Next,  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of  the 

south. 
The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And    those    from    Attruck   and   the    Caspian 

sands ; 
Light   men,   and   on   light   steeds,   who  only 

drink  '-4 

The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who 
came 


From    far,    and    a    more    doubtful    service       I 

owned ;  I 

The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks  I 

Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards  J 

And   close-set    skull-caps;   and   those   wilder        ■ 

hordes  130 

Who   roam   o'er   Kipchak   and   the   northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks   and   unkempt   Kuzzaks,  tribes  who 

stray 
Nearest  the  Pole,  and  wandering  Kirghizzes,       I 
Who  come  on   shaggy  ponies   from   Pamere.        | 
These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the  plain.        ' 
And     on     the     other     side     the     Persians 

formed :  136 

First   a   light  cloud  of  horse,   Tartars   they       j 

seemed,  .  I 

The   Ilyats  of   Khorassan :   and   behind,  ' 

The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and   foot, 
Marshaled    battalions    bright    in    burnished 

steel.  140 

But   Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came 
Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front, 
And   with   his   staff  kept   back   the    foremost 

ranks. 
And    when    Ferood,    who    led    the    Persians, 

saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back,  145 
He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came. 
And    checked    his    ranks,    and    fixed    them 

where   they   stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt    the    silent    hosts,    and    spake,    and 

said: 
'  Ferood,    and    ye,    Persians    and    Tartars, 

hear!  'S° 

Let    there    be    truce    between    the    hosts    to- 
day. 
But   choose    a    champion    from    the    Persian 

lords 

To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to  man.' 

As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June,  154 

When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearled  ears, 

A    shiver    runs    through    the   deep    corn    for 

joy  — 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A    thrill    through   all   the   Tartar   squadrons 

ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they 

loved. 
But  as  a  troop  of  peddlers,  from  Cabool, 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus,     161 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of  milk 

snow ; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they 

pass 
Long  flocks  of  traveling  birds  dead  on  the 

snow. 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


843 


Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they  them- 
selves 1^5 
Slake    their    parched    throats    with    sugared 

mulberries  — 
In    single    file    they    move,    and    stop    their 

breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'erhang- 

ing  snows  — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with 

fear. 
And   to    Ferood   his   brother   chiefs   came 

up  '70 

To  counsel  •     Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King: 
These  came  and  counseled ;  and  then  Gudurz 

said: 
*  Ferood,   shame   bids   us  take   their   chal- 
lenge up,  '75 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this 

youth. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
But  Rustuni  came  last  night ;  aloof  he  sits 
And     sullen,     and     has     pitched     his     tents 

apart : 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear        'So 
The  Tartar  challenge,  and  this  young  man's 

name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight, 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  chal- 
lenge up.' 
So  spake  he ;  and  Ferood  stood  forth  and 

cried:  '^4 

'  Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said. 
Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man.' 
He    spake ;    and    Peran-Wisa    turned,    and 

strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his 

tent. 
But    through   the   anxious    Persians    Gudurz 

ran, 
And    crossed    the    camp    which    lay    behind, 

and  reached,  190 

Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's  tents. 
Of    scarlet   cloth   they    were,    and   glittering 

gay, 
Just  pitched :  the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was    Rustum's,    and    his    men    lay    camped 

around. 
And    Gudurz    entered    Rustum's    tent,    and 

found  195 

Rustum:    his   morning  meal   was   done,   but 

still 
The   table   stood   before   him,   charged   with 

food  — 
A    side    of    roasted    sheep,    and    cakes    of 

bread. 


And  dark  green  melons;  and  there  Rustum 

sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist,  200 
And  played   with  it ;  but   Gudurz  came  and 

stood 
Before   him ;   and   he   looked,   and   saw   him 

stand ; 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up,  and  dropped  the 

bird, 
And  greeted   Gudurz  with  both  hands,   and 

said : 
'  Welcome !  these  eyes  could  see  no  better 

sight.  205 

What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat  and 

drink.' 
But    Gudurz    stood    in   the   tent-door,   and 

said: 
'Not    now:    a    time    will    come    to    eat    and 

drink, 
But  not  to-day:  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The    armies    are    drawn    out,    and    stand    at 

gaze:  210 

For  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion  —  and  thou  know'st 

his  name  — 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 
O    Rustum,    like    thy    might    is    this    young 

man's!  215 

He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are  old, 
Or    else    too    weak;    and    all    eyes    turn    to 

thee. 
Come    down    and    help    us,    Rustum,    or    we 

lose.' 
He    spoke :    but    Rustum    answered    with    a 

smile :  —  220 

'Go  to!  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older :  if  the  young  are  weak,  the  king 
Errs     strangely:     for    the    king,     for     Kai- 

Khosroo, 
Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger  men, 
And  lets  the  aged  molder  to  their  graves. 
Rustum    he    loves    no    more,    but    loves    the 


young  — 


226 


The    young    may    rise    at    Sohrab's    vaunts, 

not  1. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's 

fame  ? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And    not    that    one    slight    helpless    girl    I 

have,  230 

A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war. 
And   I   to  tarry  with   the  snow-haired  Zal, 
My   father,  whom  the   robber  Afghans  vex, 
And   clip   his   borders    short,    and    drive   his 

herds,  234 


844 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  1  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up, 
And  with  my  great   name    fence   that   weak 

old  man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got, 
And    rest    my    age,    and    hear    of    Sohrab's 

fame, 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless 

kings,  -'-^^ 

And    with    these    slaughterous    hands    draw 

sword  no  more.' 
He  spoke,  and  smiled;  and  Gudurz  made 

reply: 
'  What    then,    O    Rustum,    will    men    say    to 

this. 
When   Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and 

seeks, 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he 

seeks,  ^'^^ 

Hidest    thy     face?     Take     heed,     lest     men 

should  say, 
"  Like   some   old   miser,   Rustum   hoards  his 

fame. 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men."  ' 
And,  greatly  moved,  then  Rustum  made  re- 
ply: 
'  O    Gudurz,   wherefore   dost   thou   say   such 

words?  ^50 

Thou    knowest    better    words    than    this    to 

say. 
What    is    one    more,    one    less,    obscure    or 

famed, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself? 
But  who  for  men  of  naught  would  do  great 

deeds?  ^55 

Come,    thou    shall   see   how    Rustum    hoards 

his    fame. 
But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain  arms ; 
Let    not    men    say    of     Rustum,     he    was 

matched 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man.' 
He     spoke,    and     frowned;     and     Gudurz 

turned,  and  ran  ^^° 

Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and 

joy, 
Fear    at    his    wrath,    but    joy    that    Rustum 

came. 
But    Rustum    strode   to    his    tent-door,    and 

called 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his 

arms. 
And    clad    himself    in    steel :    the    arms    he 

chose  ^^5 

Were  plain,  and  on  his   shield   was  no  de- 
vice, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 


And  from  the  fluted  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of    horsehair    waved,    a    scarlet    horsehair 

plume. 
So  armed,  he  issued  forth;  and  Ruksh,  his 

horse,  270 

I'V)Ilowcd  him,  like  a  faithful  hound,  at  heel, 
Ruksh,    whose   renown   was   noised   through 

all   the  earth,  | 

The  horse,  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him  home. 
And   reared   him;   a   bright   bay,   with    lofty 

crest,  276 

Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broidered  green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground  were 

worked 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters 

know : 
So    followed,    Rustum    left    his    tents,    and 

crossed  280 

The    camp,    and    to    the    Persian    host    ap- 
peared. 
And   all   the    Persians   knew  him,   and   with 

shouts 
Hailed ;   but  the   Tartars  knew   not   who  he 

was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on 

shore,  285 

By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  in  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls. 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands  —  289 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 
And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  ad- 
vanced. 
And    Sohrab    armed    in    Haman's   tent,    and 

came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 
Down   through  the  middle  of  a   rich  man's 

corn,  295 

And   on   each   side  are   squares   of   standing 

corn. 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and  bare; 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with 

spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand.  I 

And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast       - 
His  eyes  toward  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab    come    forth,    and    eyed    him    as    he 

came.  3°' 

As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn. 

Eyes    through   her   silken    curtains   the   poor 

drudge 
Who    with    numb    blackened    fingers    makes 

her   fire  — 
At  cock-crow  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn,  305 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


845 


When   the   frost   flowers   the   whitened   win- 

"dow-panes  — 
And  wonders  how  she   lives,  and  what  the 

thoughts 
Of   that   poor   drudge   may   be;    so    Rustum 

eyed 
The  unknown  adventurous  youth,  who  from 
afar  309 

Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs :  long  he  perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seemed,  tenderly  reared ; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark,  and 

straight,  314 

Which  in  a  queen's  secluded  garden  throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf, 
By     midnight,     to     a     bubbling     fountain's 

sound  — 
So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a  deep  pity  entered  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming;  and  he  stood,  320 
And    beckoned    to   him   with   his   hand,   and 

said : 
'  O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  heaven  is 

soft. 
And   warm,  and  pleasant ;   but  the  grave  is 

cold. 
Heaven's    air   is   better   than   the   cold   dead 

grave. 
Behold  he:   I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron,  3^5 
And    tried ;    and    I    have    stood    on    many   a 

field 
Of  blood,  and   I  have   fought  with  many   a 

foe: 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  saved. 
O    Sohrab,    wherefore    wilt    thou    rush    on 

death  ? 
Be  governed :  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me,  331 

And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die. 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou.' 
So    he    spake,    mildly :    Sohrab    heard    his 

voice,  334 

The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum  ;  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand. 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Hath  buiided  on   the  waste  in   former  years 
Against  the  robbers ;  and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streaked  with  its  first  gray  hairs :  hope  filled 

his  soul ;  34° 

And    he    ran    forwards    and    embraced    his 

knees, 
And   clasped   his   hand  within   his   own   and 

said : 
'  Oh,  by  thy  father's  head  !  by  thine  own 

soul ! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum?     Speak!  art  thou  not 

he?' 


But    Rustum    eyed    askance    the    kneeling 

youth,  345 

And    turned    away,    and    spake    to    his    own 

soul : 

'  Ah    me,    I    muse    what    this    young    fox 

may  mean. 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks,  349 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say,  "  Rustum  is  here," 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous 

gifts, 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a   feast-day,  in  Afrasiab's  hall,  355 
In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry  — 
"  I    challenged    once,    when   the    two    armies 

camped 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight ;  but  they 
Shrank ;  only  Rustum  dared :  then  he  and  I 
Changed    gifts,    and    went    on    equal    terms 

away."  361 

So    will    he    speak,   perhaps,   while   men   ap- 
plaud. 
Then     were     the     chiefs     of     Iran     shamed 

through   me.' 
And    then    he    turned,    and    sternly    spake 

aloud  : 
'Rise!   wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  question 

thus  365 

Of   Rustum?     I   am   here,   whom   thou   hast 

called 
By  challenge  forth:  make  good  thy  vaunt,  or 

yield. 
Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  on   Rustum's   face  and 

flee. 
For    well    I    know,    that    did    great    Rustum 

stand  370 

Before    thy    face    this    day,    and    were    re- 
vealed, 
There    would    be    then    no    talk    of    fighting 

more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this : 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul : 
Either   thou    shalt    renounce   thy   vaunt,   and 

yield;  375 

Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till 

winds 
Bleach    them,    or    Oxus    with    his    summer 

floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away.' 
He   spoke :   and   Sohrab  answered,   on   his 

feet : — 
'  Art  thou  so  fierce  ?     Thou  wilt  not   fright 

me   so.  380 

I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 


846 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


38s 
am 


Yet   this   thou    hast    said    well,   did    Rustum 

stand 
Here   on   this   field,   there   were   no   fighting 

then. 
But    Rustum    is    far   hence,    and    we    stand 

here. 
Begin:    thou    art    more    vast,    more    dread 

than  I, 
And   thou    art    proved,    I    know,    and    I 

young  — 
But  yet   success    sways   with   the   breath   of 

heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  know- 

cst  sure  388 

Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in   the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  Fate, 
Which    hangs    uncertain    to    which    side    to 

fall. 
And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea. 
Back    out    to    sea,    to    the    deep    waves    of 

death,  395 

We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us 

know: 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour.' 
He  spoke;  and  Rustum  answered  not,  but 

hurled 
His  spear:   down   from  the  shoulder,  down 

it   came  399 

As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds 
Drops  like  a  plummet :  Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And    sprang    aside,    quick    as    a    flash:    the 

spear 
Hissed,  and   went  quivering  down   into   the 

sand. 
Which    it    sent    flying   wide :  —  then    Sohrab 

threw  40s 

In   turn,    and    full    struck    Rustum's    shield: 

sharp  rang 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned  the 

spear. 
And    Rustum    seized   his    club,   which   none 

but  he 
Could  wield:  an  unlopped  trunk  it  was,  and 

huge. 
Still  rough;  like  those  which  men  in  treeless 

plains  410 

To  build  them  boats  fish   from  the  flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By   their   dark   springs,   the   wind  in   winter- 
time 
Has  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack, 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs ; 
so   huge  4' 5 


The    club    which    Rustum    lifted    now,    and 

struck 
One  stroke ;   but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside 
Lithe   as   the   glancing   snake,   and   the   club 

came 
Thundering  to   earth,   and   leapt   from   Rus- 
tum's hand. 
And    Rustum    followed   his   own   blow,    and 

fell  420 

To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched 

the  sand : 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed  his 

sword, 
And   pierced    the   mighty   Rustum    while   he 

lay 
Dizzy,   and   on  his  knees,  and   choked   with 

sand : 
But  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared  his 

sword,  42s 

But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and 

said : 
'Thou  strik'st  too  hard:  that  club  of  thine 

will   float 
Upon  the  summer-floods,  and  not  my  bones. 
But    rise,    and    be    not    wroth ;    not    wroth 

am  I : 
No,    when    I    see    thee,    wrath    forsakes    my 

soul.  430 

Thou  say'st  thou  art  not  Rustum :  be  it  so. 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my 

soul? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too; 
Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves. 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men; 
But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touched  be- 
fore. 436 
Are  they  from  heaven,   these  softenings  of 

the  heart? 
O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  heaven ! 
Come,    plant    we    here    in    earth    our    angry 

spears,  439 

And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 
And    pledge    each    other    in    red    wine,    like 

friends. 
And    thou    shalt    talk    to    me    of    Rustum's 

deeds. 
There  are  enough   foes  in  the   Persian  host 
Whom   I   may  meet,  and  strike,  and   feel  no 

pang ;  444 

Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 
Alayst  fight ;  fight  them,  when  they  confront 

thy   spear. 
But  oh,   let   there  be   peace   'twixt  thee  and 

me !  ' 
He   ceased :    but   while   he    spake,    Rustum 

had  risen, 
And    stood   erect,   trembling   with   rage:    his 

club  449 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


847 


He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right- 
hand 
Blazed  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn 

star. 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers:  dust  had  soiled 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glittering 

arms. 
His    breast    heaved ;    his    lips    foamed ;    and 
twice  his  voice  455 

Was  choked  with  rage:  at  last  these  words 
broke  way : 
'  Girl !  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy 
hands! 
Curled     minion,     dancer,     coiner     of     sweet 

words ! 
Fight ;    let    me    hear    thy    hateful    voice    no 

more ! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now  460 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont 

to   dance; 
But  on  the  Oxus  sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war:  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and 
wine!  465 

Remember  all  thy  valor ;  try  thy  feints 
'       And  cunning:  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone: 
I       Because  thou  hast   shamed   me  before  both 
'  the  hosts 

'<        With    thy    light    skipping    tricks,    and    thy 

girl's   wiles.' 

He    spoke:    and    Sohrab    kindled    at    his 

taunts,  470 

And  he  too  drew  his   sword :   at  once  they 

!  rushed 

i       Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
:       Come     rushing     down     together     from     the 
■  clouds, 

!       One    from    the    east,    one    from    the    west : 
I  their  shields  474 

'       Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 

Rose,    such    as    that    the    sinewy    woodcut- 
I  ters 

Alake  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn. 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees:   such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took 
part  480 

In  that  unnatural  conflict;   for  a  cloud 
Grew    suddenly   in    heaven,   and   darked  the 

sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under    their    feet,    and    moaning    swept    the 

plain, 
And    in    a     sandy    whirlwind    wrapped    the 
pair.  4S5 


In    gloom    they    twain    were    wrapped,    and 

they  alone ; 
For    both    the    on-looking    hosts    on    either 

hand 
Stood    in   broad   daylight,   and   the   sky   was 

pure. 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they   fought,  with  blood- 
shot eyes  490 
And    laboring   breath ;    first    Rustum    struck 

the  shield 
Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out :  the  steel-spiked 

spear 
Rent   the   tough   plates,  but    failed  to   reach 

the  skin, 
And    Ruslum    plucked    it    back    with    angry 

groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum's 

helm,  495 

Nor   clove   its   steel    quite   through;   but   all 

the  crest 
He    shore    away,    and   that   proud   horsehair 

plume. 
Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust;    • 
And  Rustum  bowed  his  head;  but  then  the 

gloom  499 

Grew  blacker:  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;   and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful  cry : 
No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pained  desert  lion,  who  all  day  504 
Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 
And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand : 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked 

for  fear, 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But    Sohrab    heard,    and    quailed    not,    but 

rushed  on,  509 

And  struck  again;  and  again  Rustum  bowed 
His  head;   but  this  time  all   the  blade,   like 

glass. 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 
And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head ;  his  dreadful 

eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing 

spear,  515 

And  shouted,  '  Rustum!  '      Sohrab  heard  that 

shout, 
And  shrank  amazed :   back  he   recoiled   one 

step, 
And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  advanc- 
ing  form : 
And    then    he    stood    bewildered ;    and    he 

dropped  s-^o 

His   covering   shield,  and   the   spear   pierced 

his   side. 


848 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


He  reeled,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to  the 

ground. 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the  wind 

fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted 

all 
The    cloud;    and    the    two    armies    saw    the 

pair;  524 

Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 

And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 

Then  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began : 

'  Sohrab,    thou    thoughtest    in    thy    mind    to 

kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse. 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent.  53° 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come 

down 
Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would 

move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And    then    that    all    the    Tartar    host    would 

praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,   and   spread   thy 

fame,  535 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool !    thou   art    slain,  and   by   an   unknown 

man ! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be. 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old.' 
And,    with    a    fearless    mien,    Sohrab    re- 
plied :  540 
'  Unknown  thou  art ;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is 

vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful 

man! 
No !  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men  as 

thee, 
And  I  virere  he  who  till  to-day  I   was,   545 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm  — 
That    name,    and    something,    I    confess,    in 

thee. 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my 

shield 
Fall ;   and  thy  spear  transfixed  an  unarmed 

foe,  550 

And   now   thou    boastest,    and    insult'st   my 

fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,   fierce  man,  tremble  to 

hear  I 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death  1 
My    father,    whom    I    seek    through    all    the 

world, 
He    shall    avenge    my    death,    and    punish 

thee!'  5S5 

As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath 

found 


A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 

L'pon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 

And    pierced    her    with    an    arrow    as    she 

rose. 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far    off;  —  anon    her    mate    comes    winging 

back  56 I 

From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His    huddling   young    left    sole;    at    that,    he 

checks 
His   pinion,   and   with   short   uneasy    sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding    his    mate    back    to    her    nest ;    but 

she  566 

Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers :  never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ;     S7o 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by:  — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his 

loss  — 
So    Rustum    knew    not    his    own    loss,    but 

stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not.  575 
But    with    a    cold,    incredulous    voice,    he 

said: 
'What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son.' 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied: 
'  Ah,  yes,  he  had !  and  that  lost  son  am  I.  580 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
Reach    Rustum,    where    he    sits,   and    tarries 

long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far  from 

here; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him 

leap  584 

To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  ven- 
geance be ! 
Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells  59o 
With   that  old  king,   her   father,   who  grows 

gray 
With  age,  and  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab   returning   from  the  Tartar  camp. 
With    spoils    and    honor,    when   the    war    is 

done.  595 

But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe,     600 
By  the  far  distant  Oxus,  he  is   slain.' 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


849 


He    spoke;    and    as    he    ceased    he    wept 

aloud, 
Thinking    of     her    he     left,     and     his     own 

death. 
He  spoke ;  but  Rustum  listened,  plunged  in 

thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son     605 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names 

he  knew ; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him. 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all :       609 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum    should    seek    the    boy,    to    train    in 

arms ; 
,  And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
I  By    a    false    boast,    the    style    of    Rustum's 

son; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deemed  he;  yet  he  listened,  plunged  in 

thought;  61S 

And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  ocean  sets  to  shore 
At    the    full    moon :    tears    gathered    in    his 

eyes; 
For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth, 
jAnd  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn, 
I  The     shepherd     from     his     mountain-lodge 
I  descries  621 

A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds;  —  so  Rustum 

saw 
His    youth ;    saw    Sohrab's    mother,    in    her 
I  bloom ; 

jAnd    that   old   king,   her   father,   who   loved 
j  well  625 

IHis  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair 
i  child 

With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led. 
They    three,    in    that    long-distant    summer- 
time — 
The  castle,  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And   hound,   and   morn   on   those   delightful 

hills  630 

In  Ader-baijan.  And  he  saw  that  youth. 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son. 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth,  which  by  the  scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut,  635 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 
And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom. 
On    the    mown,    dying    grass ;  —  so    Sohrab 

lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common   sand. 
Aud  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and 

said :  —  640 

'  O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 


Whom   Rustum,   wert   thou   his,   might   well 

have  loved ! 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have   told  thee   false;  —  thou   art   not   Rus- 
tum's son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son :  one  child  he  had  — 
But    one  —  a    girl :    who    with    her    mother 

now  646 

Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of 

us  — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor 

war.' 
But   Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath ;   for 

now 
The   anguish  of  the   deep-fixed   spear   grew 

fierce,  650 

And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel. 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die; 
But    first    he    would    convince    his    stubborn 

foe  — 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said: 
'  i\]an,   who   art   thou   who   dost   deny  my 

words?  655 

Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from 

mine. 
I  tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That    seal    which    Rustum    to    my    mother 

gave. 
That    she   might   prick   it   on   the   babe    she 

bore.'  660 

He  spoke:  and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum's 

cheeks; 
And    his   knees   tottered,   and   he   smote   his 

hand. 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clanked  aloud : 
And  on  his  heart  he  pressed  the  other  hand. 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said : 
'  Sohrab,   that  were  a  proof   which  could 

not  lie.  667 

If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's 

son.' 
Then,    with    weak    hasty    fingers,    Sohrab 

loosed 
His   belt,   and   near   the   shoulder   bared   his 

arm,  670 

And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion   some  clear  porcelain 

vase. 
An  emperor's  gift  — at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And   all   day   long,  and,   when   night   comes. 

the  lamp  675 

Lights    up    his    studious    forehead    and    thin 

hands : — 
So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 


850 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


On     Sohrab's    arm,    the    sign    of    Rustum's 

seal. 
It  was  that  Griffin,  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 
Rustum's   great    father,   whom   they   left   to 

die,  680 

A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks. 
Him  that  kind  creature   found,  and  reared, 

and   loved  — 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And   Sohrab  bared   that   image  on  his   arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful 


eyes. 


685 


And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand  and 
said : 
'  How  say'st  thou?     Is  that  sign  the  proper 
sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?' 
He  spoke:   but   Rustum  gazed,   and  gazed, 
and  stood 
Speechless;   and  then   he   uttered   one   sharp 


cry- 


690 


'O      boy  — thy      father!'— and     his      voice 

choked  there. 
And   then    a   dark   cloud    passed   before   his 

eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to 

earth. 
But    Sohrab  crawled   to  where   he  lay,    and 

cast 
His    arms    about    his    neck,    and    kissed    his 

lips,  695 

And  with   fond   faltering  fingers  stroked  his 

cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life:  and  life 
Came    back    to    Rustum,    and    he    oped    his 

eyes. 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;   and  he 

seized 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around, 
And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched  his 

hair,  7oi 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering 

arms : 
And  strong  convulsive  groanings   shook  his 

breast. 
And  his  sobs  choked  him;  and  he  clutched 

his   sword. 
To  draw  it,  and  forever  let  life  out.         705 
But   Sohrab   saw   his  thought,   and  held  his 

hands, 
And    with    a    soothing   voice   he    spake,   and 

said: 
'  Father,  forbear :  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The    doom    that    at    my    birth    was    written 

down 
In    heaven,    and    thou    art    heaven's    uncon- 
scious hand.  710 


Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee ;  and  thy  heart  spuke 

loo, 
I   know  it :   but   Fate  trod  those   pruniptings 

down 
Under  its  iron  heel ;  Fate,  Fate  engaged 
The   strife,   and   hurled   me   on   my    father's 

spear.  7' 5 

Ijut   let  us  speak  no  more  of  this :   1   find 
My    father ;   let   me   feel   that   I   have   found. 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
j\ly    head    betwixt    thy   hands,   and    kiss    my 

cheeks. 
And    wash    them    with    thy   tears,    and    say: 

"  My   son  !  "  720 

Quick!   quick!    for  numbered   are   my   sands 

of   life. 
And    swift;    for    like    the    lightning    to    this 

field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away  — 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 
But   it   was   writ  in  heaven   that   this   should 

be.'  7^5 

So    said    he:    and    his    voice    released    the 

heart 
Of   Rustum,  and   his  tears  broke   forth;   he 

cast 
His   arms    round   his   son's   neck,   and    wept 

aloud. 
And  kissed  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both  the 

hosts 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief :  and  Ruksh, 

the   horse,  730 

With   his   head   bowing  to   the  ground,   and 

mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute 

woe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might   mean ;   and    from   his   dark,   compas- 
sionate eyes,  73S 
The  big  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked 

the    sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and 

said: 
'  Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest ;  but  O  Ruksh, 

thy  feet 
Should    first    have    rotted    on    their    nimble 

joints. 
When    first    they    bore    thy    master    to    this 

field.'  740 

But    Sohrab    looked    upon    the    horse   and 

said : 
'Is   this   then   Ruksh?     How   often,   in   past 

days. 
My    mother    told    me    of    thee,    thou    brave 

steed ! 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


851 


My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse;  and  said, 
That    I    should   one   day   find   thy  lord   and 
thee.  743 

Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane. 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 
And    snuffed    the    breezes    of    my    father's 

home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 
And    seen   the    river   of   Helmund,    and    the 
Lake  75 1 

Of  Zirrah;  and  the  aged  ZaI  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given  thee 

food, 

Corn   in  a  golden  platter  soaked  with  wine. 

And      said  — "  O      Ruksh !      bear      Rustum 

well !  "—but  I  755 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  furrowed 

face. 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund 

stream : 
But    lodged    among    my    father's    foes,    and 

seen 
Afrasiab's   cities   only,   Samarcand,  760 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste. 
And    the   black    Toorkmun    tents ;    and    only 

drunk 
The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,   and   where   the   Kalmuks    feed  their 

sheep. 
The    northern    Sir;    and    this    great    Oxus 
stream —  765 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die.' 
And,    with    a    heavy    groan,    Rustum    be- 
wailed : 
'  Oh,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me ! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head!' 
And,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  re- 
plied:  771 
'Desire  not  that,  my  father:  thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and 

live, 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in   thine  age.     71^ 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But    come:    thou    seest    this    great    host    of 

men 
Which    follow   me;    I   pray   thee,    slay   not 

these : 
Let  me   entreat    for  them :   what   have  they 
done  ?  7S0 

They   followed  me,   my  hope,   my   fame,   my 

star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 


But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with 

them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, 
Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all  thy 
friends.  786 

And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 
And  plant  a    far-seen  pillar  over  all; 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May    see    my    tomb    a    great    way    off,    and 
cry:  791 

"  Sohrab,    the     mighty     Rustum's     son,    lies 

there, 
Whom    his    great    father    did    in    ignorance 

kill  "— 
And   I   be  not   forgotten  in   my  grave.' 
And,   with   a   mournful   voice,    Rustum   re- 
plied:— 795 
'  Fear  not ;   as   thou   hast   said,   Sohrab,   my 

son. 
So    shall    it    be;    for    I    will   burn    my   tents 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with 

me. 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan. 
And   place   thee   on   a  bed,   and   mourn    for 
thee,  800 

With    the    snow-headed    Zal,    and    all    my 

friends. 
And   I   will   lay  thee  in   that   lovely  earth. 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones, 
And  plant  a   far-seen  pillar  over  all :       804 
And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 
And  I  will  spare  thy  host:  yea,  let  them  go: 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
What   should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  whom  1  have  ever  slain 
Might    be    once    more    alive;    my    bitterest 
foes,  810 

And    they    who    were    called    champions    in 

their  time. 
And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame  I 

have; 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown; 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my  son ! 
Or  rather   would  that   \,  even   I   myself,  816 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand. 
Near   death,   and   by  an   ignorant   stroke   of 

thine, 
Not   thou   of  mine;    and   I   might   die,   not 

thou; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan;       820 
And   Zal   might   weep   above  my  grave,  not 

thine ; 
And    say  — "  O    son,    I    weep    thee    not    too 
sore, 


852 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


For    willingly,    I    know,    thou    met'st    thine 

end." 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth. 
And   full   of  blood   and  battles   is  my   age; 
And  I  shall'  never  end  this  life  of  blood.' 
Then,   at  the   point  of   death,    Sohrab   re- 
plied :  «-'7 
'  A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man  ! 
But   thou    shalt   yet   have    peace;    only   not 

now.  ^-^9 

Not  yet :  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day, 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave.' 
And  Rustuni  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and 

said:  ^^= 

'  Soon  be  that   day,  my  son,  and  deep  that 

sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure.' 
He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and 

took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it   from  his  side,  and 

eased 
His    wound's    imperious    anguish ;    but    the 

blood  840 

Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flowed  with  the  stream;  all  down  his  cold 

white   side 
The    crimson    torrent    ran,    dim    now    and 

soiled. 
Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,  on  their  native  bank, 
By    children    whom   their    nurses    call    with 

haste  846 

Indoors     from     the     sun's     eye ;     his     head 

drooped   low, 
His    limbs    grew    slack :    motionless,    white, 

he  lay, 
White,   with   eyes   closed,   only   when   heavy 

gasps. 
Deep    heavy    gasps,    quivering    through    all 

his  frame,  850 

Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened  them. 
And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face ; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed;  and  from 

his  limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 
And  youth,  and   bloom,  and  this  delightful 

world,  856 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead : 
And    the    great    Rustum    drew    his    horse- 
man's cloak 
Down  o'er  his   face,  and   sate  by  his   dead 

son. 
As   those   black   granite    pillars,   once    high- 
reared,  860 


By  Jcmshid  in    Persepolis,  to  bear 

His    house,    now    'mid    their    broken    flights 

of    steps, 
Lie    prone,    enormous,    down    the    mountain 

side : 
So,  in  the  sand,  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 
And    night    came    down    over    the    solemn 

waste,  86s 

And    the    two    gazing    hosts,    and    that    sole 

pair, 
And    darkened    all ;    and    a    cold    fog,    with 

night. 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog ;  for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their 

meal:  871 

The    Persians   took  it  on   the   open   sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars,  by  the  river  marge: 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on,  875 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land. 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 
Rejoicing,   through   the   hushed    Chorasmian 

waste. 
Under  the  solitary  moon :  he  flowed 
Right   for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje,  880 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large ;  then  sands 

began 
To    hem    his    watery    march,    and    dam    his 

streams. 
And    split    his    currents,    that    for    many    a 

league 
The  shorn  and  parceled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through    beds    of    sand    and    matted    rushy 

isles;  885 

Oxus,    forgetting   the   bright    speed   he   had. 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in   Pamere, 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer:  till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 

wide  889 

His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And    tranquil,    from    whose    floor    the    new- 
bathed    stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

(1853) 

THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY 

Go,    for  they  call   you,   shepherd,    from   the 
hill ; 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes; 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor    let    thy    bawling    fellows    rack    their 
throats, 
Nor  the  cropped  grasses,  shoot  another 
head.  5 

But   when   the   fields   are   still, 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY 


853 


j  And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all   gone  to 

I  rest. 

And    only   the    white    sheep    are    some- 
times  seen 
Cross  and   recross  the   strips   of  moon- 
blanched  green  ; 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  renew  the 
[  quest.  ^° 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late, 
1  In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he 
I  leaves 

i  His    coat,    his   basket,    and   his    earthen 

j  cruise, 

'         And    in    the    sun    all    morning    binds    the 

sheaves, 

Then    here,    at    noon,    comes    back    his 

stores    to    use;  '5 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait. 

While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away, 

The    bleating    of    the    folded    flocks    is 

borne ; 
With    distant    cries    of    reapers    in    the 
corn  — 
All   the   live   murmur  of  a  summer's 
day.  20 

Screened   is   this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half- 
reaped   field, 
And   here  till   sun-down,  shepherd,  will   I 
be. 
Through     the     thick     corn     the     scarlet 
poppies   peep 
And    round    green    roots    and    yellowing 
stalks    I    see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep ; 
And   air-swept   lindens   yield  26 

Their   scent,    and    rustle    down   their   per- 
fumed   showers 
Of   bloom    on    the    bent   grass   where    I 

am   laid, 
And    bower    me    from    the    August    sun 
with    shade; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's 
towers.  30 

And   near   me    on    the   grass    lies    Glanvil's 
book  — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again. 
The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of     shining     parts     and     quick     inventive 
brain, 
Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's 
door,  3S 

One    summer-morn    forsook 
His   friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy 
lore, 


And   roamed   the   world    with   that   wild 

brotherhood. 
And    came,    as    most    men    deemed,    to 

little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his   friends 

no   more.  40 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes, 
Two    scholars    whom    at    college    erst    he 
knew. 
Met   him,   and   of   his   way   of    life   en- 
quired. 
Whereat     he     answered,     that     the     gipsy 
crew, 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  de- 
sired, 45 
The   workings   of  men's   brains; 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts 
they   will  : 
'  And  I,'  he  said,  '  the  secret  of  their  art. 
When    fully  learned,   will   to   the   world 
impart ; 
But  it  needs  happy  moments  for  this 
skill.'                                                 50 

This    said,   he    left   them,   and   returned   no 
more. 
But  rumors  hung  about  the  country  side 
That  the  lost  scholar  long  was  seen  to 
stray. 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses  pensive  and  tongue- 
tied. 
In   hat  of  antique   shape,  and   cloak   of 
gray,  S5 

The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in 
spring : 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire 

moors, 
On    the   warm    ingle-bench,   the    smock- 
frocked   boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  enter- 
ing. 60 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would 

fly, 

And    I    myself    seem    half    to    know    thy 
looks. 
And    put    the    shepherds,    wanderer,    on 
thy  trace ; 
And     boys     who     in     lone     wheat     fields 
scare  the  rooks 
I    ask    if    thou    hast    passed    their    quiet 
place ;  65 

Or  in  my  boat   I   lie 
Moored  to  the  cool  bank  in   the  summer 
heats. 


854 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


'Mid    wide    grass    meadows    which    the 

sunshine  fills, 
And     watch     the     warm     green-mufiled 

Cumncr  hills, 
And    wonder    if    thou    haunt'st    their 

shy   retreats.  7o 

For     most,     I     know,     thou     lov'st     retired 
ground. 
Thee,   at   the    ferry,   Oxford   riders   blithe. 
Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have 
met 
Crossing    the    stripling    Thames    at    Bab- 
lock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool   stream  thy  fingers 
wet,  75 

As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round : 
And     leaning     backwards     in     a     pensive 
dream, 
And    fostering    in    thy    lap    a    heap    of 

flowers 
Plucked  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wych- 
wood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moon- 
lit stream.  80 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no 
more. 
Maidens    who    from    the    distant    hamlets 
come 
To    dance    around    the    Fyfield    elm    in 
May, 
Oft    through    the    darkening    fields    have 
seen  thee  roam. 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way.  85 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers  — the  frail-leafed,  white  anem- 
one— 
Dark   bluebells   drenched   with   dews   of 

summer  eves  — 
And      purple      orchises      with      spotted 
leaves  — 
But  none  hath  words  she  can  report 
of  thee. 

And,    above    Godstow    Bridge,    when    hay- 
time's  here  9' 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in   sunshine 
flames, 
Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of 
breezy  grass 
Where   black-winged    swallows   haunt   the 
glittering   Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandoned  lasher  pass, 
Have    often   passed   thee   near  96 
Sitting   upon   the   river   bank   o'ergrown ; 
Marked     thine     outlandish     garb,     thy 
figure   spare. 


Thy    dark    vague    eyes,  and    soft    ab- 
stracted air; 

But,    when    they   came  from   bathing, 

thou   wast   gone.  'oo 

At    some    lone    homestead    in    the    Cumner 
hills. 
Where    at    her   open    door   the    housewife 
darns. 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a 
gate 
To    watch    the    threshers    in    the    mossy 
barns. 
Children,   who  early  range  these   slopes 
and  late  105 

For   cresses    from   the   rills. 
Have  known  thee  eying,  all  an  April  day, 
The    springing    pastures    and    the    feed- 
ing  kinc ; 
And  marked  thee,  when  the  stars  come 
out   and   shine, 
Through    the    long   dewy   grass    move 
slow  away.  no 

In  Autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood  — 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf -edged 
way 
Pitch    their    smoked    tents,    and    every 
bush  you  see 
With    scarlet    patches    tagged    and    shreds 
of   gray. 
Above    the    forest-ground    called    Thes- 
saly—  115 

The  blackbird  picking  food. 
Sees  thee,  nor   stops  his  meal,   nor   fears 
at  all; 
So  often  has  he  known   thee  past   him 
stray. 
Rapt,    twirling    in    thy    hand    a    withered 
spray, 
And     waiting     for     the     spark     from 
heaven  to  fall.  120 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 
Where  home  through  flooded  fields   foot- 
travelers  go. 
Have    I    not   passed    thee    on   the    wooden 

bridge 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the 
snow. 
Thy   face  toward  Hinskey  and  its  win- 
try ridge?  ^^= 
And  thou  hast  climbed  the  hill, 
And  gained  the  white  brow  of  the  Cum- 
ner range. 
Turned   once   to   watch,   while   thick   the 
snowflakes  fall. 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY 


855 


The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ  Church 
hall  — 
Then    sought    thy    straw   in    some    se- 
questered  grange.  '3o 

But   what  —  I   dream !     Two   hundred   years 
are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story   ran   through   Oxford 
halls, 
And  the  grave   Glanvil   did   the   tale   in- 
scribe 
That  thou  wert  wandered  from  the  studi- 
ous walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gipsy 
tribe:  us 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard 
laid; 
Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  un- 
known grave 
Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles 
wave  — 
Under   a   dark   red-fruited,   yew-tree's 
shade.  140 

—  No,   no,   thou  hast   not    felt  the   lapse   of 
hours. 
For    what    wears    out    the   life    of    mortal 
men? 
'T  is  that    from   change  to   change   their 
being  rolls: 
'T  is    that    repeated    shocks,    again,    again, 
Exhaust  the   energy  of   strongest   souls. 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers.  m6 

Till    having    used    our    nerves    with    bliss 
and   teen, 
And    tired    upon    a    thousand    schemes 

our   wit. 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we   remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are  —  what  we 
have  been.  150 

Thou    hast    not    lived,    why    should'st    thou 
perish,  so? 
Thou    had'st   o)ie   aim,    one   business,    one 
desire; 
Else    wert    thou    long    since    numbered 
with  the  dead  — 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy 
fire. 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled. 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go;  156 

But  thou  possessest  an   immortal  lot. 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt   from  age. 
And    living   as    thou    liv'st    on    Glanvil's 
page. 
Because    thou   hadst  —  what   we,    alas, 
have  not !  160 


For  early  didst  thou   leave  the  world,  with 
powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 
Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other 
things; 
Free    from   the    sick    fatigue,   the    languid 
doubt, 
Which    much    to    have    tried,    in    much 
been  baffled,  brings.  i^S 

O   life   unlike   to   ours! 
Who     fluctuate     idly     without     term     or 
scope. 
Of  whom    each   strives,   nor  knows    for 

what   he   strives, 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different 
lives ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee, 
in  hope.  "7o 

Thou    waitest    for   the    spark    from    heaven : 
and  we. 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 
Who     never     deeply     felt,     nor     clearly 
willed. 
Whose    insight    never   has    borne    fruit    in 
deeds. 
Whose   vague   resolves  never  have  been 
fulfilled;  175 

For   whom   each   year   we   see 
Breeds    new    beginnings,    disappointments 
new; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away. 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to- 
day— 
Ah,    do    not    we,    wanderer,    await    it 
too?  180 

Yes,  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays, 
And  then  we  suffer;  and  amongst  us  one. 
Who    most    has    suffered,    takes    deject- 
edly 
His   seat  upon  the  intellectual   throne ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays   bare   of   wretched   days;  '86 

Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and 
signs. 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was 

fed. 
And   how   the  breast   was   soothed,   and 
how  the  head. 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This    for  our  wisest :   and  we  others  pine. 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would 

end,  19^ 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to 
bear 
With    close-lipped    patience    for    our    only 
friend, 


856 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Sad   patience,   too  near   neighbor  to  de- 
spair, '^^ 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods  dost  stray, 
Roaming  the  country  side,  a  truant  boy. 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy. 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time 
away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and 
clear, 
And     life     ran     gaily     as     the     sparkling 
Thames ; 
Before  this   strange   disease   of   modern 
life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims. 
Its    heads    o'ertaxed,    its    palsied    hearts, 
was   rife—  ^°5 

Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear ! 
Still    fly,    plunge    deeper    in   the   bowering 
wood! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From    her    false     friend's    approach    in 
Hades  turn,  ^°9 

Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude. 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope. 
Still   clutching   the   inviolable   shade, 
With   a    free   onward   impulse   brushing 
through, 
By    night,    the    silvered    branches    of    the 
glade  — 
Far    on    the    forest    skirts,    where    none 
pursue,  ^'5 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales, 
Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years. 
With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears. 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  night- 
ingales. ^^° 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly, 
For    strong    the    infection    of    our    mental 
strife, 
Which,    though    it    gives    no    bliss,    yet 
spoils  for  rest ; 
And   we   should   win  thee    from   thy  own 
fair  life. 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 
Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die,     226 
Thy    hopes    grow    timorous,    and    unfixed 
thy  powers, 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shift- 
ing  made : 
And     then     thy     glad     perennial     youth 
would  fade, 
Fade,   and  grow   old   at   last,   and   die 
like  ours.  -30 


Then   fly  our  greetings,   fly  our  speech  and 
smiles  ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the 
sea, 
Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-haired  creepers  stealthily. 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among   the    ^tgean    isles;  236 

And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come. 
Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian 

wine. 
Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steeped 
in    brine; 
And    knew    the    intruders    on    his    an- 
cient home,  240 

The    young    light-hearted    masters    of    the 
waves ; 
And   snatched  his   rudder,   and   shook  out 
more  sail, 
And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er    the    blue    Midland    waters    with    the 
gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 
To  where  the  Atlantic  raves  -'46 

Outside  the  Western   Straits ;  and  unbent 
sails 
There,      where      down      cloudy      cliff's 

through  sheets  of  foam, 
Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come; 
And   on   the   beach   undid   his   corded 
bales.  250 

(1853) 


REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses. 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew! 
In   quiet   she   reposes ; 

Ah,  would  that  I  did  too ! 

Her   mirth   the   world    required;  5 

She  bathed  it  in   smiles  of  glee. 

But    her    heart    was   tired,    tired. 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her   life   was   turning,   turning. 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound.  '" 

But   for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 

And   now  peace  laps  her   round. 

Her  cabined,   ample   spirit. 

It    fluttered    and    failed    for    breath. 
To-night  it  doth  inherit  '5 

The   vasty  hall   of   death. 

(1853) 


RUGBY  CHAPEL 


857 


RUGBY   CHAPEL 

NOVEMBER    1857 

Coldly,    sadly   descends 
The  autumn  evening.     The  field 
Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts, 
Of    withered    leaves,    and    the    elms, 
Fade  into  dimness  apace,  5 

Silent;  —  hardly   a   shout 
.From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play! 
The   lights  come  out  in  the  street, 
In  the  school-room  windows;  —  but  cold. 
Solemn,  unlighted,  austere,  lo 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 
The  chapel-walls,   in   whose  bound 
Thou,  my  father!  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah,  is 

That  word,  gloom,  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back,  in  the  light 

Of    thy    radiant    vigor,    again; 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  passed 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side;  20 

Seasons  impaired  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast !   and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening,   and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee.  ^5 

Fifteen   years    have   gone   round 

Since  thou  arosest  to  tread. 

In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 

Of   death,    at   a   call   unforeseen. 

Sudden.     For  fifteen  years,  30 

We   who  till  then  in  thy  shade 

Rested  as  under  the  boughs 

Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 

Sunshine    and    rain    as    we    might, 

Bare,    unshaded,    alone,  35 

Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?     For  that  force, 
Surely,   has   not   been    left    vain ! 
Somewhere,    surely,    afar,  40 

In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm! 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 

Conscious  or  not  of  the  past,  45 

Still  thou  performest  the  word 

Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live  — 

Prompt,   unwearied,    as    here ! 

Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 

The   humble   good    from   the   ground,  50 

Sternly    repressest    the    bad! 


Still,    like    a    trumpet,    dost    rouse 

Those  who  with  half -open  eyes 

Tread   the   border-land   dim 

'  Twixt  vice  and  virtue;  reviv'st  SS 

Succorest !     This  was  thy  work. 

This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

What  is  the  course  of  the  Hfe 

Of    mortal    men    on    the    earth? 

Most  men  eddy  about  60 

Here    and    there  —  eat    and    drink. 

Chatter   and   love   and   hate, 

Gather   and    squander,   are   raised 

Aloft,  are  hurled  in  the  dust. 

Striving  blindly,  achieving  65 

Nothing;  and  then  they  die  — 

Perish  ;  —  and  no  one  asks 

Who    or    what    they    have    been. 

More   than   he   asks   what   waves. 

In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild  70 

Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swelled. 

Foamed   for   a  moment,  and  gone. 

And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 

Ardent,   unquenchable,   fires, 

Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent,  7S 

Not  without  aim  to  go   round 

In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 

Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 

Ah,   yes !    some    of   us   strive 

Not  without  action  to  die  80 

Fruitless,    but    something   to    snatch 

From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 

Glut  the  devouring  grave ! 

We,  we  have  chosen  our  path  — 

Path   to  a  clear-purposed   goal,  85 

Path  of  advance! — but  it  leads 

A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 

Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 

Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth  — 

Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the   storm.     90 

Thunder    crashes    from   rock 

To  rock,  the  cataracts  reply, 

Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes. 

Roaring  torrents  have  breached 

The  track,  the  stream-bed  descends  93 

In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 

Planted  his  footstep  —  the  spray 

Boils  o'er  its  borders!  aloft 

The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 

Their   hanging  ruin !   alas,  »oo 

Havoc  is  made  in  our  train  I 

Friends,  who  set  forth  at  our  side. 

Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 

We,    we   only   are   left ! 

With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips  >os 

Sternly  compressed,  we  strain  on. 

On  —  and   at   nightfall   at   last 


858 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


Come   to  the   end   of  our   way, 
To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks ; 
Where  the   gaunt   and   taciturn   host 
Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 
Shaking  his  thin   white  hairs  — 
Holds   his   lantern   to   scan 
Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks: 
Whom   in   our    party   we   bring, 
Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow? 

Sadly  we  answer:    We  bring 
Only   ourselves!    we   lost 
Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 
Hardly    ourselves    we    fought    through 
Stripped,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 
Friends,   companions,   and  train, 
The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  would'st  not  alone 
Be   saved,   my   father !    alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving   the    rest   in   the   wild. 
We   were  weary,  and   we 
Fearful,   and   we   in   our  march 
Fain   to   drop  down   and  to  die. 
Still   thou   turnedst,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary,  thy  hand. 

If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 
Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 
Toil    or    dejection    have    tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we   saw 
Nothing  —  to  us  thou  wast  still 
Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm! 
Therefore  to  thee  it   was  given 
Many  to  save  with  thyself; 
And,   at   the  end   of   thy  day, 
O,  faithful  shepherd!  to  come. 
Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 

And  through  thee  I  believe 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone; 

Pure  souls  honored  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else  — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor. 

Is  the  race  of  men   whom  I   see  — 

Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes !     I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past. 

Not    like   the   men    of   the   crowd 

Who  ail  round  me  to  day 

Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile; 


But   souls   tempered   with   fire, 
Fervent,   heroic,   and   good, 
Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God!  —  or  sons 
Shall  I  not  call  you?  because 
Not   as   servants   ye   knew 
Your  Father's   innermost  mind. 
His,  who  unwillingly  sees 
One  of  his  little  ones  lost  — 
Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 
Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 
Fainted,  and   fallen,  and   died! 

See!     In  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A    feeble,   wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending?  —  A   God 

Marshaled   them,  gave  them   their  goal. 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long ! 

Years   they   have  been    in   the   wild! 

Sore  thirst  plagues    them,  the  rocks, 

Rising    all    round,    overawe; 

Factions  divide  them,  their  host 

Threatens    to   break,    to    dissolve. 

—  Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined  ! 

Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 

That  army,  not  one  shall   arrive; 

Sole   they   shall    stray;   on   the   rocks 

Batter   for   ever   in   vain, 

Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 


Then,   in    such   hour   of   need 
Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 
Ye,   like   angels,  appear, 
Radiant   with  ardor  divine ! 
Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear! 
Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 
Weakness   is   not    in   your    word. 
Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 
Ye   alight   in   our   van !    at   your   voice, 
Panic,    despair,    flee    away. 
Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 
The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 
Praise,   re-inspire  the   brave! 
Order,    courage,    return. 
Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 
Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 
Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files. 
Strengthen    the    wavering    line, 
Stablish,   continue   our   march, 
On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste, 
On,  to  the  City  of  God. 


i8s 


(1867) 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  (1828-1882) 

Although  as  a  very  young  boy  Rossetti  showed  a  talent  for  versifying,  he  attained  dis- 
tinction first  as  a  painter.  After  spending  five  years  at  King's  College  School  and  in  art 
academies  in  London,  he  became  a  pupil  of  Ford  Madox  Brown,  and  later  joined  Ilolman 
Hunt,  Millais,  and  others,  in  that  revival  of  mystical  interpretation  and  detailed  elaboration 
in  painting  commonly  called  the  Pre-Raphaelite  movement.  No  considerable  part  of  Ros- 
setti's  poems  appeared  in  print  before  the  publication  of  J'ocms,  in  1870.  The  following 
year  Robert  Buchanan,  in  an  article  entitled  The  Fleshly  School  in  Poetry,  savagely  at- 
tacked the  alleged  immorality  of  Rossetti's  poems.  Although  Rossetti  stoutly  resisted  the 
assault,  it  aggravated  the  mental  depression  which  had  begun  with  the  death  of  his  wife, 
and  which  persisted  until  his  death.  The  last  ten  years  of  his  life  were  tragically  clouded 
by  mental  weakness  and  by  the  habit  of  taking  chloral.  Even  during  this  period,  however, 
creative   flashes   of   his   mind   resulted   in   both   poems   and   paintings   of   great   beauty. 

Poems  (1S70),  Dante  and  His  Cirele  (1874),  and  Ballads  and  So)iiicts  (1881)  contain 
substantially  all  of  Rossetti's  poetry.  The  volume  of  1881  brought  out  The  King's  Tragedy, 
and  added  sonnets  to  complete  the  House  of  Life,  the  first  sonnets  of  which  had  appeared 
in  1870.  Rossetti's  only  imaginative  work  in  prose  is  Hand  and  Soul  (1850).  His  poetry, 
often  subtly  mystical  in  thought,  has  been  called,  significantly,  '  painter's  poetry,'  from  its 
delicate  picturesqueness  and  visual   beauty. 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP 

She  fell  asleep  on  Christinas  Eve : 
At   length  the  long-ungranted  shade 
Of    weary   eyelids    overweighed 

The  pain  naught  else  might  yet  relieve. 

Our    mother,   who    had   leaned    all    day        S 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time, 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work-table  was  spread 

With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare       'o 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To   work   some   distance    from    the   bed. 

Without,  there  was  a  cold  moon  up. 
Of  winter  radiance  sheer  and  thin; 
The  hollow  halo  it  was  in  iS 

Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

Through  the  small  room,  with  subtle  sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alc^ove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round.  20 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  nights, 
And  my  tired  mind  felt  weak  and  blank ; 
Like  a  sharp  strengthening  wine  it  drank 

The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 


859 


Twelve    struck.     That    sound,    by    dwindling 
years  25 

Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  off;  and  then 
The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 

Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat : 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down,       3° 
Met   lightly,   and   her   silken   gown 

Settled :  no  other  noise  than  that. 

'  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born ! ' 
So,  as  said  angels,  she  did  say; 
Because  we  were  in   Christmas   Day       35 

Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  morn. 

Just  then  in  the  room  over  us 

There   was   a  pushing  back  of   chairs, 
As  some  who  had   sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hour,  and  rose.       4° 

With    anxious    softly-stepping   haste 
Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay. 
Fearing    the    sounds    o'er    head  —  should 
they 

Have  broken  her  long  watched-for  rest! 

She  stooped  an  instant,  calm,  and  turned,  45 
But  suddenly  turned  back  again ; 
And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 

With  woe,  and  her  eyes  gazed  and  yearned. 


86o 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


For  my  part,  I  Iml  hid  my  face, 

And  held  my  breath,  and  spoke  no  word  : 
There  was  none  spoken  :  lint   I  heard       5i 

Tlic   silence    for   a    little   space. 

Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept: 
And  both  my  arms  fell,  and  I  said. 
•  God  knows  I  knew  that  she  was  dead.'  ss 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then    kneeling,   upon    Christmas   morn 

A  little  after  twelve  o'clock, 

We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 
'Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born!'       60 

(1850) 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

The  blessed   damozel   leaned  out 
From   the   golden   bar   of   heaven; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of    waters    stilled    at    even; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand,  5 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 
No   wrought    flowers   did   adorn. 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift. 

For    service    meetly    worn;  '° 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was   yellow   like   ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone  ts 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,   and   in  this   place,       2° 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell    all    about    my    face.     .     .     . 
Nothing:   the  autumn-fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house  25 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun ; 
So  high,   that  looking  downward  thence 

She   scarce  could  see  the  sun.  3' 

It   lies    in   heaven,   across   the   flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 


The   void,   as   low   as   where  this   earth       35 
Spins    like    a    fretful    midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims. 
Spoke    evermore    among    themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names  ;  4° 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went   by   her    like   thin    flames. 

.\nd  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 
Until   her  bosom   must   have  made  45 

The   bar   she   leaned   on   warm. 
And   the   lilies  lay  as   if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 
Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce  5o 

Through    all    the    worlds      Her    gaze    still 
strove, 
Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 

Its  path:  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon  ss 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She    spoke   through   the    still    weather. 
Her  voice   was   like  the   voice  the   stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together.  60 

(Ah,  sweet!     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song. 

Strove  not  her  accents  there. 
Fain   to  be  hearkened?     When   those  bells 

Possessed   the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side  65 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

'  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me. 

For  he  will  come,'  she  said. 
'  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ?  —  on  earth. 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed?  70 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I   feel  afraid? 

'  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings. 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I  '11  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him  75 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down. 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

'  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine. 
Occult,    withheld,   untrod,  80 

Whose   lamps  are   stirred  continually 
With   prayer   sent   up   to   God ; 

And    see    our    old    prayers,    granted,    melt 
Each   like  a   little  cloud. 


FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI 


86i 


'We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of  8s 

That   living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes   felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  his  plumes  touch 

Saith   his  name   audibly.  9° 

'  And   I   myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I    myself,    lying    so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall    pause    in,   hushed   and    slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at   each  pause,  95 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know.' 

(Alas !     We   two,    we   two,   thou    say'st ! 

Yea,    one    wast    thou    with    me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To    endless    unity  loo 

The  soul   whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was    but    its    love    for    thee?) 

'  We  two,'   she   said,   '  will   seek  the   groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With    her    five    handmaidens,    whose    names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies,  io6 

Cecily,   Gertrude,   Magdalen, 

Margaret    and    Rosalys. 

'  Circlewise    sit    they,    with    bound    locks 
And   foreheads  garlanded;  no 

Into   the   fine  cloth   white   like   flame 
Weaving    the    golden    thread. 

To    fashion    the    birth-robes    for    them 
Who  are  just  born,   being  dead. 

'He    shall    fear,    haply,   and   be    dumb;     "S 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not   once    abashed   or   weak; 
And   the    dear    Mother    will    approve 

My   pride,   and   let   me   speak.  120 

'  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand. 

To  him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles : 
And  angels  meeting  us   shall   sing  i^s 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

'  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me :  — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With   Love,   only   to  be,  130 

As  then  awhile,   forever  now 
Together,   I  and  he.' 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of   speech   than   mild, — 


'  All  this  is  when  he  comes.'     She  ceased. 

The   light  thrilled   towards  her,   filled      136 
With   angels   in   strong   level   flight. 

Her   eyes   prayed,   and    she   smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was    vague    in    distant    spheres:  140 

And  then   she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And   laid  her   face  between   her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 

(1850) 


FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI 
(From   DANTE) 


When  I  made  answer,  I  began :  '  Alas ! 
How  many  sweet  thoughts  and  how  much 
desire 
Led    these    two    onward    to    the    dolorous 
pass ! ' 
Then  turned  to  them,  as  who  would  fain 
inquire, 
And  said :  '  Francesca,  these  thine  agonies  s 
Wring  tears   for  pity  and  grief  that  they 
inspire :  — 
But     tell     me, —  in     the     season     of     sweet 
sighs, 
When    and    what    way   did    Love    instruct 
you   so 
That  he   in  your  vague  longings  made  you 
wise? ' 
Then    she   to    me :     '  There   is   no    greater 
woe'  10 

Than    the    remembrance    brings    of    happy 
days 
In  Misery;  and  this  thy  guide  doth  know. 
But   if   the   first   beginnings   to   retrace 

Of  our  sad  love  can  yield  thee  solace  here. 

So  will  I  be  as  one  that  weeps  and  says.  15 

One  day  we  read,   for  pastime  and  sweet 

cheer, 

Of  Lancelot,  how  he  found  Love  tyrannous; 

We  were  alone  and  without  any  fear. 
Our  eyes  were  drawn  together,  readmg  thus. 
Full  oft,  and  still  our  cheeks  would  pale 
and  glow ;  20 

But  one  sole  point  it  was  that  conquered  us. 
For    when    we    read   of   that    great    lover, 
how 
He  kissed  the  smile  which  he  had  longed  to 
win. — 
Then  he  whom  naught  can  sever  from  me 
now 
Forever,  kissed  my  mouth,  all  quivering.     25 


862 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


A    Galahalt    was    the    book,    and    he    that 
writ: 
Upon    that   day  we   read   no   more   therein.' 
At  the  tale  told,  while  one  soul  uttered  it, 
The  other  wept:  a  pang  so  pitiable 

That   I   was   seized,   like   death,   in   swoon- 
ing-fit,  30 

And  even  as  a  dead  body  falls,  I  fell. 

(1861) 


LOVE'S   NOCTURN 

Master  of  the  murmuring  courts 
Where  the  shapes  of  sleep  convene !  — 

Lo!   my  spirit  here  exhorts 

All   the  powers  of  thy  demesne 

For  their  aid  to  woo  my  queen.  s 

What   reports 
Yield  thy  jealous  courts  unseen? 

Vaporous,   unaccountable. 

Dreamworld  lies   forlorn  of  light. 

Hollow    like    a    breathing    shell.  1° 

Ah !  that  from  all  dreams  I  might 
Choose  one  dream   and  guide   its   flight! 

I  know  well 
What  her  sleep  should  tell  to-night. 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes:  is 

Some  that  will  not  wait  for  sleep. 
Deep  within  the  August  woods ; 

Some  that  hum   while  rest  may  steep 

Weary    labor    laid    a-heap ; 

Interludes,  20 

Some,  of  grievous  moods  that  weep. 

Poet's    fancies   all   are  there; 

There  the  elf -girls  flood  with  wings 
Valleys   full  of  plaintive  air ; 

There  breathe  perfumes ;   there   in   rings 

Whirl    the    foam-bewildered    springs ;     -26 
Siren  there 

Winds  her  dizzy  hair  and  sings. 

Thence  the  one  dream  mutually 

Dreamed  in  bridal  unison,  30 

Less   than   walking  ecstasy; 

Half-formed  visions  that  make  moan 

Li  the  house  of  birth  alone; 
And  what  we 

At   death's   wicket   see,   unknown.  35 

But  for  mine  own  sleep,  it  lies 
In  one  gracious  form's  control, 

Fair  with  honorable  eyes, 
Lamps  of  a  translucent  soul: 


O   ibeir   glance   is   loftiest   dole,  40 

Sweet  and  wise. 
Wherein  Love  descries  his  goal. 

Reft    of    her,    my   dreams    are    all 

Clannuy  trance  that   fears  the   sky; 
Changing   footpaths   shift   and   fall ;  45 

From   polluted  coverts  nigh, 

Miserable    phantoms    sigh; 
Quakes  the  pall. 

And   the   funeral   goes  by. 

Master,  is  it  soothly  said  so 

That,  as  echoes  of  man's  speech 

Far  in  secret  clefts  are  made. 
So  do  all  men's  bodies  reach 
Shadows  o'er  thy  sunken  beach, — 

Shape    or    shade  ss 

In  those  halls  portrayed  of  each? 

Ah !  might  I,  by  thy  good  grace 

Groping  in   the   windy   stair 
(Darkness  and  the  breath  of  space 

Like   loud   waters   everywhere),  60 

Meeting  mine   own    image   there 
Face  to   face. 

Send  it  from  that  place  to  her! 

Nay,  not  I ;  but  oh !   do   thou. 

Master,   from   thy   shadowkind  65 

Call    my   body's   phantom   now : 

Bid   it   bear   its   face   declined 

Till   its   flight   her   slumbers   find, 
And  her  brow 

Feel  its  presence  bow   like  wind.  70 

Where  in  groves  the  gracile  Spring 

Trembles,     with    mute    orison 
Confidently  strengthening, 

Water's  voice  and  wind's  as  one 

Shed  an  echo  in  the  sun.  75 

Soft  as  Spring, 

Master,    bid    it    sing    and    moan 

Song   shall    tell   how   glad   and    strong 
Is  the  night  she  soothes  alway; 

Moan  shall  grieve  with  that  parched  tongue 
Of  the  brazen  hours  of  day:  81 

Sounds  as  of  the  springtide  they. 

Moan  and  song. 
While   the   chill   months   long   for   May. 


Not  the  prayers  which   with  all  leave 
The    world's   fluent   woes   prefer, — 

Not  the  praise  the  world  doth  give, 
Dulcet  fulsome  whisperer  ;  — 
Let  it  yield  my  love  to  her. 

And  achieve 
Strength  that  shall  not  grieve  or  err. 


85 


THE  CLOUD  CONFINES 


^63 


Wheresoe'er  my  dreams  befall. 

Both  at  night-watch  (let  it  say), 
And  where  round  the  sun-dial 

The   reluctant   hours   of   day,  95 

Heartless,  hopeless  of  their  way, 
Rest  and  call ;  — 

There  her  glance  doth  fall  and  stay. 

Suddenly  her   face  is  there: 

So  do  mounting  vapors  wreathe  'o° 

Subtle-scented   transports   where 

The  black  fir-wood  sets  its  teeth 

Part  the  boughs,  and  looks  beneath  — 
Lilies  share 

Secret  waters  there,  and  breathe.  10s 

Master,   bid   my   shadow   bend 

Whispering   thus   till    birth   of   light. 

Lest  new  shapes  that  sleep  may  send 
Scatter  all  its  work  to  flight ;  — 
Master,   master   of   the    night,  no 

Bid   it   spend 
Speech,  song,  prayer,  and  end  aright. 

Yet,    ah,   me !    if    at    her   head 

There  another  phantom  lean 
Murmuring  o'er  the  fragrant  bed,  "5 

Ah  I  and  if  my  spirit's  queen 

Smile  those  alien  prayers  between, — 
Ah  !  poor  shade ! 

Shall   it   strive,   or    fade  unseen? 

How  should  love's  own  messenger  120 

Strive  with  love  and  be  love's  foe? 
Master,  nay!     If  thus,  in  her, 

Sleep  a  wedded  heart   should   show, — 

Silent  let  mine   image  go, 

Its  old   share  12s 

Of  thy  spell-bound  air  to  know. 

Like  a  vapor  wan  and  mute, 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute, 

One  dull  breath  against  her  glass;         '30 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine, 

All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  day,  '35 
Slowly    at    thy    summoning    sign 

Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

Dreams,  if  this  is  thus,  were  they:  — 
Be  they  thine. 

And    to    dreamworld    pine    away.  >4o 

Yet   from  old   time,   life,   not   death, 
Master,  in   thy  rule   is   rife: 


Lo !   through  thee,  with  mingling  breath, 
Adam    woke   beside   his   wife. 
O   Love,   bring   me   so,    for   strife,  MS 

Force  and  faith, 
Bring  me  so  not  death  but  life! 

Yea,  to  Love  himself  is  poured 

This   frail  song  of  hope  and  fear. 
Thou  art   Love,   of  one  accord  'So 

With   kind    Sleep  to  bring  her  near. 
Still-eyed,  deep-eyed,  ah,  how  dear ! 

Master,  Lord, 
In  her  name  implored,  O  hear ! 

(1870) 

THE  CLOUD  CONFINES 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 

To   him   that    would   search    their   heart; 
No   lips   of   cloud   that   will   part 
Nor   morning   song   in   the   light : 
Only,  gazing  alone,  5 

To  him  wild  shadows  are  shown, 
Deep  under   deep  unknown. 
And  height  above  unknown  height. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

'  Strange  to  think  by  the  way,  10 

Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day.' 

The  Past  is  over  and  fled ; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  the  old; 
Thereof  some  tale  hath  been  told,  '5 

But  no  word  comes  from  the  dead  ■ 
Whether  at  all  they  be. 
Or  whether  as  bond  or  free, 
Or  whether  they  too  were  we, 
Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped.  20 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

'  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day.' 

What  of  the  heart  of  hate  ^3 

That  beats  in  thy  breast,  O  Time?  — 
Red   strife   from  the   furthest  prime, 
And  anguish  of  fierce  debate; 
War   that    shatters   her    slain. 
And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain,     30 
And    eyes    fixed    ever    in    vain 
On   the   pitiless   eyes   of    Fate. 
Still    we    say    as    we    go, — 

'  Strange  to  think  by  the  way. 
Whatever  there  is  to  know,  35 

That  shall  we  know  one  day.' 

\\'hat  of  the  heart  of  love 
That  bleeds  in  thy  breast,  O  Man  ? 


864 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


Thy  kisses   snatched   'neath  the  ban 
Of   fangs  that  mock  them  above; 
Thy   bells   prolonged   unto   knells, 
Thy  hope  that   a   breath   dispels, 
Thy  bitter   forlorn    farewells 
And    the    empty   echoes   thereof? 
Still  we  say  as  we  go,— 

'  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day.' 

The  sky  leans  dumb  on  the  sea, 
Aweary    with    all    its    wings  j 
And  oh!  the  song  the  sea  sings 
Is   dark   everlastingly. 
Our  past  is  clean  forgot, 
Our  present  is  and  is  not. 
Our  future 's  a  sealed  seedplot. 
And  what  betwixt  them  are  we?  — 
We  who  say  as  we  go, — 

'  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever   there    is   to    know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day.' 


(1872) 


THREE  SHADOWS 

I   looked  and   saw  your  eyes 

In  the  shadow  of  your  hair. 
As  a  traveler  sees  the  stream 

In  the  shadow  of  the  wood; 
And  I  said,  '  My  faint  heart  sighs, 

Ah  me!  to  linger  there. 
To  drink  deep  and  to  dream 

In   that  sweet   solitude.' 

I  looked  and  saw  your  heart 

In   the    shadow   of   your   eyes. 
As  a  seeker  sees  the  gold 

In  the  shadow  of  the  stream; 
And  I  said,  '  Ah  me !  what  art 

Should    win   the    immortal    prize, 
Whose  want  must  make  life  cold 

And   heaven   a   hollow    dream  ? ' 

I    looked    and    saw   your    love 

In  the  shadow   of  your  heart, 
As   a  diver   sees   the   pearl 

In  the  shadow  of  the  sea; 
And    I    murmured,    not    above 

My  breath,  but  all  apart,— 
'  Ah !    you    can    love,    true    girl. 

And  is  your  love  for  me?' 


(1881) 


THE    KING'S    TRAGEDY 

James   I  of  Scots  —  20TH  February  1473 

I   Catherine  am  a   Douglas  born, 

A   name  to  all   Scots  dear; 
And  Kate  Barlass  they  've  called  me  now 

Through  many  a  waning  year. 

This  old  arm  's  withered  now.     'T  was  once 
Most   deft  'mong  maidens  all  <» 

To  rein  the  steed,  to  wing  the  shaft. 
To  smite   the  palm-play   ball. 

In  hall  adown  the  close-linked  dance 

It  has  shone  most  white  and   fair;  'o 

It  has  been  the  rest  for  a  true  lord's  head. 
And  many  a  sweet  babe's  nursing-bed. 
And  the  bar  to  a  King's  chambere. 

Aye,  lasses,  draw  round  Kate  Barlass, 

And  hark  with  bated  breath  15 

How  good  King  James,  King  Robert's  son. 
Was  foully  done  to  death. 

Through  all  the  days  of  his  gallant  youth 

The  princely  James  was  pent, 
By  his  friends  at  first  and  then  by  his  foes, 

In   long  imprisonment.  -z' 

For  the  elder  prince,  the  kingdom's  heir. 

By  treason's  murderous  brood 
Was   slain ;   and   the    father   quaked    for   the 
child 

With   the   royal   mortal   blood  25 

r  the  Bass  Rock  fort,  by  his  father's  care, 

Was  his  childhood's  life  assured; 
And  Henry  the  subtle  Bolingbroke, 
Proud   England's  king,   'neath   the   southron 
yoke 
His  youth  for  long  years  immured.  3° 

Yet  in  all  things  meet  for  a  kingly  man 

Himself  did   he  approve; 
And  the  nightingale  through  his  prison-wall 

Taught  him  both  lore  and  love. 

For  once,   when  the  bird's    song  drew    him 
close  35 

To  the  opened  window-pane. 
In  her  bower  beneath  a  lady  stood, 
A  light  of  life  to  his  sorrowful  mood. 

Like  a  lily  amid  the  rain. 

And  for  her  sake,  to  the  sweet  bird's  note. 
He   framed  a  sweeter  song,  4' 

j\lorc  sweet  than  ever  a  poet's  heart 
Gave  yet  to  the  English  tongue. 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY 


865 


She  was  a  lady  of  royal  blood; 

And   when,   past   sorrow   and   teen  45 

He  stood   where   still   through  his  crownless 
years 

His  Scottish  realm  had  been, 
At  Scone  were  the  happy  lovers  crowned, 

A  heart-wed  king  and  queen. 

But   the   bird  may   fall    from   the   bough   of 
youth,  so 

And  song  be  turned  to  moan, 
And    love's    storm-cloud   be   the    shadow    of 

hate, 
When  the  tempest-waves  of  a  troubled  state 
Are  beating  against  a  throne. 

Yet  well  they  loved  ;  and  the  god  of  love,  SS 

Whom  well  the  king  had  sung. 
Might  find  on  the  earth  no  truer  hearts 

His  lowliest  swains  among. 

From  the  days  when  first  she  rode  abroad 
With    Scottish   maids   in   her   train,  60 

I  Catherine  Douglas  won  the  trust 
Of  my  mistress   sweet   Queen  Jane. 

And  oft  she  sighed,  '  To  be  born  a  King ! ' 

And  oft  along  the  way 
W'hen   she  saw  the  homely  lovers  pass       65 

She  has  said,  'Alack  the  day!' 

Years  waned, —  the  loving  and  toiling  years: 

Till  England's  wrong  renewed 
Drove  James,  by  outrage  cast  on  his  crown. 

To  the  open  field  of  feud.  70 

'T  was    when    the    king   and    his   host    were 
met 

At  the  leaguer  of  Roxbro'  hold. 
The  queen  o'  the  sudden  sought  his  camp 

With  a  tale  of  dread  to  be  told. 

And  she  showed  him  a  secret  letter  writ     75 

That  spoke  of  treasonous  strife, 
And  how  a  band  of  his  noblest  lords 

Were  sworn  to  take  his  life. 

'  And  it  may  be  here  or  it  may  be  there, 
In  the  camp  or  the  court,'  she  said:         80 

'  But    for    my    sake    come   to   your    people's 
arms 
And  guard  your  royal  head.' 

Quoth    he,    "  'T  is    the    fifteenth    day   of    the 
siege. 

And  the  castle  's  nigh  to  yield.' 
'  O  face  your  foes  on  your  throne,'  she  cried, 

'  And  show  the  power  you  wield  ;  86   | 


And  under  your  Scottish  people's  love 
Vou  shall  sit  as  under  your  shield.' 

At  the  fair  queen's  side  I  stood  that  day 
When  he  bade  them  raise  the  siege,       9° 

And  back  to  his  court  he  sped  to  know 
How  the  lords  would  meet  their  liege. 

But  when  he  summoned  his  parliament. 
The  louring  brows  hung  round, 

Like  clouds  that  circle  the  mountain-head  95 
Ere  the  first  low  thunders  sound. 

For  he  had  tamed  the  nobles'  lust 
And  curbed  their  power  and   pride. 

And  reached  out  an  arm  to  right  the  poor 
Through  Scotland  far  and  wide;  100 

And  many  a  lordly  wrong-doer 
By  the  headsman's  axe  had  died. 

'T  was  then  upspoke  Sir  Robert  Graeme, 
The  bold   o'ermastering  man  :  — 

'  O    King,   in  the  name   of  your   Three   Es- 
tates 105 
I  set  you  under  their  ban ! 

'  For,  as  your  lords  made  oath  to  you 

Of  service  and  fealty. 
Even  in  like  wise  you  pledged  your  oath 

Their  faithful   sire  to  be: —  no 

■  Yet  all  we  here  that  are  nobly  sprung 
Have  mourned  dear  kith  and  kin 

Since  first   for  the  Scottish  Barons'  curse 
Did  your  bloody  rule  begin.' 

With  that  he  laid  his  hands  on  his  king:  — 
■  Is  this  not  so,  my  lords?'  116 

But   of   all    who   had   sworn   to   league   with 
him 
Not  one  spake  back  to  his  words. 

Quoth   the   King :  — '  Thou   speak'st   but    for 
one  Estate, 

Nor  doth  it  avow  thy  gage.  120 

Let  my  liege  lords  hale  this  traitor  hence !  ' 

The  Graeme  fired  dark  with  rage :  — 
'Who  works  for  lesser  men  than  himself, 

He  earns  but  a  witness  wage !  ' 

But  soon  from  the  dungeon  where  he  lay  "25 

He  won  by  privy  plots. 
And  forth  he  fled  with  a  price  on  his  head 

To  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots. 

And    word    there    came     from     Sir    Robert 
GrcTme 
To  the  King  of   Edinbro' :  —  13c 


866 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTl 


'  No  liege  of  mine  thou  art ;  but  I  see 
From  this  clay  forth  alone  in  llicc 
God's  creature,  my  mortal   foe. 

'Through    thee    are    my    wife    and    children 
lost, 

My  heritage  and  lands;  '35 

And  when  my  God  shall  show  nie  a  way, 
Thyself  my  mortal   foe  will   1   slay 

With  these  my  proper  hands.' 

Against  the  coming  of   Christmastido 

That  year  the  king  bade  call  140 

r  the  Black  Friars'  Charterhouse  of  Perth 
A  solemn  festival. 

And  we  of  his  household  rode  with  him 

In  a  close-ranked  company; 
But    not    till    the    sun    had    sunk    from    his 
throne  14s 

Did  we  reach  the  Scottish  Sea. 

That  eve  was  clenched  for  a  boding  storm, 
'Neath  a  toilsome  moon,  half  seen; 

The   cloud    stooped    low   and   the    surf    rose 
high ; 

And  where  there  was  a  line  of  the  sky,     '5" 
Wild  wings  loomed  dark  between. 

And  on  a  rock  of  the  black  beach-side 

By  the  veiled  moon  dimly  lit, 
There  was   something  seemed  to  heave  with 
life 

As  the  king  drew  nigh  to  it.  155 

And  was  it  only  the  tossing  furze 
Or  brake  of  the  waste  sea-wold? 

Or  was  it  an  eagle  bent  to  the  blast? 

When  near  we  came,  we  knew  it  at  last 
For  a  woman  tattered  and  old.  ^('^ 

But  it  seemed  as  though  by  a  fire  within 
Her  writhen  limbs  were  wrung; 

And  as  soon  as  the  king  was  close  to  her. 
She  stood  up  gaunt  and  strong. 

'T  was    then    the    moon    sailed   clear   of   the 
rack  16s 

On  high  in  her  hollow  dome ; 
And  still  as  aloft  with  hoary  crest 

Each  clamorous  wave  rang  home. 
Like  fire  in  snow  the  moonlight  blazed 

Amid  the  champing  foam.  170 

And    the    woman    held    his    eyes    with    her 
eyes : — 
*0  King,  thou  art  come  at  last; 


But  thy  wraith  has  haunted  the  Scottish  Sea 
To  my  sight  for  four  years  past. 

'  F^jur  years  it  is  since  first  1  met,  175 

Twi.xt  the  Duchray  and  the  Dim, 

A  shape  whose  feet  clung  close  in  a  shroud, 
And  that  shape  for  thine  I  knew. 

'A  year  again,  and  on  Inchkeilh  Isle 

I   saw   thee  pass  in   the  breeze,  180 

With  the  cerecloth  risen  above  thy  feet 
And  wound  about  thy  knees. 

'  And  yet  a  year,  in  the  Links  of   Forth, 

As  a  wanderer  without  rest. 
Thou    cani'st    with    both    thine    arms    i'    the 
shroud  '85 

That  clung  high  up  thy  breast. 

'  And  in  this  hour  I  find  thee  here. 

And   well   mine  eyes  may   note 
That     the     winding-sheet     hath     passed    thy 
breast 

And  risen  around  thy  throat.  190 

'  And  when  I  meet  thee  again,  O  King, 

That   of  death  hast   such   sore  drouth, — 
Except  thou  turn  again  on  this  shore,— 
The    winding-sheet    shall    have   moved    once 
more 
And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth.         '95 

'O    King,    whom   poor   men    bless    for    their 
king, 
Of  thy  fate  be  not  so  fain  ; 
But    these    my    words     for    God's    message 

take, 
And  turn  thy  steed,  O  King,  for  her  sake 
Who  rides  beside  thy  rein  !  '  200 

While    the    woman    spoke,    the    king's    horse 
reared 
As  if  it  would  breast  the  sea. 
And  the  queen  turned  pale  as  she  heard  on 
the  gale 
The  voice  die  dolorously. 

When  the  woman  ceased,  the  steed  was  still, 
But  the  king  gazed  on   her  yet,  -06 

And  in  silence  save  for  the  wail  of  the  sea 
His  eyes  and  her  eyes  met. 

At  last  he  said: — 'God's  ways  are  his  own; 

Man  is  but  shadow  and  dust.  ~^° 

Last  night   I  prayed  by  his  altar-stone; 
To-night  I  wend  to  the  Feast  of  His  Son; 

And  in  him  I  set  my  trust. 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY 


867 


And    the    Earl    of    Athole,    the    king's    false 
friend,  260 

Sat  with  him  at  the  board ; 
And  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain 

Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  lord. 

Yet  the  traitor  Christopher  Chaumber  there 
Would   fain  have  told  him  all,  265 

And  vainly  four  times  that  night  he  strove 
To  reach  the  king  through  the  hall. 

But  the  wine  is  bright  at  the  goblet's  brim 

Though  the  poison  lurk  beneath ; 
And  the  apples  still  are  red  on  the  tree    -270 
Within   whose   shade   may   the   adder  be 
That  shall  turn  thy  life  to  death. 

There  was  a  knight  of  the  king's  fast  friends 
Whom  he  called  the  King  of  Love; 

And  to  such  bright  cheer  and  courtesy  ^75 
That  name  might  best  behoove. 

And  the  king  and  queen  both  loved  him  well 

For  his  gentle  knightliness  ; 
And  with  him  the  king,  as  that  eve  wore  on, 

Was  playing  at  the  chess.  280 

And  the  king  said,  (for  he  thought  to  jest 
And  soothe  the  queen  thereby)  — 

'  In  a  book  't  is  writ  that  this  same  year 
A  king  shall  in  Scotland  die. 

'  And  I  have  pondered  the  matter  o'er,  285 
And  this  have  I  found,  Sir  Hugh, — 

There  are  but  two  kings  on  Scottish  ground, 
And  those  kings  are  I  and  you. 

'And  I  have  a  wife  and  a  newborn  heir. 
And  you  are  yourself  alone;  290 

So  stand  you  stark  at  my  side  with  me 
To  guard  our  double  throne. 

'  For  here  sit  1  and  my  wife  and  child, 
As  well  your  heart  shall  approve. 

In  full  surrender  and  soothfastness,  295 
Beneath  your  Kingdom  of  Love.' 

And  the  knight  laughed,  and  the  queen  too 
smiled ; 
But  I  knew  her  heavy  thought, 
And    I    strove    to    find    in    the    good    king's 
jest 
What  cheer  might  thence  be  wrought.  300 

And  I  said,  '  My  Liege,  for  the  queen's  dear 
love 
Now  sing  the  song  that  of  old 
You  made,  when  a  captive  prince  you  lay, 


'  I  have  held  my  people  in  sacred  charge, 

And  have  not  feared  the  sting  21S 

Of  proud  men's  hate, —  to  his  will  resigned 
Who  has  but  one  same  death  for  a  hind 
And  one  same  death  for  a  king. 

'And   if   God   in  his  wisdom  have   brought 
close 

The  day  when  I  must  die,  -220 

That  day  by  water  or  fire  or  air 
My  feet  shall  fall  in  the  destined  snare 

Wherever  my  road  may  lie. 

*  What  man  can  say  but  the  Fiend  hath  set 
Thy  sorcery  on  my  path,  225 

My  heart  with  the  fear  of  death  to  fill. 
And  turn  me  against  God's  very  will 
To  sink  in  his  burning  wrath  ? ' 

The  woman  stood  as  the  train  rode  past, 
And  moved  nor  limb  nor  eye ;  230 

And    when    we    were    shipped,    we    saw   her 
there 
Still  standing  against  the  sky. 

As  the  ship  made  way,  the  moon  once  more 

Sank  slow  in  her  rising  pall ; 
And  I  thought  of  the  shrouded  wraith  of  the 
king,  23s 

And  I  said,  'The  heavens  know  all.' 

And  now,  ye  lasses,  must  ye  hear 
How  my  name  is  Kate  Barlass:  — 

But  a  little  thing,  when  all  the  tale 

Is  told  of  the  weary  mass  240 

Of  crime  and  woe  which  in  Scotland's  realm 
God's  will  let  come  to  pass. 

'T  was  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth 

That  the  king  and  all  his  court 
Were  met,  the  Christmas  Feast  being  done, 

For  solace  and  disport.  246 

'T  was  a  wind-wild  eve  in  February, 
And    against   the   casement-pane 

The  branches  smote   like   summoning  hands 
And  muttered  the  driving  rain.  250 

And  when  the  wind  swooped  over  the  lift 
And  made  the  whole  heaven  frown. 

It  seemed  a  grip  was  laid  on  the  walls 
To  tug  the  housetop  down. 

And  the  queen  was  there,  more  stately  fair 
Than  a  lily  in  garden  set ;  256 

And  the  king  was  loth  to  stir  from  her  side; 

For  as  on  the  day  when  she  was  his  bride. 
Even  so  he  loved  her  yet. 


868 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


And  the  nightingale  sang  sweet  on  the  spray, 
In  Windsor's  castle-hold.'  305 

Then  he  smiled  the  smile  I  knew  so  well 
When  he  thought  to  please  the  queen  ; 

The  smile  which  under  all  bitter  frowns 
Of  hate  that  rose  between, 

For  ever  dwelt   at   the  poet's  heart  3>o 

Like  the  bird  of  love  unseen. 

And  he  kissed  her  hand  and  took  his  harp, 

And  the  music  sweetly  rang; 
And  when  the  song  burst  forth,  it  seemed 

'Twas  the  nightingale  that  sang.  315 

'  Worship,  ye  lovers,  on  this  May: 
Of  bliss  your  kalends  are  begun: 

Sing  with  us,  Aivay,  Winter,  away! 

Come,  Summer,  the  sweet  season  and  sun! 
Awake  for  shame, —  your  heaven  is  won, — 

And  amorously  your  heads  lift  all:  3-^ 

Thank  Love,  that  you  to  his  grace  doth  call!  ' 

But  when  he  bent  to  the  queen  and   sang 
The  speech  whose  praise  was  hers. 

It    seemed    his    voice   was   the    voice   of    the 
spring  3-2S 

And  the  voice  of  the  bygone  years. 

'  The  fairest  and  the  freshest  Uower 
That  ever  I  saw  before  that  hour, 
The  which  o'  the  sudden  made  to  start 
The  blood  of  my  body  to  my  heart.  330 

Ah  sweet,  are  ye  a  worldly  creature 
Or  heavenly  thing  in  form  of  nature?' 

And  the  song  was  long,  and  richly  stored 
With   wonder   and   beauteous   things; 

And  the  harp  was  tuned  to  every  change 
Of   minstrel    ministerings ;  336 

But  when  he  spoke  of  the  queen  at  the  last, 
Its   strings   were  his   own  heart-strings. 

'  Unworthy  but  only  of  her  grace, 

Upon  Love's  rock  that's  easy  and  sure,  340 

In  guerdon  of  all  my  love's  space 
She  took  me  her  humble  creature. 
Thus  fell  my  blissful  aventure 

In  youth  of  love  that  from  day  to  day 

Flowereth  aye  new,  and  further  I  say.     345 

'  To  reckon  all  the  circumstance 

As  It  happed  ivhen  lessen  gan  my  sore, 

Of  my  rancor  and  ivoful  chance. 

It  were  too   long.— I   have  done   therefor. 
And  of  this  liozver  I  say  no  more  35° 


But  unto  my  help  her  heart  hath  tended 
And  even  from  death  her  man  defended.' 

'Aye,  even  from  death,'  to  myself  I  said; 

For  1  thought  of  the  day  when  she 
Had  borne  him  the  news,  at  Roxbro'   siege, 

Of  the    fell  confederacy.  356 

But  Death  even  then  took  aim  as  he  sang 

With  an  arrow  deadly  bright ; 
And  the  grinning  skull  lurked  grimly  aloof, 
And    the    wings    were    spread    far    over    the 
roof  360 

More  dark  than  the  winter  night. 

Yet  truly  along  the  amorous  song 
Of   Love's  high   pomp  and   state. 

There    were    words    of    Fortune's    trackless 
doom 
And  the  dreadful  face  of  Fate.  36s 


And  oft  have  I  heard  again   in  dreams 

The  voice  of  dire  appeal 
In  which  the  king  then  sang  of  the  pit 

That   is   under   Fortune's   wheel. 


'And  under  the  wheel  beheld  I  there        37° 
An  ugly  pit  as  deep  as  hell, 

That  to  behold  I  quaked  for  fear: 
And  this  I  heard,  that  who  therein  fell 
Came  no  more  up,  tidings  to  tell: 

Whereat,  astound  of  the  fearful  sight,       375 

/  wist  not  what  to  do  for  fright.' 

And  oft  has  my  thought  called  up  again 
These  words  of  the  changeful  song:  — 
'  Wist  thou  thy  pain  and  thy  travail 
To  come,  well  tnight'st  thou  xveep  and  zvaiH' 
And  our  wail,  O  God!  is  long.  381 

But  the  song's  end  was  all  of  his  love; 

And  well  his  heart  was  graced 
With    her    smiling    lips    and    her    tear-bright 
eyes 

As  his  arm  went  round  her  waist.         385 

And  on  the  swell  of  her  long  fair  throat 

Close  clung  the  necklet-chain 
As  he  bent  her  pearl-tired  head  aside, 
And  in  the  warmth  of  his  love  and  pride 

He  kissed  her  lips  full  fain.  39o 

And  her  true  face  was  a  rosy  red, 

The   very  red  of  the  rose 
That,  couched  on  the  happy  garden-bed, 

In  the  summer  sunlight  glows. 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY 


869 


And  all  the  wondrous  things  of  love  395 

That  sang  so  sweet  throngh  the  song 

Were  in  the  look  that  met  in  their  eyes, 
And  the  look  was  deep  and  long. 

'Twas  then  a  knock  came  at  the  outer  gate, 
And   the   usher   sought   the   king.  400 

'  The  woman  you  met  by  the   Scottish   Sea, 
j\Iy  Liege,  would  tell  you  a  thing; 

And    she    says    that    her   present    need    for 
speech 
Will  bear  no  gainsaying.' 

And  the  king  said :  '  The  hour  is  late ;      40s 
To-morrow  will  serve,  I  ween.' 

Then    he    charged    the    usher    strictly,    and 
said: 
'  No  word  of  this  to  the  queen.' 

But  the  usher  came  again  to  the  king. 

'Shall  I  call  her  back?'  quoth  he:         4>o 
'  For  as  she  went  on  her  way,  she  cried, 

"  Woe !  woe  !  then  the  thing  must  be  !  "  ' 

And  the  king  paused,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Then  he  called   for  the  voidee-cup : 
And  as  we  heard  the  twelfth  hour  strike,  415 
There  by  true  lips  and  false  lips  alike 

Was  the  draught  of  trust  drained  up. 

So  with  reverence  meet  to  king  and  queen, 

To  bed  went  all  from  the  board: 
And  the  last  to  leave  of  the  courtly  train 
Was  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain  4-'i 

Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  lord. 

And  all  the  locks  of  the  chamber-door 
Had  the  traitor  riven  and  brast; 

And    that    Fate    might    win    sure    way    from 
afar,  4-'5 

He  had  drawn  out  every  bolt  and  bar 
That  made  the  entrance  fast. 

And  now  at  midnight  he  stole  his  way 

To  the  moat  of  the  outer  wall. 
And   laid   strong  hurdles  closely  across     430 

Where  the  traitors'  tread  should  fall. 

But  we  that  were  the  queen's  bower-maids 

Alone  were  left  behind  ; 
And  with  heed  we  drew  the  curtains  close 

Against  the  winter  wind.  435 

And  now  that  all  was  still  through  the  hall, 

More  clearly  we  heard  the  rain 
That   clamored   ever  against  the  glass 
.     And  the  boughs  that  beat  on  the  pane. 


But  the  fire  was  bright  in  the  ingle-nook,  440 

And  through  empty  space  around 
The  shadows  cast  on  the  arrased  wall 
'AJid    the   pictured    kings    stood   sudden   and 
tall 
Like  specters  sprung  from  the  ground. 

And  the  bed  was  dight  in  a  deep  alcove ;  443 

And  as  he  stood  by  the  fire 
The  king  was  still  in  talk  with  the  queen 

While  he  doflfed  his  goodly  attire. 

And  the  song  had  brought  the  image  back 

Of  many  a  bygone  year;  450 

And  many  a  loving  word  they  said 
With  hand  in  hand  and  head  laid  to  head; 
And  none  of  us  went  anear. 

But  Love  was  weeping  outside  the  house, 

A  child  in  the  piteous  rain;  455 

And  as  he  watched  the  arrow  of  Death, 
He  wailed   for  his  own  shafts  close  in  the 
sheath 
That  never  should  fly  again. 

And  now  beneath  the   window  arose 

A   wild   voice   suddenly :  460 

And  the  king  reared  straight,  but  the  queen 
fell    back 
As   for  bitter  dule  to  dree; 

And  all  of  us  knew  the  woman's  voice 
Who  spoke  by  the  Scottish   Sea. 

*  O  King,'  she  cried,  '  in  an  evil  hour       465 

They  drove  me  from  thy  gate; 
And  yet  my  voice  must  rise  to  thine  ears ; 

But  alas !  it  comes  too  late ! 

'  Last  night  at  mid-watch,  by  Aberdour, 
When  the  moon  was  dead  in  the  skies,  470 

O  King,  in  a  death-light  of  thine  own 
I  saw  thy  shape  arise. 

'  And  in  full  season,  as  erst  I  said, 
The  doom  had  gained  its  growth; 

And  the  shroud  had  risen  above  thy  neck  475 
And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

'  And    no    moon    woke,    but    the    pale    dawn 
broke. 

And  still  thy  soul  stood  there; 
And  I  thought  its  silence  cried  to  my  soul 

As  the  first  rays  crowned  its  hair.  480 

'  Since  then  have  I  journeyed  fast  and  fain 

In  very  despite  of  Fate, 
Lest    hope    might    still    be    found    in    God's 
will : 

But  they  drove  me  from  thy  gate. 


870 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


'  For  every  man  on  God's  gronnd,  O  King, 
His  death  grows  up  from  his  hirth  486 

In  a  shadow-plant  perpetually; 
And  thine  towers  high,  a  black  yew-tree, 
O'er  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth  ! ' 

That  room  was  built  far  out  from  the  house ; 

And  none  but  we  in  the  room  49i 

Might  hear  the  voice  that  rose  beneath. 

Nor  the  tread  of  the  coming  doom. 

For  now  there  came  a  torchlight-glare, 
And  a  clang  of  arms  there  came;  49S 

And  not  a  soul  in  that  space  but  thought 
Of  the  foe  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

Yea,  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots. 

O'er  mountain,  valley,  and  glen. 
He    had    brought    with    him    in    murderous 
league  soo 

Three  hundred  armed  men. 

The  king  knew  all  in  an  instant's  flash, 

And  like  a  king  did  he  stand ; 
But  there  was  no  armor  in  all  the  room, 

Nor  weapon  lay  to  his  hand.  505 

And  all  we  women  flew  to  the  door 
And  thought  to  have  made  it  fast; 

But  the  bolts  were  gone  and  the  bars  were 
gone 
And  the  locks  were  riven  and  brast. 

And  he  caught  the  pale,  pale  queen   in  his 
arms  ^lo 

As  the  iron   footsteps   fell, — 
Then  loosed  her,  standing  alone,  and  said, 

'  Our  bliss  was  our  farewell ! ' 

And  'twixt  his  lips  he  murmured  a  prayer, 

And  he  crossed  his  brow  and  breast;     5>5 
And  proudly  in   royal  hardihood 
Even  so  with  folded  arms  he  stood, — 
The  prize  of  the  bloody  quest. 

Then  on  me  leaped  the  queen  like  a  deer :  — 
'  O  Catherine,  help  !  '  she  cried.  s-^o 

And  low  at  his  feet  we  clasped  his  knees 
Together  side  by  side. 

'  Oh !  even  a  king,  for  his  people's  sake. 
From  treasonous  death  must  hide ! ' 

'  For  her  sake  most ! '  I  cried,  and  I  marked 
The  pang  that  my  words  could  wring.     5-'6 

And  the  iron  tongs   from  the  chimney-nook 
I  snatched  and  held  to  the  king :  — 

'  Wrench    up   the    plank !    and    the   vault    be- 
neath 
Shall  yield   safe  harboring.' 


With   brows  low-bent,   from   my   eager  hand 

The  heavy  heft  did  he  take; 
And  the  plank  at  his   feet  he  wrenched  and 

tore ; 
And  as  he   frowned  through  the  open  floor, 

Again  I  said,  '  For  her  sake  1 '  S3S 

Then  he  cried  to  the  queen,  '  God's  will  be 
done !  ' 
For   her   hands   were   clasped   in   prayer. 
And  down  he  sprang  to  the  inner  crypt; 
And    straight   we   closed   the    plank   he   had 
ripped. 
And  toiled  to  smooth  it  fair.  54° 

(Alas!  in  that  vault  a  gap  once  was 
Wherethro'  the  king  might  have  fled  : 

But    three    days    since    close-walled    had    it 
been 

By  his  will ;  for  the  ball  would  roll  therein 
When  without  at  the  palm  he  played.)   545 

Then  the  queen  cried,  '  Catherine,  keep  the 

door. 
And  I  to  this  will  suffice!' 
At  her  word  I  rose  all  dazed  to  my  feet. 
And  my  heart  was  fire  and  ice. 

And  louder  ever  the  voices  grew,  550 

And  the  tramp  of  men  in  mail ; 
Until  to  my  brain  it  seemed  to  be 
As  though  I  tossed  on  a  ship  at  sea 
In  the  teeth  of  a  crashing  gale. 

Then  back  I  flew  to  the  rest;  and  hard  555 

We  strove  with  sinews  knit 
To  force  the  table  against  the  door 

But  we  might  not  compass  it. 

Then  my  wild  gaze  sped   far  down  the  hall 
To  the  place  of  the  hearthstone-sill;     560 

And  the  queen  bent  ever  above  the  floor, 
For  the  plank  was  rising  still. 

And  now  the  rush  was  heard  on  the  stair. 

And  'God,  what  help?'  was  our  cry. 
And  was  I  frenzied  or  was  I  bold?  565 

I   looked   at   each   empty   stanchion-hold. 
And  no  bar  but  my  arm  had  I ! 

Like  iron   felt  my  arm,  as  through 

The  staple  I   made  it  pass :  — 
Alack!  it  was  flesh  and  bone  —  no  more!  57" 
'T  was  Catherine  Douglas  sprang  to  the  door, 

But  I  fell  back  Kate  Barlass. 

With  that  they  all  thronged  into  the  hall, 
Half  dim  to  my  failing  ken; 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY 


871 


And  the  space  that  was  but  a  void  before  575 
Was  a  crowd  of  wrathful  men. 

Behind  the  door  I  had  fall'n  and  lay, 
Yet  my  sense  was  widely  aware, 

And  for  all  the  pain  of  my  shattered  arm 
I  never  fainted  there.  580 

Even  as  I  fell,  my  eyes  were  cast 
Where  the  king  leaped  down  to  the  pit ; 

And  lo!  the  plank  was  smooth  in  its  place, 
And  the  queen  stood  far  from  it. 

And  under  the  litters  and  through  the  bed 
And  within  the  presses  all  5^6 

The    traitors     sought     for     the     king,     and 
pierced 
The  arras  around  the  wall. 

And  through  the  chamber  they  ramped  and 
I  stormed 

j  Like  lions  loose  in  the  lair,  590 

And  scarce  could  trust  to  their  very  eyes, — 
I  For  behold !  no  king  was  there. 

1        Then   one   of   them   seized   the   queen,    and 
!  cried, — 

■  '  Now  tell  us,  where  is  thy  lord?  ' 

And  he  held  the  sharp  point  over  her 
[  heart:  59s 

She  drooped  not  her  eyes  nor  did  she  start, 
j  But  she  answered  never  a  word. 

j  Then  the  sword  half  pierced  the  true  true 

I  breast  : 

;  But  it  was  the  Graeme's  own  son 

i  Cried,  *  This  is  a  woman, —  we  seek  a  man  !  ' 

1  And  away  from  her  girdle-zone             601 

I  He  struck  the  point  of  the  murderous  steel ; 

j  And  that  foul  deed  was  not  done. 

■  And  forth  flowed  all  the  throng  like  a  sea, 

And  't  was  empty  space  once  more  ;         605 
And  my  eyes  sought  out  the  wounded  queen 
i  As  I  lay  behind  the  door. 

And  I  said :     '  Dear  Lady,  leave  me  here. 

For  I  cannot  help  you  now ; 
But  fly  while  you  may,  and  none  shall  reck 

Of  my  place  here  lying  low.'  611 

And    she    said,    '  My    Catherine,    God    help 
thee ! ' 

Then  she  looked  to  the  distant  floor, 
And  clasping  her  hands,  '  O  God  help  him/ 

She  sobbed,  'for  we  can  no  more!'       615 


But  God  he  knows  what  help  may  mean. 

If  it  mean  to  live  or  to  die; 
And  what  sore  sorrow  and  mighty  moan 
On  earth  it  may  cost  ere  yet  a  throne 

Be  filled  in  his  house  on  high.  620 

And  now  the  ladies  fled  with  the  queen ; 

And  through  the  open  door 
The    night-wind    wailed    round    the    empty 
room 

And  the  rushes  shook  on  the  floor. 

And  the  bed  drooped  low  in  the  dark  recess 
Whence  the  arras  was  rent  away ;  626 

And  the  firelight  still  shone  over  the  space 
Where  our  hidden  secret  lay. 

And  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  moonbeams 
lit 
The  window  high  in  the  wall, —  630 

Bright  beams  that  on  the  plank  that  I  knew 

Through  the  painted  pane  did  fall 
And  gleamed  with  the  splendor  of  Scotland's 
crown 
And  shield  armorial. 

But  then  a  great  wind  swept  up  the  skies,  635 
And  the  climbing  moon  fell  back; 

And  the  royal  blazon  fled   from  the  floor. 
And  naught  remained  on  its  track; 

And  high  in  the  darkened  window-pane 
The  shield  and  the  crown  were  black.     640 

And  what   I   say  next  I  partly  saw 

And  partly  I  heard  in  sooth. 
And  partly  since  from  the  murderers'  lips 

The  torture  wrung  the  truth. 

For  now  again  came  the  armed  tread,    645 
And  fast  through  the  hall  it  fell; 

But  the  throng  was  less :  and  ere  I  saw, 
By  the  voice  without  I  could  tell 

That  Robert  Stuart  had  come  with  them 
Who  knew  that  chamber  well.  650 

And  over  the  space  the  Graeme  strode  dark 
With  his  mantle  round  him  flung; 

And  in  his  eye  was  a  flaming  light 
But  not  a  word  on  his  tongue. 

.\nd  Stuart  held  a  torch  to  the  floor,         655 
And  he  found  the  thing  he  sought ; 

And  they  slashed  the  plank  away  with  their 
swords ; 
And  O  God!  I  fainted  not! 

And  the  traitor  held  his  torch  in  the  gap. 
All  smoking  and  smoldering;  660 


872 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


And  through  the  vapor  and  fire,  beneath 
In  the  dark  crypt's  narrow  ring, 

With  a  shout  that  pealed  to  the  room's  high 
roof 
They  saw  their  naked  king. 

Half  naked  he  stood,  but  stood  as  one      665 

Who  yet  could  do  and  dare: 
With  the  crown,  the  king  was  stript  away,— 
The  knight  was  reft  of  his  battle-array,— 

But  still  the  man  was  there. 

From  the  rout  then  stepped  a  villain  forth, 
Sir  John  Hall  was  his  name;  ^71 

With    a    knife    unsheathed    he    leapt    to    the 
vault 
Beneath  the  torchlight-flame. 

Of  his  person  and  stature  was  the  king 
A   man   right   manly    strong,  ^75 

And  mightily  by  the  shoulder-blades 
His  foe  to  his   feet  he  flung. 

Then  the  traitor's  brother,  Sir  Thomas  Hall, 
Sprang  down  to  work  his  worst ; 

And  the  king  caught  the  second  man  by  the 
neck  ^«° 

And   flung   him   above   the   first. 

And    he    smote    and    trampled    them    under 
him; 
And  a  long  month  thence  they  bare 
All  black  their  throats  with  the  grip  of  his 
hands 
When  the  hangman's  hand  came  there.  683 

And  sore  he  strove  to  have  had  their  knives, 

But  the  sharp  blades  gashed  his  hands. 
Oh!    James    so    armed,    thou    hadst    battled 
there 
Till  help  had  come  of  thy  bands; 
And   oh!    once    more    thou   hadst   held    our 
throne  ^^o 

And  ruled  thy  Scottish  lands  1 

But  while  the  king  o'er  his  foes  still  raged 
With  a  heart  that  naught  could  tame, 

Another  man  sprang  down  to  the  crypt ; 

And    with    his    sword    in    his    hand    hard- 
gripped,  695 
There  stood  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

(Now  shame  on  the  recreant  traitor's  heart 

Who  durst  not   face  his  king. 
Till  the  body  unarmed  was  wearied  out 

With  two-fold  combating!  7°° 

Ah!  well  might  the  people  sing  and  say. 
As   oft   ye   have   heard   aright:  — 


O   Robert    Grccmc,   O   Robert    Grccine, 
Who  slew  our  king,  God  give  thee  shame!  ' 
For  he  slew  him  not  as  a  knight.)       7"5 

And  the  naked  king  turned  round  at  bay, 
But  his  strength  had  passed  the  goal, 

And    he    could    but    gasp: — 'Mine    hour    is 
come ; 

But  oh !  to  succor  thine  own  soul's  doom, 
Let  a  priest  now  shrive  my  soul ! '        710 

And  the  traitor  looked  on  the  king's  spent 
strength 

And  said: — 'Have  I  kept  my  word?  — 
Yea,  King,  the  mortal  pledge  that  I  gave? 
No  black  friar's  shrift  thy  soul   shall  have. 

But  the  shrift  of  this  red  sword!'         "'S 


With   that   he    smote   his   king   through   the 
breast ; 
And   all  they  three  in  the   pen 
Fell   on   him  and   stabbed   and    stabbed   him 
there 
Like  merciless  murderous  men. 

Yet  seemed  it  now  that  Sir  Robert  Graeme, 
Ere  the  king's  last  breath  was  o'er,       7^' 

Turned  sick  at  heart  with  the  deadly  sight 
And    would    have    done    no    more. 

But  a  cry  came  from  the  troop  above :  — 
'H  him  thou  do  not  slay,  7-25 

The  price  of  his  life  that  thou  dost  spare 
Thy  forfeit  life  shall  pay!' 

O  God !  what  more  did  I  hear  or  see, 

Or  how  should  I  tell  the  rest, 
But  there  at  length  our  king  lay  slain     7Zo 

With  sixteen  wounds  in  his  breast. 

O  God !  and  now  did  a  bell  boom  forth, 
And  the  murderers  turned  and  fled ;  — 
Too  late,  too  late,  O  God,  did  it  sound?  — 
And  I  heard  the  true  men  mustering  round, 
And  the  cries   and   the   coming  tread.  73^ 

But  ere  they  came,  to  the  black  death-gap 

Somewise  did  I  creep  and  steal ; 
And  lo !   or  ever  I  swooned  away. 
Through   the   dusk   I   saw   where   the   white 
face  lay  740 

In    the    pit    of    Fortune's    wheel. 

And  now,  ye  Scottish  maids  who  have  heard 
Dread    things    of    the    days    grown    old, — 

Even    at    the    last,    of    true    Queen    Jane 
May   somewhat   yet   be   told.  745 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 


873 


And  how  she  dealt  for  her  dear  lord's  sake 
Dire   vengeance   manifold. 

'T  was  in  the   Charterhouse  of    Perth, 

In    the    fair-lit    Death-chapelle, 
That    the    slain    King's    corpse   on   bier    was 
laid  750 

With  chaunt  and  requiem-knell. 

And  all  with  royal  wealth  of  balm 

Was  the  body  purified  ; 
And  none  could  trace  on  the  brow  and  lips 

The  death  that  he  had  died.  755 

In  his  robes  of  state  he  lay  asleep 
With  orb  and   scepter  in   hand ; 

And  by  the  crown  he  wore  on  his  throne 
Was  his  kingly  forehead  spanned. 

And,  girls,  't  was  a  sweet  sad  thing  to  see 
How    the    curling    golden    hair,  761 

As  in  the  day  of  the  poet's  youth, 

From    the   king's    crown    clustered  there. 

And  if  all  had  come  to  pass  in  the  brain 

That   throbbed   beneath   those   curls,        765 
Then  Scots  had  said  in  the  days  to  come 
That  this  their  soul  was  a  different  home 
And  a  different  Scotland,  girls ! 

And  the  queen  sat  by  him  night  and  day. 
And  oft   she  knelt   in  prayer,  770 

All  wan  and  pale  in  the  widow's  veil 
That  shrouded  her  shining  hair. 

And  I  had  got  good  help  of  my  hurt: 

And  only  to  me  some   sign 
She   made ;   and   save   the   priests   that   were 
there  775 

No   face  would   she   see   but   mine. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  on  apace ; 

And  now  fresh  couriers  fared 
Still  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots 

With  news  of  the  traitors  snared.  780 

And  still  as  I  told  her  day  by  day, 

Her  pallor  changed  to  sight, 
And  the   frost  grew  to  a  furnace-flame, 

That  burnt  her  visage  white. 

And  evermore  as  I  brought  her  word,  78s 
She   bent   to   her  dead   King  James, 

And  in  the  cold  ear  with  fire-drawn  breath. 
She    spoke    the    traitors'    names. 

But  when  the  name  of  Sir  Robert  Graeme 
Was  the  one   she   had  to  give,  79" 


I  ran  to  hold  her  up  from  the  floor; 
For  the  froth  was  on  her  lips,  and  sore 
I  feared  that  she  could  not  live. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  nigh  to  its 
end, 
And  still  was  the  death-pall  spread;       795 
For    she    would    not    bury    her    slaughtered 
lord 
Till  his  slayers  all  were  dead. 

And  now  of  their  dooms  dread  tidings  came. 
And  of  torments  fierce  and  dire; 

And  naught  she  spake, —  she  had  ceased  to 
speak,  800 

But  her  eyes  were  a  soul  on  fire. 

But  when  I  told  her  the  bitter  end 

Of  the  stern  and  just  award. 
She   leaned    o'er  the  bier,   and   thrice   three 
times 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  her  lord.  805 

And    then    she    said, — '  My    King,    they    are 
dead !  ' 
And  she  knelt  on  the  chapel-floor, 
And    whispered    low    with   a   strange   proud 
smile, 
'  James,  James,  they  suffered  more  !  ' 

Last   she   stood  up   to   her  queenly  height. 
But  she  shook  like  an  autumn  leaf,       811 
As  though  the  fire  wherein  she  burned 
Then  left  the  body,  and  all  were  turned 
To  winter  of  life-long  grief. 

And  '  O  James ! '  she  said, — '  My  James  !  ' 
she  said, —  815 

'  Alas   for  the  woeful  thing, 
That  a  poet  true  and  a  friend  of  man. 
In  desperate  days  of  bale  and  ban. 
Should  needs  be  born  a  King  1 ' 

(1881) 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument^ — 

Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity, 

To   one  dead  deathless  hour.    Look   that   it 

be, 
I  Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 
Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent:         5 
Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 
As  Day  or  Night  may  rule;  and  let   Time 

see 
Its  floivcrinci  crest  impearlcd  and  orient. 
A  Sonnet  is  a  coin:  its  face  reveals 


874 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


The  soul, —  its  converse,  to  zvhat  Pozvcr  't  is 
due:—  1° 

Wliether  for  tribute  to  the  august  afij^eals 
Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve;  or,  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cavernous 

breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

IV.      LOVE-SIGHT 

When   do   I   see  thee  most,  beloved   one? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The    worship    of    that    Love    through    thee 

made  known? 
Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies,     6 
Thy  twilight-hidden   glimmering  visage   lies, 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 
O  love,  my  love!  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,   nor   on  the   earth   the   shadow   of 
thee,  10 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darken- 
ing slope, 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of 

Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

XIX.      SILENT    NOON 

Your    hands    lie    open    in    the    long    fresh 

grass,— 
The    finger-points    look    through    like    rosy 

blooms  : 
Your  eyes  smile  peace.     The  pasture  gleams 

and  glooms 
'Neath     billowing     skies     that     scatter     and 

amass.  4 

All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass. 
Are   golden    kingcup-fields   with   silver   edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn - 

hedge. 
'T  is  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 
Deep     in     the     sun-searched     growths     the 

dragon-fly, 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the 

sky: —  10 

So   this   winged   hour   is   dropt   to   us    from 

above. 
Oh!   clasp   we   to   our   hearts,    for   deathless 

dower. 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 
When  two-fold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 

XXI.      LOVE-SWEETNESS 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  down- 
fall 

About  thy  face;  her  sweet  hands  round  thy 
head 


Tn  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded ; 
Her    tremulous    smiles;    her    glances'    sweet 

recall 
Of  love;  her  murmuring  sighs  memorial;  S 
Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy  kisses 

shed 
On  checks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so  led 
P.ack  to  her  mouth  which  answers  there  for 

all:- 
What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except  the 

thing 
In  lacking  which  all  these  would  lose  their 

sweet: —  lo 

The  confident  heart's  still   fervor;  the  swift 

beat 
And  soft  subsidence  of  the  spirit's  wing. 
Then  when   it   feels  in  cloud-girt  wayfaring, 
The   breath    of    kindred   plumes    against    its 

feet? 

XXVI.      MID-RAPTURE 

Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love ; 

Whose  kiss  seems  still  the  first ;  whose  sum- 
moning eyes. 

Even  now,  as  for  our  love-world's  new  sun- 
rise. 

Shed  very  dawn ;  whose  voice,,  attuned 
above 

All   modulation   of   the   deep-bowered   dove, 

Is  like  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul;        6 

Whose  hand  is  like  a  sweet  voice  to  control 

Those  worn  tired  brows  it  hath  the  keeping 
of:  — 

What  word  can  answer  to  thy  word, —  what 
gaze 

To  thine,  which  now  absorbs  within  its 
sphere  lo 

My  worshipping  face,  till  I  am  mirrored 
there 

Light-circled  in  a  heaven  of  deep-drawn 
rays? 

What  clasp,  what  kiss  mine  inmost  heart  can 
prove, 

O  lovely  and  beloved,  O  my  love? 

LV.      STILLBORN     LOVE 

The  hour  which  might  have  been  yet  might 
not  be. 

Which  man's  and  woman's  heart  conceived 
and  bore 

Yet  whereof  life  was  barren, —  on  what 
shore 

Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary  sea? 

Bondchild  of  all  consummate  joys  set  free,  5 

It  somewhere  sighs  and  serves,  and  mute  be- 
fore 

The  house  of  Love,  hears  through  the 
echoing  door 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 


875 


His  hours  elect  in  choral  consonancy. 

But    lo!    what    wedded    souls    now    hand    in 

hand 
Together  tread  at  last  the  immortal  strand  1° 
With    eyes    where    burning    memory    lights 

love  home? 
Lo !  how  the  little  outcast  hour  has  turned 
And    leaped    to    them    and    in    their    faces 

yearned :  — 
'  I  am  your  child :  O  parents,  ye  have  come!  * 

LXIII.      INCLUSIVENESS 

The    changing   guests,    each    in    a    different 

mood. 
Sit  at  the  roadside  table  and  arise: 
And  every  life  among  them  in   likewise 
Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 
What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to 

brood  5 

How  that  face  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it 

lies?  — 
Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kissed  his 

eyes, 
Of    what    her    kiss    was    when    his    father 

wooed  ? 
May    not   this   ancient   room   thou    sitt'st   in 

dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain?  10 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain? 
Where  heaven   shows  pictures  of  some  life 

spent  well ; 
And  may  be  stamped,  a  memory  all  in  vain. 
Upon  the  sight  of  lidless  eyes  in  hell. 

LXV.      KNOWN    IN    VAIN 

As  two  whose  love,  first   foolish,  widening 

scope. 
Knows  suddenly,  to  music  high  and  soft, 
The  holy  of  holies;  who  because  they  scoffed 
Are   now  amazed   with   shame,  nor  dare  to 

cope 
With    the    whole    truth    aloud,    lest    heaven 

should  ope;  5 

Yet,    at    their    meetings,    laugh   not    as   they 

laughed 
In  speech;  nor  speak,  at  length;  but  sitting 

oft 
Together,  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope 
For  hours  are  silent :  —  So  it  happeneth 
When    Work   and    Will    awake   too   late,   to 

gaze  10 

After    their    life    sailed    by,    and    hold    their 

breath. 
Ah !  who  shall  dare  to  search  through  what 

sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death? 


LXXI.      THE  CHOICE.      I 

Eat   thou  and  drink;  to-morrow  thou   shalt 

die. 
Surely  the  earth,  that 's  wise  being  very  old, 
Needs  not  our  help.     Then   loose  me,   love, 

and  hold 
Thy  sultry  hair  up  from  my  face;  that  I 
May  pour  for  thee  this  golden  wine,  brim- 
high,  5 
Till    round   the   glass   thy   fingers  glow   like 

gold. 
We'll    drown    all    hours;    thy    song,    while 

hours  are  tolled, 
Shall    leap,   as    fountains    veil    the    changing 

sky. 
Now   kiss,   and   think   that   there   are   really 

those, 
My  own  high-bosomed  beauty,  who  increase 
Vain  gold,  vain  lore,  and  yet  might  choose 

our  way !  n 

Through   many  years  they  toil ;   then   on   a 

day 
They  die  not, —  for  their  life   was  death, — 

but  cease; 
And   round  their  narrow  lips  the  mold 

falls  close. 

LXXII.      THE    CHOICE.      II 

Watch     thou     and     fear;     to-morrow     thou 

shalt  die. 
Or  art  thou  sure  thou  shalt  have  time  for 

death  ? 
Is  not  the  day  which  God's  word  promiseth 
To   come   man   knows   not  when?     In   yon- 
der sky, 
Now  while  we  speak,  the  sun  speeds  forth: 

can   I  5 

Or   thou    assure    him    of    his    goal?    God's 

breath 
Even  at  this  moment  haply  quickeneth 
The  air  to  a  flame;  till  spirits,  always  nigh 
Though    screened    and    hid,    shall    walk    the 

daylight  here. 
And  dost  thou  prate  of  all  that  man  shall 

do  ?  10 

Canst  thou,  who  hast  but  plagues,  presume 

to  be 
Glad  in  his  gladness  that  comes  after  thee? 
Will    his   strength    slay    thy   worm    in    hell? 

Go  to: 
Cover    thy    countenance,    and     watch,    and 

fear. 

LXXIII.      THE    CHOICE.      Ill 

Think  thou  and  act;   to-morrow  thou   shalt 
die. 


876 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


Outstretched   in   the   sun's   warmth   upon   the 

shore, 
Thou   say'st :     'Man's   measured   path   is   all 

gone  o'er; 
Up   all    his   years,    steeply,    with    strain   and 

sigh, 
Man  clomb  until  he  touched  the  truth;  and 

I, 
Even  I,  am  he  whom  it  was  destined  for.' 
How    should    this    be?     Art    thou    then    so 

much  more 
Than   they   who   sowed,   that  thou   shouldst 

reap  thereby? 
Nay,    come    up    hither.     From    this    wave- 
washed  mound 
Unto    the    furthest    flood-brim    look    with 

me;  Jo 

Then   reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be 

drowned. 
Miles  and  miles  distant  though  the  last  line 

be, 
And    though    thy    soul     sail     leagues    and 

leagues  beyond, — 
Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues,  there  is 

more  sea. 

LXXXVI.      LOST   DAYS 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day. 
What  were   they,   could  I   see  them   on  the 

street 
Lie  as  they   fell?    Would  they  be  ears  of 

wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 
Or    golden    coins    squandered    and    still    to 

pay?  5 

Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  hell,  athirst  alway? 
I  do  not  see  them  here ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see,  1° 
Each   one  a   murdered   self,   with   low   last 

breath. 
'I    am    thyself, —  what    hast    thou    done    to 

me? ' 
'And    I  —  and    I  —  thyself.'    (lo!    each    one 

saith) 
'  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity ! ' 


XCVII.      A    SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Fare- 
well ; 

I'nto  thine  car  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 

Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between; 

Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is 
seen  5 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by 
my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 

Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail 
screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am!  But  should 
there  dart 

One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  sur- 
prise to 

Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath 
of  sighs, — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn 
apart 

Thy   visage   to   mine   ambush    at   thy   heart, 

Sleepless  with   cold   commemorative   eyes. 

CI.      THE  ONE   HOPE 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret 
Go  hand  in  hand  to  death,  and  all  is  vain. 
What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 
And    teach    the    un forgetful    to    forget? 
Shall  Peace  be  still  a  sunk  stream  long  un- 
met,—  5 
Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 
Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet  life- 
fountain 
And  cull  the  dew-drenched  flowering  amu- 
let? 
Ah !   when  the  wan  soul   in  that  golden  air 
Between  the  scriptured  petals  softly  blown  'o 
Peers   breathless    for   the   gift   of   grace   un- 
known,— 
Ah!   let  none  other   alien  spell    soe'er 
But    only    the    one     Hope's    one    name    be 

there, — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 
(1869,  1870,  1881) 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  (1834-1896) 


After  a  youth  of  wide  reading  and  varied  schooling,  Morris  reached  Exeter  College,  Oxford, 
in  1853,  with  broad  information  and  strongly  developed  intellectual  tendencies.  Aside  from 
a  notable  achievement  in  general  reading,  the  most  important  result  of  his  Oxford  residence 
was  a  close  friendship  with  Edward  Burue-Joncs,  with  whom  he  continued  to  live  in  the 
closest  intimacy.  A  propensity  toward  Romanism,  and  then  toward  Anglicanism,  resolved 
itself  ultimately  into  an  enthusiam  for  art,  for  social  reform,  and  for  the  utterances  of  Carlyle, 
Ruskin,  and  Kingsley.  Travels  in  northern  France,  in  1854  and  18.55,  together  with  his  per- 
manent love  for  French  Gothic  art,  led  to  his  decision  to  become  an  architect.  After  he  had 
studied  architecture  sincerely  for  a  year  or  so,  Rossetti  persuaded  him  to  take  a  studio  and 
devote  himself  to  painting.  Morris  found  his  true  vocation,  however,  when,  in  1861,  with 
Rossetti,  Burne-Jones,  and  others,  he  established  a  firm  in  Loudon  for  designing  and  manufac- 
turing artistic  furniture  and  household  decorations.  The  scope  of  the  enterprise  was  eventu- 
ally enlarged  to  include  the  manufacture  of  textiles,  dyeing,  book-illumination,  and  printing. 
In  1890,  Morris  foimded  the  famous  Kelmscott  Press,  at  Hammersmith.  In  advancing  the 
minor  arts  and  in  sustaining  the  principle  that  every  object  and  utensil  should  be  beautiful, 
Morris  did  more  than  any  other  man  of  his  time.  In  1885,  he  became  an  active  socialist,  lec- 
turing freely  to  workingmen,  and  contributing  to  The  Commonweal,  the  organ  of  the  Social- 
istic League. 

Except  during  certain  periods  of  interruption,  Morris  wrote  voluminously  throughout  his 
life.  The  Defence  of  Guinevere  (1858),  his  earliest  considerable  publication,  is  among  his 
best.  From  the  Arthurian  themes  of  this  work,  he  turned  with  facility  to  the  Greek,  Old 
French,  and  Norse  stories  seen  in  Life  and  Death  of  Jason  (1867),  The  Earthly  Paradise 
(1868-70),  and  Sigurd  the  Volsung  and  the  Fall  of  the  'NiUungs  (1876).  Aside  from  these 
original  poetical  writings,  Morris's  chief  works  are  his  romances, —  in  prose,  or  in  prose  and 
verse, —  of  which  the  most  important  are  A  Tale  of  the  House  of  the  Wol/itigs  (1889),  The 
Roots  of  the  Mountains  (1890),  The  Story  of  the  Glitternig  Plain  (1891)  and  The  Well  at 
the  World's  End  (1896).  Of  his  translations  the  most  notable  are  the  Gretiis  Saga  (1869) 
and  the  Vdlsunga  Saga  (1870).  Morris  stands  preeminent  in  the  literature  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  as  a  charming  story-teller.  In  his  stories  we  find  neither  humor  nor  a  dramatic 
grasp  of  situations,  but  rather,  dreamy  narrative  idealizations  of  an  alluring  past. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 

Of    Heaven    or    Hell    I    have    no    power    to 

sing, 
I   cannot   case   the  burden   of  your   fears, 
Or  make  quick-commg  death  a   little  thing. 
Or  bring  again   the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor    for    my    words    shall    ye    forget    your 

tears,  S 

Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth. 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh. 
And,   feeling  kindly  unto  all   the   earth,     lo 
Grudge   every   minute  as   it   passes  by. 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days 

die- 
Remember  me  a   little  then.   I   pray. 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care    is 
That   weighs    us    dowm    who    live    and    earn 

our    bread. 
These   idle  verses  have   no  power  to  bear; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered. 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or    long    time    take    their     memory    quite 

away  20 

From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer   of   dreams,   born   out   of   my   due 

time, 
Why    should    I    strive    to    set    the    crooked 

straight? 
Let   it   suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rime 
Beats    with    light    wing    against    the    ivory 

gate,  25 

Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those   who  in  the  sleepy  region   stay. 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


877 


878 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


1 


Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 

At     Christmas-tide     such     wondrous    things 

did  show,  30 

That   through   one  window   men   beheld   the 

spring, 
And     through     another     saw     the     summer 

glow. 
And     through     a    third     the     fruited    vines 

arow, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped    the    drear    wind    of    that    December 

day.  35 

So   with   this   Earthly   Paradise   it   is. 
If  ye  will  read  aright  and  pardon   me. 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
:]\Iidmost   the   beating   of   the   steely   sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must 

be;  40 

Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall 

slay. 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

ATALANTA'S  RACE 

Atalanta,  daughter  of  King  Schoeneus,  not  will- 
ing to  lose  her  virgin's  estate,  made  it  a  law 
to  all  suitors  that  they  should  run  a  race  with 
her  in  the  public  place,  and  if  they  failed  to 
overcome  her  should  die  unrevenged;  and  thus 
many  brave  men  perished.  At  last  came  Mila- 
nion,  the  son  of  Amphidamas,  who,  outrunning 
her  with  the  help  of  Venus,  gained  the  virgin 
and   wedded   her. 

I 

Through  thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter 
went, 

Following  the  beasts  up,  on  a  fresh  spring 
day; 

But  since  his  horn-tipped  bow,  but  seldom 
bent, 

Now  at  the  noontide  naught  had  happed  to 
slay. 

Within  a  vale  he  called  his  hounds  away,  5 

Hearkening  the  echoes  of  his  lone  voice 
cling 

About  the  cliffs  and  through  the  beech- 
trees   ring. 

But  when  they  ended,  still  awhile  he  stood. 
And    but    the    sweet    familiar    thrush    could 

hear. 
And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood,  'o 
And    o'er    the    dry    leaves    of    the    vanished 

year 
His    hounds'    feet    pattering    as    they    drew 

anear. 


And  heavy  breathing   from  their  heads  low 

hung. 
To   see  the  mighty  cornel   bow  unstrung. 

Then    smiling    did    he    turn    to    leave    the 

place,  1 5 

But    with    his    first    step    some   new    fleeting 

thought 
A   shadow  cast  across  his  sunburnt   face : 
I    think   (he   golden    net    that    April    brought 
From   some   warm   world   his   wavering  soul 

had    caught ; 
For,   sunk   in   vague   sweet   longing,   did    he 

go  20 

Betwixt   the  trees   with   doubtful   steps   and 

slow. 

Yet  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 

The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the  wood  was 
done; 

Whereon  one  farewell,  backward  look  he 
cast, 

Then,  turning  round  to  see  what  place  was 
won,  25 

With  shaded  eyes  looked  underneath  the 
sun. 

And  o'er  green  meads  and  new-turned  fur- 
rows brown 

Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Schoeneus' 
town. 

So  thitherward  he  turned,  and  on  each 
side 

The  folk  were  busy  on  the  teeming  land,  3° 

And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  fur- 
rows  cried. 

Or  midst  the  newly  blossomed  vines  did 
stand. 

And  as  the  rustic  weapon  pressed  the  hand 

Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-tilled 
ear. 

Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should 
shear.  35 

Merry  it  was :  about  him  sung  the  birds. 

The  spring  flowers  bloomed  along  the  firm 
dry    road. 

The  sleek-skinned  mothers  of  the  sharp- 
horned    herds 

Now  for  the  barefoot  milking-maidens 
lowed ; 

While  from  the  freshness  of  his  blue 
abode,  40 

Glad   his  death-bearing  arrows   to   forget, 

The  broad  sun  blazed,  nor  scattered 
plagues  as  yet. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


879 


Through    such    fair    things    unto    the    gates 

he  came, 
And    found    them    open,    as    though    peace 

were    there ; 
Wherethrough,  unquestioned  of  his  race  or 

name,  45 

He  entered,  and  along  the  streets  'gan  fare, 
Which    at    the    first   of    folk    were    wellnigh 

bare; 
But  pressing  on,   and   going  more  hastily. 
Men  hurrying  too  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these,  he  still  pressed 

on,  50 

Until  an  open   space  he  came  unto, 
Where  wreaths  of   fame  had   oft  been  lost 

and   won. 
For  feats  of  strength  folk  there  were  wont 

to   do. 
And  'now  our  hunter  looked  for  something 

new, 
Because    the    whole    wide    space    was    bare, 

and   stilled  55 

The    high    seats    were,    with    eager    people 

filled. 


There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat. 
Whence    he   beheld    a    broidered    canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Schoeneus 

sat 
Upon  his  throne  with  councilors  thereby ;  60 
And   underneath  his  well-wrought  seat  and 

high, 
He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  sun, 
A  silver  image  of  the  fleet-foot  one. 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame  flickered  in  the  wind ; 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet     66 
Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 
By   whom   a    huge   man   held   a    sword,    in- 
twined 
With    yellow    flowers;    these    stood    a    little 

space 
From  off  the  akar,  nigh  the  starting-place. 

And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide,  71 
Foot   set   to   foot, —  a  young  man   slim   and 

fair, 
Crisp-haired,  well-knit,  with  firm  limbs  often 

tried 
In   places   where  no  man  his   strength   may 

spare ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair  75 
A   golden   circlet   of   renown  he   wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 


But  on   this   day  with   whom    shall   he  con- 
tend ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When    in    the    woods    she    lists    her    bow    to 
bend,  80 

Too  fair   for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad. 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
H  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar; 
Too    fair    to    let   the    world    live    free    from 
war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ;  85 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were 

near. 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear. 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His    anxious    face    with    fierce    desire    that 

burned.  9i 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trum- 
pet's clang 

Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 

Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there 
sprang. 

And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side; 

But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide         96 

Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last, 

And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 

But    when    the    people    saw    how    close   they 

ran. 
When    half-way    to    the    starting-point    they 

were,  100 

A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed    the    white-foot    runner,    and    drew 

near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear; 
And    scarce    his    straining    feet    the    ground 

could  feel, 
And    bliss    unhoped-for    o'er   his    heart    'gan 

steal.  105 

But    midst    the    loud    victorious    shouts    he 

heard 
Her     footsteps     drawing     nearer,     and     the 

sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His     flushed     and     eager     face     he     turned 

around. 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 
Fleet    as    the    wind,    but    scarcely    saw    her 

there  m 

Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers   fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little  child 
Amid  some   warlike  clamo<-  laid  asleep, 


88o 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


For  no  victorious  joy  iuT  red  lips  siiiili'd,  I'S 
Her    ciieek    its    wonted     freshness    did    Ijut 

keep ; 
No   glance   lit   up   her  clear   gray   eyes   and 

deep, 
Though    some    divine    thought    softened    all 

her   face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the 

place. 

But   her   late    foe   stopped    short   amidst   his 

course,  '^o 

One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously. 
Then    with    a    groan    his    lingering    feet    did 

force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could 

see; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time 

must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword;  ^26 

Then    high    rose    up    the    gleaming    deadly 

blade. 
Bared     of     its     flowers,     and     through     the 

crowded  place 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 
Went  by  the  poor  wretch   at   a  gentle  pace. 
And    he    to    hers    upturned    his    sad    white 

face;  131 

Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 


So  was  the  pageant  ended,  and  all  folk 
Talking  of  this  and  that  familiar  thing 
In    little    groups    from    that    sad    concourse 

broke ; 
For  now  the  shrill  bats  were  upon  the  wing, 
And   soon   dark  night   would   slay  the  even- 
ing, _  5 
And  in  dark  gardens  sang  the  nightingale 
Her   little-heeded,   oft-repeated    tale. 

And  with  the  last  of  all  the  hunter  went. 
Who,  wondering  at  the  strange  sight  he  had 

seen, 
Prayed    an    old    man    to    tell    him    what    it 

meant,  10 

Both  why  the  vanquished  man  so  slain  had 

been. 
And  if  the  maiden  were  an  earthly  queen, 
Or   rather   what   much   more   she   seemed   to 

be. 
No  sharer  in  the  world's  mortality. 

'  Stranger,'   said   he,   '  I    pray   she   soon   may 
die  15 


Whose   lovely   youth   has   slain   so   many   an 

one ! 
King  Schccneus'  daughter  is  she  verily. 
Who    when    her   eyes    first    looked    upon   the 

sun 
Was   fain   to  end  her  life  but   new  begun, 
For  he  had  vowed  to  leave  but  men  alone 
Sprung  from  his  loins  when   he   from  earth 

was  gone.  21 

'  Therefore    he    bade    one    leave    her    in    the 

wood, 
And    let    wild   things   deal   with   her   as   they 

might ; 
.  But  this  being  done,  some  cruel  god  thought 

good 
To  save  her  beauty  in  the  world's  despite:  2s 
Folk  say  that  her,  so  delicate  and  white 
As   now  she  is,  a   rough   root-grubbing  bear 
Amidst  her  shapeless  cubs  at  first  did  rear. 

'  In   course  of  time  the   woodfolk  slew  her 

nurse. 
And    to     their    rude    abode    the    youngling 

brought,  30 

And  reared  her  up  to  be  a  kingdom's  curse. 
Who,    grown    a    woman,    of    no    kingdom 

thought. 
But  armed  and  swift,  mid  beasts  destruction 

wrought. 
Nor    spared    two    shaggy    centaur    kings    to 

slay, 
To  whom  her  body  seemed  an  easy  prey.  35 

'  So  to  this  city,  led  by  fate,  she  came, 
Whom,  known   by  signs,   whereof   I   cannot 

tell, 
King    Schceneus    for    his    child    at    last    did 

claim ; 
Nor    otherwhere    since    that    day    doth    she 

dwell. 
Sending  too  many  a  noble  soul  to  hell. —  40 
What!  thine  eyes  glisten?  what  then!  think 

est  thou 
Her  shining  head  unto  the  yoke  to  bow? 

'  Listen,  my  son,  and  love  some  other  maid, 
For  she  the  saffron  gown  will  never  wear, 
And    on    no    liovver-strewn    couch    shall    she 

be  laid,  45 

Nor    shall    her    voice    make    glad    a    lover's 

ear; 
Yet  if  of  Death  thou  hast  not  any  fear. 
Yea,  rather,  if  thou  lovest  him  utterly, 
Thou  still  may'st  woo  her  ere  thou  comest 

to  die. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


*  Like  him  that  on  this  day  thou  sawest  lie 
dead ;  so 

For,   fearing  as   I   deem  the  sea-born  one, 
The   maid   has   vowed   e'en    such   a   man   to 

wed 
As  in  the  course  her  swift  feet  can  out- 
run. 
But  whoso  fails  herein,  his  days  are  done: 
He  came  the  nighest  that  was  slain  to-day,  ss 
Although  with  him  I  deem  she  did  but 
play. 

'  Behold,  such  mercy  Atalanta  gives 

To  those  that  long  to  win  her  loveliness ; 

Be  wise !   be   sure  that   many  a   maid  there 

lives 
Gentler  than  she,  of  beauty  little  less,       60 
Whose    swimming    eyes    thy    loving    words 

shall  bless, 
When    in    some    garden,    knee    set    close    to 

•    knee. 
Thou   sing'st  the  song  that  love  may  teach 

to  thee.' 

So  to  the  hunter  spake  that  ancient  man, 

And  left  him  for  his  own  home  presently; 

But  he  turned  round,  and  through  the  moon- 
light wan  66 

Reached  the  thick  wood,  and  there  'twixt 
tree  and  tree 

Distraught  he  passed  the  long  night  fever- 
ishly, 

'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  and  at  dawn  arose 

To  wage  hot  war  against  his  speechless 
foes.  70 

There  to  the  hart's  Rank  seemed  his  shaft  to 

grow, 
As  panting  down  the  broad  green  glades  he 

flew. 
There   by  his   horn  the   Dryads   well    might 

know 
His  thrust  against  the  bear's  heart  had  been 

true, 
And  there  Adonis'  bane  his  javelin  slew ;    75 
But  still  in  vain  through  rough  and  smooth 

he  went, 
For    none    the    more    his    restlessness    was 

spent. 

So  wandering,  he  to  Argive  cities  came. 
And  in  the  lists  with  valiant  men  he  stood, 
And  by  great  deeds  he  won  him  praise  and 

fame,  80 

And  heaps  of  wealth  for  little-valued  blood; 
But  none  of  all  these  things,  or  life,  seemed 

good 
Unto  his  heart,  where  still  unsatisfied 
56 


A  ravenous  longing  warred  with  fear  and 
pride. 

Therefore  it  happed  when  but  a  month  had 
gone  8s 

Since  he  had   left  King  Schceneus'  city  old, 
In   hunting-gear   again,   again  alone 
The  forest-bordered  meads  did  he  behold, 
Where  still  mid  thoughts  of  August's  quiv- 
ering gold 
Folk  hoed  the  wheat,  and  clipped  the  vine  in 
trust  90 

Of   faint  October's  purple-foaming   must. 

And  once  again  he  passed  the  peaceful  gate, 
While  to  his  beating  heart  his  lips  did  lie, 
That,  owning  not  victorious  love  and  fate, 
Said,    half    aloud,    'And    here    too    must    I 

try  95 

To  win  of  alien  men  the  mastery, 
And    gather    for    my    head    fresh    meed    of 

fame, 
And   cast   new  glory  on   my   father's   name.' 

In  spite  of  that,  how  beat  his  heart  when 
first 

Folk  said  to  him,  '  And  art  thou  come  to 
see  100 

That  which  still  makes  our  city's  name  ac- 
curst 

Among  all  mothers   for  its  cruelty? 

Then  know  indeed  that  fate  is  good  to 
thee. 

Because  to-morrow  a  new  luckless  one 

Against  the  white-foot  maid  is  pledged  to 
run.'  105 

So  on  the  morrow  with  no  curious  eyes, 
As  once  he  did,  that  piteous  sight  he  saw, 
Nor  did  that  wonder  in  his  heart  arise 
As  toward  the  goal  the  conquering  maid  'gan 
draw,  log 

Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  her  eyes  with  awe, — 
Too  full  the  pain  of  longing  filled  his  heart 
For  fear  or  wonder  there  to  have  a  part. 

But  O,  how  long  the  night  was  ere  it  went! 

How  long  it  was  before  the  dawn  begun 

Showed  to  the  wakening  birds  the  sun's  in- 
tent 115 

That  not  in  darkness  should  the  world  be 
done! 

And  then,  and  then,  how  long  before  the 
sun 

Bade  silently  the  toilers  of  the  earth 

Get  forth  to  fruitless  cares  or  empty  mirth! 

And  long  it  seemed  that  in  the  market- 
place 120 


882 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


He  stood  and  saw  (lie  cliafTcring  folk  go  by, 
Ere   from  the   ivory  throne   King   SchcEneus' 

face 
Looked  down  upon  the  murmur  royally; 
But  then  came  trembling  that  the  time  was 

nigh 
When  he  midst  pitying  looks  his  love  must 

claim,  '-•'' 

And  jeering  voices  must   salute  his  name. 

But    as   the   throng   he   pierced    to   gain   the 

throne. 
His  alien  face  distraught  and  anxious  told 
What  hopeless  errand  he  was  bound  upon, 
And,  each  to  each,  folk  whispered  to  be- 
hold '30 
His  godlike  limbs;  nay,  and  one  woman  old. 
As    he    went    by,    must    pluck    him    by    the 

sleeve 
And    pray   him   yet   that    wretched    love   to 
leave. 

For    sidling  up    she   said,   '  Canst   thou   live 

twice. 
Fair    son?     Canst    thou    have    joyful    youth 

again,  '3S 

That  thus  thou  goest  to  the  sacrifice. 
Thyself  the  victim?     Nay,  then,   all  in  vain 
Thy  mother  bore  her  longing  and  her  pain. 
And    one   more   maiden   on   the    earth   must 

dwell 
Hopeless    of    joy,    nor    fearing    death    and 

hell.  '40 

'  O  fool,  thou  knowest  not  the  compact  then 
That  with  the  three-formed  goddess  she  has 

made 
To  keep  her  from  the  loving  lips  of  men, 
And  in  no  saffron  gown  to  be  arrayed, 
And  therewithal  with  glory  to  be  paid,     i45 
And  love  of  her  the  moonlit  river  sees 
White    'gainst   the   shadow   of  the    formless 

trees. 

'Come   back,    and    I    myself   will    pray    for 

thee 
Unto  the  sea-born  framer  of  delights, 
To  give  thee  her  who  on  the  earth  may  be 
The  fairest  stirrer-up  to  death  and  fights,  i5i 
To    quench    with    hopeful    days    and    joyous 

nights 
The  flame  that  doth  thy  youthful  heart  con- 
sume : 
Come    back,    nor    give    thy    beauty    to    the 
tomb.' 

How     should     he     listen     to     her     earnest 
speech, —  ■-'^5 


Words    such    as   he   not    once   or    twice   had 

said 
Unto   himself,   whose   meaning   scarce   could 

reach 
The  firm   abode  of  that   sad  hardihead? 
He   turned   about,   and   through   the   market - 

stead  i.s'j 

Swiftly  he  passed,  until  before  the  throne 
In  the  cleared  space  he  stood  at  last  alone. 

Then    said    the    king,    '  Stranger,    what    dost 

thou   here? 
Have  any  of  my  folk  done  ill  to  thee? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  forest  men  in  fear? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  sad   fraternity  165 

Who  still  will  strive  my  daughter's  mates  to 

be, 
Staking  their  lives  to  win  to  earthly  bliss 
The  lonely  maid,  the  friend  of  Artemis?' 

'O    King,'   he    said,    'thou   saycst   the    word 

indeed ; 
Nor  will  I  quit  the  strife  till  I  have  won 
Aly  sweet  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  need. 
And  know  that  I   am  called  Milanion,       J72 
Of    King   Amphidamas   the    well-loved    son; 
So  fear  not  that  to  thy  old  name,  O  King, 
Much  loss  or  shame  my  victory  will  ^ring.' 

'  Nay,  Prince,'  said  Schoeneus,  '  welcome  to 
this  land  176 

Thou  wert  indeed,  if  thou  wert  here  to  try 

Thy  strength  'gainst  some  one  mighty  of  his 
hand ; 

Nor  would  we  grudge  thee  well-won  mas- 
tery. 

But  now,  why  wilt  thou  come  to  me  to 
die,  180 

And  at  my  door  lay  down  thy  luckless 
head, 

Swelling  the  band  of  the  unhappy  dead, 

'  Whose    curses    even    now    my    heart    doth 

fear? 
Lo,  I  am  old,  and  know  what  life  can  be. 
And  what  a  bitter  thing  is  death  anear.     185 
O  son !  be  wise,  and  hearken  unto  me ; 
And  if  no  other  can  be  dear  to  thee, 
At  least  as  now,  yet  is  the  world  full  wide. 
And    bliss    in    seeming    hopeless    hearts   may 

hide : 

'But  if  thou  losest  life,  then  all  is  lost.'     190 
'  Nay,  King,'  Milanion  said,  '  thy  words  are 

vain. 
Doubt    not    that    I    have    counted    well    the 

cost. 
Rut  say,  on  what  day  wilt  thou  that  I  gain 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


883 


Fulfilled  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  pain? 
Right  glad  were  I  if  it  could  be  to-day,     '93 
And  all  my  doubts  at  rest  forever  lay.' 

'Nay,'    said    King    Schoeneus,   'thus   it   shall 

not  be, 
But  rather  shalt  thou  let  a  month  go  by, 
And  weary  with  thy  prayers  for  victory 
What    god    thou    know'st    the    kindest    and 

most  nigh.  200 

So  doing,  still  perchance  thou  shalt  not  die ; 
And  with   my  good-will   wouldst  thou  have 

the  maid. 
For  of  the  equal  gods  I  grow  afraid. 

'  And  until  then,  O  Prince,  be  thou  my  guest. 
And  all   these  troublous   things  awhile   for- 
get. 20  s 
'Nay,'  said  he,  'couldst  thou  give  my  soul 

good  rest, 
And  on  mine  head  a  sleepy  garland  set, 
Then  had  I  'scaped  the  meshes  of  the  net. 
Nor    shouldst    thou    hear    from    me   another 

word ; 
But   now,   make   sharp  thy    fearful   heading 
sword.  210 

*  Yet  will  I  do  what  son  of  man  may  do, 
And    promise    all    the    gods    may    most    de- 
sire. 
That  to  myself  I  may  at  least  be  true; 
And    on    that    day   my   heart    and    limbs    so 

tire. 
With   utmost   strain   and   measureless  desire. 
That,  at  the  worst,  I  may  but  fall  asleep  216 
When  in  the  sunlight  round  that  sword  shall 
sweep.' 

He    went    with    that,    nor    anywhere    would 

bide. 
But  unto  Argos   restlessly  did  wend; 
And  there,  as  one  who  lays  all  hope  aside. 
Because    the    leech    has    said    his    life    must 

end,  221 

Silent  farewell  he  bade  to  foe  and  friend. 
And  took  his  way  unto  the  restless  sea, 
For  there  he  deemed  his  rest  and  help  might 

be. 


Upon  the  shore  of  Argolis  there  stands 
A  temple  to  the  goddess   that  he  sought, 
That,   turned   unto   the   lion-bearing   lands, 
Fenced  from  the  east,  of  cold  winds  hath  no 

thought. 
Though  to  no  homestead  there  the  sheaves 

are  brought,  s 


No  groaning  press  torments  the  close-clipped 

murk, 
Lonely  the  fane  stands,  far  from  all  men's 

work. 

Pass  through  a  close,  set  thick  with  myrtle- 
trees. 

Through  the  brass  doors  that  guard  the  holy 
place, 

And,  entering,  hear  the  washing  of  the 
seas  10 

That  twice  a  day  rise  high  above  the  base, 

And,  with  the  southwest  urging  them,  em- 
brace 

The  marble  feet  of  her  that  standeth  there, 

That  shrink  not,  naked  though  they  be  and 
fair. 

Small  is  the  fane  through  which  the  sea-wind 

sings  15 

About    Queen    Venus'    well-wrought    image 

white; 
But  hung  around  are  many  precious  things, 
The  gifts  of  those  who,  longing  for  delight, 
Have  hung  them  there  within  the  goddess' 

sight. 
And  in  return  have  taken  at  her  hands        20 
The  living  treasures  of  the  Grecian  lands. 

And  thither  now  has  come  Milanion, 

And    showed    unto    the    priests'    wide-open 

eyes 
Gifts   fairer  than   all  those  that  there  have 

shown, — 
Silk  cloths,  inwrought  with  Indian  fantasies, 
And    bowls    inscribed    with    sayings    of    the 

wise  26 

Above  the  deeds  of  foolish  living  things, 
And  mirrors  fit  to  be  the  gifts  of  kings. 

And  now  before  the  sea-born  one  he  stands. 

By  the  sweet  veiling  smoke  made  dim  and 
soft;  30 

And  while  the  incense  trickles  from  his 
hands. 

And  while  the  odorous  smoke-wreaths  hang 
aloft, 

Thus  doth  he  pray  to  her :  '  O  thou  who 
oft 

Hast  holpen  man  and  maid  in  their  dis- 
tress, 

Despise  me  not  for  this  my  wretchedness! 

'  0  goddess,  among  us  w^ho  dwell  below,     36 
Kings    and    great    men,    great    for    a    little 

while. 
Have  pity  on  the  lowly  heads  that  bow, 


884 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


Nor  hate  the  hearts  that  love  them  without 

guile ; 
Wilt  thou  be  worse  than  these,  and  is  thy 

smile  40 

A  vain  device  of  him  who  set  thee  here, 
An  empty  dream  of  some  artificer? 

*  0    great    one,    some    men    love,    and    are 

ashamed ; 
Some  men  are  weary  of  the  bonds  of  love; 
Yea,    and    by    some    men    lightly    art    thou 

blamed,  45 

That  from  thy  toils  their  lives  they  cannot 

move, 
And  mind  the  ranks  of  men  their  manhood 

prove. 
Alas!  O  goddess,  if  thou  slayest  me 
What  new  immortal  can  I  serve  but  thee? 

'  Think  then,  will  it  bring  honor  to  thy  head 
If   folk  say,   "  Everything  aside  he  cast,     5i 
And  to  all   fame  and  honor  was  he  dead. 
And  to  his  one  hope  now  is  dead  at  last, 
Since  all  unholpen  he  is  gone  and  past: 
Ah !  the  gods  love  not  man,  for  certainly  55 
He  to  his  helper  did  not  cease  to  cry." 

'  Nay,  but  thou  wilt  help :  they  who  died  be- 
fore 

Not  single-hearted,  as  I  deem,  came  here; 

Therefore  unthanked  they  laid  their  gifts 
before 

Thy  stainless  feet,  still  shivering  with  their 
fear,  60 

Lest  in  their  eyes  their  true  thought  might 
appear. 

Who  sought  to  be  the  lords  of  that  fair 
town, 

Dreaded  of  men  and  winners  of  renown. 

•  O    Queen,    thou    knowest    I    pray    not    for 

this: 
O,  set  us  down  together  in  some  place       65 
Where  not  a  voice  can  break  our  heaven  of 

bliss. 
Where  naught  but  rocks  and  I  can  see  her 

face, 
Softening  beneath  the  marvel  of  thy  grace, 
Where    not   a   foot   our  vanished   steps   can 

track, — 
The  golden  age,  the  golden  age  come  back! 

'  O  fairest,  hear  me  now,  who  do  thy  will,  7i 
Plead   for  thy  rebel  that  she  be  not  slain. 
But  live  and  love  and  be  thy  servant  still : 
Ah  !  give  her  joy  and  take  away  my  pain. 
And  thus  two  long-enduring  servants  gain. 
An  easy  thing  this  is  to  do  for  me,  76 


What    need    of    my    vain    words    to    weary 
thee  ? 

'  But    none    the    less    this    place    will    I    not 

leave 
Until   I   needs  must  go  my  death  to  meet. 
Or  at  thy  hands  some  happy  sign  receive  80 
That    in   great   joy    we   twain    may   one   day 

greet 
Thy  presence  here  and   kiss   thy   silver   feet. 
Such    as    we    deem    thee,     fair    beyond    all 

words, 
Victorious  o'er  our  servants  and  our  lords.' 

Then  from  the  altar  back  a  space  he  drew. 
But    from    the    queen    turned    not    his    face 

away,  86 

But   'gainst  a   pillar   leaned,  until   the  blue 
That  arched  the  sky.  at  ending  of  the  day. 
Was    turned    to    ruddy    gold    and    changing 

gi-ay, 
And  clear,  but  low,  the  nigh-ebbed  windless 

sea  90 

In  the  still  evening  murmured  ceaselessly. 

And   there  he  stood   when   all   the   sun   was 

down ; 
Nor   had   he    moved    when    the    dim    golden 

light. 
Like  the  far  luster  of  a  godlike  town. 
Had    left    the    world    to    seeming    hopeless 

night ;  9S 

Nor    would   he    move   the   more   when    wan 

moonlight 
Streamed    through    the    pillars    for    a    little 

while. 
And  lighted  up  the  white  queen's  changeless 

smile. 


Naught  noted  he  the  shallow  flowing  sea, 
As  step  by  step  it  set  the  wrack  a-swim ;  100 
The  yellow  torchlight  nothing  noted  he 
Wherein  with  fluttering  gown  and  half-bared 

limb 
The    temple    damsels    sung    their    midnight 

hymn ; 
And    naught    the    doubled    stillness    of    the 

fane 
When  they   were  gone  and  all  was  hushed 

again.  105 

But  when  the  waves  had  touched  the  marble 

base. 
And  steps  the  fish  swim  over  twice  a  day. 
The  dawn  beheld  him  sunken  in  his  place 
Upon  the  floor;  and  sleeping  there  he  lay. 
Not  heeding  aught  the  little  jets  of  spray  11° 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


The    roughened    sea    brought    nigh,    across 

him  cast, 
For  as  one  dead  all  thought  from  him  had 

passed. 

Yet   long   before   the   sun   had   showed   his 

head. 
Long  ere  the  varied  hangings  on  the  wall 
Had  gained  once  more  their  blue  and  green 

and  red,  ns 

He  rose  as  one  some  well-known  sign  doth 

call 
When  war  upon  the  city's  gates  doth  fall, 
And  scarce  like  one  fresh  risen  out  of  sleep, 
He  'gan  again  his  broken  watch  to  keep. 

Then  he  turned  round ;  not  for  the  sea- 
gull's cry  I20 

That  wheeled  above  the  temple  in  his  flight. 

Not    for  the   fresh   south-wind  that   lovingly 

Breathed  on  the  new-born  day  and  dying 
night, 

But  some  strange  hope  'twixt  fear  and  great 
delight 

Drew  round  his  face,  now  flushed,  now  pale 
and  wan,  125 

And  still  constrained  his  eyes  the  sea  to 
scan. 

Now  a  faint  light  lit  up  the  southern  sky, — 
Not    sun    or    moon,    for   all    the   world    was 

gray. 
But  this  a  bright  cloud   seemed,  that  drew 

anigh, 
Lighting    the    dull    waves    that    beneath    it 

lay  130 

As  toward  the  temple  still   it  took  its  way, 
And  still  grew  greater,  till  Milanion 
Saw   naught    for   dazzling  light  that  round 

him  shone. 

But  as  he  staggered  with  his  arms  out- 
spread, 134 

Delicious  unnamed   odors  breathed  around ; 

For  languid  happiness  he  bowed  his  head, 

And  with  wet  eyes  sank  down  upon  the 
ground, 

Nor  wished  for  aught,  nor  any  dream  he 
found 

To  give  him  reason  for  that  happiness, 

Or  make  him  ask  more  knowledge  of  his 
bliss.  140 

At  last  his  eyes  were  cleared,  and  he  could 

see 
Through    happy   tears   the   goddess    /a^e    to 

face 


With   that    faint    image   of   divinity, 
Whose      well-wrought      smile      and      dainty 
changeless   grace  144 

Until  that  morn  so  gladdened  all  the  place; 
Then  he  unwitting  cried  aloud  her  name, 
And  covered  up  his  eyes  for  fear  and  shame. 

But  through  the  stillness  he  her  voice  could 

hear 
Piercing  his  heart   with  joy  scarce  bearable, 
That    said,   '  Milanion,   wherefore   dost   thou 

fear?  150 

I  am  not  hard  to  those  who  love  me  well ; 
List  to  what  I  a  second  time  will  tell, 
And  thou   mayest   hear  perchance,   and   live 

to  save 
The  cruel  maiden  from  a  loveless  grave. 

'  See,  by  my  feet  three  golden  apples  lie, — 
Such  fruit  among  the  heavy  roses  falls,     is6 
Such  fruit  my  watchful  damsels  carefully 
Store  up  within  the  best  loved  of  my  walls, 
Ancient  Damascus,  where  the  lover  calls 
Above  my  unseen  head,  and  faint  and  light 
The    rose-leaves    flutter    round    me    in    the 
night.  161 

'  And    note   that   these   are   not    alone    most 

fair 
With  heavenly  gold,  but  longing  strange  they 

bring 
Unto  the  hearts  of  men,  who  will  not  care. 
Beholding  these,  for  any  once-loved  thing 
Till    round    the    shining    sides    their    fingers 

cling.  1C6 

And   thou    shalt   see   thy   well-girt    swiftfoot 

maid 
By  sight  of  these  amid  her  glory  stayed. 

'  For  bearing  these  within  a  scrip  with  thee, 
When  first  she  heads  thee  from  the  starting- 
place  170 
Cast  down  the  first  one  for  her  eyes  to  see. 
And  when  she  turns  aside  make  on  apace. 
And  if  again  she  heads  thee  in  the  race 
Spare  not  the  other  two  to  cast  aside 
H  she  not  long  enough  behind  will  bide.  175 

'  Farewell,    and   when   has   come   the   happy 

time 
That  she  Diana's  raiment  must  unbind. 
And  all  the   world  seems  blessed  with   Sa- 
turn's clime, 
And  thou  with  eager  arms  about  her  twined 
Beholdest  first  her  gray  eyes  growing  kind, 
Surely,  O  trembler,  thou  shalt  scarcely  then 
Forget  the  helper  of  unhappy  men.'  182 


886 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


Milanion  raised  his  head  at  this  last  word, 
For  now  so  soft  and  kind  she  seemed  to  be 
No  longer  of  her  godhead  was  he  feared;  '^s 
Too    late   he    looked,    for    nothing   could    he 

see 
But  the  white  image  glimmering  doubtfully 
In  the  departing  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
And    those    three   apples    on    the    steps    that 

lay. 

These  then  he  caught  up,  quivering  with 
delight,  >9o 

Yet   fearful  lest  it  all  might  be  a  dream, 

And  though  aweary  with  the  watchful  night. 

And  sleepless  nights  of  longing,  still  did 
deem 

He  could  not  sleep;  but  yet  the  first  sun- 
beam 

That  smote  the  fane  across  the  heaving 
deep  195 

Shone  on  him  laid  in  calm  untroubled  sleep. 

But  little  ere  the  noontide  did  he  rise, 

And  why  he  felt  so  happy  scarce  could  tell 

Until  the  gleaming  apples  met  his  eyes. 

Then,  leaving  the  fair  place  where  this  be- 
fell, 200 

Oft  he  looked  back  as  one  who  loved  it 
well. 

Then  homeward  to  the  haunts  of  men  'gan 
wend 

To  bring  all  things  unto  a  happy  end. 


Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone 

by. 
Again  are  all  folk  around  the  running-place. 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,   but   that   another    face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the 

race,  5 

For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands    on    the    spot    he    twice    has    looked 

upon. 

But  yet  —  what  change  is  this  that  holds  the 

maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More    than    disdain    of    the    sharp    shearing 

blade,  1° 

Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory? 
The    others    seemed   to    say,    '  We    come    to 

die; 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while. 
That,  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile.' 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this  's 


He  cast  on  her?  Why  were  his  lips  so 
red? 

Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happi- 
ness? 

So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but 
dead. 

E'en  if  lo  death  he  bows  a  willing  head; 

So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 

Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his 
gaze,  22 

And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise. 
And  wish  that  she  were  clad  in  other  guise? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise    26 
Of   things    unnoticed   when    they   first   were 

heard. 
Some    lover's    song,    some    answering   maid- 
en's word? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  without 

a  name. 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before,  30 

This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame, 
This     tender     sorrow     for     the     time     past 

o'er, 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more 

and  more? 
Why   does    she  tremble   as   the  time   grows 

near. 
And  weak  defeat  and  woful  victory  fear?  3S 

But  while  she  seemed  to  hear  her  beating 

heart. 
Above   their   heads   the   trumpet   blast   rang 

out. 
And   forth  they  sprang;  and  she  must  play 

her  part. 
Then   fiew   her   white   feet,   knowing  not  a 

doubt. 
Though,    slackening    once,    she    turned    her 

head  about,  4° 

But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him 

dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand. 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  there 

flew  44 

And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew. 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy:  some  god  she  thought  had 

given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


887 


Then   from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she 
ran,  so 

And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,  the  great-limbed 

man 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold. 
And,  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit, 
Though    with    one    hand    she    touched    the 
golden   fruit.  s6 

Note,   too,   the   bow  that   she   was   wont   to 

bear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize. 
And  o'er  her  shoulder   from  the  quiver   fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes  60 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who    now    the    turning-post    had    wellnigh 

won. 

But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it. 

White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were  laid. 

And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did 

flit;  66 

Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
But  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned  and  made 

no  stay  69 

Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 


I      Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around, 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
I       And    in    her   garment's    hem    one    hand    she 

wound 
1       To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
!       Sped   o'er   the  course,   and   little   doubt   had 
I  she  75 

;       To    win    the    day,    though    now    but    scanty 
space 
Was    left    betwixt    him    and    the    winning- 
place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet; 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him,  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet,  80 
And    from    his    hand    the    third    fair    apple 

cast. 
She    wavered    not,    but    turned    and    ran    so 

fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfil, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win  85 
Once  more  an  unblest  wof ul   victory  — 
And    yet  —  and   yet  —  why   does    her    breath 

begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily? 


Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is?     Why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow 

dim?  90 

Why   do   these   tremors    run   through   every 

limb? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to 

find, 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 
A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined. 
Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss,  95 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new  unbroken  bliss; 
Made    happy    that    the    foe    the    prize    hath 

won, 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 


Shatter  the  trumpet,  hew  adown  the  posts! 
Upon  the  brazen  altar  break  the  sword, 
And  scatter  incense  to  appease  the  ghosts 
Of  those  who  died  here  by  their  own  award. 
Bring  forth  the  image  of  the  mighty  lord,  5 
And  her  who  unseen  o'er  the  runners  hung. 
And  did  a  deed   forever  to  be  sung. 

Here  are  the  gathered  folk;  make  no  de- 
lay, 

Open   King  Schceneus'  well-filled  treasury. 

Bring  out  the  gifts  long  hid  from  light  of 
day, —  10 

The  golden  bowls  o'erwrought  with  imagery, 

Gold  chains,  and  unguents  brought  from  over 
sea, 

The  saffron  gown  the  old  Phoenician 
brought. 

Within  the  temple  of  the  goddess  wrought. 

O  ye,  O  damsels,  who  shall  never  see         15 
Her,    that   Love's    servant    bringeth    now    to 

you. 
Returning   from  another  victory. 
In  some  cool  bower  do  all  that  now  is  due ! 
Since  she  in  token  of  her  service  new       19 
Shall  give  to  Venus  offerings  rich   enow, — 
Her  maiden  zone,  her  arrows,  and  her  bow. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND 

A  certain  man  having  landed  on  an  island  in  the 
Greek  Sea,  found  there  a  beautiful  damsel, 
whom  he  would  fain  have  delivered  from  a 
strange  and  dreadful  doom,  but  failing  herein, 
he    died    soon    afterwards. 

It  happened  once,  some  men  of  Italy 
Midst  the  Greek  Islands  went  a  sea-roving. 
And   much   good   fortune   had   they  on   the 
sea: 


888 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


Of  many  a  man  they  had  the  ransoming, 
And    many    a    chain    they    gat,    and    goodly 

thing;  5 

And    midst    their    voyage    to    an    isle    they 

came, 
Whereof  my  story  kecpeth  not  the  name. 

Now    though    but    little    was    there    left    to 

gain, 
Because  the  richer  folk  had  gone  away, 
Yet  since  by  this  of  water  they  were  fain  1° 
They  came  to  anchor  in  a  land-locked  bay, 
Whence    in    a    while    some    went    ashore    to 

play, 
Going  but  lightly  armed  in  twos  or  threes. 
For  midst  that  folk  they  feared  no  enemies. 

And  of  these  fellows  that  thus  went  ashore, 
One  was  there  who  left  all  his   friends  be- 
hind; '6 
Who  going  inland  ever  more  and  more, 
And  being  left  quite  alone,  at  last  did  find 
A   lonely  valley   sheltered    from   the  wind, 
Wherein,  amidst  an  ancient  cypress  wood,  2° 
A  long-deserted  ruined  castle  stood. 

The  wood,  once  ordered  in   fair  grove  and 

glade. 
With  gardens  overlooked  by  terraces. 
And  marble-paved  pools  for  pleasure  made, 
Was   tangled   now,   and   choked   with    fallen 

trees;  ^5 

And  he  who  went  there,  with  but  little  ease 
Must    stumble    by    the    stream's    side,    once 

made   meet 
For  tender  women's  dainty  wandering  feet. 

The  raven's  croak,  the  low  wind  choked  and 

drear. 
The  baffled  stream,  the  gray  wolf's  doleful 

cry,  30 

Were    all    the    sounds    that    mariner    could 

hear. 
As  through  the  wood  he  wandered  painfully; 
But  as  unto  the  house  he  drew  anigh, 
The  pillars  of  a  ruined  shrine  he  saw, 
The  once  fair  temple  of  a  fallen  law.       35 

No  image  was  there  left  behind  to  tell 
Before    whose    face   the  knees   of   men   had 

bowed ; 
An  altar  of  black  stone,  of  old  wrought  well, 
Alone  beneath  a  ruined  roof  now  showed 
The    goal    whereto    the    folk    were    wont    to 

crowd,  40 

Seeking   for   things    forgotten   long   ago, 
Praying  for  heads  long  ages  laid  a-low. 


Close  to  the  temple  was  the  castle-gate, 
Doorless    and    crumbling;    there    our    fellow 

turned. 
Trembling  indeed  at  what  might  chance  to 

wait  4S 

The  prey  entrapped,   yet  with   a  heart  that 

burned 
To  know  the  most  of  what  might  there  be 

learned. 
And  hoping  somewhat  too,  amid  his  fear, 
To    light    on    such   things   as    all    men    hold 

dear. 

Noble  the  house  was,  nor  seemed  built   for 

war,  so 

But  rather  like  the  work  of  other  days, 
When   men,   in  better  peace  than  now  they 

are. 
Had  leisure  on  the  world  around  to  gaze. 
And    noted    well    the    past    times'    changing 

ways ; 
And    fair    with    sculptured    stories    it    was 

wrought,  55 

By  lapse  of  time  unto  dim  ruin  brought. 

Now  as  he  looked  about  on  all  these  things, 
And  strove  to  read  the  moldering  histories, 
Above  the  door  an  image  with  wide  wings, 
Whose  unclad  limbs  a  serpent  seemed  to 
seize,  6o 

He  dimly  saw,  although  the  western  breeze, 
And  years  of  biting  frost  and  washing  rain, 
Had  made  the  carver's  labor  well-nigh  vain. 

But   this,    though   perished    sore,    and    worn 

away. 
He  noted  well,  because  it  seemed  to  be,     6s 
After  the  fashion  of  another  day. 
Some  great  man's  badge  of  war,  or  armory: 
And   round    it   a   carved   wreath   he   seemed 

to  see: 
But  taking  note  of  these  things,  at  the  last 
The  mariner  beneath  the  gateway  passed.  70 

And  there  a  lovely  cloistered  court  he  found, 
A  fountain  in  the  midst  o'erthrown  and  dry. 
And  in  the  cloister  briers  twining  round 
The  slender  shafts;  the  wondrous  imagery 
Outworn  by  more  than  many  years  gone  by; 
Because  the  country  people,  in  their  fear  76 
Of  wizardry,  had  wrought  destruction  here; 

And    piteously   these    fair    things   had    been 

maimed  : 
There  stood  great  Jove,  lacking  his  head  of 

might : 
Here  was  the  archer,  swift  Apollo,  lamed ;  80 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


889 


The  shapely  limbs  of  Venus  hid  from  sight 
By  weeds  and  shards;  Diana's  ankles  light 
Bound    with    the    cable    of    some    coasting 

ship; 
And  rusty  nails  through  Helen's  maddening 

lip. 

Therefrom  unto  the  chambers  did  he  pass,  8s 

And  found  them  fair  still,  midst  of  their  de- 
cay, 

Though  in  them  now  no  sign  of  man  there 
was, 

And  everything  but  stone  had  passed  away 

That  made  them  lovely  in  that  vanished 
day; 

Nay,  the  mere  walls  themselves  would  soon 
be  gone  9° 

And  naught  be  left  but  heaps  of  moldcring 
stone. 

But    he,    when    all    the    place    he    had    gone 

o'er. 
And   with    much   trouble   clomb   the   broken 

stair. 
And  from  the  topmost  turret  seen  the  shore 
And    his    good    ship    drawn    up    at    anchor 

there,  95 

Came  down  again,  and  found  a  crypt  most 

fair 
Built  wonderfully  beneath  the  greatest  hall, 
And  there  he  saw  a  door  within  the  wall. 

Well-hinged,   close   shut ;   nor   was   there   in 

that  place 
Another  on  its  hinges,  therefore  he  'oo 

Stood  there  and  pondered  for  a  little  space 
And    thought,    '  Perchance    some    marvel 

shall   see. 
For  surely  here  some  dweller  there  must  be 
Because    this    door    seems    whole,    and    new 

and  sound. 
While  naught  but  ruin  I  can  see  around.' 

So  with  that  word,  moved  by  a  strong  de- 
sire, 
He  tried  the  hasp,  that  yielded  to  his  hand, 
And  in  a  strange  place,  lit  as  by  a  fire 
Unseen  but  near,  he  presently  did  stand ; 
And    by    an    odorous    breeze    his    face    was 
fanned,  no 

As  though  in  some  Arabian  plain  he  stood, 
Anigh  the  border  of  a  spice-tree  wood. 

He    moved    not     for    awhile,    but     looking 

round, 
He  wondered  much  to  see  the  place  so  fair, 
Because,  unlike  the  castle  above  ground,   "5 
No  pillager  or  wrecker  had  been  there; 


It   seemed   that    time   had   passed    on   other- 
where. 
Nor  laid  a  finger  on  this  hidden  place, 
Rich    with    the    wealth    of    some    forgotten 
race. 

With  hangings,  fresh  as  when  they  left  the 

loom,  120 

The    walls    were    hung    a    space    above    the 

head. 
Slim   ivory  chairs  were  set  about  the  room, 
And  in  one  corner  was  a  dainty  bed. 
That  seemed  for  some  fair  queen  appareled ; 
And    marble    was    the    worst    stone    of    the 

floor,  1^5 

That    with    rich    Indian    webs    was    covered 

o'er. 

The    wanderer    trembled    when    he    saw    all 

this. 
Because     he     deemed     by     magic     it     was 

wrought ; 
Yet  in  his  heart  a  longing  for  some  bliss, 
Whereof  the  hard  and  changing  world  knows 

naught,  130 

Arose   and   urged   him   on,   and   dimmed   the 

thought 
That   there  perchance   some  devil   lurked   to 

slay 
The    heedless    wanderer    from    the    light    of 

day. 

Over  against  him  was  another  door 

Set  in  the  wall;   so,  casting   fear  aside,     US 

With    hurried    steps    he    crossed    the    varied 

floor. 
And  there  again  the  silver  latch  he  tried 
And  with  no  pain  the  door  he  opened  wide. 
And  entering  the  new  chamber  cautiously 
The  glory  of  great  heaps  of  gold  could  see. 

Upon  the  floor  uncounted  medals  lay,  J41 
Like  things  of  little  value;  here  and  there 
Stood  golden  caldrons,  that  might  well  out- 
weigh 
The  biggest  midst  an  emperor's  copper-ware. 
And  golden  cups  were  set  on  tables  fair,  145 
Themselves  of  gold;  and  in  all  hollow  things 
Were  stored  great  gems,  worthy  the  crowns 
of  kings. 

The  walls  and  roof  with  gold  were  overlaid. 

And  precious  raiment  from  the  wall  hung 
down ; 

The  fall  of  kings  that  treasure  might  have 
stayed,  150 

Or  gained  some  longing  conqueror  great  re- 
nown, 


890 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


Or     built     again     sonic     god  destroyed     old 

town  ; 
What  wonder,  if  this  plunderer  of  the  sea 
Stood   gazing  at  it  long  and  dizzily? 

But  at  the  last  his  troubled  eyes  and  dazed 
He  lifted  from  the  glory  of  that  gold,  '56 
And  then  the  image,  that  well-nigh  erased 
Over  the  castle-gate  he  did  behold. 
Above  a  door  well  wrought  in  colored  gold 
Again  he  saw;  a  naked  girl  with  wings  i6o 
Enfolded  in  a  serpent's  scaly  rings. 

And  even  as  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  it 

A  woman's  voice  came  from  the  other  side, 

And  through  his  heart  strange  hopes  began 

to  flit 
That  in  some  wondrous  land  he  might  abide 
Not  dying,  master  of  a  deathless  bride,     i66 
So  o'er  the  gold  he  scarcely  now  could  see 
He  went,  and  passed  this  last  door  eagerly. 

Then    in    a    room    he    stood    wherein    there 

was 
A   marble   bath,   whose   brimming   water   yet 
Was  scarcely  still;  a  vessel  of  green  glass 
Half    full    of    odorous     ointment    was    there 

set  ^72 

Upon  the  topmost  step  that  still  was  wet, 
And  jeweled  shoes  and  women's  dainty  gear, 
Lay  cast  upon  the  varied  pavement  near.  i75 

In   one   quick   glance  these   things   his   eyes 

did  see, 
But  speedily  they  turned   round  to  behold 
Another  sight,  for  throned  on  ivory 
There    sat    a    girl,    whose    dripping    tresses 

rolled 
On  to  the  floor  in  waves  of  gleaming  gold, 
Cast   back   from    such    a    form   as,    erewhile 

shown  iS"^ 

To    one    poor    shepherd,    lighted    up    Troy 

town. 

Naked  she  was,  the  kisses  of  her  feet 
Upon  the  floor  a  dying  path  had  made 
From  the  full  bath  unto  her  ivory  seat;    i^S 
In   her   right   hand,   upon   her  bosom   laid. 
She  held  a  golden  comb,  a  mirror  weighed 
Her  left  hand  down,  aback  her  fair  head  lay 
Dreaming    awake    of    some    long    vanished 
day. 

Her  eyes  were  shut,  but  she  seemed  not  to 

sleep,  '90 

Her  lips  were  murmuring  things  unheard 
and  low, 


Or  sometimes  twitched  as  though  she  needs 

must  weep 
Though  from  her  eyes  the  tears  refused  to 

flow. 
And   oft   with    heavenly   red   her   cheek   did 

glow, 
As     if     remembrance     of     some     half-sweet 

shame  '95 

Across  the  web  of  many  memories  came. 

There  stood  the  man,  scarce  daring  to  draw 

breath 
For  fear  the  lovely  sight  should  fade  away ; 
Forgetting  heaven,  forgetting  life  and  death, 
Trembling  for  fear  lest  something  he  should 

say  20O 

Unwitting,  lest  some  sob  should  yet  betray 
Mis  presence  there,  for  to  his  eager  eyes 
Already  did  the  tears  begin  to  rise. 

But    as    he   gazed,    she   moved,    and    with    a 

sigh 
Bent    forward,    dropping    down    her    golden 

head ;  205 

'Alas,   alas!   another  day  gone  by. 
Another  day  and  no  soul  come,'  she  said ; 
'  Another  year,  and   still   I   am  not  dead !  ' 
And  with  that  word  once  more  her  head  she 

raised. 
And  on  the  trembling  man  with  great  eyes 

gazed.  210 

Then  he  imploring  hands  to  her  did  reach. 
And   toward   her   very   slowly  'gan   to   move 
And  with  wet  eyes  her  pity  did  beseech. 
And  seeing  her  about  to  speak,  he  strove 
From  trembling  lips  to  utter  words  of  love; 
But    with    a    look    she    stayed    his    doubtful 

feet,  216 

And    made    sweet    music   as    their   eyes    did 

meet. 

For  now  she  spoke  in  gentle  voice  and 
clear, 

Using  the  Greek  tongue  that  he  knew  full 
well ; 

'  What  man  art  thou,  that  thus  hast  wan- 
dered here,  220 

And  found  this  lonely  chamber  where  I 
dwell? 

Beware,  beware  I  for  I  have  many  a  spell; 

If  greed  of  power  and  gold  have  led  thee 
on, 

Not  lightly  shall  this  untold  wealth  be  won 

'But  if  thou  com'st  here,  knowing  of  my 
tale,  '-S 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


891 


In   hope  to  bear  away  my  body   fair, 

Stout    must    thine    heart    be,    nor    shall    that 

avail 
If  thou  a  wicked  soul  in  thee  dost  bear; 
So  once  again  I  bid  thee  to  beware, 
Because  no  base  man   things   like  this  may 

see,  230 

And  live  thereafter  long  and  happily.' 

'  Lady,'  he  said,  '  in  Florence  is  my  home. 
And  in  my  city  noble  is  my  name; 
Neither  on  peddling  voyage  am  I  come. 
But,   like  my  fathers,  bent  to  gather   fame ; 
And    though    thy    face    has    set    my    heart 
a-fiame  -36 

Yet  of  thy  story  nothing  do  I  know, 
But  here  have  wandered  heedlessly  enow. 

'But  since  the  sight  of  thee  mine  eyes  did 

bless, 
What  can  I  be  but  thine?  what  wouldst  thou 

have?  240 

From   those  thy  words,   I   deem   from   some 

distress 
By  deeds  of  mine  thy  dear  life  I  might  save; 
O  then,  delay  not!  if  one  ever  gave 
His  life  to  any,  mine  I  give  to  thee ; 
Come,  tell  me  what  the  price  of  love  must 

be?  24s 

'Swift   death,   to  be   with   thee   a   day  and 

night 
And  with  the  earliest  dawning  to  be  slain? 
Or  better,  a  long  year  of  great  delight. 
And  many  years  of  misery  and  pain? 
Or   worse,    and   this   poor   hour    for   all    my 

gain?  250 

A  sorry  merchant  am  I  on  this  day. 
E'en  as  thou  wiliest  so  must  I  obey.' 

She  said,  '  What  brave  words !  naught  di- 
vine am  I, 

But  an  unhappy  and  unheard-of  maid 

Compelled   by   evil   fate   and   destiny  255 

To  live,  who  long  ago  should  have  been 
laid 

Under   the   earth   within   the  cypress   shade. 

Hearken  awhile,  and  quickly  shalt  thou 
know 

What  deed  I  pray  thee  to  accomplish  now. 

'  God  grant  indeed  thy  words  are  not  for 
naught !  260 

Then  shalt  thou  save  me,  since  for  many 
a  day 

To  such  a  dreadful  life  I  have  been  brought : 

Nor  will  I  spare  with  all  my  heart  to  pay 


What  man  soever  takes  my  grief  away; 
Ah!  I  will  love  thee,  if  thou  lovest  me     265 
But  well  enough  my  savior  now  to  be. 

'  My  father  lived  a  many  years  agone 
Lord  of  this  land,  master  of  all  cunning. 
Who  ruddy  gold  could  draw  from  out  gray 

stone. 
And  gather  wealth   from  many  an  uncouth 

thing;  270 

He  made  the  wilderness  rejoice  and  sing, 
And   such   a   leech   he   was  that  none  could 

say 
Without    his    word    what    soul    should    pass 

away. 

'  Unto  Diana  such  a  gift  he  gave, 
Goddess  above,  below,  and  on  the  earth,  273 
That  I  should  be  her  virgin  and  her  slave 
From   the  first  hour  of  my  most  wretched 

birth  ; 
Therefore    my    life    had    known    but    little 

mirth 
When  I  had  come  unto  my  twentieth  year 
And  the  last  time  of  hallowing  drew  anear. 

'  So  in  her  temple  had  I  lived  and  died     281 
And  all  would  long  ago  have  passed  away, 
But  ere  that  time  came,  did  strange  things 

betide, 
Whereby  I  am  alive  unto  this  day ; 
Alas,  the  bitter  words  that  I  must  say!     285 
Ah !    can    I    bring    my   wretched    tongue    to 

tell 
How  I  was  brought  unto  this  fearful  hell? 

'  A  queen  I  was,  what  gods  I  knew  I  loved, 
And  nothing  evil  was  there  in  my  thought. 
And    yet    by    love    my    wretched    heart    was 

moved  290 

Until  to  utter  ruin  I  was  brought ! 
Alas !   thou   sayest  our  gods  were  vain  and 

naught ; 
Wait,  wait,  till  thou  hast  heard  this  tale  of 

mine. 
Then   shalt  thou  think  them  devilish  or  di- 


'  Hearken  !  in  spite  of  father  and  of  vow  295 
I  loved  a  man  ;  but  for  that  sin  I  think 
Men  had  forgiven  me  —  yea,  yea,  even  thou  ; 
But  from  the  gods  the  full  cup  must  I  drink. 
And  into  misery  unheard  of  sink, 
Tormented,  when  their  own  names  are  for- 
got, 300 
And  men  must  doubt  if  they  e'er  lived  or 
not. 


892 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


'  Glorious  my  lover  was  tinto  my   sight, 
Most  beautiful  — of  love  we  grew  so  fain 
That  we  at  last  agreed,  that  on  a  night 
We  should  be  happy,  but  that  he  were  slain 
Or    shut    in    hold;     and    neither    joy    nor 

pani  ^ 

Should   else    forbid   that  hoped-for   time   to 

be; 
So  came  the  night  that  made  a  wretch  of 

me. 

'  Ah !  well  do  I  remember  all  that  night, 
When  through  the  window  shone  the  orb  of 

June,  310 

And  by  the  bed  flickered  the  taper's  light, 
Whereby  I  trembled,  gazing  at  the  moon: 
Ah    me!    the    meeting    that    we    had,    when 

soon 
Into  his  strong,  well-trusted  arms  I  fell, 
And  many  a  sorrow  we  began  to  tell.     3iS 

'Ah    me!    what    parting   on    that    night    we 

had ! 
I  think  the  story  of  my  great  despair 
A  little  w4iile  might  merry  folk  make  sad; 
For,  as  he  swept  away  my  yellow  hair 
To  make  my  shoulder  and  my  bosom  bare, 
I    raised   mine    eyes,    and    shuddering   could 

behold  321 

A  shadow  cast  upon  the  bed  of  gold: 

'Then   suddenly  was  quenched   my  hot   de- 
sire 
And  he  untwined  his  arms ;  the  moon  so  pale 
A  while  ago,  seemed  changed  to  blood  and 
fire,  .  32s 

And  yet  my  limbs  beneath  me  did  not  fail. 
And  neither  had  I  strength  to  cry  or  wail, 
But   stood  there  helpless,  bare,   and   shiver- 
ing, 
With  staring  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  thing. 

'  Because  the  shade  that  on  the  bed  of 
gold  330 

The  changed  and  dreadful  moon  was  throw- 
ing down 

Was  of  Diana,  whom  I  did  behold, 

With  knotted  hair,  and  shining  girt-up 
gown, 

And  on  the  high  white  brow,  a  deadly 
frown 

Bent  upon  us,  who  stood  scarce  drawing 
breath,  335 

Striving  to  meet  the  horrible  sure  death. 

'  No  word  at  all  the  dreadful  goddess  said. 
But  soon  across  my  feet  my  lover  lay. 
And  well  indeed  I  knew  that  he  was  dead; 


And    would    that    I    had   died    on    that    same 
day !  340 

I'"or  in   a  while  the   image  turned   away. 
And  without  words  my  doom  I  understood, 
And  felt  a  horror  change  my  human  blood. 

'  And  there  I   fell,  and  on  the  floor  I  lay 
By    the    dead    man,    till    daylight    came    on 

me,  345 

And    not    a    word    thenceforward    could    I 

say 
For  three  years;  till  of  grief  and  misery. 
The  lingering  pest,  the  cruel  enemy, 
My    father    and    his    folk    were    dead    and 

gone. 
And  in  this  castle  I  was  left  alone:  350 

'  And  then  the  doom  foreseen  upon  me  fell. 
For  Queen  Diana  did  my  Ijody  change 
Into  a  fork-tongued  dragon,  tiesh  and  fell, 
And  through  the  island  nightly  do  I  range. 
Or  in  the  green  sea  mate  with  monsters 
strange,  355 

When  in  the  middle  of  the  moonlit  night 
The  sleepy  mariner  I   do  affright. 

'  But  all  day  long  upon  this  gold  I  lie 
Within    this     place,     where    never    mason's 

hand 
Smote  trowel  on  the  marble  noisily ;         360 
Drowsy  I  lie,  no  folk  at  my  command. 
Who    once    was    called    the    Lady    of    the 

Land ; 
Who  might  have  bought  a  kingdom  with  a 

kiss. 
Yea,   half  the   world   with   such   a   sight   as 

this.' 

And  therewithal,  with  rosy  fingers  light,  365 
Backward  her  heavy-hangmg  hair  she  threw. 
To  give  her  naked  beauty  more  to  sight ; 
But  when,  forgetting  all  the  things  he  knew. 
Maddened  with  love  unto  the  prize  he  drew. 
She  cried,  '  Nay,  wait !  for  wherefore  wilt 
thou  die,  37° 

Why  should  we  not  be  happy,  thou  and  I  ? 

'Wilt  thou  not  save  me?  once  in  every  year 
This  rightful   form  of  mine  that  thou  dost 

see 
By  favor  of  the  goddess  have  I  here 
From    sunrise   unto   sunset   given   me,         375 
That   some  brave  man  may  end  my  misery. 
And    thou  —  art    thou    not    brave?    can    thy 

heart  fail. 
Whose    eyes    e'en    now    are    weeping   at    my 

tale? 


THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 


893 


'Then  listen!  when  this  day  is  overpast, 
A  fearful  monster  shall  I  be  again,  380 

And  thou  may'st  be  my  savior  at  the  last ; 
Unless,    once   more,    thy   words   are   naught 

and  vain. 
If  thou  of  love  and  sovereignty  art  fain, 
Come  thou  next  morn,  and  when  thou  seest 

here 
A  hideous  dragon,  have  thereof  no  fear,  38s 

'  But   take   the  loathsome  head  up   in   thine 

hands. 
And  kiss  it,  and  be  master  presently 
Of  twice  the  wealth  that  is  in  all  the  lands 
From  Cathay  to  the  head  of  Italy; 
And  master  also,  if  it  pleaseth  thee,  39° 

Of  all  thou  praisest  as  so  fresh  and  bright. 
Of  what  thou  callest  crown  of  all  delight. 

'  Ah !  with  what  joy  then  shall  I  see  again 
The    sunlight   on    the   green    grass   and   the 

trees. 
And  hear  the  clatter  of  the  summer  rain,  395 
And  see  the  joyous   folk  beyond  the  seas. 
Ah,  me !  to  hold  my  child  upon  my  knees, 
After  the  weeping  of  unkindly  tears, 
And  all  the  wrongs  of  these   four  hundred 

years. 

*Go  now,  go  quick!  leave  this  gray  heap  of 

stone ;  400 

And    from   thy   glad   heart   think   upon   thy 

way, 
How    I     shall    love    thee  —  yea,    love    thee 

alone, 
That    bringest    me    from    dark    death    unto 

day; 
For  this  shall  be  thy  wages  and  thy  pay; 
Unheard-of  wealth,  unheard-of  love  is  near, 
If  thou  hast  heart  a  little  dread  to  bear.'  406 

Therewith   she   turned  to  go;   but   he   cried 

out, 
'  Ah !  wilt  thou  leave  me  then  without  one 

kiss. 
To  slay  the  very  seeds  of  fear  and  doubt. 
That    glad    to-morrow    may    bring    certain 

bliss?  410 

Hast  thou  forgotten  how  love  lives  by  this, 
The  memory  of  some  hopeful  close  embrace, 
Low    whispered    words    within    some    lonely 

place? ' 

But  she,  when  his  bright  glittering  eyes  she 

saw, 
And  burning  cheeks,  cried  out,  '  Alas,  alas ! 
Must    I    be    quite    undone,    and    wilt    thou 

draw  416 


A  worse  fate  on  me  than  the  first  one  was? 

O  haste  thee  from  this  fatal  place  to  pass! 

Yet,  ere  thou  goest,  take  this,  lest  thou 
shouldst  deem 

Thou  hast  been  fooled  by  some  strange  mid- 
day dream.'  420 

So  saying,  blushing  like  a  new-kissed  maid, 
From  off  her  neck  a  little  gem  she  drew. 
That,  'twixt  those  snowy  rose-tinged  hillocks 

laid. 
The  secrets  of  her  glorious  beauty  knew; 
And  ere  he  well  perceived  what  she  would 

do,  425 

She  touched  his  hand,  the  gem  within  it  lay. 
And,  turning,   from  his  sight  she  fled  away. 

Then  at  the  doorway  where  her  rosy  heel 
Had    glanced    and    vanished,    he    awhile    did 

stare. 
And  still  upon   his   hand  he   seemed   to   feel 
The  varying  kisses  of  her  fingers   fair;     431 
Then    turned    he    toward    the    dreary    crypt 

and  bare. 
And  dizzily  throughout  the  castle  passed, 
Till  by  the  ruined  fane  he  stood  at  last. 

Then    weighing    still    the    gem    within    his 

hand,  435 

He   stumbled  backward   through   the   cypress 

wood. 
Thinking  the  while  of   some   strange   lovely 

land, 
Where  all  his  life  should  be  most  fair  and 

good 
Till  on  the  valley's  wall  of  hills  he  stood. 
And    slowly   thence    passed    down    unto    the 

bay  440 

Red    with    the    death    of    that    bewildering 

day. 

The   next    day   came,   and    he,    who   all    the 

night 
Had  ceaselessly  been  turning  in  his  bed, 
Arose  and  clad  himself  in  armor  bright. 
And  many  a  danger  he  remembered  ;         445 
Storming  of  towns,  lone  sieges  full  of  dread. 
That  with  renown  his  heart  had  borne  him 

through 
And  this  thing  seemed  a  little  thing  to  do. 

So  on  he  went,  and  on  the  way  he  thought 
Of  all  the  glorious  things  of  yesterday,  450 
Naught   of  the  price   whereat   they  must  be 

bought, 
But  ever  to  himself  did  softly  say. 
'  No    roaming    now,    my    wars    are    passed 

away; 


^94 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


No  long  dull  days  devoid  of  happiness, 
When  such  a  love  my  yearning  heart  shall 
bless.'  455 

Thus  to  the  castle  did  he  come  at  last, 
But  when  unto  the  gateway  he  drew  near, 
And   underneath   its   ruined   archway   passed 
Into  a  court,  a  strange  noise  did  he  hear. 
And    through   his   heart   there   shot   a    pang 
of  fear;  460 

Trembling,  he  gat  his  sword  into  his  hand, 
And  midmost  of  the  cloisters  took  his  stand. 

But  for  a  while  that  unknown  noise  in- 
creased, 

A  rattling,  that  with  strident  roars  did 
blend, 

And  whining  moans ;  but  suddenly  it 
ceased,  465 

A  fearful  thing  stood  at  the  cloister's  end. 

And  eyed  him  for  a  while,  then  'gan  to 
wend 

Adown  the  cloisters,  and  began  again 

That  rattling,  and  the  moan  like  fiends  in 
pain. 

And   as   it  came   on  towards   him,  with   its 

teeth  _  470 

The  body  of  a  slain  goat  did  it  tear, 
The    blood    whereof    in    its    hot    jaws    did 

seethe, 
And  on  its  tongue  he  saw  the  smoking  hair ; 
Then  his  heart  sank,  and  standing  trembling 

there, 
Throughout    his    mind    wild    thoughts    and 

fearful  ran,  475 

'  Some  fiend  she  was,'  he  said,  '  the  bane  of 

man.' 

Yet  he  abode  her  still,  although  his  blood 
Curdled  within  him:  the  thing  dropped  the 

goat. 
And   creeping  on,   came  close   to   where  he 

stood, 
And   raised  its   head  to  him,   and   wrinkled 

throat,  480 

Then  he  cried  out  and  wildly  at  her  smote. 
Shutting  his  eyes,  and  turned  and  from  the 

place 
Ran  swiftly,  with  a  white  and  ghastly  face. 

But  little  things  rough  stones  and  tree- 
trunks  seemed, 


And  if  he  fell,  he  rose  and  ran  on  still  ;  485 
No    more    he     felt    his    hurts    than     if    he 

dreamed. 
He  made  no  stay  for  valley  or  steep  hill. 
Heedless  he  dashed  through  many  a  foam- 
ing rill, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  ship  at  last 
And    with    no    word    into    the    deep    hold 
passed.  490 

Meanwhile    the    dragon,    seeing    him    clean 

gone. 
Followed  him  not,  but  crying  horribly. 
Caught  up  within  her  jaws  a  block  of  stone 
And    ground    it    into    powder,    then    turned 

she. 
With  cries  that  folk  could  hear  far  out  at 

sea,  495 

And  reached  the  treasure  set  apart  of  old. 
To  brood  above  the  hidden  heaps  of  gold. 

Yet  was  she  seen  again  on  many  a  day 
By  some  half-waking  mariner,  or  herd. 
Playing  amid  the  ripples  of  the  bay,  5°° 

Or  on  the  hills  making  all  things  afeard. 
Or  in  the  wood,  that  did  that  castle  gird. 
But  never  any  man  again  durst  go 
To    seek   her    woman's    form,    and   end    her 
woe. 

As  for  the  man,  who  knows  what  things  he 

bore?  505 

What  mournful  faces  peopled  the  sad  night. 
What    wailings    vexed    him   with    reproaches 

sore. 
What  images  of  that  nigh-gained  delight ! 
What    dreamed    caresses    from    soft    hands 

and   white. 
Turning    to    horrors    ere    they    reached    the 

best;  510 

What    struggles    vain,    what    shame,    what 

huge   unrest? 

No   man   he   knew,   three    days   he    lay   and 

raved. 
And   cried    for  death,  until   a   lethargy 
Fell    on    him,   and   his    fellows   thought   him 

saved  ; 
But  on  the  third  night  he  awoke  to  die;  515 
And  at  Byzantium  doth  his  body  lie 
Between  two  blossoming  pomegranate  trees. 
Within  the  churchyard  of  the  Genoese. 

(1868) 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  (1837-1909) 

The  poet's  parents  were  Admiral  Charles  Henry  Swiubiirne  and  Lady  Henrietta  Jane, 
daughter  of  the  third  Earl  of  Ashbiirnhani.  After  a  sfhooliug  of  live  years  at  Eton, 
Swinburne  went  to  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  where  he  contributed  prose  and  verse 
to  Undergraduate  Papers,  distinguished  himself  in  Latin,  (Jreek,  French,  and  Italian, 
and  began  friendships  with  William  Morris,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  and  Edward  Burne- 
Jones.  After  leaving  Oxford,  in  18G0,  he  traveled  on  the  continent,  visiting  Landor  in 
Florence.  The  greater  part  of  his  life  Swinburne  spent  quietly  in  England.  After  living  for 
a  time  in  London,  with  the  Rossetti  brothers,  he  retired  to  spend  most  of  his  later  j'ears  at 
Putney   Hill. 

Swinburne  first  distinguished  himself  in  literature  as  a  dramatist,  by  the  publication  of 
Rosamond  (18G0),  The  Queen  Mother  (18G0),  Atalanta  in  Calydon  (18G.5),  and  Vhastelard 
(18G5).  By  the  publication  of  Poems  and  Ballads  (18GG),  he  aroused  a  moral  commotion 
that  has  never  been  equaled  in  the  history  of  English  literature.  To  his  assailants, — 
some  of  whom  admired  his  rhythmical  mastery  as  genuinely  as  they  deprecated  his  un- 
bridled utterances  of  passion,— Swinburne  replied  scornfully  in  Notes  on  Poems  and  Re- 
views (18GG).  The  huge  volume  of  Swinburne's  poetical  production,  in  which  the  lap.ses 
from  lyrical  and  dramatic  power  are  only  occasional,  is  best  represented  by  such  publica- 
tions as  Songs  before  Sunrise  (ISTl),  Bothiccll:  a  Tragedy  (1874),  Erechtheus  (187G), 
Studies  in  Song  (1880).  Marg  Stuart:  a  Tragedy  (1881),  Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  and  Other 
Poems  (18S2I,  The  Tale  of  Balen  (189G),  and  A  Channel  Passage,  and  Other  Poems 
(1904).  Swinburne's  achievement  in  poetry,  moreover,  did  not  prevent  his  attaining  a 
firm  place  in  prose,  chiefly  through  bis  critical  studies  of  Elizabethan  dramatists,  such  as 
George  Chapman  (1875),  A  Study  of  Shakspere  (1880),  A  Study  of  Ben  Jonson  (1889), 
and  The  Age  of  Shakspere    (1908). 

Swineburne's  earlier  poems  expressed,  no  doubt,  a  definite  defiance  of  established  social, 
political,  and  religious  conventions  that  probably  prevented,  ultimately,  his  succession  to 
the  laureateship  upon  the  death  of  Tennyson.  His  later  poems  are  less  defiant,  and  contain 
a  more  incisive  appreciation  of  nature  and  more  narrative  charm.  The  severest  of  Swin- 
burne's critics  have  never  questioned  his  absolute  mastery  of  the  rhythmical  possibilities 
of  the  English  language,  a  mastery  that  i-esulted  in  his  most  serious  poetical  defect, — 
the   substitution,    in   some   cases,   of   a   superb   sonorousness    for   genuine    ideas. 


CHORUSES  FROM  ATALANTA  IN 
CALYDON 

CHORUS 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces, 
The    mother    of    months    in    meadow    or 
plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain ; 

And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous  5 

Is   half   assuaged    for  Itylus, 

For    the    Thracian    ships    and    the    foreign 

faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 


Come    with    bows   bent    and 
of    quivers, 
Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light 


with    emptying 


8gs 


With   a  noise   of   winds   and   many  rivers, 
With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might ; 
Bind  on  thy   sandals,  O   thou  most   fleet, 
Over  the   splendor  and   speed   of  thy   feet ; 
For  the   faint  east  quickens,   the  wan   west 
shivers,  15 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of 
the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing 

to  her, 
Fold    our    hands    round    her    knees,    and 

cling? 
O  that  inan's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 

spring  to  her. 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 

spring!  20 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
.A.S   raiment,   as   songs  of  the   harp-player; 


896 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


For    the    risen    stars    and    the    fallen    cling 
to   her, 
And    the    southwest-wind,    and    the    west- 
wind    sing. 

For    winter's    rains    and    ruins    are    over,  25 

And  all   the  season  of   snows   and   sins; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and   lover. 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten. 
And    frosts   are   slain   and   flowers   begotten. 
And   in   green   underwood   and   cover  3' 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes. 

Ripe    grasses    trammel    a    traveling    foot, 
The    faint    fresh    flame    of    the    young   year 
flushes  35 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat   is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root.  40 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid. 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Masnad  and  the   Bassarid ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide  45 

The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,   the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes ;       5° 

The  wild  vine   slipping  down   leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs ; 

The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 
leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 

To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The    wolf    that    follows,    the    fawn    that 
flies.  56 


Before   the   beginning   of   years 

There   came   to   the   making  of   man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven;  5 

Summer,   with   flowers  that   fell; 
Remembrance   fallen    from  heaven, 

And    madness    risen    from   hell ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite; 

Love  that   endures   for   a   breath;  10 

Night,    the    shadow    of    light, 

And  life,  the   shadow  of  death. 


And    the    high    gods    took    in    hand 

Fire,    and    the     falling    of    tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand  'S 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years^ 
And    froth    and   drift   of   the    sea ; 

And   dust   of  the  laboring  earth  ; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In    the   houses   of   death   and   of   birth ;  20 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter. 

And   fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With    life    before    and    after 

And   death   beneath   and   above. 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow,       25 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span 
With    travail    and    heavy    sorrow, 

The   holy   spirit   of   man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They   gathered   as   unto   strife;  30 

They  breathed   upon  his   mouth. 

They    filled    his    body    with    life; 
Eyesight   and   speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labor  and  thought,  35 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin ; 
They   gave   him   light   in   his   ways, 

And    love,   and    a    space    for   delight. 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days. 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night.  4° 

His    speech    is    a    burning    fire; 

With    his    lips    he    travaileth ; 
In    his    heart    is    a    blind    desire. 

In    his    eyes    foreknowledge    of    death ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision;  45 

Sows,   and  he   shall   not   reap; 
His   life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between    a    sleep    and    a    sleep. 

CHORUS 

We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair; 
thou  art  goodly,  O  Love ; 

Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the 
wings  of   a   dove. 

Thy  feet  are  as  winds  that  divide  the  stream 
of  the  sea; 

Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the  gar- 
ment of  thee. 

Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a 
flame  of  fire;  5 

Before  thee  the  laughter,  behind  thee  the 
tears  of  desire; 

And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with 
a  maid ; 

Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  bride  whom  de- 
light   makes    afraid; 

As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her 
bridal  breath : 


ATALANTA  IN  CALYDON 


897 


But  Fate  is  the  name  of  her;  and  his  name 
is  Death.  'o 

For  an  evil   blossom   was  born 

Of   sea-foam   and   the   frothing  of   blood, 
Blood-red  and  bitter  of   fruit, 

And  the  seed  of  it  laughter  and  tears. 
And  the  leaves  of  it  madness  and  scorn;  15 
A   bitter   flower   from   the  bud. 
Sprung  of  the  sea  without  root, 

Sprung  without  graft  from  the  years. 

The  weft  of  the  world  was  untorn  "? 

That   is   woven   of  the  day  on  the  night. 

The    hair   of   the    hours    was    not    white 
Nor    the    raiment    of    time    overworn, 

When  a  wonder,  a  world's  delight, 
A  perilous  goddess  was  born ; 

And  the  waves  of  the  sea  as  she  came     25 
Clove,  and  the  foam  at  her  feet, 

Fawning,   rejoiced  to  bring  forth 

A  fleshly  blossom,  a  flame 
Filling  the  heavens  with  heat 

To  the  cold  white  ends  of  the  north. 

And    in    air    the    clamorous    birds,  31 

And  men  upon  earth  that  hear 
Sweet  articulate  words 

Sweetly  divided   apart. 
And   in   shallow  and  channel  and  mere  35 
The   rapid   and    footless   herds. 

Rejoiced,  being  foolish  of  heart. 

For  all  they  said  upon   earth. 

She  is    fair,   she   is  white  like  a  dove,  39 
And  the  life  of  the  world  in  her  breath 
Breathes,  and  is  born  at  her  birth ; 

For  they  knew  thee  for  mother  of  love, 
And   knew   thee   not   mother   of   death. 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  being  born. 

Mother,  when  winds  were  at  ease,  45 

As   a   flower   of   the   springtime   of   corn, 

A   flower  of  the   foam   of  the  seas? 
For  bitter  thou  wast  from  thy  birth, 

Aphrodite,  a  mother  of  strife; 
For  before  thee  some  rest  was  on  earth,  50 
A    little    respite    from   tears, 
A  little  pleasure  of  life; 
For  life  was  not  then  as  thou  art. 

But  as  one  that  waxeth  in  years 
Sweet-spoken,   a   fruitful   wife;  55 

Earth  had  no  thorn,  and  desire 
No  sting,  neither  death  any  dart; 

What   hadst   thou   to  do   amongst  these. 

Thou,  clothed  with  a  burning  fire, 

Thou,  girt  with  sorrow  of  heart,  60 

Thou,  sprung  of  the  seed  of  the  seas 

57 


As  an  ear  from  a  seed  of  corn, 

As  a  brand  plucked  forth  of  a  pyre, 
As  a  ray   shed   forth  of  the  morn, 

For   division   of   soul    and   disease,  6s 

For  a  dart  and  a   sting  and  a  thorn? 
What  ailed  thee  then   to  be  born? 

Was    there    not    evil    enough, 
Mother,   and   anguish   on   earth 
Born    with    a    man    at    his    birth,  7° 

Wastes  underfoot,  and  above 

Storm   out   of  heaven,  and  dearth 
Shaken  down  from  the  shining  thereof, 
Wrecks    from   afar   overseas 
And  peril   of  shallow   and  firth,  75 

And   tears  that   spring  and   increase 
In   the  barren   places   of  mirth, 
That    thou,    having   wings    as   a    dove. 
Being  girt   with   desire   for   a   girth, 

That   thou   must  come   after  these,     .  80 
That  thou  must  lay  on  him  love? 

Thou  shouldst  not  so  have  been  born : 
But   death    should   have   risen   with   thee, 
Mother,   and   visible    fear. 

Grief,  and  the  wringing  of  hands,     85 
And  noise  of  many  that  mourn ; 
The  smitten  bosom,  the  knee 
Bowed,  and   in  each  man's  ear 
A    cry   as   of    perishing    lands, 
A  moan  as  of  people  in  prison,  90 

A    tumult    of    infinite    griefs; 

And  thunder  of  storm  on  the  sands. 
And   wailing  of   wives   on   the   shore; 
And   under   thee   newly  arisen 

Loud    shoals,   and    shipwrecking   reefs,     95 
Fierce   air   and   violent   light ; 
Sail   rent  and   sundering  oar. 
Darkness,  and  noises  of  night; 
Clashing   of   streams   in   the   sea, 
Wave  against   wave  as  a   sword,  100 

Clamor  of  currents,  and  foam ; 

Rains    making    ruin    on    earth. 
Winds  that  wax  ravenous  and  roam 
As  wolves  in   a  wolfish  horde ; 
Fruits    growing    faint    in    the    tree,  105 

And  blind  things  dead  in  their  birth  ; 
Famine,    and    blighting    of    corn. 
When  thy  time  was  come  to  be  born. 

All  these  we  know  of;  but  thee 

Who  shall  discern  or  declare?  nc 

In  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  sea 

The   light   of  thine  eyelids  and  hair. 
The  light  of  thy  bosom  as  fire 
Between  the  wheel  of  the  sun 
And  the  flying  flames  of  the  air?  "S 

Wilt   thou   turn  thee  not  yet   nor  have 
pity, 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


But    abide    with    despair    and    desire 
And  tile  crying  of  armies  undone, 
Lamentation  of  one  with  another 
And   breaking  of   city  by  city;  '-o 

The  dividing  of   friend  against   friend. 

The  severing  of  l)rother  and  brother; 
WiU   tliou   utterly  l)ring  to   an   end? 
Have  mercy,   mother! 

For  against  all  men  from  of  old  ''S 

Thou   hast    set   thine  hand   as   a   curse. 
And  cast  out  gods  from  their  places 
These    things    are    spoken    of    thee. 
Strong  kings  and  goodly  with   gold  '29 

Thou  hast  found  out  arrows  to  pierce, 
And  made  their  kingdoms  and  races 
As  dust  and  surf  of  the  sea. 
All  these,  overburdened  with  woes 

And    with    length    of    their    days    waxen 
weak. 
Thou  slewest ;  and  sentest  moreover   '35 
Upon    Tyro   an    evil    thing. 
Rent  hair  and  a  fetter  and  blows 

Making   bloody   the    flower   of   the    cheek. 
Though  she  lay  by  a  god  as  a  lover. 
Though  fair,  and  the  seed  of  a  king. 
For  of  old,  being  full  of  thy  fire,  mi 

She   endured   not  longer  to  wear 
On  her  bosom  a  saffron  vest. 

On  her  shoulder  an  ashwood  quiver; 
Being  mixed  and  made  one  through  desire, 
With  Enipeus,  and  all  her  hair  146 

Made    moist    with    his    mouth,    and    her 
breast 
Filled  full  of  the  foam  of  the  river. 
(1865) 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

Here,    where   the    world    is    quiet; 

Here,   where   all   trouble    seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In    doubtful    dreams   of   dreams; 
I   watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter. 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep; 
Of   what   may   come   hereafter 

For  men  that  sow  to  reap: 

I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours. 

Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 

Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 

And  everything  but  sleep. 


Here  life  has  death  for  neighbor. 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan   waves   and   wet   winds   labor, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer;  20 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not   who  make  thither; 
But   no   such   winds   blow   hither. 

And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice,  25 

No  heather-flower  or  vine. 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies. 

Green  grapes  of   Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes. 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes  3° 

Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 

For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 
They    bow    themselves    and    slumber  35 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated. 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated. 
By  cloud  and  mist   abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn.  4° 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven. 

He  too  with  death  shall  dwell. 
Nor   wake   with    wings   in   heaven. 

Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 
Though   one   were    fair   as   roses,  45 

His   beauty  clouds   and   closes; 
And  well  though   love  reposes, 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,   beyond   porch   and   portal. 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands     50 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 

With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than   love's   who    fears  to   greet  her. 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her  55 

From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other. 

She  waits  for  all   men  born; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 

The   life   of   fruits   and   corn  ;  60 

And   spring  and   seed  and   swallow 
Take    wing    for   her   and    follow 
Where   summer   song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to   scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither,  ^s 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 


HERTHA 


899 


And   all   disastrous   things ; 

Beside  or  above  me 

Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 

Naught  is  there  to  go; 

Blind  buds  that   snows  have  shaken, 

70 

Love  or  unlove  me. 

Wild   leaves  that  vi^inds  have  taken, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 

Red   strays   of   ruined   springs. 

I   am   that   which   unloves   me   and    loves;   I 
am  stricken,  and  I  am  the  blow.  20 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow ; 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 

I  the  mark  that  is  missed 

To-day  will  die  to-morrow  ; 

75 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure ; 

I   the  mouth  that   is  kissed 

And  love,  grown   faint  and  fretful, 

And   the   breath    in   the   kiss. 

With  lips  but  half  regretful 

The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker, 

Sighs,  and  with  eyes   forgetful 

the  soul  and  the  body  that  is.       2s 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

80 

I    am  that   thing  which   blesses 

From  too  much   love  of  living. 

My  spirit  elate ; 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

That  which  caresses 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

With  hands  uncreate 

Whatever  gods  may  be 

My     limbs     unbegolten     that     measure     the 

That  no   life   lives   for   ever; 

85 

length  of  the  measure  of  fate.       30 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now. 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
'  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken. 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high?' 

Nor  any  change  of  light : 

90 

I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him; 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken. 

find  thou  but  thyself,  thou  art  L  35 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 

Nor  wintry   leaves  nor  vernal. 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

Nor   days   nor   things   diurnal; 

The  plough-cloven  clod 

Only  the  sleep  eternal 

9S 

And   the  plough-share   drawn   thorough. 

In  an  eternal  night. 

The  germ  and  the  sod, 

(1866) 

The   deed   and   the   doer,   the   seed   and   the 

sower,  the  dust  which  is  God.       40 

HERTHA 

I  am  that  which  began; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man; 
I  am  equal  and  whole; 
God   changes,    and    man,    and    the    form    of 
them  bodily;   I   am  the  soul.  5 

Before  ever  land  was. 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass. 
Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 
Or  the  flesh-colored  fruit  of  my  branches,  I 
was,  and  thy  soul  was  in  me.       1° 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn  ; 
Out    of    me,    man    and    woman,    and    wild- 
beast  and  bird ;  before  God  was,  T 
am.  15 


Hast  thou  known  how  I   fashioned  thee, 

Child,  underground? 
Fire  that  impassioned  thee, 
Iron  that  bound, 
Dim    changes    of    water,    what    thing   of    all 
these     hast     thou     known     of     or 
found  ?  45 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With    what    cunning   of   art 
Thou    wast    wrought    in    what    wise. 
By    what    force    of    what    stuff    thou    wast 
shapen,  and  shown  on  my  breast  to 
the  skies?  5° 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee. 

Knowledge  of  me? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee? 
Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea? 
Hast   thou   communed   in   spirit    with   night? 
have  the  winds  taken  counsel   with 
thee?  55 


900 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To   show   light   on   thy  brow 
That   thou   sawest    from   afar 
What  I   show  to  thee  now? 
Have   ye    spoken    as   brethren    together,   the 
sun  and  the  mountains  and  thou? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it  ?  6i 

What   was,   hast   thou   known? 
Prophet  nor  poet 
Nor  tripod  nor  throne 
Nor   spirit    nor   flesh  can   make  answer,   Init 
only  thy  mother  alone.  6s 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made ; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 
Allured  or  afraid. 
Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion, 
she     stirs    not     for    all    that    have 
prayed.  7° 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And   a  crown  is   of  night ; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might. 
To    grow    straight    in    the    strength    of    thy 
spirit,   and   live   out   thy   life   as   the 
light.  75 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 
As  my  soul  in  thee  saith; 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 
Thy  life-blood  and  breath. 
Green  leaves  of  thy  labor,  white  flowers  of 
thy   thought,   and   red    fruit   of   thy 
death.  8o 

Be   the  ways   of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee ; 
The  free  life  of  thy  living. 
Be  the  gift  of  it  free; 
Not   as   servant   to   lord,   nor   as   master   to 
slave,   shalt  thou  give   thee   to   me. 

0  children  of  banishment,  ^^ 
Souls  overcast, 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 
Always    to    last. 
Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the 
shadows  and  stars  overpast.  9o 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 
The  dim   paths   of  the  night 

Set  the   shadow   called   God 
In  your  skies  to  give  light; 
But  the   morning  of   manhood   is   risen,  and 
the   shadowless    soul    is   in   sight.  95 


The    tree    many-rooted 

That   swells   to   the   sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited 
The  life-tree  am  I ; 
In    the    buds    of    your    lives    is    the    sap    of 
my    leaves:    ye    shall    live    and    not 
die.  lo'J 

But  the   gods   of  your    fashion 

That    take    and    that    give. 
In  their  pity  and   passion 
That    scourge    and    forgive, 
They  are  worms  that   are  bred   in   the   bark 
that  falls  off,  they  shall  die  and  not 
live.  105 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The    wounds   in   my  bark; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 
Make   day  of  the  dark. 
And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise 
shall     tread     out    their    fires    as    a 
spark.  I'o 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 
The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 
In  my  darkness  the  thunder 
Makes  utterance  of  me; 
In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other 
ye    hear    the    waves    sound    of    the 
sea.  IIS 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As   his   feathers  are   spread 
And  his   feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead. 
And     my     foliage     rings     round     him     and 
rustles,  and  branches  are  bent  with 
his  tread.  i-^o 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease. 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 

The    spring-wind   of    peace,  124 

Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses, 

ere    one    of   my   blossoms    increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes. 
All    shadows   and   lights 
On   the  world's   mountain-ranges, 
And  stream-riven  heights. 
Whose    tongue    is    the    wind's    tongue    and 
language  of  storm-clouds  on  earth- 
shaking   nights;  130 

All   forms  of  all   faces. 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 


A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN 


901 


Of   time-stricken    lands, 
All   death   and   all    life,   and   all    reigns   and 
all     ruins,     drop     through     me     as 
sands.  '3S 

Though   sore  be  my  burden 

And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 

But   only   to   grow,  '39 

Yet    I    fail    not    of    growing    for    lightnings 
above  me  or  death-worms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As   I  too   in   these; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 
Such    sap   is   this   tree's, 
Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets 
of  infinite  lands  and  of  seas.       MS 

In  the  spring-colored  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 
By  centuries  of  days. 
Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood, 
shot  out  from  my  spirit  as  rays.  150 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing, 
And  strength  to  my  roots ; 
And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect 
with     freedom    of    soul    were    my 
fruits.  '55 

I  bid  you  but  be; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 
As  your  mouths  of  mine  air; 
That  my  heart   may  be  greater   within  me, 
beholding  the  fruits  of  me  fair.  '6° 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 
That  blooms  in  your  boughs;  164 

Behold    now   your   god   that   ye    made    you, 
to  feed  him  with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses,  adored. 
With    dayspring   and   lightning 

For   lamp   and    for   sword,  169 

God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are 
red  with  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Towards  gods  not  of  me. 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful? 


Was   it   hard   to  be    free?  174 

For  behold,   I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and 
of  you;   look   forth   now   and   see. 

Lo,  winged   with  world's   wonders. 

With   miracles    shod. 
With   the   fires   of   his   thunders 
For  raiment  and  rod, 
God  trembles  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are 
white   with   the   terror   of   God.  «8o 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him. 

His  anguish  is  here; 
And   his   spirits   gaze   dumb   on   him. 
Grown  gray  from  his   fear; 
And  his  hour  taketh  hold  on  him  stricken, 
the   last    of    his    infinite   year.        185 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him, 

Truth    slays    and    forgives; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 
This   new   thing  it  gives. 
Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that   feeds 
upon   freedom  and  lives.  190 

For  truth  only  is  living. 

Truth  only  is  whole. 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man's  polestar  and  pole; 
Man,  pulse  of  my  center,  and  fruit  of  my 
body,  and  seed  of  my  soul.  195 

One    birth    of    my    bosom; 
One    beam    of    mine    eye; 
One  topmost  blossom 
That   scales   the   sky ; 
Man,   equal   and  one  with  me,   man  that   is 
made   of  me,  man   that   is    I.        200 
(1871) 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and 
highland. 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward 
and   lee. 
Walled    round    with    rocks    as    an    inland 
island. 
The   ghost  of  a  garden   fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses  5 
The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless 
bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the 
graves   of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

The     fields     fall     southward,     abrupt     and 
broken. 


902 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


To    the    low    last    edge    of    the    long    lone 
land.  '" 

If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 
Would    a    ghost    not    rise    at    the    strange 
guest's  hand? 
So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain  guest- 
less, 
Through    branches    and    briers    if    a    man 
make  way, 
He    shall    find    no    life    but   the    sea-wind's 
restless  ^S 

Night   and   day. 

The     dense     hard     passage     is     blind     and 
stilled 
That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To    the    strait    waste    place    that    the    years 
have  rifled 
Of    all    but    the    thorns    that   are   touched 
not    of    time.  ^° 

The    thorns    he    spares    when    the    rose    is 
taken ; 
The    rocks    are    left   when   he   wastes   the 
plain  ; 
The    wind    that    wanders,   the   weeds   wind- 
shaken, 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that 
falls  not;  25 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots 
are   dry; 
From    the    thicket    of    thorns    whence    the 
nightingale    calls    not. 
Could   she   call,   there  were  never   a  rose 
to  reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither, 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song. 
Only  the   sun   and  the   rain  come   hither  31 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sear,  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One    gaunt    bleak    blossom    of    scentless 
breath. 
Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels,      35 
In   a    round    where   life   seems    barren   as 
death. 
Here  there  was  laughing    of  old,  there  was 
weepmg. 
Haply,    of    lovers    none    ever    will    know. 
Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleep- 
ing 
Years  ago.  40 

Heart    handfast    in    heart    as    they    stood, 
'  Look  thither,' 
Did   he    whisper  ?     '  Look    forth    from   the 
flowers  to  the   sea; 


For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose- 
blossoms  wither. 
And   men   that   love   lightly  may  die  —  but 
we?  ' 
And    the    same    wind    sang,    and    the    same 
waves  whitened,  45 

Atid  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were 
shed. 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that 
had   lightened, 
Love    was    dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  life  through,  and  then 
went    whither? 
And  were  one  to  the  end  —  but  what  end 
who  knows?  so 

Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither. 
As   the   rose-red   seaweed   that   mocks   the 
rose. 
Shall    the    dead   take   thought    for   the   dead 
to  love  them? 
What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave? 
They   are   loveless   now   as   the   grass   above 
them  55 

Or  the  wave. 

All    are   at   one  now,   roses   and   lovers, 
Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and 
the  sea. 
Not    a    breath    of    the    time    that    has    been 
hovers 
In    the    air    now   soft   with   a   summer    to 
be.  60 

Not     a     breath     shall     there     sweeten     the 
seasons  hereafter 
Of  the   flowers   or   the   lovers   that   laugh 
now  or  weep. 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weep- 
ing and  laughter 
We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  for  ever;  65 
Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change 
end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall 
rise  up  never. 
Who    have    left    naught    living   to    ravage 
and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground 
growing. 
While    the    sun    and    the    rain    live,    these 
shall  be;  70 

Till    a    last    wind's    breath,    upon    all    these 
blowing. 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till    the   slow   sea   rise,   and   the   sheer   cliff 
crumble, 


THALASSIUS                                                    903 

Till   terrace   and   meadow   the   deep   gulfs 
drink. 

And    round    the    resonant    radiance    of    his 
car 

Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high 

tides  humble                                       7S 

The    fields    that    lessen,    the    rocks    that 

shrink, 

Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things 

Where  depth   is  one  with  height,                 30 
Light  heard  as  music,  music   seen  as   light, 
And    with    that    second    moondawn    of    the 

spring's 
That   fosters  the  first  rose. 

falter, 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own 
hand    spread, 
As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 

(1876) 

A  sun-child  whiter  than  the  sunlit  snows 
Was    born    out    of    the    world    of    sunless 

things                                                        35 
That  round  the  round  earth  flows  and  ebbs 

and  flows. 

But  he  that   found  the  sea-flower  by   the 

THALASSIUS 

sea, 
And  took  to   foster  like  a  graft  of  earth. 

Upon  the   flowery   forefront  of   the  year. 
One  wandering  by  the  gray-green  April  sea 
Found  on  a  reach  of  shingle  and  shallower 

sand. 
Inlaid   with   starrier  glimmering  jewelry 
Left  for  the  sun's  love  and  the  light  wind's 

cheer  s 

Along  the   foam-flowered   strand, 
Breeze-brightened,     something     nearer     sea 

than   land, 
Though   the    last   shoreward    blossom-fringe 

was   near, 
A   babe   asleep,   with   flower-soft    face   that 

gleamed 
To    sun    and    seaward    as    it    laughed    and 

dreamed,  10 

Too  sure  of  either  love  for  cither's  fear, 
Albeit  so  birdlike  slight  and  light,  it  seemed. 
Nor  man,  nor  mortal  child  of  man,  but  fair 
As  even  its  twin-born  tenderer  spray- 
flowers  were,  14 
That  the  wind  scatters  like  an  Oread's  hair. 

For  when  July  strewed  fire  on  earth  and 
sea 
The   last   time   ere   that  year. 
Out  of  the  flame  of  morn  Cymothoe, 
Beheld    one    brighter    than    the    sun-bright 

sphere 
Move    toward    her    from    its    fieriest    heart, 
whence    trod  20 

The  live  sun's  very  god, 

Across  the  foam-bright  water-ways  that  are 
As  heavenlier  heavens,  with  star  for  answer- 
ing star; 
And    on    her    eyes    and    hair    and    maiden 

mouth 
Felt  a  kiss  falling  fierier  than  the  South,  -s 
And  heard  above  afar 

A  noise  of  songs  and  wind-enamored  wings, 
And  lutes  and  lyres  of  milder  and  mightier 
strings, 


Was  born  of  man's  most  highest  and 
heavenliest  birth. 

Free-born  as  winds  and  stars  and  waves 
are  free ;  40 

A  warrior  gray  with  glories  more  than 
years. 

Though  more  of  years  than  change  the 
quick  to  dead 

Had  rained  their  light  and  darkness  on  his 
head  ; 

A   singer   that   in   time's   and   memory's   ears 

Should  leave  such  words  to  sing  as  all  his 
peers  45 

Might  praise  with  hallowing  heat  of  rap- 
turous tears. 

Till  all  the  days  of  human  flight  were  fled. 

And  at  his  knees  his   fosterling  was   fed. 

Not    with    man's    wine    and    bread,  49 

Nor  mortal  mother-milk  of  hopes  and  fears. 

But  food  of  deep  memorial  days  long  sped; 

For  bread  with  wisdom,  and  with  song  for 
wine. 

Clear   as   the    full    calm's    emerald   hyaline. 

And  from  his  grave  glad  lips  the  boy  would 
gather 

Fine  honey  of  song-notes,  goldener  than 
gold,  55 

More  sweet  than  bees  make  of  the  breath- 
ing heather. 

That  he,  as  glad  and  bold, 

Might  drink  as  they,  and  keep  his  spirit 
from  cold. 

And  the  boy  loved  his  laurel-laden  hair 

As  his  own  father's  risen  on  the  eastern 
air,  60 

And  that  less  white  brow-binding  bayleaf 
bloom, 

More  than  all  flowers  his  father's  eyes  re- 
lume. 

And  those  high  songs  he  heard. 

More  than  all  notes  of  any  landward  bird, 

More  than  all   sounds  less  free  65 

Than  (lie  wind's  quiring  to  the  choral  sea. 


904 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


High    things   the    high    song    taught   him: 

how  the  breath, 
Too  frail  for  life,  may  be  more  strong  than 

death ; 
And   this   poor   flash   of   sense  -in   life,   that 

gleams 
As  a  ghost's  glory  in  dreams,  7o 

More    stable    than    the    world's    own   heart's 

root  seems, 
By  that  strong  faith  of  lordliest  love,  which 

gives 
To    death's    own    sightless-seeming    eyes    a 

light 
Clearer,    to    death's    bare    bones    a    verier 

might. 
Than  shines  or  strikes  from  any  man  that 

lives;  7S 

How  he  that  loves  life  overmuch  shall  die 
The  dog's  death,  utterly; 
And    he    that    much    less    loves    it    than    he 

hates 
All    wrong-doing   that    is    done, 
Anywhere  always  underneath  the  sun,  80 

Shall    live    a    mightier    life    than    time's    or 

fate's. 
One    fairer    thing   he    showed    him,    and    in 

might 
More    strong   than   day   and   night. 
Whose    strengths    build   up   time's    towering 

period ; 
Yea,  one  thing  stronger  and  more  high  than 

God,  8s 

Which,   if   man   had  not,   then   should   God 

not  be : 
And   that   was    Liberty. 
And    gladly    should    man    die    to    gain,    he 

said. 
Freedom;  and  gladlier,  having  lost,  lie  dead. 
For  man's  earth  was  not,  nor  the  sweet  sea- 
waves  90 
His,  nor  his  own  land,  nor  its  very  graves. 
Except    they    bred    not,    bore    not,    hid    not 

slaves ; 
But  all  of  all  that  is. 
Were  one  man  free  in  body  and  soul,  were 

his. 


And  the  song  softened,  even  as  heaven  by 

night  95 

Softens,     from     sunnier    down    to     starrier 

light, 
And   with   its   moon-bright   breath 
Blessed   life   for  death's  sake,   and   for  life's 

sake   death  ; 
Till    as    the    moon's    own    beam    and    breath 

confuse. 
In    one    clear    hueless    haze    of    glimmering 

hues,  i°° 


The  sea's  line,  and  the  land's  line,  and  the 

sky's, 
And  light  for  love  of  darkness  almost  dies, 
As  darkness  only  lives  for  light's  dear  love. 
Whose  hands  the  web  of  night  is  woven  of: 
So  in  that  heaven  of  wondrous  words  were 
life  los 

And   death   brought   out   of   strife; 
Yea,    by    that    strong    spell    of    serene    in- 
crease, 
Brought    out    of    strife   to   peace. 

And    the    song   lightened,   as   the   wind   at 

morn 
Flashes,    and    even    with    lightning    of    the 

'wind  '1° 

Night's   thick-spun   web   is   thinned, 
And   all   its   weft   unwoven   and   overworn 
Shrinks,  as  might  love   from   scorn, 
And  as  when  wind  and  light,  on  water  and 

land. 
Leap   as  twin  gods   from  heavenward,   hand 

in  hand,  "S 

And  with  the  sound  and   splendor  of   their 

leap 
Strike   darkness   dead,   and   daunt   the   spirit 

of  sleep. 
And  burn  it  up  with  fire ; 
So   with   the   light   that   lightened    from  the 

lyre. 
Was  all  the  bright  heat  in  the  child's  heart 

stirred,  120 

And  blown  with  blasts  of  music  into  flame, 
Till  even  his  sense  became 
Fire,  as  the  sense  that  fires  the  singing  bird, 
Whose    song   calls   night   by   name.  124 

And   in   the    soul    within    the   sense   began 
The    manlike    passion    of    a    godlike    man. 
And   in   the   sense   within   the   soul   again 
Thoughts  that  make  men  of  gods,  and  gods 

of  men. 

For  love  the  high  song  taught  him, —  love 

that  turns 
God's  heart  toward  man  as  man's  to   God- 
ward ;   love  '3u 
That  life  and  death  and  life  are   fashioned 

of, 
From  the  first  breath  that  burns 
Half-kindled    on    the    flower-like    yeanling's 

lip 
So   light    and    faint   that   life   seems   like   to 

slip, 
To  that  yet  weaklier  drawn  '35 

When     sunset     dies     of     night's     devouring 

dawn  ; 
But   the   man   dying  not   wholly   as   all   men 

dies 


THALASSIUS 


905 


If  aught  be  left  of  his  in  live  men's  eyes 
Out  of  the  dawnless  dark  of  death  to  rise ; 
If  aught  of  deed  or  word  140 

Be  seen  for  all  time,  or  of  all  time  heard. 
Love,  that  though  body  and  soul  were  over- 
thrown, 
Should   live   for  love's  sake  of  itself  alone. 
Though    spirit    and    f^esh    were    one    thing 

doomed  and  dead. 
Not  wholly  annihilated.  145 

Seeing  even  the  hoariest  ash-flake  that  the 

pyre 
Drops,  and  forgets  the  thing  was  once  afire, 
And   gave   its   heart   to    feed   the   pile's    full 

flame 
Till  its  own  heart  its  own  heat  overcame, 
Outlives    its   own    life,    though   by    scarce    a 

span,  150 

As    such    men    dying    outlive    themselves    in 

man. 
Outlive  themselves  for  ever;   if  the  heat 
Outburn  the  heart  that  kindled  it,  the  sweet 
Outlast  the   flower  whose   soul    it   was,  and 

flit. 
Forth  of  a  body  of  it  iss 

Into  some  new  shape  of  a  strange  perfume 
More    potent    than    its    light    live    spirit    of 

bloom, — 
How   shall    not   something  of   that   soul   re- 
live, 
That  only   soul   that  had   such  gifts  to  give 
As    lighten     something    even    of    all    men's 

doom,  160 

Even   from  the  laboring  womb. 
Even    to    the    seal    set    on    the    unopening 

tomb  ? 
And  these  the  loving  light  of  song  and  love 
Shall    wrap    and    lap    round,    and    impend 

above,  164 

Imperishable ;  and  all  springs  born  illume 
Their     sleep     with    brighter    thoughts     than 

wake   the  dove 
To  music,  when  the  hillside  winds  resume 
The    marriage-song    of    heather-flower    and 

broom 
And  all  the  joy  thereof. 

And  hate  the  song,  too,  taught  him, —  hate 
of  all  170 

That  brings  or  holds  in  thrall 

Of  spirit  or  flesh,  free  born  ere  God  be- 
gan, 

The  holy  body  and  sacred  soul  of  man. 

And  wheresoever  a  curse  was,  or  a  chain, 

A  throne   for  torment  or  a  crown  for  bane 

Rose,  molded  out  of  poor  men's  molten 
pain,  176 

There,  said  he,  should  man's  heaviest  hate 
be  set 


Inexorably,  to   faint  not   or   forget 

Till  the   last  warmth   bled   forth   of  the  last 

vein 
In  flesh  that  none  should  call  a  king's  again. 
Seeing    wolves    and    dogs    and    birds    that 

plague-strike    air  181 

Leave  the  last  bone  of  all  the  carrion  bare. 

And    hope    the    high    song    taught    him, — 

hope  whose  eyes 
Can  sound  the  seas  unsoundable,  the  skies 
Inaccessible  of  eyesight ;  that  can   see       185 
What    earth    beholds    not,    hear    what    wind 

and  sea 
Hear   not,   and   speak   what   all   these  crying 

in  one 
Can   speak  not  to  the  sun. 
For  in  her  sovereign  eyelight  all  things  are 
Clear   as   the   closest   seen   and   kindlier   star 
That  marries  morn  and  even  and  winter  and 

spring  191 

With  one  love's  golden  ring. 
For  she  can  see  the  days  of  man,  the  birth 
Of  good,  and  death  of  evil  things  on  earth 
Inevitable  and   infinite,   and   sure  '95 

As  present  pain  is,  or  herself  is  pure. 
Yea,  she  can  hear  and  see,  beyond  all  things 
That  lighten  from  before  Time's  thunderous 

wings 
Through    the   awful   circle   of   wheel-winged 

periods, 
The  tempest  of  the  twilight  of  all  gods;  200 
And,  higher  than  all  the  circling  course  they 

ran. 
The  sundawn  of  the  spirit  that  was  man. 

And  fear  the  song,  too,  taught  him, —  fear 

to  be 
Worthless   the   dear   love   of  the   wind    and 

sea 
That    bred    him    fearless,    like    a    sea-mew 

reared  205 

In   rocks  of  man's   foot   feared. 
Where  naught  of  wingless  life  may  sing  or 

shine. 
Fear   to    wax   worthless   of   that   heaven   he 

had, 
When  all  the  life  in  all  his  limbs  was  glad, 
And    all    the    drops    in    all    his    veins    were 

wine,  210 

And   all   the  pulses   music ;   when   his   heart. 
Singing,    bade    heaven    and    wind    and    sea 

bear  part 
In  one  live  song's  reiterance,  and  they  bore ; 
Fear  to  go  crownless  of  the  flower  he  wore 
When  the  winds  loved   him.  and  the  waters 

knew  215 

The   blithest   life  that  clove   their  blithe  life 

through 


9o6 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


With  living  limbs  exultant,  or  held  strife 
More  amorous  than  all  dalliance  aye  anew 
With    the    bright    breath    and     strength     of 

their  large  life, 
With   all   strong   wrath   of   all    sheer   winds 

that    blew,  '-° 

All  glories  of  all  storms  of  the  air  that  fell 
Prone,  ineluctable, 
With  roar  from  heaven  of  revel,  and  with 

hue 
As  of  a  heaven  turned  hell. 
For  when  the  red  blast  of  their  breath  had 

made,  ^"^ 

All  heaven  aflush  with  light  more  dire  than 

shade, 
He  felt  it  in  his  blood  and  eyes  and  hair 
Burn  as  if  all  the  fires  of  the  earth  and  air 
Had    laid    strong   hold    upon    his    flesh,   and 

stung 
The  soul  behind  it  as  with  serpent's  tongue. 
Forked    like    the    loveliest    lightnings;    nor 

could  bear  ^^i 

But  hardly,  half  distraught  with  strong  de- 
light. 
The   joy  that   like   a   garment  wrapped  hnn 

round, 
And  lapped  him  over  and  under 
With   raiment   of   great   light,  235 

And    rapture   of    great    sound 
At     every     loud     leap     earthward     of     the 

thunder 
From  heaven's  most   furthest  bound: 
So    seemed    all    heaven    in    hearing    and    in 

sight. 
Alive  and  mad  with  glory  and  angry  joy, 
That  something  of  its  marvelous  mirth  and 

might  241 

Moved  even  to  madness,  fledged  as  even  for 

flight, 
The    blood    and    spirit    of    one    but    mortal 

boy. 


fTUDE   REALISTE 


A   baby's    feet,    like    sea-shells   pink, 

Might  tempt,  should  heaven  see  meet, 

An   angel's   lips   to   kiss,   we   think, 
A  baby's  feet. 

Like  rose-hued  sea-flowers  toward  the  heat 

They   stretch   and   spread   and   wink        6 
Their  ten  soft  buds  that  part  and  meet. 

No   flower-bells   that   expand   and   shrink 
Gleam   half   so   heavenly   sweet 


As    shine    on    life's    untrodden    brink 
A  baby's  feet. 


A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furled 
Whence  yet   no    leaf   expands, 

Ope  if  you  touch,  though  close  upcurlcd, 
A  baby's  hands.  15 

Then,  fast  as  warriors  grip  their  brands 

When  battle's  bolt  is  hurled. 
They    close,    clenched    hard    like    tightening 
bands. 

No  rosebuds  yet  by  dawn  impearled 

Match,  even  in  loveliest  lands,  20 

The  sweetest  flowers  in  all  the  world  — 
A  baby's  hands. 


A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin. 
Ere  lips  learn   words  or  sighs, 

Bless    all    things   bright    enough    to    win     -25 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Love,  while  the  sweet  thing  laughs  and  lies, 

And  sleep  flows  out  and  in, 
Sees  perfect  in  them  Paradise. 

Their  glance  might  cast  out  pain  and  sin,  3° 
Their  speech  make  dumb  the  wise, 

By  mute  glad  godhead  felt  within 
A  baby's  eyes. 

(1883) 


THE  ROUNDEL 

A  roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star- 
bright   sphere. 

With  craft  of  delight  and  with  cunning  of 
sound   unsought. 

That  the  heart  of  the  hearer  may  smile  if  to 
pleasure  his  ear 

A    roundel    is    wrought. 

Its  jewel  of  music  is  carven  of  all  or  of 
aught  —  5 

Love,  laughter,  or  mourning  —  remembrance 
of  rapture  or  fear  — 

That  fancy  may  fashion  to  hang  in  the  ear 
of  thought. 

As  a  bird's  quick  song  runs  round,  and  the 

hearts  in  us  hear 
Pause  answer  to  pause,  and  again  the  same 

strain   caught. 


THE  ARMADA 


907 


So    moves    the    device    whence,    round    as    a 
pearl  or  tear,  'o 

A    roundel    is    wrought. 

(1883) 


ON  A  COUNTRY  ROAD 

Along  these  low  pleached  lanes,  on   such  a 

day, 
So   soft   a   day  as   this,  through   shade   and 

sun. 
With  glad  grave  eyes  that  scanned  the  glad 

wild  way, 
And    heart    still    hovering    o'er    a    song    be- 
gun, 
And  smile  that  warmed  the  world  with  beni- 

son,  5 

Our  father,  lord  long  since  of  lordly  rime, 
Long    since    hath    haply    ridden,    when    the 

lime 
Bloomed  broad  above  him,  flowering  where 

he  came. 
Because  thy  passage  once  made  warm  this 

clime, 
Our    father    Chaucer,    here    we    praise    thy 

name.  10 

Each  year  that  England  clothes  herself  with 
May, 

She  takes  thy  likeness  on  her.     Time  hath 
spun 

Fresh   raiment  all  in  vain  and   strange   ar- 
ray 

For    earth    and    man's    new    spirit,    fain    to 
shun 

Things    past    for    dreams    of    better    to    be 
won,  IS 

Through  many  a  century  since  thy  funeral 
I  chime 

I         Rang,  and  men  deemed  it  death's  most  dire- 
ful crime 

To  have  spared  not  thee  for  very  love  or 
shame ; 

And  yet,  while  mists  round  last  year's  mem- 
ories  climb. 

Our    father    Chaucer,    here    we    praise    thy 
name.  20 

Each  turn  of  the  old  wild  road  whereon  we 

stray, 
Meseems,  might  bring  us  face  to  face  with 

one 
Whom  seeing  we  could  not  but  give  thanks, 

and  pray 
For  England's  love  our  father  and  her  son 
To    speak    with    us    as    once    in    days    long 

done  25 


With  all  men,  sage  and  churl  and  monk  and 
mime, 

Who  knew  not  as  we  know  the  soul  sub- 
lime 

That  sang  for  song's  love  more  than  lust  of 
fame. 

Yet,  though  this  be  not,  yet,  in  happy  time. 

Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy 
name.  30 

Friend,  even  as  bees  about  the  flowering 
thyme. 

Years  crowd  on  years,  till  hoar  decay  be- 
grime 

Names  once  beloved ;  but,  seeing  the  sun  the 
same, 

As  birds  of  autumn  fain  to  praise  the  prime, 

Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy 
name.  3S 

(1884) 


THE  ARMADA 
i=;88:  1888 


England,  mother  born  of  seamen,  daughter 

fostered  of  the  sea, 
Mother  more  beloved  than  all  who  bear  not 
all  their  children  free. 
Reared  and  nursed  and  crowned  and  cher- 
ished by  the  sea-wind  and  the  sun, 
Sweetest    land    and    strongest,    face    most 
fair  and  mightiest  heart  in  one, 
Stands   not   higher  than   when   the   centuries 
known  of  earth  were  less  by  three,     5 
When  the  strength  that  struck  the  whole 
world   pale    fell    back    from    hers   un- 
done. 


At  her  feet  were  the  heads  of  her  foes 
bowed  down,  and  the  strengths  of  the 
storm   of  them   stayed. 

And  the  hearts  that  were  touched  not  with 
mercy  with  terror  were  touched  and 
amazed  and  affrayed : 
Yea,  hearts  that  had  never  been  molten 
with  pity  were  molten  with  fear  as 
with    flame. 

And  the  priests  of  the  Godhead  whose  tem- 
ple is  hell,  and  his  heart  is  of  iron 
and  fire,  lo 

And  the  swordsmen  that  served  and  the 
seamen  that  sped  them,  whom  peril 
could  tame  not  or  tire. 


9o8 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


Were  as  foam  on  the  winds  of  the  waters 
of  England  which  tempest  can  tire 
not  or  tame. 


in 
They  were  girded   about  with  thunder,  and 

lightning  came   forth   of  the   rage   of 

their  strength, 
And   the   measure   that  measures  the   wings 

of  the  storm  was  the  breadth  of  their 

force   and   the   length : 
And  the  name  of  their  might  was  Invinci- 
ble, covered  and'  clothed  with  the  ter- 
ror of  God ;  '5 
With  his  wrath  were  they  winged,  with  his 

love   were   they   fired,   with   the   speed 

of  his  winds  were  they  shod; 
With  his   soul   were  they  filled,   in  his  trust 

were  they  comforted ;  grace  was  upon 

them   as   night. 
And  faith  as  the  blackness  of  darkness :  the 

fume  of  their  balefires  was  fair  in  his 

sight, 
The  reek  of  them  sweet  as  a  savor  of  myrrh 

in    his    nostrils:    the    world    that    he 

made, 
Theirs   was  it  by  gift  of  his   servants :   the 

wind,  if  they  spake  in  his  name,  was 

afraid,  20 

And   the   sun  was   a   shadow  before   it,   the 

stars  were  astonished  with  fear  of  it : 

fire 
Went  up  to  them,  fed  with  men  living,  and 

lit  of  men's  hands  for  a  shrine  or  a 

pyre ; 
And  the  east  and  the  west  wind  scattered 

their    ashes    abroad,    that    his    name 

should  be  blest 
Of  the  tribes  of  the  chosen  whose  blessings 

are  curses   from  uttermost  east   unto 

west. 


II 


Hell  for  Spain,  and  heaven  for  England, — 

God  to  God,  and   man  to  man, —     25 

Met    confronted,    light    with    darkness,    life 

with  death :   since  time  began. 

Never    earth    nor    sea    beheld    so   great    a 

stake  before  them   set, 
Save  when  Athens  hurled  back  Asia  from 
the  lists  wherein  they  met ; 
Never  since  the  sands  of  ages  through  the 
glass   of   history   ran 
Saw  the  sun  in  heaven  a  lordlier  day  than 
this  that  lights  us  yet.  3° 


For  the  light  that  abides  upon  England,  the 

glory  that   rests  on  her  godlike  name, 
The  pride  that   is  love  and   the   love  that  is 

faith,  a  perfume  dissolved  in  flame, 
Took  fire  from  the  dawn  of  the  fierce  July 

when  fleets  were  scattered  as   foam 
And    squadrons    as    flakes    of    spray;    when 

galleon  and  galliass  that  shadowed  the 

sea 
Were   swept    from   her   waves   like   shadows 

that    pass    with    the    clouds    they    fell 

from,  and  she  35 

Laughed  loud  to  the  wind  as  it  gave  to  her 

keeping    the    glories    of     Spain    and 

Rome. 


Three    hundred    summers     have    fallen    as 

leaves  by  the   storms   in  their   season 

thinned. 
Since    northward    the    war-ships    of    Spain 

came  sheer  up  the  way  of  the  south- 
west wind : 
Where    the    citadel    clifl's    of    England    are 

flanked  with  bastions  of  serpentine. 
Far  ofif  to  the  windward  loomed  their  hulls, 

an   hundred   and   twenty-nine,  40 

All  filled   full   of  the  war,   full-fraught  with 

battle   and    charged    with   bale; 
Then  store-ships  weighted  with  cannon ;  and 

all    were   an   hundred   and   fifty   sail. 
The    measureless    menace    of    darkness    an- 
hungered   with    hope   to   prevail   upon 

light. 
The   shadow   of   death   made   substance,   the 

present  and  visible  spirit  of  night. 
Came,  shaped  as  a  waxing  or  waning  moon 

that  rose  with  the  fall  of  day,  45 

To   the   channel   where   couches   the   Lion   in 

guard    of    the    gate    of    the    lustrous 

bay. 
Fair  England,  sweet  as  the  sea  that  shields 

her,  and  pure  as  the  sea  from  stain, 
Smiled,  hearing  hardly  for  scorn  that  stirred 

her  the  menace  of  saintly  Spain. 


HI 


'They  that  ride  over  ocean  wide  with 
hempen  bridle  and  horse  of  tree.' 

How  shall  they  in  the  darkening  day  of 
wrath  and  anguish  and  fear  go  free?  5° 

How  shall  these  that  have  curbed  the  seas 
not  feel  his  bridle  who  made  the  sea? 


THE  ARMADA 


909 


God   shall   bow   them   and   break   them   now : 

for    what    is    man    in    the    Lord    God's 

sight  ? 
Fear    shall    shake    them,'    and    shame    shall 

break,   and   all   the  noon   of   their   pride 

be  night : 
These  that   sinned   shall   the   ravening  wind 

of    doom    bring    under,    and    judgment 

smite. 

England  broke  from  her  neck  the  yoke,  and 
rent  the   fetter,  and  mocked  the  rod :   53 

Shrines  of  old  that  she  decked  with  gold 
she  turned  to  dust,  to  the  dust  she  trod : 

What  is  she,  that  the  wind  and  sea  should 
fight  beside  her,  and  war  with  God? 

Lo,  the  cloud  of  his  ships  that  crowd  her 
channel's  inlet  with  storm  sublime. 

Darker  far  than  the  tempests  are  that  sweep 
the   skies   of  her   northmost   clime; 

Huge  and  dense  as  the  walls  that  fence  the 
secret   darkness  of  unknown   time.       60 

Mast  on  mast  as  a  tower  goes  past,  and  sail 

by  sail  as  a  cloud's  wing   spread  ; 
Fleet    by    fleet,    as    the    throngs    whose    feet 

keep   time   with   death   in   his    dance   of 

dread ; 
Galleons    dark    as    the    helmsman's    bark    of 

old  that  ferried  to  hell  the  dead. 

Squadrons    proud    as   their   lords,    and    loud 

with    tramp    of    soldiers    and    chant    of 

priests ; 
Slaves  there  told  by  the  thousandfold,  made 

fast  in  bondage  as  herded  beasts ;         6s 
Lords  and  slaves  that  the  sweet  free  waves 

shall  feed  on,  satiate  with  funeral  feasts. 

Nay,  not  so  shall  it  be,  they  know ;  their 
priests  have  said  it;  can  priesthood  lie? 

God  shall  keep  them,  their  God  shall  sleep 
not :  peril  and  evil  shall   pass  them  by : 

Nay,  for  these  are  his  children ;  seas  and 
winds   shall   bid   not   his  children   die. 


So  they  boast  them,  the  monstrous  host 
whose  menace  mocks  at  the  dawn :  and 
here  7° 

They  that  wait  at  the  wild  sea's  gate,  and 
watch  the  darkness  of  doom  draw  near. 

How  shall  they  in  their  evil  day  sustain  the 
strength  of  their  hearts  for  fear? 

Full  July  in  the  fervent  sky  sets  forth  her 
twentieth  of  changing  morns : 


Winds  fall  mild  that  of  late  waxed  wild ; 
no  presage  whispers  or  wails  or  warns : 

Far  to  west  on  the  bland  sea's  breast  a  sail- 
ing crescent  uprears  her  horns.  75 

Seven  wide  miles  the  serene  sea  smiles  be- 
tween them  stretching  from  rim  to  rim : 

Soft  they  shine,  but  a  darker  sign  should 
bid  not  hope  or  belief  wax  dim: 

God's  are  these  men,  and  not  the  sea's :  their 
trust  is  set  not  on   her  but  him. 

God's?  but  who  is  the  God  whereto  the 
prayers  and  incense  of   these  men   rise? 

What  is  he,  that  the  wind  and  sea  should 
fear  him,  quelled  by  his  sunbright  eyes? 

What,  that  men  should  return  again,  and 
hail  him  Lord  of  the  servile  skies?     81 

Hell's  own  flame  at  his  heavenly  name  leaps 
higher  and  laughs,  and  its  gulfs  re- 
joice ; 

Plague  and  death  from  his  baneful  breath 
take  life  and  lighten,  and  praise  his 
choice : 

Chosen  are  they  to  devour  for  prey  the 
tribes  that  hear  not  and  fear  his  voice. 

Ay,  but  we  that  the  wind  and  sea  gird 
round  with  shelter  of  storms  and 
waves  85 

Know  not  him  that  ye  worship,  grim  as 
dreams  that  quicken  from  dead  men's 
graves : 

God  is  one  with  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  land 
that  nursed  us,  the  love  that  saves. 

Love  whose  heart  is  in  ours,  and  part  of  all 
things  noble  and  all  things  fair; 

Sweet  and  free  as  the  circling  sea,  sublime 
and  kind   as  the   fostering  air; 

Pure  of  shame  as  is  England's  name,  whose 
crowns  to  come  are  as  crowns  that 
were.  90 


IV 


But  the  Lord  of  darkness,  the  God  whose 

love  is  a  flaming  fire. 
The    master    whose    mercy    fulfils   wide   hell 

till  its  torturers  tire, 
He    shall    surely  have   heed  of   his   servants 

who  serve  him  for  love,  not  hire. 

They    shall     fetter    the    wing    of    the    wind 
whose  pinions  are  plumed  with  foam : 


9IO 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


For  now  shall  thy  horn  l)c  cxaUcd,  and  now 
shall  thy  bolt   strike   home;  95 

Yea,  now  shall  thy  kingdom  come,  Lord  God 
of  the  priests  of  Rome. 

They  shall  cast  thy  curb  on  the  waters,  and 
bridle  the  waves  of  the  sea : 

They  shall  say  to  her.  Peace,  be  still :  and 
stillness   and   peace    shall   be: 

And  the  winds  and  the  storms  shall  hear 
them,  and  tremble,  and  worship  thee. 

Thy  breath  shall  darken  the  morning,  and 
wither  the  mounting  sun;  loo 

And  the  daysprings,  frozen  and  fettered, 
shall  know  thee,  and  cease  to  run ; 

The  heart  of  the  world  shall  feel  thee,  and 
die,  and  thy  will  be  done. 

The  spirit  of  man  that  would  sound  thee, 
and  search   out  causes   of  things. 

Shall  shrink  and  subside  and  praise  thee: 
and   wisdom,  with  plume-plucked   wings. 

Shall  cower  at  thy  feet  and  confess  thee, 
that  none  may  fathom  thy  springs.     105 

The    fountains   of   song  that   await  but   the 

wind  of  an  April  to  be 
To  burst  the  bonds  of  the  winter,  and  speak 

with  the  sound   of  a   sea, 
The  blast  of  thy  mouth  shall  quench  them: 

and  song  shall  be  only  of  thee. 

The  days  that  are  dead  shall  quicken,  the 
seasons  that  were  shall  return ; 

And  the  streets  and  the  pastures  of  England, 
the   woods   that   burgeon   and   yearn,    no 

Shall  be  whitened  with  ashes  of  women  and 
children   and   men   that   burn. 

For  the  mother  shall  burn  with  the  babe 
sprung   forth  of  her  womb  in  fire, 

And  the  bride  with  bridegroom,  and  brother 
with   sister,  and   son   with   sire ; 

And  the  noise  of  the  flames  shall  be  sweet 
in  thine  ears  as  the  sound  of  a  lyre. 

Yea,  so  shall  thy  kingdom  be  stablished, 
and  so  shall  the  signs  of  it  be:  ns 

And  the  world  shall  know,  and  the  wind 
shall   speak,  and  the   sun  shall   see. 

That  these  are  the  works  of  thy  servants, 
whose  works  bear  witness  to  thee. 


But  the  dusk  of  the  day  falls  fruitless, 
whose  light   should  have   lit  them  on : 

Sails  flash  through  the  gloom  to  shoreward, 
eclipsed  as  the  sun  that  shone : 


And  the  west  wind  wakes  with  dawn,  and 
the  hope  that    was  here   is  gone.         i^o 

Around   they  wheel   and  around,  two  knots 

to  the  Spaniard's  one, 
'i'hc    wind-swift    warriors   of    England,    who 

shoot   as   with    shafts   of   the    sun. 
With  fourfold  shots  for  the  Spaniard's,  that 

spare  not  till  day  be  done. 

And  the  wind  with  the  sundown  sharpens, 
and  hurtles  the  ships  to  the  lee. 

And  Spaniard  on  Spaniard  smites,  and  shat- 
ters, and  yields;  and  we,  125 

Ere  battle  begin,  stand  lords  of  the  battle, 
acclaimed  of  the  sea. 

And  the  day  sweeps  round  to  the  night- 
ward  ;  and  heavy  and  hard  the  waves 

Roll  in  on  the  herd  of  the  hurtling  galleons; 
and  masters  and  slaves 

Reel  blind  in  the  grasp  of  the  dark  strong 
wind   that   shall   dig  their  graves. 

For  the  sepulchers  hollowed  and  shaped  of 
the  wind  in  the  swerve  of  the  seas,   130 

The  graves  that  gape  for  their  pasture,  and 
laugh,    thrilled    through    by    the    breeze. 

The  sweet  soft  merciless  waters,  await  and 
are  fain  of  these. 

As  the  hiss  of  a  Python  heaving  in  menace 

of  doom  to  be 
They    hear    through    the    clear    night    round 

them,    whose   hours    are   as   clouds   that 

flee. 
The  whisper  of  tempest  sleeping,  the  heave 

and  the  hiss  of  the  sea.  i3S 

But  faith  is  theirs,  and  with  faith  are  they 
girded  and  helmed  and  shod: 

Invincible  are  they,  almighty,  elect  for  a 
sword  and  a  rod ; 

Invincible  even  as  their  God  is  omnipotent, 
infinite,    God. 

In  him  is  their  strength,  who  have  sworn 
that   his   glory   shall    wax    not   dim: 

In  his  name  are  their  war-ships  hallowed 
as  mightiest  of  all  that  swim:  mo 

The  men  that  shall  cope  with  these,  and 
conquer,  shall  cast  out  him. 

In  him  is  the  trust  of  their  hearts ;  the  de- 
sire of  their  eyes  is  he; 

The  light  of  their  ways,  made  lightning  for 
men  that  would   fain  be  free: 

Earth's  hosts  are  with  them,  and  with  them 
is  heaven :  but  with  us  is  the  sea. 


THE  ARMADA 


911 


I 
And  a  day  and  a  night  pass  over ;         MS 
And  the  heart  of  their  chief  swells  high  ; 
For   England,   the   warrior,   the   rover, 
Whose  banners  on  all  winds  fly. 
Soul-stricken,    he    saith,    by    the    shadow    of 
death,  holds  off  him,  and  draws  not 
nigh. 

And  the  wind  and  the  dawn  together     'So 

Make  in  from  the  gleaming  east : 
And  fain  of  the  wild  glad  weather 
As  famine  is  fain  of  feast, 
And   fain   of  the   fight,   forth   sweeps  in   its 
might  the   host  of  the   Lord's  high 
priest. 

And  lightly  before  the  breeze  '55 

The  ships  of  his  foes  take  wing: 
Are  they  scattered,  the  lords  of  the  seas? 
Are  they  broken,  the   foes  of  the  king? 
And    ever    now    higher   as    a    mounting    fire 
the  hopes  of  the  Spaniard  spring. 

And  a  windless  night  comes  down:         '60 

And   a    breezeless    morning,   bright 
With  promise  of  praise  to  crown 
The  close  of  the  crowning  fight. 
Leaps  up  as  the  foe's  heart  leaps,  and  glows 
with  lustrous  rapture  of  light. 

And  stinted  of  gear  for  battle  165 

The  ships  of  the  sea's  folk  lie, 
Unwarlike,  herded  as  cattle, 

Six  miles  from  the   foeman's  eye 
That   fastens  as  flame  on  the  sight  of  them 
tame  and  offenceless,  and  ranged  as 
to  die. 


Surely  the  souls  in  them  quail,  170 

They  are  stricken  and  withered  at  heart. 
When   in  on  them,  sail  by  sail. 
Fierce    marvels    of    monstrous    art, 
Tower  darkening  on  tower  till  the  sea-winds 
cower  crowds  down  as  to  hurl  them 
apart. 

And  the  windless  weather  is  kindly,       175 

And   comforts   the   host   in   these; 
And  their  hearts  are  uplift  in  them  blindly, 
And   blindly  they   boast   at   ease 
That  the  next  day's   fight   shall   exalt  them, 
and  smite  with  destruction  the  lords 
of  the  seas. 


And  lightly  the  proud  hearts  prattle,       180 

And   lightly    the   dawn    draws   nigh. 
The  dawn  of  the  doom  of  the  battle 
When   these   shall    falter   and   fly; 
No  day  more  great  in  the  roll  of  fate  filled 
ever  with  fire  the   sky. 

To  fightward  they  go  as  to  feastward,  '85 

And   the   tempest  of   ships  that   drive 
Sets  eastward  ever  and  eastward. 
Till  closer  they  strain  and  strive; 
And    the    shots    that    rain    on    the    hulls    of 
Spain    are    as    thunders    afire    and 
alive. 

And  about  them  the  blithe  sea  smiles  190 

And    flashes   to   windward   and   lee 
Round  capes  and  headlands  and  isles 
That  heed  not  if  war  there  be; 
Round  Sark,  round  Wight,  green  jewels  of 
light  in  the  ring  of  the  golden  sea. 

But  the  men  that  within  them  abide         '95 
Are  stout  of  spirit  and  stark 
As   rocks  that  repel  the  tide. 
As  day  that  repels  the  dark; 
And  the  light  bequeathed  from  their  swords 
unsheathed    shines   lineal   on    Wight 
and  on   Sark. 

And  eastward  the  storm  sets  ever,  200 

The  storm  of  the  sails  that  strain 
And   follow  and  close  and  sever 
And  lose  and  return  and  gain ; 
And  English  thunder  divides  in  sunder  the 
holds  of  the  ships  of  Spain. 

Southward  to  Calais,   appalled  205 

And  astonished,  the  vast  fleet  veers; 
And  the  skies  are  shrouded  and  palled. 
But    the    moonless    midnight    hears 
And  sees  how  swift  on  them  drive  and  drift 
strange    flames    that    the    darkness 
fears. 

They   fly   through   the   night    from    shore- 
ward, 210 
Heart-stricken  till  morning  break, 
And  ever  to  scourge  them   forward 

Drives  down  on  them  England's  Drake, 
And  hurls  them  in  as  they  hurtle  and  spin 
and  stagger,  with  storm  to  wake. 


VI 


And    now    is    their    time    come    on    them. 
For   eastward   they   drift   and   reel,     215 


912 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


With  the  shallows  of  Fiaiulcrs  ahead,  with 

destruction   and  havoc   at   iieel, 
With  God  for  their  comfort  only,  the  God 

whom  they  serve;   and  here 
Their   Lord,  of  his  great  loving-kindness, 

may  revel  and  make  good  cheer ; 
Though    ever    his    lips    wax    thirstier    with 

drinking,  and   hotter  the   lusts   in   him 

swell ; 
For  he   feeds   the  thirst   that   consumes   him 

with   blood,   and   his   winepress    fumes 

virith  the  reek  of  hell.  220 


Fierce  noon  beats  hard  on  the  battle ;  the 
galleons  that   loom  to  the   lee 

Bow  down,  heel  over,  uplifting  their  shel- 
terless hulls   from  the  sea : 

From  scuppers  aspirt  with  blood,  from 
guns  dismounted  and  dumb, 

The  signs  of  the  doom  they  looked  for, 
the  loud  mute  witnesses  come. 

They  press  with  sunset  to  seaward  for 
comfort :  and  shall  not  they  find  it 
there  ?  225 

O  servants  of  God  most  high,  shall  his 
winds  not  pass  you  by,  and  his  waves 
not    spare  ? 

Ill 
The    wings    of    the    south-west    wind    are 

widened  ;  the  breath  of  his  fervent  lips. 
More  keen  than  a  sword's  edge,  fiercer  than 

fire,   falls    full   on   the   plunging   ships. 
The   pilot    is    he    of    their   northward    flight, 

their    stay   and   their   steersman   he; 
A   helmsman   clothed   with   the  tempest,   and 

girdled    with    strength    to    constrain    the 

sea.  230 

And  the  host  of  them  trembles  and  quails, 

caught  fast  in  his  hand  as  a  bird  in  the 

toils; 
For  the   wrath   and  the  joy  that   fulfil  him 

are  mightier  than  man's,  whom  he  slays 

and  spoils. 
And    vainly,    with   heart   divided    in    sunder, 

and    labor    of    wavering    will. 
The    lord   of   their   host   takes   counsel   with 

hope   if   haply  their   star   shine   still, 
If  haply  some  light  be  left  them  of  chance 

to  renew  and  redeem  the  fray;  -35 

But    the    will    of    the    black    south-wester    is 

lord  of  the  councils  of   war  to-day. 
One  only  spirit  it  quells  not,  a  splendor  un- 

darkened  of  chance  or  time ; 
Be  the  praise  of  his  foes  with  Oquendo  for 

ever,  a  name  as  a  star  sublime. 


But   here   what   aid   in   a   hero's  heart,   what 

help  in  his  hand   may  be? 
For  ever  the  dark  wind   whitens  and  black- 
ens the  hollows  and  heights  of  the  sea. 
And   galley  by  galley,   divided   and   desolate, 

founders;   and   none  takes  heed,  241 

Nor  foe  nor  friend,  if  they  perish;   forlorn, 

cast  off  in  their  uttermost  need, 
'Ihcy   sink   in   the   whelm   of  the  waters,  as 

p(.I)bles     by     children     from     shoreward 

hurled. 
In  the  North  Sea's  waters  that  end  not,  nor 

know  they  a  bourn  but  the  bourn  of  the 

world. 
Past  many  a  secure  unavailable  harbor,  and 

many  a   loud   stream's   mouth,  24s 

Past     Humbcr     and     Tees     and     Tyne     and 

Tweed,   they   fly,   scourged   on    from   the. 

south. 
And  torn  by  the  scourge  of  the  storm-wind 

that    smites    as    a    harper    smites    on    a 

lyre, 
And  consumed  of  the  storm  as  the  sacrifice 

loved    of    their    God    is    consumed    with 

fire. 
And  devoured  of  the  darkness  as  men  that 

are  slain  in  the  fires  of  his  love  are  de- 
voured. 
And  deflowered  of  their  lives  by  the  storms, 

as    by   priests    is   the    spirit   of    life   de- 
flowered. 2S0 
For  the  wind,  of  its  godlike  mercy,   relents 

not,    and    hounds    them    ahead    to    the 

north, 
With    English    hunters    at    heel,   till    now   is 

the  herd  of  them  past  the  Forth, 
All  huddled  and  hurtled  seaward ;  and  now 

need   none   wage   war   upon   these, 
Nor  huntsmen  follow  the  quarry  whose  fall 

is  the  pastime  sought  of  the  seas. 
Day    upon    day    upon    day    confounds    them, 

with  measureless  mists  that  swell,         255 
With    drift    of    rains    everlasting   and    dense 

as  the   fumes  of  ascending  hell. 
The    visions    of    priest    and    of    prophet    be- 
holding his  enemies  bruised  of  his  rod 
Beheld  but  the  likeness  of  this  that  is  fallen 

on  the   faithful,  the  friends  of  God. 
Northward,   and   northward,    and   northward 

they    stagger    and    shudder    and    swerve 

and  flit, 
Dismantled    of    masts    and    of    yards,    with 

sails    by    the    fangs    of    the    storm-wind 

split.  260 

But   north   of  the  headland   whose   name   is 

Wrath,  by  the  wrath  or  the  ruth  of  the 

sea. 


THE  ARMADA 


913 


They   are   swept   or   sustained   to   the   west- 
ward,   and    drive    through    the    rollers 

aloof  to  the  lee. 
Some  strive  yet  northward  for  Iceland,  and 

perish :    but    some    through    the    storm- 
hewn   straits 
That  sunder  the  Shetlands  and  Orkneys  are 

borne  of  the  breath  which  is  God's  or 

fate's  : 
And    some,   by   the   dawn   of   September,   at 

last  give  thanks  as  for  stars  that  smile, 
For   the   winds   have   swept   them   to   shelter 

and    sight    of    the    cliffs    of    a    Catholic 

isle.  266 

Though  many  the  fierce  rocks  feed  on,  and 

many   the   merciless   heretic    slays. 
Yet    some   that    have    labored    to    land    with 

their  treasure  are  trustful,  and  give  God 

praise. 
And     the     kernes     of     murderous     Ireland, 

athirst     with     a     greed     everlasting     of 

blood, 
Unslakable    ever    with    slaughter    and    spoil, 

rage  down  as  a  ravening  flood,  ^7° 

To  slay  and  to  flay  of  their  shining  apparel 

their   brethren   whom   shipwreck   spares ; 
Such    faith  and   such  mercy,   such  love  and 

such    manhood,    such    hands    and    such 

hearts  are  theirs. 
Short  shrift  to  her  foes  gives  England,  but 

shorter    doth    Ireland    to    friends;    and 

worse 
Fare    they    that    come    with    a    blessing    on 

treason    than    they    that    come    with    a 

curse. 
Hacked,  harried,  and  mangled  of  axes  and 

skenes,   three   thousand   naked   and   dead 
Bear  witness  of  Catholic  Ireland,  what  sons 

of  what  sires  at  her  breasts  are  bred.  ^T^^ 
Winds  are  pitiful,  waves  are  merciful,  tem- 
pest and  storm  are  kind: 
The   waters   that  smite  may   spare,   and  the 

thunder    is    deaf,    and    the    lightning    is 

blind: 
Of  these  perchance  at  his  need  may  a  man, 

though  they  know  it  not,  yet  find  grace ; 
But   grace,   if   another   be   hardened   against 

him,  he  gets  not  at  this  man's  face.     280 
For    his    ear    that    hears    and    his    eye    that 

sees  the   wreck  and  the   wail   of  men, 
And   his  heart  that  relents  not   within  him, 

but   hungers,   are   like   as   the   wolf's   in 

his  den. 
Worthy  are  these  to  worship   their  master, 

the   murderous    Lord   of    lies. 
Who  hath   given   to  the  pontiff  his   servant 

the  keys  of  the  pit  and  the  keys  of  the 

skies. 
58 


Wild  famine  and  red-shod  rapine  are  cruel, 
and   bitter   with   blood   are   their    feasts; 

But  fiercer  than  famine  and  redder  than 
rapine  the  hands  and  the  hearts  of 
priests.  286 

God,  God  bade  these  to  the  battle ;  and  here, 
on  a  land  by  his  servants  trod, 

They  perish,  a  lordly  blood-offering,  sub- 
dued by  the  hands  of  the  servants  of 
God. 

These  also  were  fed  of  his  priests  with 
faith,  with  the  milk  of  his  word  and 
the  wine; 

These  too  are  fulfilled  with  the  spirit  of 
darkness  that  guided  their  quest  di- 
vine. 290 

And  here,  cast  up  from  the  ravening  sea  on 
the  mild  land's  merciful  breast. 

This  comfort  they  find  of  their  fellows  in 
worship ;  this  guerdon  is  theirs  of  their 
quest. 

Death  was  captain,  and  doom  was  pilot,  and 
darkness   the  chart  of  their  way; 

Night  and  hell  had  in  charge  and  in  keep- 
ing the  host  of  the  foes  of  day. 

Invincible,  vanquished,  impregnable,  shat- 
tered, a   sign  to  her   foes  of   fear,       295 

A  sign  to  the  world  and  the  stars  of  laugh- 
ter, the  fleet  of  the  Lord  lies  here. 

Nay,  for  none  may  declare  the  place  of  the 
ruin    wherein    she   lies ; 

Nay,  for  none  hath  beholden  the  grave 
whence  never  a  ghost  shall  rise. 

The  fleet  of  the  foemen  of  England  hath 
found  not  one  but  a  thousand  graves  ; 

And  he  that  shall  number  and  name  them 
shall  number  by  name  and  by  tale  the 
waves.  300 

VII 


Sixtus,    Pope    of    the    Church    whose    hope 

takes  flight  for  heaven  to  dethrone  the 

sun, 
Philip,  king  that  wouldst  turn  our  spring  to 

winter,    blasted,   appalled,    undone. 
Prince  and  priest,  let  a  mourner's  feast  give 

thanks  to  God  for  your  conquest  won. 

England's  heel  is  upon  you :  kneel,  O  priest, 
O  prince,  in  the  dust,  and  cry, 

'Lord,  why  thus?  art  thou  wroth  with  us 
whose  faith  was  great  in  thee,  God 
most  high  ?  305 

Whence  is  this,  that  the  serpent's  hiss  de- 
rides us?  Lord,  can  thy  pledged  word 
lie? 


914 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


'God    of    hell,    arc    its     flames    that     swell 

quenched    now     for    ever,     extinct     and 

dead? 
Who    shall    fear    thee?    or    who    shall    hear 

the  word  thy  servants  who  feared  thee 

said? 
Lord,  art  thou  as  the  dead  gods  now,  whose 

arm  is  shortened,  whose  rede  is  read? 

*  Yet  we  thought  it  was  not  for  naught  thy 
word  was  given  us,  to  guard  and  guide : 

Yet  we  deemed  that  they  had  not  dreamed 
who  put  their  trust  in  thee.  Hast  thou 
lied?  311 

God  our  Lord,  was  the  sacred  sword  we 
drew   not   drawn   on   thy   Church's   side? 

'England    hates    thee    as    hell's    own    gates; 

and  England  triumphs,  and   Rome  bows 

down: 
England    mocks    at    thee;    England's    rocks 

cast     off     thy     servants     to     drive     and 

drown : 
England    loathes    thee;    and    fame    betroths 

and  plights  with  England  her  faith  for 


'Spain    clings    fast   to    thee;    Spain,    aghast 

with   anguish,   cries  to  thee;   where   art 

thou? 
Spain   puts  trust  in  thee;   lo,  the  dust  that 

soils  and  darkens  her  prostrate  brow! 
Spain  is  true  to  thy  service  ;  who  shall  raise 

up  Spain  for  thy  service  now? 

'Who  shall  praise  thee,  if  none  may  raise 
thy   servants  up,   nor  affright  thy    foes? 

Winter  wanes,  and  the  woods  and  plains 
forget  the  likeness  of  storms  and 
snows :  ^-° 

So  shall  fear  of  thee  fade  even  here:  and 
what  shall   follow  thee  no  man  knows.' 

Lords  of  night,  who  would  breathe  your 
blight  on  April's  morning  and  August's 
noon, 

God  your  Lord,  the  condemned,  the  ab- 
horred, sinks  hellward,  smitten  with 
deathlike  swoon  : 

Death's  own  dart  in  his  hateful  heart  now 
thrills,  and  night  shall  receive  him 
soon. 

God  the  Devil,  thy  reign  of  revel  is  here 
for  ever  eclipsed  and  fled :  325 

God  the  Liar,  everlasting  fire  lays  hold  at 
last  on   thee,  hand  and  head  : 

God  the  Accurst,  the  consuming  thirst  that 
burns  thee  never   shall   here  be   fed. 


England,  queen  of  the  waves  whose  green 
inviolate  girdle   curings   thee   round, 

Mother  fair  as  the  morning,  where  is  now 
the   place  of   thy   foemen    found? 

Still  the  sea  that  salutes  us  free  proclaims 
them  stricken,  acclaims  thee  crowned. 

Times  may  change,  and  the  skies  grow 
strange  with  signs  of  treason  and  fraud 
and  fear:  33' 

Foes  in  union  of  strange  communion  may 
rise  against  thee  from  far  and  near : 

Sloth  and  greed  on  thy  strength  may  feed  as 
cankers  waxing  from  year  to  year. 

Yet,    though    treason    and    fierce    unreason 

should   league   and   lie   and    defame   and 

smite. 
We  that  know  thee,  how  far  below  thee  the 

hatred  burns  of  the   sons  of   night,     335 
We   that    love   thee,    behold    above    thee   the 

witness  written  of  life  in  light. 

Life    that    shines    from    thee    shows    forth 

signs  that  none  may  read  not  but  eyeless 

foes : 
Hate,  born  blind,  in  his  abject  mind  grows 

hopeful  now  but  as  madness  grows: 
Love,  born  wise,  with  exultant   eyes  adores 

thy  glory,  beholds  and  glows. 

Truth   is   in   thee,   and   none  may  win    thee 

to  lie,   forsaking  the   face  of  truth :    340 
Freedom   lives   by  the   grace   she  gives   thee, 

born  again   from  thy  deathless  youth : 
Faith   should  fail,  and  the  world  turn  pale, 

wert    thou    the    prey    of    the    serpent's 

tooth. 

Greed  and  fraud,  unabashed,  unawed,  may 
strive  to  sting  thee  at  heel  in  vain: 

Craft  and  fear  and  mistrust  may  leer  and 
mourn  and  murmur  and  plead  and 
plain  :  344 

Thou  art  thou:  and  thy  sunbright  brow  is 
hers  that  blasted  the  strength  of  Spain. 

Mother,  mother  beloved,  none  other  could 
claim   in  place  of  thee  England's  place: 

Earth  bears  none  that  beholds  the  sun  so 
pure  of  record,  so  clothed  with  grace : 

Dear  our  mother,  nor  son  nor  brother  is 
thine,  as  strong  or  as  fair  of  face. 

How  shalt  thou  be  abased?  or  how  shall 
fear  take  hold  of  thy  heart?  of  thine, 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


915 


England,  maiden  immortal,  laden  with  charge 
of  life  and  with  hopes  divine?  35o 

Earth  shall  wither,  when  eyes  turned  hither 
behold  not  light  in  her  darkness  shine. 

England,    none    that    is    born    thy    son,    and 

lives,  by  grace  of  thy  glory,  free, 
Lives    and    yearns    not    at    heart    and   burns 

with  hope  to  serve  as  he  worships  thee  ; 
None   may    sing    thee :    the    sea-wind's    wing 

beats    down    our    songs    as    it    hails    the 

sea. 

(1889) 


COR   CORDIUM 

O  Heart  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's  fire, 
Hid   round  with  flowers  and  all  the  bounty 

of  bloom  ; 
O  wonderful  and  perfect  heart,  for  whom 
The  lyrist  liberty  made  life  a  lyre; 
O  heavenly  heart,  at  whose  most  dear  de- 
sire 5 
Dead    love,    living    and    singing,    cleft    his 

tomb. 
And   with   him  risen  and   regent  in   death's 

room 
All  day  thy  choral  pulses  rang  full  choir; 
O   heart   whose   beating  blood   was   running 

song, 
O  sole  thing  sweeter  than  thine  own  songs 

were,  1° 

Help  us  for  thy  free  love's  sake  to  be  free, 
True  for  thy  truth's  sake,  for  thy  strength's 

sake  strong, 
Till  very  liberty  make  clean  and  fair 
The  nursing  earth  as  the  sepulchral  sea. 

(1871) 

'NGN  DOLET' 

It    does    not    hurt.     She    looked    along    the 

knife 
Smiling,   and   watched  the   thick  drops   mix 

and  run 
*    Down  the  sheer  blade :  not  that  which  had 

been  done 
Could  hurt   the   sweet  sense  of  the   Roman 

wife, 
But    that    which    was    to    do    yet    ere    the 

strife  5 

Could  end  for  each  for  ever,  and  the  sun : 
]      Nor   was   the   palm  yet   nor   was   peace   yet 

won 
While  pain   had  power  upon  her  husband's 

life. 
It  does  not  hurt.  Italia.     Thou  art  more 
il      Than  bride  to  bridegroom :   how  shalt  thou 

not  take  10 


The  gift  love's  blood  has  reddened  for  thy 
sake? 

Was  not  thy  life-blood  given  for  us  be- 
fore ? 

And  if  love's  heart-blood  can  avail  thy  need, 

And  thou  not  die,  how  should  it  hurt  in- 
deed? (187O 

ON  THE  DEATHS  OF  THOMAS  CAR- 
LYLE   AND   GEORGE   ELIOT 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight 

Pass,  followed  one  with  love  and  each  with 
wonder : 

The  stormj'  sophist  with  his  mouth  of  thun- 
der, 

Clothed  with  loud  words  and  mantled  in  the 
might 

Of  darkness  and  magnificence  of  night;     5 

And  one  whose  eye  could  smite  the  night 
in  sunder. 

Searching  if  light  or  no  light  were  there- 
under, 

And  found  in  love  of  loving-kindness  light. 

Duty  divine  and  Thought  with  eyes  of  fire 

Still  following  Righteousness  with  deep  de- 
sire 10 

Shone  sole  and  stern  before  her  and  above 

Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by ;  but  more 
sweet 

Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamp  for  earthly 
feet,— 

The  light  of  little  children,  and  their  love. 

(1881) 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

Crowned,    girdled,    garbed,    and    shod    with 

light  and  fire, 
Son    first-born    of    the    morning,    sovereign 

star! 
Soul  nearest  ours  of  all,  that  wert  most  far, 
j\Iost  far  off  in  the  abysm  of  time,  thy  lyre 
Hung     highest     above     the     dawn-enkindled 

quire  s 

Where  all  ye  sang  together,  all  that  are. 
And  all  the  starry  songs  behind  thy  car 
Rang   sequence,   all   our    souls   acclaim   thee 

sire. 

'If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held 

Had     fed     the     feeling     of     their     masters' 

thoughts,'  10 

And   as   with   rush   of  hurtling  chariots 
The  flight  of  all  their  spirits  were  impelled 
Toward  one  great  end,  thy  glory  —  nay,  not 

then, 
Not  yet  mightst  thou  be  praised  enough  of 

men. 

(1882) 


WALTER  HORATIO  PATER  (1839-1894) 

Pater  began  his  life-long  academic  career  at  King's  School,  Canterbury,  from  which  he 
proceeded  to  Queen's  Collegt*,  Oxford,  where  he  took  his  bachelor's  degree  in  18tJ2.  As  an 
undergraduate  I'ater  knew  few  men,  devoting  himself  closely  to  books,  especially  to  Greek 
literature,  in  which  Benjamin  .Towett  gave  hiui  much  encouragement.  After  graduation 
he  was  elected  to  the  Old  Mortality,  an  essay  society,  through  which  he  came  into  contact 
with  the  stimulating  personalities  of  T.  II.  Green,  A.  C.  Swinburne,  and  others.  In 
1804,  he  was  elected  fellow  of  Braseuose  College,  and  except  for  visits  to  the  Continent 
and  a  short  residence  in  London,  he  remained  in  Oxford  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  In  18(m, 
a  sojourn  in  Italy  gave  Pater  those  impressions  of  Renaissance  art  that  appear  conspic- 
uously in  his  later  writing.  The  quiet  poise  of  his  life  as  Oxford  tutor  and  author  was 
disturbed  by  nothing  more  eventful  than  an  occasional  vacation  tour  in  France  or  Ger- 
many. 

Pater's  most  significant  mission  was  in  interpreting  to  his  age  the  spirit  of  the  Renais- 
sance in  art  and  literature.  His  first  essays,  which  had  begun  to  appear  in  periodicals 
in  1867,  were  collected  and  published  in  a  considerable  volume.  Studies  in  the  History  of 
the  Renaissance,  in  1873.  In  1885  appeared  Pater's  finest  single  work.  Marins  the  Epi- 
curean, a  historical  romance  expounding  the  best  phases  of  Epicureanism.  Plis  Imaginary 
Portraits  (1S87)  contains  fine  studies  in  philosophic  fiction,  and  his  Appreciations,  with 
an  Essay  on  Style  (1889)  reveals  bits  of  his  most  subtle  literary  criticism.  Plato  and 
Platonism  (1893)  is  a  notable  result  of  his  early  classical  studies.  Pater's  somewhat 
painful  seeking  for  precision  of  expression  resulted  in  a  style  more  delicate  and  rhyth- 
mical than  direct  and  simple.  His  philosophy  of  temperance,  discipline,  and  asceticism 
in  art   has   had   a   permanent   and   refining   influence   upon    English   criticism. 


STYLE 

Since  all  progress  of  mind  consists  for 
the  most  part  in  differentiation,  in  the 
resolution  of  an  obscure  and  complex 
object  into  its  component  aspects,  it  is 
surely  the  stupidest  of  losses  to  confuse 
things  which  right  reason  has  put  asun- 
der, to  lose  the  sense  of  achieved  dis- 
tinctions, the  distinction  between  poetry 
and  prose,  for  instance,  or,  to  speak  more 
exactly,  between  the  laws  and  charac- 
teristic excellences  of  verse  and  prose 
composition.  On  the  other  hand,  those 
who  have  dwelt  most  emphatically  on  the 
distinction  between  prose  and  verse, 
prose  and  poetry,  may  sometimes  have 
been  tempted  to  limit  the  proper  func- 
tions of  prose  too  narrowly;  and  this 
again  is  at  least  false  economy,  as  being, 
in  effect,  the  renunciation  of  a  certain 
means  or  faculty,  in  a  world  where  after 
all  we  must  needs  make  the  most  of 
things.  Critical  efforts  to  limit  art  a 
priori,  by  anticipations  regarding  the 
natural    incapacity    of    the    material    with 


which  this  or  that  artist  works,  as  the 
sculptor  with  solid  form,  or  the  prose- 
writer  with  the  ordinary  language  of 
men,  are  always  liable  to  be  discredited 
by  the  facts  of  artistic  production ;  and 
while  prose  is  actually  found  to  be  a 
colored  thing  with  Bacon,  picturesque 
with  Livy  and  Carlyle,  musical  with 
Cicero  and  Newman,  mystical  and  inti- 
mate with  Plato  and  Michelet  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  exalted  or  florid,  it  may 
be,  with  Milton  and  Taylor,  it  will  be 
useless  to  protest  that  it  can  be  nothing 
at  all,  except  something  very  tamely  and 
narrowly  confined  to  mainly  practical 
ends  —  a  kind  of  '  good  round-hand  '  ; 
as  useless  as  the  protest  that  poetry 
might  not  touch  prosaic  subjects  as  with 
Wordsworth,  or  an  abstruse  matter  as 
with  Browning,  or  treat  contemporary 
life  nobly  as  with  Tennyson.  In  subor- 
dination to  one  essential  beauty  in  all 
good  literary  style,  in  ail  literature  as  a 
fine  art,  as  there  are  many  beauties  of 
poetry,  so  the  beauties  of  prose  are  many, 
and    it    is    the    business    of    criticism    to 


9t6 


STYLE  917 

estimate  them  as  such ;  as  it  is  good  in  and  with  it  the  prejudice  that  there  can 
the  criticism  of  verse  to  look  for  those  be  but  one  only  beauty  of  prose  style,  I 
hard,  logical  and  quasi-prosaic  excel-  propose  here  to  point  out  certain  quali- 
lences  which  that  too  has,  or  needs.  To  ties  of  all  literature  as  a  fine  art,  which, 
find  in  the  poem,  amid  the  flowers,  the  5  if  they  apply  to  the  literature  of  fact, 
allusions,  the  mixed  perspectives,  of  apply  still  more  to  the  literature  of  the 
Lycidas  for  instance,  the  thought,  the  imaginative  sense  of  fact,  while  they  ap- 
logical  structure:  —  how  wholesome!  ply  indifferently  to  verse  and  prose,  so  far 
how  delightful!  as  to  identify  in  prose  as  either  is  really  imaginative  —  certain 
what  we  call  the  poetry,  the  imaginative  10  conditions  of  true  art  in  both  alike,  which 
power,  not  treating  it  as  out  of  place  conditions  may  also  contain  in  them  the 
and  a  kind  of  vagrant  intruder,  but  by  secret  of  the  proper  discrimination  and 
way  of  an  estimate  of  its  rights,  that  is,  guardianship  of  the  peculiar  excellences 
of  its  achieved  powers,   there.  of  either. 

Dryden,  with  the  characteristic  in- 15  The  line  between  fact  and  something 
stinct  of  his  age,  loved  to  emphasize  the  quite  different  from  external  fact  is,  in- 
distinction  between  poetry  and  prose,  the  deed,  hard  to  draw.  In  Pascal,  for  in- 
protest  against  their  confusion  with  each  stance,  in  the  persuasive  writers 
other,  coming  with  somewhat  diminished  generally,  how  difficult  to  define  the 
effect  from  one  whose  poetry  was  so  20  point  where,  from  time  to  time,  argument 
prosaic.  In  truth,  his  sense  of  prosaic  which,  if  it  is  to  be  worth  anything  at 
excellence  affected  his  verse  rather  than  all,  must  consist  of  facts  or  groups  of 
his  prose,  which  is  not  only  fervid,  richly  facts,  becomes  a  pleading  —  a  theorem 
figured,  poetic,  as  we  say,  but  vitiated,  no  longer,  but  essentially  an  appeal  to  the 
all  unconsciously,  by  many  a  scanning  25  reader  to  catch  the  writer's  spirit,  to 
line.  Setting  up  correctness,  that  hum-  think  with  him,  if  one  can  or  will  — 
ble  merit  of  prose,  as  the  central  literary  an  expression  no  longer  of  fact  but  of 
excellence,  he  is  really  a  less  correct  his  sense  of  it,  his  peculiar  intuition  of 
writer  than  he  may  seem,  still  with  an  a  world  prospective,  or  discerned  below 
imperfect  mastery  of  the  relative  pro-  j"  the  faulty  conditions  of  the  present,  in 
noun.  It  might  have  been  foreseen  that,  either  case  changed  somewhat  from  the 
in  the  rotations  of  mind,  the  province  actual  world.  In  science,  on  the  other 
of  poetry  in  prose  would  find  its  assertor;  hand,  in  history  so  far  as  it  conforms 
and,  a  century  after  Dryden,  amid  very  to  scientific  rule,  we  have  a  literary  do- 
dift'erent  intellectual  needs,  and  with  the  35  main  where  the  imagination  may  be 
need  therefore  of  great  modifications  in  thought  to  be  always  an  intruder.  And 
literary  form,  the  range  of  the  poetic  as,  in  all  science,  the  functions  of  liter- 
force  in  literature  was  effectively  en-  ature  reduce  themselves  eventually  to  the 
larged  by  Wordsworth.  The  true  dis-  transcribing  of  fact,  so  all  the  excel- 
tinction  between  prose  and  poetry  he  re-  ^°  lences  of  literary  form  in  regard  to 
garded  as  the  almost  technical  or  ac-  science  are  reducible  to  various  kinds  of 
cidental  one  of  the  absence  or  presence  painstaking;  this  good  quality  being  in- 
of  metrical  beauty,  or,  say !  metrical  re-  volved  in  all  '  skilled  work '  whatever, 
straint;  and  for  him  the  opposition  came  in  the  drafting  of  an  act  of  parliament, 
to  be  between  verse  and  prose  of  course ;  45  as  in  sewing.  Yet  here  again,  the  writ- 
but,  as  the  essential  dichotomy  in  this  er's  sense  of  fact,  in  history  especially, 
matter,  between  imaginative  and  unim-  and  in  all  those  complex  subjects  which 
aginative  writing,  parallel  to  De  Quin-  do  but  lie  on  the  borders  of  science,  will 
cey's  distinction  between  '  the  literature  still  take  the  place  of  fact,  in  various 
of  power  and  the  literature  of  knowl-  50  degrees.  Your  historian,  for  instance, 
edge,'  in  the  former  of  which  the  com-  with  absolutely  truthful  intention,  amid 
poser  gives  us  not  fact,  but  his  peculiar  the  multitude  of  facts  presented  to  him 
sense  of  fact,  whether  past  or  present.  must  needs  select,  and  in  selecting  assert 

Dismissing  then,  under  sanction  of  something  of  his  own  humor,  something 
Wordsworth,  that  harsher  opposition  of  55  that  comes  not  of  the  world  without  but 
poetry  to  prose,  as  savoring  in  fact  of  the  of  a  vision  within.  So  Gibbon  molds 
arbitrary  psychology  of  the  last  century,      his  unwieldy  material   to  a  preconceived 


9i8  WALTER  HORATIO  PATER 

view.  Livy,  Tacitus,  Michclet,  moving  That  imaginative  prose  should  be  the 
full  of  poignant  sensibility  amid  the  special  and  opportune  art  of  the  modern 
records  of  the  past,  each,  after  his  own  world  results  from  two  important  facts 
sense,  modifies  —  who  can  tell  where  and  about  the  latter :  first,  the  chaotic  va- 
to  what  degree  ?  —  and  becomes  some-  ^  riety  and  complexity  of  its  interests, 
thing  else  than  a  transcriber;  each,  as  making  the  intellectual  issue,  the  really 
he  thus  modifies,  passing  into  the  domain  master  currents  of  the  present  time  in- 
of  art  proper.  For  just  in  proportion  calculable  —  a  condition  of  mind  little 
as  the  writer's  aim,  consciously  or  un-  susceptible  of  the  restraint  proper  to 
consciously,  comes  to  be  the  transcribing,  Jo  verse  form,  so  that  the  most  character- 
not  of  the  world,  not  of  mere  fact,  but  istic  verse  of  the  nineteenth  century  has 
of  his  sense  of  it,  he  becomes  an  artist,  been  lawless  verse ;  and  secondly,  an  ali- 
bis work  fine  art;  and  good  art  (as  I  pervading  naturalism,  a  curiosity  about 
hope  ultimately  to  show)  in  proportion  everything  whatever  as  it  really  is,  in- 
to the  truth  of  his  presentment  of  that  15  volving  a  certain  humility  of  attitude, 
sense ;  as  in  those  humbler  or  plainer  cognate  to  what  must,  after  all,  be  the 
functions  of  literature  also,  truth  —  less  ambitious  form  of  literature.  And 
truth  to  bare  fact,  there  —  is  the  essence  prose  thus  asserting  itself  as  the  special 
of  such  artistic  quality  as  they  may  have.  and  privileged  artistic  faculty  of  the 
Truth  !  there  can  be  no  merit,  no  craft  20  present  day,  will  be,  however  critics  may 
at  all,  without  that.  And  further,  all  try  to  narrow  its  scope,  as  varied  in  its 
beauty  is  in  the  long  run  only  fineness  excellence  as  humanity  itself  reflecting 
of  truth,  or  what  we  call  expression,  the  on  the  facts  of  its  latest  experience  — 
finer  accommodation  of  speech  to  that  an  instrument  of  many  stops,  meditative, 
vision  within.  25  observant,   descriptive,   eloquent,   analytic, 

—  The  transcript  of  his  sense  of  fact  plaintive,  fervid.  Its  beauties  will  be 
rather  than  the  fact,  as  being  preferable,  not  exclusively  *  pedestrian  '  :  it  will  ex- 
pleasanter,  more  beautiful  to  the  writer  ert,  in  due  measure,  all  the  varied  charms 
himself.  In  literature,  as  in  every  other  of  poetry,  down  to  the  rhythm  which, 
product  of  human  skill,  in  the  molding  30  as  in  Cicero,  or  Michelet,  or  Newman,  at 
of  a  bell  or  a  platter  for  instance,  wher-  their  best,  gives  its  musical  value  to 
ever   this    sense    asserts    itself,    wherever      every  syllable. 

the    producer    so   modifies    his    work    as,  The    literary    artist    is    of    necessity    a 

over  and  above  its  primary  use  or  inten-  scholar,  and  in  what  he  proposes  to  do 
tion,  to  make  it  pleasing  (to  himself,  35  will  have  in  mind,  first  of  all,  the  scholar 
of  course,  in  the  first  instance)  there,  and  the  scholarly  conscience  —  the  male 
'  fine '  as  opposed  to  merely  serviceable  conscience  in  this  matter,  as  we  must 
art,  exists.  Literary  art,  that  is,  like  think  it,  under  a  system  of  education 
all  art  which  is  in  any  way  imitative  or  which  still  to  so  large  an  extent  limits 
reproductive  of  fact  —  form,  or  color,  40  real  scholarship  to  men.  In  his  self- 
or  incident  —  is  the  representation  of  criticism,  he  supposes  always  that  sort 
such  fact  as  connected  with  soul,  of  a  of  reader  who  will  go  (full  of  eyes) 
specific  personality,  in  its  preferences,  its  warily,  considerately,  though  without 
volition  and  power.  consideration    for    him,    over    the    ground 

Such  is  the  matter  of  imaginative  or  45  which  the  female  conscience  traverses  so 
artistic  literature  —  this  transcript,  not  of  lightly,  so  amiably.  For  the  material  in 
mere  fact,  but  of  fact  in  its  infinite  va-  which  he  works  is  no  more  a  creation 
riety,  as  modified  by  human  preference  of  his  own  than  the  sculptor's  marble. 
in  all  its  infinitely  varied  forms.  It  will  Product  of  a  myriad  various  minds  and 
be  good  literary  art  not  because  it  is  50  contending  tongues,  compact  of  obscure 
brilliant  or  sober,  or  rich,  or  impulsive,  and  minute  association,  a  language  has 
or  severe,  but  just  in  proportion  as  its  its  own  abundant  and  often  recondite 
representation  of  that  sense,  that  soul-  laws,  in  the  habitual  and  summary  recog- 
fact,  is  true,  verse  being  only  one  de-  nition  of  which  scholarship  consists.  A 
partment  of  such  literature,  and  im-  55  writer,  full  of  a  matter  he  is  before  all 
aginative  prose,  it  may  be  thought,  being  things  anxious  to  express,  may  think  of 
the    special    art    of    the    modern    world.      those  laws,  the  limitations  of  vocabulary, 


STYLE 


919 


structure,  and  the  like,  as  a  restriction,  speak  of  the  manner  of  a  true  master 
but  if  a  real  artist,  will  find  in  them  an  we  mean  what  is  essential  in  his  art. 
opportunity.  His  punctilious  observance  Pedantry  being  only  the  scholarship  of 
of  the  proprieties  of  his  medium  will  le  ciiistre  (we  have  no  English  equiva- 
dififuse  through  all  he  writes  a  general  5  lent),  he  is  no  pedant,  and  does  but 
air  of  sensibility,  of  refined  usage.  Ex-  show  his  intelligence  of  the  rules  of  lan- 
clusiones  dcbitae  naturae  —  the  exclu-  guage  in  his  freedoms  with  it,  addition 
sions,  or  rejections,  which  nature  or  expansion,  which  like  the  spon- 
demands  —  we  know  how  large  a  part  taneities  of  manner  in  a  well-bred  per- 
these  play,  according  to  Bacon,  in  the  10  son  will  still  further  illustrate  good  taste, 
science  of  nature.  In  a  somewhat  —  The  right  vocabulary !  Translators 
changed  sense,  we  might  say  that  the  have  not  invariably  seen  how  all-im- 
art  of  the  scholar  is  summed  up  in  the  portant  that  is  in  the  work  of  translation, 
observance  of  those  rejections  demanded  driving  for  the  most  part  at  idiom  or 
by  the  nature  of  his  medium,  the  mate- 15  construction ;  whereas,  if  the  original  be 
rial  he  must  use.  Alive  to  the  value  of  first-rate,  one's  first  care  should  be  with 
an  atmosphere  in  which  every  term  finds  its  elementary  particles,  Plato,  for  in- 
its  utmost  degree  of  expression,  and  with  stance,  being  often  reproducible  by  an 
all  the  jealousy  of  a  lover  of  words,  he  exact  following,  with  no  variation  in 
will  resist  a  constant  tendency  on  the  20  structure,  of  word  after  word,  as  the 
part  of  the  majority  of  those  who  use  pencil  follows  a  drawing  under  tracing- 
them  to  efface  the  distinctions  of  Ian-  paper,  so  only  each  word  or  syllable  be 
guage,  the  facility  of  writers  often  rein-  not  of  false  color,  to  change  my  illustra- 
forcing  in   this   respect   the   work   of   the      tion  a  little. 

vulgar.  He  will  feel  the  obligation  not  25  Well !  that  is  because  any  writer  worth 
of  the  laws  only,  but  of  those  affinities,  translating  at  all  has  winnowed  and 
avoidances,  those  mere  preferences,  of,  searched  through  his  vocabulary,  is  con- 
his  language,  which  through  the  asso-  scious  of  the  words  he  would  select  in 
ciations  of  literary  history  have  become  systematic  reading  of  a  dictionary,  and 
a  part  of  its  nature,  prescribing  the  re-  30  still  more  of  the  words  he  would  reject 
jection  of  many  a  neology,  many  a  li-  were  the  dictionary  other  than  John- 
cense,  many  a  gipsy  phrase  which  might  son's;  and  doing  this  with  his  peculiar 
present  itself  as  actually  expressive.  sense  of  the  world  ever  in  view,  in  search 
His  appeal,  again,  is  to  the  scholar,  who  of  an  instrument  for  the  adequate  expres- 
has  great  experience  in  literature,  and  35  sion  of  that,  he  begets  a  vocabulary 
will  show  no  favor  to  short-cuts,  or  faithful  to  the  coloring  of  his  own  spirit, 
hackneyed  illustration,  or  an  affectation  of  and  in  the  strictest  sense  original.  That 
learning  designed  for  the  unlearned.  living  authority  which  language  needs 
Hence  a  contention,  a  sense  of  self-re-  lies,  in  truth,  in  its  scholars,  who  recog- 
straint  and  renunciation,  having  for  the  40  nizing  always  that  every  language  pos- 
susceptible  reader  the  effect  of  a  chal-  sesses  a  genius,  a  very  fastidious  genius, 
lenge  for  minute  consideration;  the  at-  of  its  own,  expand  at  once  and  purify 
tention  of  the  writer,  in  every  minut-  its  very  elements,  which  must  needs 
est  detail,  being  a  pledge  that  it  is  worth  change  along  with  the  changing  thoughts 
the  reader's  while  to  be  attentive  too,  45  of  living  people.  Ninety  years  ago/ for 
that  the  writer  is  dealing  scrupulously  instance,  great  mental  force,  certainly, 
with  his  instrument,  and  therefore,  in-  was  needed  by  Wordsworth,  to  break 
directly,  with  the  reader  himself  also,  through  the  consecrated  poetic  associa- 
that  he  has  the  science  of  the  instru-  tions  of  a  century,  and  speak  the  lan- 
ment  he  plays  on,  perhaps,  after  all,  with  50  guage  that  was  his,  that  was  to  become 
a  freedom  which  in  such  case  will  be  the  in  a  measure  the  language  of  the  next 
freedom  of  a  master.  generation.     But  he  did   it  with  the  tact 

For  meanwhile,  braced  only  by  those  of  a  scholar  also.  English,  for  a  quarter 
restraints,  he  is  really  vindicating  his  of  a  century  past,  has  been  assimilating 
liberty  in  the  making  of  a  vocabulary,  55  the  phraseology  of  pictorial  art:  for  half 
an  entire  system  of  composition,  for  him-  a  century,  the  phraseology  of  the  great 
self,  his  own  true  manner;  and  when  we      German       metaphysical       movement       of 


920  WALTER  HORATIO  PATER 

eighty  years  ago ;  in  part  also  the  Ian-  pleasurable  stimulus  in  the  challenge  for 
guage  of  mystical  theology:  and  none  but  a  continuous  effort  on  their  part,  to  be 
pedants  will  regret  a  great  consequent  rewarded  by  securer  and  more  intimate 
increase  of  its  resources.  For  many  grasp  of  the  author's  sense.  Self-re- 
years  to  come  its  enterprise  may  well  S  straint,  a  skilful  economy  of  means, 
lie  in  the  naturalization  of  the  vocabu-  asccsis,  that  too  has  a  beauty  of  its  own; 
lary  of  science,  so  oidy  it  be  under  the  and  for  the  reader  supposed,  there  will 
eye  of  sensitive  scholarship  —  in  a  lib-  be  an  esthetic  satisfaction  in  that  frugal 
eral  naturalization  of  the  ideas  of  science  closeness  of  style  which  makes  the  most 
too,  for  after  all,  the  chief  stimulus  of  lo  of  a  word,  in  the  exaction  from  every 
good  style  is  to  possess  a  full,  rich,  com-  sentence  of  a  precise  relief,  in  the  just 
plex  matter  to  grapple  with.  The  lit-  spacing  out  of  word  to  thought,  in  the 
erary  artist,  therefore,  will  be  well  aware  logically  filled  space  connected  aJways 
of  physical  science;  science  also  attain-  with  the  delightful  sense  of  difficulty 
ing,    in    its    turn,    its    true    literary    ideal.  15  overcome. 

And  then,  as  the  scholar  is  nothing  with-  Different   classes  of  persons,   at   differ- 

out  the  historic  sense,  he  will  be  apt  to  ent  times,  make,  of  course,  very  various 
restore  not  really  obsolete  or  really  worn-  demands  upon  literature.  Still,  scholars, 
out  words,  but  the  finer  edge  of  words  I  su])pose,  and  not  only  scholars,  but  all 
still  in  use:  ascertain,  communicate,  d'^- 20  disinterested  lovers  of  books,  will  always 
coz'er  —  words  like  these  it  has  been  part  look  to  it,  as  to  all  other  fine  art,  for  a 
of  our  '  business '  to  misuse.  And  still,  refuge,  a  sort  of  cloistral  refuge,  from  a 
as  language  was  made  for  man,  he  will  certain  vulgarity  in  the  actual  world.  A 
be  no  authority  for  correctnesses  which,  perfect  poem  like  Lycidas,  a  perfect  fic- 
limiting  freedom  of  utterance,  were  yet  25  tion  like  Esmond,  the  perfect  handling  of 
but  accidents  in  their  origin;  as  if  one  a  theory  like  Newman's  Idea  of  a  Uni- 
vowed  not  to  say  'its,'  which  ought  to  .versity,  has  for  them  something  of  the 
have  been  in  Shakspere ;  '  his '  and  uses  of  a  religious  '  retreat.'  Here,  then, 
'  hci'S,'  for  inanimate  objects,  being  but  with  a  view  to  the  central  need  of  a 
a  barbarous  and  really  inexpressive  sur-  3^  select  few,  those  '  men  of  a  finer  thread ' 
vival.  Yet  we  have  known  many  things  who  have  formed  and  maintain  the  lit- 
like  this.  Racy  Saxon  monosyllables,  erary  ideal,  everything,  every  component 
close  to  us  as  touch  and  sight,  he  will  element  will  have  undergone  exact  trial, 
intermix  readily  with  those  long,  savor-  and,  above  all,  there  will  be  no  unchar- 
some,  Latin  words,  rich  in  '  second  in-  35  acteristic  or  tarnished  or  vulgar  decora- 
tention.'  In  this  late  day  certainly,  no  tion,  permissible  ornament  being  for  the 
critical  process  can  be  conducted  rea-  most  part  structural,  or  necessary.  As  the 
sonably  without  eclecticism.  Of  such  painter  in  his  picture,  so  the  artist  in 
eclecticism  we  have  a  justifying  example  his  book,  aims  at  the  production  by 
in  one  of  the  first  poets  of  our  time.  40  honorable  artifice  of  a  peculiar  atmos- 
How  illustrative  of  monosyllabic  effect,  phere.  '  The  artist,'  says  Schiller,  '  may 
of  sonorous  Latin,  of  the  phraseology  of  be  known  rather  by  what  he  ojnits;' 
science,  of  metaphysic,  of  colloquialism  and  in  literature,  too,  the  true  artist  may 
even,  are  the  writings  of  Tennyson;  yet  be  best  recognized  by  his  tact  of  omis- 
with  what  a  fine,  fastidious  scholarship  45  sion.  For  to  the  grave  reader  words  too 
throughout  I  are  grave ;  and  the  ornamental  word,  the 

A  scholar  writing  for  the  scholarly,  figure,  the  accessory  form  or  color  or 
he  will  of  course  leave  something  to  the  reference,  is  rarely  content  to  die  to 
willing  intelligence  of  his  reader.  '  To  thought  precisely  at  the  right  moment, 
go  preach  to  the  first  passer-by,'  says  50  but  will  inevitably  linger  awhile,  stirring 
Montaigne,  '  to  become  tutor  to  the  ig-  a  long  '  brain-wave '  behind  it  of  per- 
norance  of  the  first  I  meet,  is  a  thing  haps  quite  alien  associations. 
I  abhor;'  a  thing,  in  fact,  naturally  dis-  just  there,  it  may  be,  is  the  detrimental 

tressing  to  the  scholar,  who  will  there-  tendency  of  the  sort  of  scholarly  atten- 
fore  ever  be  shy  of  offering  uncompli-  55  tiveness  of  mind  I  am  recommending, 
mentary  assistance  to  the  reader's  wit.  But  the  true  artist  allows  for  it.  He 
To    really    strenuous    minds    there    is    a      will    remember    that,    as    the    very    word 


STYLE 


92] 


ornament  indicates  what  is  in  itself  non-  adding  to  the  resources  of  expression, 
essential,  so  the  '  one  beauty '  of  all  lit-  The  elementary  particles  of  language 
erary  style  is  of  its  very  essence,  and  will  be  realized  as  color  and  light  and 
independent,  in  prose  and  verse  alike,  of  shade  through  his  scholarly  living  in  the 
all  removable  decoration;  that  it  may  ex-  5  full  sense  of  them.  Still  opposing  the 
ist  in  its  fullest  luster,  as  in  Flaubert's  constant  degradation  of  language  by 
Madame  Bovary,  for  instance,  or  in  those  who  use  it  carelessly,  he  will  not 
Stendhal's  Le  Rouge  et  Lc  Noir,  in  a  treat  colored  glass  as  if  it  were  clear; 
composition  utterly  unadorned,  with  and  while  half  the  world  is  using  figure 
hardly  a  single  suggestion  of  visibly  10  unconsciously,  will  be  fully  aware  not 
beautiful  things.  Parallel,  allusion,  the  only  of  all  that  latent  figurative  texture 
allusive  way  generally,  the  flowers  in  the  in  speech,  but  of  the  vague,  lazy,  half- 
garden : —  he  knows  the  narcotic  force  formed  personification  —  a  rhetoric,  de- 
of  these  upon  the  negligent  intelligence  pressing,  and  worse  than  nothing,  be- 
to  which  any  diversion,  literally,  is  wel- 15  cause  it  has  no  really  rhetorical  motive 
come,  any  vagrant  intruder,  because  one  — which  plays  so  large  a  part  there,  and, 
can  go  wandering  away  with  it  from  the  as  in  the  case  of  more  ostentatious  orna- 
immediate  subject.  Jealous,  if  he  have  ment,  scrupulously  exact  of  it,  from  syl- 
a  really  quickening  motive  within,  of  all  lable  to  syllable,  its  precise  value, 
that  does  not  hold  directly  to  that,  of  the  20  So  far  I  have  been  speaking  of  cer- 
facile,  the  otiose,  he  will  never  depart  tain  conditions  of  the  literary  aVt  arising 
from  the  strictly  pedestrian  process,  un-  out  of  the  medium  or  material  in  or  upon 
less  he  gains  a  ponderable  something  which  it  works,  the  essential  qualities 
thereby.  Even  assured  of  its  congruity,  of  language  and  its  aptitudes  for  con- 
he  will  still  question  its  serviceableness.  25  tingent  ornamentation,  matters  which 
Is  it  worth  while,  can  we  afford,  to  at-  define  scholarship  as  science  and  good 
tend  to  just  that,  to  just  that  figure  or  taste  respectively.  They  are  both  sub- 
literary  reference,  just  then?  —  Sur-  servient  to  a  more  intimate  quality  of 
plusage!  he  will  dread  that,  as  the  runner  good  style:  more  intimate,  as  coming 
on  his  muscles.  For  in  truth  all  art  30  nearer  to  the  artist  himself.  The  otiose, 
does  but  consist  in  the  removal  of  sur-  the  facile,  surplusage :  why  are  these 
plusage,  from  the  last  finish  of  the  gem-  abhorrent  to  the  true  literary  artist,  ex- 
engraver  blowing  away  the  last  particle  cept  because,  in  literary  as  in  all  other 
of  invisible  dust,  back  to  the  earliest  art,  structure  is  all-important,  felt,  or 
divination  of  the  finished  work  to  be,  35  painfully  missed,  everywhere?  —  that 
lying  somewhere,  according  to  Michel-  architectural  conception  of  work,  which 
angelo's  fancy,  in  the  rough-hewn  block  foresees  the  end  in  the  beginning  and 
of  stone.  never    loses    sight    of    it,    and    in    every 

And  what  applies  to  figure  or  flower  part  is  conscious  of  all  the  rest,  till  the 
must  be  understood  of  all  other  acci-  40  last  sentence  does  but,  with  undimin- 
dental  or  removable  ornaments  of  writ-  ished  vigor,  unfold  and  justify  the  first 
ing  whatever;  and  not  of  specific  orna-  — a  condition  of  literary  art,  which,  in 
ment  only,  but  of  all  that  latent  color  contra-distinction  to  another  quality  of 
and  imagery  which  language  as  such  car-  the  artist  himself,  to  be  spoken  of  later, 
ries  in  it.  A  lover  of  words  for  their  4S  I  shall  call  the  necessity  of  mind  in  style. 
own   sake,   to   whom   nothing  about   them  An  acute  philosophical  writer,  the  late 

is  unimportant,  a  minute  and  constant  Dean  Mansel  (a  writer  whose  works  il- 
observer  of  their  physiognomy,  he  will  be  lustrate  the  literary  beauty  there  may  be 
on  the  alert  not  only  for  obviously  mixed  in  closeness,  and  with  obvious  repres- 
metaphors  of  course,  but  for  the  meta- ?o  sion  or  economy  of  a  fine  rhetorical  gift) 
phor  that  is  mixed  in  all  our  speech,  wrote  a  book,  of  fascinating  precision  in 
though  a  rapid  use  may  involve  no  cog-  a  very  obscure  subject,  to  show  that  all 
nition  of  it.  Currently  recognizing  the  the  technical  laws  of  logic  are  but  means 
incident,  the  color,  the  physical  elements  of  securing,  in  each  and  all  of  its  ap- 
or  particles  in  words  like  absorb,  ron- ss  prehensions,  the  unity,  the  strict  identity 
sider,  extract,  to  take  the  first  that  occur,  with  itself,  of  the  apprehending  mind, 
he  will  avail  himself  of  them,  as  further     x\ll   the   laws  of  good   writing  aim   at   a 


922  WALTER  HORATIO  i'ATER 


similar  unity  or  identity  of  the  mind  in  motive,  or  member  of  the  whole  matter, 
all  the  processes  by  which  the  word  is  indicating,  as  Flaubert  was  aware,  an 
associated  to  its  import.  The  term  is  original  structure  in  thought  not  organ- 
right,  and  has  its  essential  beauty,  when  ically  complete.  With  such  foresight, 
it  becomes,  in  a  manner,  what  it  sig-  5  the  actual  conclusion  will  most  often  get 
nifies,  as  with  the  names  of  simple  sen-  itself  written  out  of  hand,  before,  in  the 
sations.  To  give  the  phrase,  the  more  obvious  sense,  the  work  is  finished, 
sentence,  the  structural  member,  the  en-  With  some  strong  and  leading  sense  of 
tire  composition,  song,  or  essay,  a  similar  the  world,  the  tight  hold  of  which  se- 
unity  with  its  subject  and  with  itself :  lo  cures  true  co;///'oj>///ou  and  not  mere  loose 
—  style  is  in  the  right  way  when  it  accretion,  the  literary  artist,  I  .suppose, 
tends  towards  that.  All  depends  upon  goes  on  considerably,  setting  joint  to 
the  original  unity,  the  vital  wholeness  joint,  sustained  by  yet  restraining  the 
and  identity,  of  the  initiatory  apprehen-  productive  ardor,  retracing  the  negli- 
sion  or  view.  So  much  is  true  of  all  15  gences  of  his  first  sketch,  repeating  his 
art,  which  therefore  requires  always  its  steps  only  that  he  may  give  the  reader 
logic,  its  comprehensive  reason  —  insight,  a  sense  of  secure  and  restful  progress, 
foresight,  retrospect,  in  simultaneous  readjusting  mere  assonances  even,  that 
action  —  true,  most  of  all,  of  the  literary  they  may  soothe  the  reader,  or  at  least 
art,  as  being  of  all  the  arts  most  closely  20  not  interrupt  him  on  his  way;  and  then, 
cognate  to  the  abstract  intelligence.  somewhere  before  the  end  comes,  is 
Such  logical  coherency  may  be  evidenced  burdened,  inspired,  with  his  conclusion, 
not  merely  in  the  lines  of  composition  as  and  betimes  delivered  of  it,  leaving  off, 
a  whole,  but  in  the  choice  of  a  single  not  in  weariness  and  because  he  finds 
word,  while  it  by  no  means  interferes  25  himself  at  an  end,  but  in  all  the  freshness 
with,  but  may  even  prescribe,  much  va-  of  volition.  His  work  now  structurally 
riety,  in  the  building  of  the  sentence  for  complete,  with  all  the  accumulating  ef- 
instance,  or  in  the  manner,  argumenta-  feet  of  secondary  shades  of  meaning,  he 
tive,  descriptive,  discursive,  of  this  or  finishes  the  whole  up  to  the  just  propor- 
that  part  or  member  of  the  entire  de-  3c  tion  of  that  ante-penultimate  conclusion, 
sign.  The  blithe,  crisp  sentence,  de-  and  all  becomes  expressive.  The  house 
cisive  as  a  child's  expression  of  its  needs,  he  has  built  is  rather  a  body  he  has  in- 
may  alternate  with  the  long-contending,  formed.  And  so  it  happens,  to  its 
victoriously  intricate  sentence;  the  sen-  greater  credit,  that  the  better  interest 
tence,  born  with  the  integrity  of  a  sin-  35  even  of  a  narrative  to  be  recounted,  a 
gle  word,  relieving  the  sort  of  sentence  story  to  be  told,  will  often  be  in  its  see- 
in  which,  if  you  look  closely,  you  can  ond  reading.  And  though  there  are  in- 
see  much  contrivance,  much  adjustment,  stances  of  great  writers  who  have  been 
to  bring  a  highly  qualified  matter  into  no  artists,  an  unconscious  tact  sometimes 
compass  at  one  view.  For  the  literary  40  directing  work  in  which  we  may  detect, 
architecture,  if  it  is  to  be  rich  and  ex-  very  pleasurably,  many  of  the  efifects  of 
pressive,  involves  not  only  foresight  of  conscious  art,  yet  one  of  the  greatest 
the  end  in  the  beginning,  but  also  de-  pleasures  of  really  good  prose  literature 
velopment  or  growth  of  design,  in  the  is  in  the  critical  tracing  out  of  that  con- 
process  of  execution,  with  many  irregu-  45  scions  artistic  structure,  and  the  pervad- 
larities,  surprises,  and  after-thoughts ;  ing  sense  of  it  as  we  read.  Yet  of  poetic 
the  contingent  as  well  as  the  necessary  literature  too;  for,  in  truth,  the  kind  of 
being  subsumed  under  the  unity  of  the  constructive  intelligence  here  supposed 
whole.  As  truly,  to  the  lack  of  such  is  one  of  the  forms  of  the  imagmation. 
architectural  design,  of  a  single,  almost  5o  That  is  the  special  function  of  mind, 
visual,  image,  vigorously  informing  an  in  style.  Mind  and  soul,— hard  to  as- 
entire,  perhaps  very  intricate,  composi-  certain  philosophically,  the  distinction  is 
tion,  which  shall  be  austere,  ornate,  ar-  real  enough  practically,  for  they  often 
gumentative,  fanciful,  yet  true  from  first  interfere,  are  sometimes  in  conflict,  with 
to  last  to  that  vision  within,  may  be  55  each  other.  Blake,  in  the  last  century, 
attributed  those  weaknesses  of  conscious  is  an  instance  of  preponderating  soul, 
or  unconscious  repetition  of  word,  yihrase,      embarrassed,  at  a  loss,  in  an  era  of  pre- 


STYLE  923 


ponderating  mind.  As  a  quality  of  style,  of  choosing  and  rejecting  what  is  con- 
at  all  events,  soul  is  a  fact,  in  certain  gruous  or  otherwise,  with  a  drift  to- 
writers  —  the  way  they  have  of  absorb-  wards  unity  —  unity  of  atmosphere  here, 
ing  language,  of  attracting  it  into  the  as  there  of  design  —  soul  securing  color 
peculiar  spirit  they  are  of,  with  a  sub-  5  (or  perfume,  might  we  say?)  as  mind 
tlety  which  makes  the  actual  result  seem  secures  form,  the  latter  being  essentially 
like  some  inexplicable  inspiration.  By  finite,  the  former  vague  or  infinite,  as 
mind,  the  literary  artist  reaches  us,  the  influence  of  a  living  person  is  prac- 
through  static  and  objective  indications  tically  infinite.  There  are  some  to  whom 
of  design  in  his  work,  legible  to  all.  By  10  nothing  has  any  real  interest,  or  real 
soul,  he  reaches  us,  somewhat  capri-  meaning,  except  as  operative  in  a  given 
ciously  perhaps,  one  and  not  another,  person ;  and  it  is  they  who  best  appreciate 
through  vagrant  sympathy  and  a  kind  of  tlie  quality  of  soul  in  literary  art.  They 
immediate  contact.  Mind  we  cannot  seem  to  know  a  person,  in  a  book,  and 
choose  but  approve  where  we  recognize  15  make  way  by  intuition :  yet,  although 
it;  soul  may  repel  us,  not  because  we  they  thus  enjoy  the  completeness  of  a 
misunderstand  it.  The  way  in  which  personal  information,  it  is  still  a  char- 
theological  interests  sometimes  avail  acteristic  of  soul,  in  this  sense  of  the 
themselves  of  language  is  perhaps  the  word,  that  it  does  but  suggest  what  can 
best  illustration  of  the  force  I  mean  to  ao  never  be  uttered,  not  as  being  different 
indicate  generally  in  literature,  by  the  from,  or  more  obscure  than,  what  actu- 
word  soul.  Ardent  religious  persuasion  ally  gets  said,  but  as  containing  that 
may  exist,  may  make  its  way,  without  plenary  substance  of  which  there  is  only 
finding  any  equivalent  heat  in  language:  one  phase  or  facet  in  what  is  there  ex- 
or,   again,   it   may  enkindle  words   to   va-  25  pressed. 

rious   degrees,   and   when   it   really   takes  If  all  high  things  have  their  martyrs, 

hold  of  them  doubles  its  force.  Reli-  Gustave  Flaubert  might  perhaps  rank  as 
gious  history  presents  many  remarkable  the  martyr  of  literary  style.  In  his 
instances  in  which,  through  no  mere  printed  correspondence,  a  curious  series 
phrase-worship,  an  unconscious  liter-  3°  of  letters,  written  in  his  twenty-fifth 
ary  tact  has,  for  the  sensitive,  laid  open  year,  records  what  seems  to  have  been 
a  privileged  pathway  from  one  to  an-  his  one  other  passion  —  a  series  of  let- 
other.  '  The  altar-fire,'  people  say,  '  has  ters  which,  with  its  fine  casuistries,  its 
touched  those  lips !  '  The  Vulgate,  the  firmly  repressed  anguish,  its  tone  of  bar- 
English  Bible,  the  English  Prayer-Book,  35  monious  gray,  and  the  sense  of  disillusion 
the  writings  of  Swedenborg,  the  Tracts  in  which  the  whole  matter  ends,  might 
for  the  Times :  —  there,  we  have  in-  have  been,  a  few  slight  changes  sup- 
stances  of  widely  different  and  largely  posed,  one  of  his  own  fictions.  Writing 
diffused  phases  of  religious  feeling  in  to  Madame  X.  certainly  he  does  display, 
operation  as  soul  in  style.  But  some- 40  by  'taking  thought'  mainly,  by  constant 
thing  of  the  same  kind  acts  with  similar  and  delicate  pondering,  as  in  his  love 
power  in  certain  writers  of  quite  other  for  literature,  a  heart  really  moved,  but 
than  theological  literature,  on  behalf  of  still  more,  and  as  the  pledge  of  that  emo- 
some  wholly  personal  and  peculiar  sense  tion,  a  loyalty  to  his  work.  Madame  X., 
of  theirs.  Most  easily  illustrated  by  45  too,  is  a  literary  artist,  and  the  best  gifts 
theological  literature,  this  quality  lends  he  can  send  her  are  precepts  of  perfec- 
to  profane  writers  a  kind  of  religious  tion  in  art,  counsels  for  the  eft'ectual 
influence.  At  their  best,  these  writers  pursuit  of  that  better  love.  In  his 
become,  as  we  say  sometimes,  '  proph-  love-letters  it  is  the  pains  and  pleasures 
ets  ' ;  such  character  depending  on  the  50  of  art  he  insists  on,  its  solaces :  he  com- 
effect  not  merely  of  their  matter,  but  of  municates  secrets,  reproves,  encourages, 
their  matter  as  allied  to,  in  '  electric  with  a  view  to  that.  Whether  the  lady 
affinity  '  with,  peculiar  form,  and  work-  was  dissatisfied  with  such  divided  or  in- 
ing  in  all  cases  by  an  immediate  sym-  direct  service,  the  reader  is  not  enabled 
pathetic  contact,  on  which  account  it  is  55  to  see ;  but  sees  that,  on  Flaubert's  part 
that  it  may  be  called  soul,  as  opposed  to  at  least,  a  living  person  could  be  no 
mind,  in  stvle.     And  this  too  is  a  faculty      rival  of  what  was,   from  first  to  last,  his 


924  WALTER  HORATIO  PATER 

leading  passion,  a  somewhat  solitary  and  there  exists  but  one  way  of  expressing 
exclusive  one.  one  thing,  one  word  to  call  it  by,  one  ad- 

'I  must  scold  you,'  he  writes,  'for  one  jective  to  qualify,  one  verb  to  animate 
thing,  which  shocks,  scandalizes  me,  the  it,  he  gave  himself  to  superhuman  labor 
small  concern,  namely,  you  sliow  for  art  5  for  the  discovery,  in  every  phrase,  of  that 
just  now.  As  regards  glory  be  it  so:  word,  that  verb,  that  epithet.  In  this 
there,  I  approve.  But  for  art!  —  the  one  way,  he  believed  in  some  mysterious 
thing  in  life  that  is  good  and  real — •  harmony  of  expression,  and  when  a  true 
can  you  compare  with  it  an  earthly  love?  word  seemed  to  him  to  lack  eupliony  still 
—  prefer  the  adoration  of  a  relative  lo  went  on  seeking  another,  with  invincible 
beauty  to  the  cultiis  of  the  true  beauty?  patience,  certain  that  he  had  not  yet  got 
Well !  I  tell  you  the  truth.  That  is  the  hold  of  the  unique  word.  ...  A 
one  thing  good  in  me :  the  one  thing  I  thousand  preoccupations  would  beset  him 
have,  to  me  estimable.  For  yourself,  you  at  the  same  moment,  always  with  this 
blend  with  the  beautiful  a  heap  of  alien  15  desperate  certitude  fixed  in  his  spirit: 
things,  the  useful,  the  agreeable,  what  Among  all  the  expressions  in  the  world, 
not  ?  —  all   forms  and  turns  of  expression,  there 

'The  only  way  not  to  be  unhappy  is  is  but  one  —  one  form,  one  mode  —  to  ex- 
to  shut  yourself  up  in  art,  and  count  press  what  I  want  to  say.' 
everything  else  as  nothing.  Pride  takes  20  The  one  word  for  the  one  thing,  the  one 
the  place  of  all  beside  when  it  is  estab-  thought,  amid  the  multitude  of  words, 
lished  on  a  large  basis.  Work!  God  terms,  that  might  just  do:  the  problem 
wills  it.     That,  it  seems  to  me,  is  clear. —      of   style    was    there !  —  the   unique    word, 

'  I  am  reading  over  again  the  AIncid,  phrase,  sentence,  paragraph,  essay,  or 
certain  verses  of  which  I  repeat  to  my-  25  song,  absolutely  proper  to  the  single 
self  to  satiety.  There  are  phrases  there  mental  presentation  or  vision  within.  In 
which  stay  in  one's  head,  by  which  I  that  perfect  justice,  over  and  above  the 
find  myself  beset,  as  with  those  musical  many  contingent  and  removable  beauties 
airs  which  are  forever  returning,  and  with  which  beautiful  style  may  charm  us, 
cause  you  pain,  you  love  them  so  much.  30  but  which  it  can  exist  without,  inde- 
I  ol:iserve  that  I  no  longer  laugh  much,  pendent  of  them  yet  dexterously  availing 
and  am  no  longer  depressed.  I  am  ripe.  itself  of  them,  omnipresent  in  good  work, 
You  talk  of  my  serenity,  and  envy  me.  in  function  at  every  point,  from  single 
It  may  well  surprise  you.  Sick,  irritated,  epithets  to  the  rhythm  of  a  whole  book, 
the  prey  a  thousand  times  a  day  of  cruel  3s  lay  the  specific,  indispensable,  very  intel- 
pain,  I  continue  my  labor  like  a  true  lectual,  beauty  of  literature,  the  possibility 
working-man,  who,  with  sleeves  turned  of  wdiich  constitutes  it  a  fine  part, 
up,  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  beats  away  One  seems  to  detect  the  influence  of  a 

at  his  anvil,  never  troubling  himself  philosophic  idea  there,  the  idea  of  a 
whether  it  rains  or  blows,  for  hail  or  ao  natural  economy,  of  some  preexistent 
thunder.  I  was  not  like  that  formerly,  adaptation,  between  a  relative,  somewhere 
The  change  has  taken  place  naturally,  in  the  world  of  thought,  and  its  correl- 
though  my  will  has  counted  for  some-  ative,  somewhere  in  the  world  of  language 
thing  in  the  matter. —  — both    alike,    rather,    somewhere    in    the 

'Those  who  write  in  good  style  are  45  mmd  of  the  artist,  desiderative,  expectant, 
sometimes  accused  of  a  neglect  of  ideas,  inventive  —  meeting  each  other  with  the 
and  of  the  moral  end.  as  if  the  end  of  the  readiness  of  '  soul  and  body  reunited.'  in 
physician  were  something  else  than  heal-  Blake's  rapturous  design ;  and,  in  fact, 
ing,  of  the  painter  than  painting  —  as  if  Flaubert  was  fond  of  giving  his  theory 
the  end  of  art  were  not,  before  all  else,  50  philosophical  expression. — 
the  beautiful.'  '  There   are   no   beautiful   thoughts,'   he 

What,  then,  did  Flaubert  understand  would  say,  'without  beautiful  forms,  and 
by  l)eauty,  in  the  art  he  pursued  with  so  conversely.  As  it  is  impossible  to  extract 
much  fervor,  with  so  much  self-com-  from  a  physical  body  the  qualities  which 
mand?  Let  us  hear  a  sympathetic  com- 5s  really  constitute  it  — color,  extension,  and 
mentator: —  the  like  —  without  reducing  it  to  a  hollow 

'  Possessed    of    an    absolute    belief    that      abstraction,  in  a  word,  without  destroying 


STYLE 


925 


it;  just  so  it  is  impossible  to  detach  the  that  anxiety  in  'seeking  the  phrase,' 
form  from  the  idea,  for  the  idea  only  which  gathered  all  the  other  small  ciiiiuis 
exists   by  virtue  of  the   form.'  of  a  really  quiet  existence  into  a  kind  of 

All  the  recognized  flowers,  the  remov-  battle,  was  connected  with  his  lifelong 
able  ornaments  of  literature  (including  5  contention  against  facile  poetry,  facile 
harmony  and  ease  in  reading  aloud,  very  art  —  art,  facile  and  flimsy ;  and  what 
carefully  considered  by  him)  counted  constitutes  the  true  artist  is  not  the  slow- 
certainly;  for  these  too  are  part  of  the  ness  or  quickness  of  the  process,  but  the 
actual  value  of  what  one  says.  But  still,  absolute  success  of  the  result.  As  with 
after  all,  with  Flaubert,  the  search,  the  10  those  laborers  in  the  parable,  the  prize  is 
unwearied  research,  was  not  for  the  independent  of  the  mere  length  of  the 
smooth,  or  winsome,  or  forcible  word,  as  actual  day's  work.  '  You  talk,'  he  writes, 
such,  as  with  false  Ciceronians,  but  quite  odd,  trying  lover,  to  Madame  X. — 
simply   and   honestly   for  the   word's   ad-  '  You  talk  of  the  exclusiveness  of  my 

justment  to  its  meaning.  The  first  con-  ,5  literary  tastes.  That  might  have  enabled 
dition  of  this  must  be,  of  course,  to  know  you  to  divine  what  kind  of  a  person  I  am 
yourself,  to  have  ascertained  your  own  in  the  matter  of  love.  I  grow  so  hard  to 
sense  exactly.  Then,  if  we  suppose  an  please  as  a  literary  artist,  that  I  am  driven 
artist,  he  says  to  the  reader, —  I  want  you  to  despair.  I  shall  end  by  not  writing  an- 
te   see    precisely    what    I    see.     Into    the  20  other  line.' 

mind  sensitive  to  '  form,'  a  flood  of  random  '  Happy,'  he  cries,  in  a  moment  of  dis- 

sounds,  colors,  incidents,  is  ever  penetrat-  couragement  at  that  patient  labor,  which 
ing  from  the  world  without,  to  become,  by  for  him,  certainly,  was  the  condition  of  a 
sympathetic   selection,   a   part  of  its   very      great  success. — 

structure,  and,  in  turn,  the  visible  vesture  25  '  Happy  those  who  have  no  doubts  of 
and  expression  of  that  other  world  it  sees  themselves  !  who  lengthen  out,  as  the  pen 
so  steadily  within,  nay,  already  with  a  runs  on,  all  that  flows  forth  from  their 
partial  conformity  thereto,  to  be  refined,  brains.  As  for  me,  I  hesitate,  I  disappoint 
enlarged,  corrected,  at  a  hundred  points;  myself,  turn  round  upon  myself  in  despite : 
and  it  is  just  there,  just  at  those  doubtful  30  my  taste  is  augmented  in  proportion  as 
points  that  the  function  of  style,  as  tact  my  natural  vigor  decreases,  and  I  afflict 
or  taste,  intervenes.  The  unique  term  my  soul  over  some  dubious  word  out  of 
will  come  more  quickly  to  one  than  an-  all  proportion  to  the  pleasure  I  get  from 
other,  at  one  time  than  another,  according  a  whole  page  of  good  writing.  One 
also  to  the  kind  of  matter  in  question.  35  would  have  to  live  two  centuries  to  attain 
Quickness  and  slowness,  ease  and  close-  a  true  idea  of  any  matter  whatever, 
ness  alike,  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  What  Buffon  said  is  a  big  blasphemy: 
artistic  character  of  the  true  word  found  genius  is  not  long-continued  patience, 
at  last.  As  there  is  a  charm  of  ease,  so  Still,  there  is  some  truth  in  the  statement, 
there  is  also  a  special  charm  in  the  signs  40  and  more  than  people  think,  especially  as 
of  discovery,  of  effort  and  contention  regards  our  own  day.  Art !  art !  art ! 
towards  a  due  end,  as  so  often  with  bitter  deception !  phantom  that  glows  with 
Flaubert  himself  —  in  the  style  which  has  light,  only  to  lead  one  on  to  destruction.' 
been    pliant,    as    only    obstinate,    durable  Again  — 

metal  can  be,  to  the  inherent  perplexities  45  '  I  am  growing  so  peevish  about  my 
and  recusancy  of  a  certain  difficult  writing.  I  am  like  a  man  whose  ear  is 
thought.  true  but  who  plays  falsely  on  the  violin : 

If  Flaubert  had  not  told  us,  perhaps  we  his  fingers  refuse  to  reproduce  precisely 
should  never  have  guessed  how  tardy  and  those  sounds  of  which  he  has  the  inward 
painful  his  own  procedure  really  was,  and  50  sense.  Then  the  tears  come  rolling  down 
after  reading  his  confession  may  think  from  the  poor  scraper's  eyes  and  the  bow 
that    his    almost    endless    hesitation    had      falls    from   his  hand.' 

much  to  do  with  diseased  nerves.     Often,  Coming    slowly    or    quickly,     when     it 

perhaps,  the  felicity  supposed  will  be  the  comes,  as  it  came  with  so  much  labor  of 
product  of  a  happier,  a  more  exuberant  55  mind,  but  also  with  so  much  luster,  to 
nature  than  Flaubert's.  Aggravated,  cer-  Gustave  Flaubert,  this  discoverv  of  the 
tainly,    by    a    morbid    physical    condition,      word  will  be,  like  all  artistic  success  and 


9^6 WALTER  HORATIO  PATER 

felicity,  incapable  of  strict  analysis:  effect  rectness  or  purism  of  the  mere  scholar, 
of  an  intuitive  condition  of  mind,  it  must  but  a  security  against  the  otiose,  a  jealous 
be  recognized  by  like  intuition  on  the  part  exclusion  of  what  does  not  really  tell 
of  the  reader,  and  a  sort  of  immediate  towards  the  pursuit  of  relief,  of  life  and 
sense.  In  every  one  of  those  masterly  5  vigor  in  the  portraiture  of  one's  sense, 
sentences  of  Flaub'ert  there  was,  below  ail  License  again,  the  making  free  with  rule, 
mere  contrivance,  shaping  and  after-  if  it  be  indeed,  as  people  fancy,  a  habit 
thought,  by  some  happy  instantaneous  of  genius,  flinging  aside  or  transforming 
concourse  of  the  various  faculties  of  the  all  that  opposes  the  liberty  of  beautiful 
mind  with  each  other,  the  exact  appre-  lo  production,  will  be  but  faith  to  one's  own 
hension  of  what  was  needed  to  carry  the  meaning.  The  seeming  baldness  of  Le 
meaning.  And  that  it  fits  with  absolute  Rouge  et  Le  Noir  is  nothing  in  itself;  the 
justice  will  be  a  judgment  of  immediate  wild  ornament  of  Les  Miserables  is  noth- 
sense  in  the  appreciative  reader.  We  all  ing  in  itself;  and  the  restraint  of  Flaubert, 
feel  this  in  what  may  be  called  inspired  15  amid  a  real  natural  opulence,  only  re- 
translation.  Well!  all  language  involves  doubled  beauty  —  the  phrase  so  large  and 
translation  from  inward  to  outward.  In  so  precise  at  the  same  time,  hard  as 
literature,  as  in  all  forms  of  art,  there  are  bronze,  in  service  to  the  more  perfect 
the  absolute  and  the  merely  relative  or  adaptation  of  words  to  their  matter, 
accessory  beauties ;  and  precisely  in  that  20  Afterthoughts,  retouchings,  finish,  will  be 
exact  proportion  of  the  term  to  its  pur-  of  profit  only  so  far  as  they  too  really 
pose  is  the  absolute  beauty  of  style,  prose  serve  to  bring  out  the  original,  initiative, 
or  verse.  All  the  good  qualities,  the  generative,  sense  in  them, 
beauties,  of  verse  also,  are  such,  only  as  In    this    way,    according    to    the    well- 

precise  expression.  25  known    saying,    '  The   style    is    the   man,' 

In  the  highest  as  in  the  lowliest  litera-  complex  for  simple,  in  his  individuality, 
ture,  then,  the  one  indispensable  beauty  his  plenary  sense  of  what  he  really  has 
is,  after  all,  truth:  — truth  to  bare  fact  to  say,  his  sense  of  the  world ;  all  cautions 
in  the  latter,  as  to  some  personal  sense  regarding  style  arising  out  of  so  many 
of  fact,  diverted  somewhat  from  men's  30  natural  scruples  as  to  the  medium  through 
ordinary  sense  of  it,  in  the  former;  truth  which  alone  he  can  expose  that  inward 
there  as  accuracy,  truth  here  as  expres-  sense  of  things,  the  purity  of  this  medium, 
sion,  that  finest  and  most  intimate  form  its  laws  or  tricks  of  refraction :  nothing 
of  truth,  the  vraie  veritc.  And  what  an  is  to  be  left  there  which  might  give  con- 
eclectic  principle  this  really  is !  employ-  ^^  veyance  to  any  matter  save  that.  Style  in 
ing  for  its  one  sole  purpose  —  that  ab-  all  its  varieties,  reserved  or  opulent,  terse, 
solute  accordance  of  expression  to  idea  —  abundant,  musical,  stimulant,  academic,  so 
all  other  literary  beauties  and  excellences  long  as  each  is  really  characteristic  or 
whatever:  how  many  kinds  of  style  it  expressive,  finds  thus  its  justification,  the 
covers,  explains,  justifies,  and  at  the  same  40  sumptuous  good  taste  of  Cicero  being  as 
time  safeguards !  Scott's  facility,  Flau-  truly  the  man  himself,  and  not  another, 
bert's  deeply  pondered  evocation  of  '  the  justified,  yet  insured  inalienably  to  him, 
phrase,'  are  equally  good  art.  Say  what  thereby,  as  would  have  been  his  portrait 
you  have  to  say,  what  you  have  a  will  to  by  Raphael,  in  full  consular  splendor,  on 
say,  in  the  simplest,  the  most  direct  and  45  his   ivory   chair. 

exact  manner  possible,   with  no   surplus-  A   relegation,  you  may  say  perhaps  — 

age:  —  there,  is  the  justification  of  the  a  relegation  of  style  to  the  subjectivity, 
sentence  so  fortunately  born,  '  entire,  the  mere  caprice,  of  the  individual,  which 
smooth,  and  round,'  that  it  needs  no  must  soon  transform  it  into  mannerism, 
punctuation,  and  also  (that  is  the  point!)  5°  Xot  so!  since  there  is,  under  the  condi- 
of  the  most  elaborate  period,  if  it  be  right  tions  supposed,  for  those  elements  of  the 
in  its  elaboration.  Here  is  the  office  of  man,  for  every  lineament  of  the  vision 
ornament:  here  also  the  purpose  of  re-  within,  the  one  word,  the  one  acceptable 
straint  in  ornament.  As  tlie  exponent  of  word,  recognizable  by  the  sensitive,  by 
truth,  that  austerity  (the  beauty,  the  func- 55  others  'who  have  intelligence'  in  the 
tion,  of  which  in  literature  Flaubert  un-  matter,  as  absolutely  as  ever  anything  can 
derstood   so   well)    becomes   not   the   cor-      be  in  the  evanescent  and  delicate   region 


STYLE  927 


of  human  language.  The  style,  the  man-  takes  rank  as  the  typically  perfect  art. 
ner,  would  be  the  man,  not  in  his  unrea-  If  music  be  the  ideal  of  all' art  whatever, 
soned  and  really  uncharacteristic  caprices,  precisely  because  in  music  it  is  impossible 
involuntary  or  affected,  but  in  absolutely  to  distinguish  the  form  from  the  substance 
sincere  apprehension  of  what  is  most  real  5  or  matter,  the  subject  from  the  expres- 
to  him.  But  let  us  hear  our  French  guide  sion,  then,  literature,  by  finding  its  specific 
again. —  excellence  in  the  absolute  correspondence 

'  Styles,'    says    Flaubert's    commentator,      of  the  term  to  its  import,  will  be  but  ful- 
'  Styles,  as  so  many  peculiar  molds,  each      filling  the  condition  of  all  artistic  quality 
of  which  bears  the  mark  of  a  particular  10  in  things  everywhere,  of  all  good  art. 
writer,  who  is  to  pour  into  it  the  whole  Good  art,  but  not  necessarily  great  art ; 

content  of  his  ideas,  were  no  part  of  his  the  distinction  between  great  art  and  good 
theory.  What  he  believed  in  was  Style:  art  depending  immediately,  as  regards 
that  is  to  say,  a  certain  absolute  and  literature  at  all  events,  not  on  its  form, 
unique  manner  of  expressing  a  thing,  V2  i5  but  on  the  matter.  Thackeray's  Esmond^ 
all  its  intensity  and  color.  For  him  the  surely,  is  greater  art  than  Vanity  Fair, 
form  was  the  work  itself.  As  in  living  by  the  greater  dignity  of  its  interests.  It 
creatures,  the  blood,  nourishing  the  body,  is  on  the  quality  of  the  matter  it  informs 
determines  its  very  contour  and  external  or  controls,  its  compass,  its  variety,  its 
aspect,  just  so,  to  his  mind,  the  matter,  2°  aUiance  to  great  ends,  or  the  depth  of  the 
the  basis,  in  a  work  of  art,  imposed  nee-  note  of  revolt,  or  the  largeness  of  hope  in 
essarily,  the  unique,  the  just  expression,  it,  that  the  greatness  of  literary  art  de- 
the  measure,  the  rhythm  —  the  form  in  all  pends,  as  The  Divine  Comedy,  Paradise 
its  characteristics.'  Lost,  Les  Miserables,  The  English  Bible, 

If  the  style  be  the  man,  in  all  the  color  25  are  great  art.  Given  the  conditions  I 
and  intensity  of  a  veritable  apprehension,  have  tried  to  explain  as  constituting  good 
it  will  be  in  a  real  sense  '  impersonal.'  art;  —  then,  if  it  be  devoted  further  to  the 

I  said,  thinking  of  books  like  Victor  increase  of  men's  happiness,  to  the  re- 
Hugo's  Les  Miserables,  that  prose  litera-  demption  of  the  oppressed,  or  the  enlarge- 
ture  was  the  characteristic  art  of  the  30  ment  of  our  sympathies  with  each  other, 
nineteenth  century,  as  others,  thinking  of  or  to  such  presentment  of  new  or  old 
its  triumphs  since  the  youth  of  Bach,  have  truth  about  ourselves  and  our  relation  to 
assigned  that  place  to  music.  Music  and  the  world  as  may  ennoble  and  fortify  us 
prose  literature  are,  in  one  sense,  the  op-  in  our  sojourn  here,  or  immediately,  as 
posite  terms  of  art;  the  art  of  literature  35  with  Dante,  to  the  glory  of  God,  it  will 
presenting  to  the  imagination,  through  be  also  great  art;  if,  over  and  above  those 
the  intelligence,  a  range  of  interests,  as  qualities  I  summed  up  as  mind  and  soul 
free  and  various  as  those  which  music  —  that  color  and  mystic  perfume,  and  that 
presents  to  it  through  sense.  And  cer-  reasonable  structure,  it  has  something  of 
tainly  the  tendency  of  what  has  been  here  4°  the  soul  of  humanity  in  it,  and  finds  its 
said  is  to  bring  literature  too  under  those  logical,  its  architectural  place,  in  the  great 
conditions,  by  conformity  to  which  music      structure  of  human  life.  (1888) 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  (1850-1894). 

Stevenson's  great-grandfather,  grandfatlier,  and  father  were  engineers  to  the  Board  of 
Northern  Lighthouses,  and  he  was  educated  for  the  family  profession.  At  twenty-one  he 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  give  up  engineering  for  literature,  autl  his  father  consented  on 
condition  that  he  qualified  for  the  Scottish  Bar.  Stevenson  fultilled  the  condition,  but 
took  as  little  interest  in  his  legal  as  in  his  engineering  studies,  setting  far  more  store 
'  by  certain  other  odds  and  ends  that  he  came  by  in  the  open  street  while  he  was  phiyiug 
truant.'  At  his  chosen  pursuit  of  literature,  however,  he  toiled  incessantly.  He  says: 
'I  imagine  nobody  had  ever  such  pains  to  learn  a  trade  as  1  had;  but  1  slogged  at  it  day 
in  and  day  out;  and  I  frankly  believe  (thanks  to  my  dire  industry)  I  have  done  more 
with  smaller  gifts  than  almost  any  man  of  letters  in  the  world.'  As  a  schoolboy  he  edited 
magazines  and  wrote  essays,  stories  and  plays ;  his  first  novel  was  turned  into  a  historical 
essay  and  privately  printed  when  he  was  sixteen.  As  an  undergraduate  at  Edinburgh  he 
established  the  University  Magazine  which  '  ran  four  months  in  undisturbed  obscurity  and 
died  without  a  gasp.'  In  1873-4  he  had  half-a-dozen  articles  in  various  magazines,  and 
his  first  book.  An  Inland  Voyage,  was  published  in  1878.  It  is  an  account  of  a  canoe  trip 
in  Belgium  and  France  made  two  years  earlier.  About  this  time  Stevenson  met  and  fell 
in  love  with  JNIrs.  Fanny  Osbourne,  an  American  lady  who  came  to  study  art  in  France. 
In  1878  she  returned  to  California,  and  thither  in  1879  Stevenson  followed  her.  Some 
of  his  experiences  in  crossing  the  Atlantic  and  the  American  continent  (though  by  no 
means  all  the  sufferings  he  endured)  are  told  in  The  Amateur  Emigrant  and  Across  the 
Plains.  He  arrived  at  San  Francisco  in  desperate  straits  of  health  and  pocket,  and  only 
Mrs.  Osbourne's  devoted  nursing  saved  his  life.  After  his  recovery,  they  were  married, 
and  spent  their  honeymoon  in  the  neighboring  mountains,  described  in  The  Silccrado 
Squatters.  His  first  volume  of  essays,  Virgiaibus  Puerisque,  was  highly  appreciated,  but 
only  by  a  few  :  it  was  a  book  for  boys,  Treasure  Island,  which  made  him  suddenly  famous. 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  and  Kidnapped  were  equally  successful.  During  these  years 
he  was  living  in  various  health  resorts  in  Europe  and  America ;  in  1888  he  went  for  a 
long  voyage  in  the  Pacific,  at  the  end  of  which  he  bought  an  estate  and  settled  in  Samoa. 
He  endeared  himself  to  the  natives,  and  in  spite  of  continued  illness,  did  some  of  his  best 
literary  work.  The  year  before  his  death  he  wrote :  '  For  fourteen  years  I  have  not  had 
a  day's  real  health ;  I  have  wakened  sick  and  gone  to  bed  weary ;  and  I  have  done  my  work 
unflinchingly.  I  have  written  in  bed,  and  written  out  of  it,  written  in  hemorrhages,  written 
in  sickness,  written  torn  by  coughing,  written  when  my  baud  swam  for  weakness;  and  for 
so  long,  it  seems  to  me  I  have  won  my  wager  and  recovered  my  glove.  I  am  better  now, 
have  been,  rightly  speaking,  since  first  I  came  to  the  Pacific;  and  still,  few  are  the  days  when 
I  am  not  in  some  physical  distress.  And  the  battle  goes  on  —  ill  or  well,  is  a  trifle:  so  as  it 
goes.  I  was  made  for  a  contest,  and  the  Powers  have  so  willed  that  my  battlefield  should  be 
this  dingy,  inglorious  one  of  the  bed  and  the  physic  bottle.'  He  was  buried  at  the  top  of 
the  mountain  overlooking  his  Samoan  home  in  a  tomb  inscribed  with  his  own  Requiem: 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 

And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


928 


I 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME  929 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME  tion,    ignorance    of   his    neighbors    is    the 

,^,.    .  .     ,  character  of  the  typical    John   Bull.     His 

This  ,s  no  my  am  house;  j^  ^  domineering  niture/ steady  in  fight, 

I  ken  by  the  b.ggm    o  t.  imperious  to  comma.Kl,   but  neither  curi- 

Two  recent  books, ^  one  by  Mr.  Grant  S  ous  nor  quick  about  the  life  of  others. 
White  on  England,  one  on  France  by  the  In  French  colonies,  and  still  more  in  the 
diabolically  clever  Mr.  Hillebrand,  may  Dutch,  I  have  read  that  there  is  an  im- 
w^ll  have  set  people  thinking  on  the  di-  mediate  and  lively  contact  between  the 
visions  of  races  and  nations.  Such  dominant  and  the  dominated  race,  that  a 
thoughts  should  arise  with  particular  con-  10  certain  sympathy  is  begotten,  or  at  the 
gruity  and  force  to  inhabitants  of  that  least  a  transfusion  of  prejudices,  making 
United  Kingdom,  people  from  so  many  life  easier  for  both.  But  the  English- 
different  stocks,  babbling  so  many  differ-  man  sits  apart,  Inirsting  with  pride  and 
ent  dialects,  and  offering  in  its  extent  ignorance.  He  figures  among  his  vassals 
such  singular  contrasts,  from  the  busiest  '5  in  the  hour  of  peace  with  the  same  dis- 
over-population  to  the  unkindliest  desert,  dainful  air  that  led  him  on  to  victory, 
from  the  Black  Country  to  the  Moor  of  A  passing  enthusiasm  for  some  foreign 
Rannoch.  It  is  not  only  when  we  cross  art  or  fashion  may  deceive  the  world,  it 
the  seas  that  we  go  abroad ;  there  are  cannot  impose  upon  his  intimates.  He 
foreign  parts  of  England ;  and  the  race  20  may  be  amused  by  a  foreigner  as  by  a 
that  has  conquered  so  wide  an  empire  monkey,  but  he  will  never  condescend  to 
has  not  yet  managed  to  assimilate  the  study  him  with  any  patience.  Miss  Bird, 
islands  whence  she  sprang.  Ireland,  an  authoress  with  whom  I  profess  myself 
Wales,  and  the  Scottish  mountains  still  in  love,  declares  all  the  viands  of  Japan 
cling,  in  part,  to  their  old  Gaelic  speech.  25  to  be  uneatable  —  a  staggering  pretension. 
It  was  but  the  other  day  that  English  So,  when  the  Prince  of  Wales's  marriage 
triumphed  in  Cornwall,  and  they  still  was  celel^rated  at  Mentone  by  a  dinner 
show  in  Mousehole,  on  St.  Michael's  Bay,  to  the  Mentonese,  it  was  proposed  to  give 
the  house  of  the  last  Cornish-speaking  them  solid  English  fare  —  roast  beef  and 
woman.  English  itself,  which  will  now  3°  plum  pudding,  and  no  tomfoolery.  Here 
frank  the  traveler  through  the  most  of  we  have  either  pole  of  the  Britannic  folly. 
North  America,  through  the  greater  South  We  will  not  eat  the  food  of  any  foreigner; 
Sea  Islands,  in  India,  along  much  of  the  nor,  when  we  have  the  chance,  will  we 
coast  of  Africa,  and  in  the  ports  of  China  suffer  him  to  eat  of  it  himself.  The  same 
and  Japan,  is  still  to  be  heard,  in  its  home  35  spirit  inspired  Miss  Bird's  American 
country,  in  half  a  hundred  varying  stages  missionaries,  who  had  come  thousands  of 
of  transition.  You  may  go  all  over  the  miles  to  change  the  faith  of  Japan,  and 
States,  and  —  setting  aside  the  actual  in-  openly  professed  their  ignorance  of  the 
trusion  and  influence  of  foreigners,  negro,  religions  they  were  trying  to  supplant. 
French,  or  Chinese  —  you  shall  scarce  40  I  quote  an  American  in  this  connection 
meet  with  so  marked  a  difference  of  ac-  without  scruple.  Uncle  Sam  is  better 
cent  as  in  the  forty  miles  between  Edin-  than  John  Bull,  but  he  is  tarred  with  the 
burgh  and  Glasgow,  or  of  dialect  as  in  English  stick.  For  Mr.  Grant  White  the 
the  hundred  miles  between  Edinburgh  and  States  are  the  New  England  States  and 
Aberdeen.  Book  English  has  gone  round  45  nothing  more.  He  wonders  at  the  amount 
the  world,  but  at  home  we  still  preserve  of  drinking  in  London;  let  him  try  San 
tlie  racy  idioms  of  our  fathers,  and  every  Francisco.  He  wittily  reproves  English 
county,  in  some  parts  every  dale,  has  its  ignorance  as  to  the  status  of  women  in 
own  quality  of  speech,  vocal  or  verbal.  America ;  but  has  he  not  himself  forgotten 
In  like  manner,  local  custom  and  50  Wyoming?  The  name  Yankee,  of  which 
prejudice,  even  local  religion  and  local  he  is  so  tenacious,  is  used  over  the  most 
law,  linger  on  into  the  latter  end  of  the  of  the  great  Union  as  a  term  of  reproach, 
nineteenth  century  —  iinpcria  in  impcrio  The  Yankee  States,  of  which  he  is  so 
[kingdoms  within  the  kingdom],  foreign  staunch  a  subject,  are  but  a  drop  in  the 
things  at  home.  55  bucket.     And  we  find  in  his  book  a  vast 

In  spite  of  these  promptings  to  reflec-      virgin  ignorance  of  the  life  and  prospects 
11881.  of  America;  every  view  partial,  parochial, 


930  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

not  raised  to  the  horizon ;  the  moral  feel-  but  it  does  not  stand  alone  in  the  experi- 
ing   proper,    at   the    largest,    to    a   clique      ence  of  Scots. 

of   States;   and   the   whole   scope   and   at-  England  and  Scotland  differ,  indeed,  in 

mosphere  not  American,  but  merely  law,  in  history,  in  religion,  in  education, 
Yankee.  I  will  go  far  beyond  him  in  5  and  in  the  very  look  of  nature  and 
reprobating  the  assumption  and  the  in-  men's  faces,  not  always  widely,  but  al- 
civility  of  my  countryfolk  to  their  cousins  ways  trenchantly.  Many  particulars  that 
from  beyond  the  sea ;  I  grill  in  my  blood  struck  Mr.  Grant  White,  a  Yankee,  struck 
over  the  silly  rudeness  of  our  newspaper  me,  a  Scot,  no  less  forcibly ;  he  and  I 
articles ;  and  I  do  not  know  where  to  10  felt  ourselves  foreigners  on  many  com- 
look  when  I  find  myself  in  company  with  mon  provocations.  A  Scotchman  may 
an  American  and  see  my  countrymen  un-  tramp  the  better  part  of  Europe  and  the 
bending  to  him  as  to  a  performing  dog.  United  States,  and  never  again  receive  so 
But  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Grant  White  ex-  vivid  an  impression  of  foreign  travel  and 
ample  were  better  than  precept.  Wyom-  15  strange  lands  and  manners  as  on  his  first 
ing,  is,  after  all,  more  readily  accessible  excursion  into  England.  The  change 
to  Mr.  White  than  Boston  to  the  Eng-  from  a  hilly  to  a  level  country  strikes  him 
lish,  and  the  New  England  self-sufficiency  with  delighted  wonder.  Along  the  flat 
no  better  justified  than  the  Britannic.  horizon    there    arise    the    frequent   vener- 

It  is  so,  perhaps,  in  all  countries ;  per-  20  able  towers  of  churches.  He  sees  at  the 
haps  in  all,  men  are  most  ignorant  of  the  end  of  airy  vistas  the  revolution  of  the 
foreigners  at  home.  John  Bull  is  igno-  windmill  sails.  He  may  go  where  he 
rant  of  the  States;  he  is  probably  pleases  in  the  future;  he  may  see  Alps, 
ignorant  of  India;  but  considering  his  and  Pyramids,  and  lions;  but  it  will  be 
opportunities,  he  is  far  more  ignorant  of  25  hard  to  beat  the  pleasure  of  that  moment, 
countries  nearer  his  own  door.  There  is  There  are,  indeed,  few  merrier  spectacles 
one  country,  for  instance  —  its  frontier  than  that  of  many  windmills  bickering 
not  so  far  from  London,  its  people  closely  together  in  a  fresh  breeze  over  a  woody 
akin,  its  language  the  same  in  all  essen-  country;  their  halting  alacrity  of  move- 
tials  with  the  English  —  of  which  I  will  ^0  ment,  their  pleasant  business,  making 
go  bail  he  knows  nothing.  His  ignorance  bread  all  day  with  uncouth  gesticulations, 
of  the  sister  kingdom  cannot  be  described;  their  air,  gigantically  human,  as  of  a 
it  can  only  be  illustrated  by  anecdote.  I  creature  half  alive,  put  a  spirit  of  ro- 
once  traveled  with  a  man  of  plausible  mance  into  the  tamest  landscape.  When 
manners  and  good  intelligence, —  a  uni-  3s  fhe  Scotch  child  sees  them  first  he  falls 
versity  man,  as  the  phrase  goes, —  a  man,  immediately  in  love ;  and  from  that  time 
besides,  who  had  taken  his  degree  in  life  forward  windmills  _  keep  turning  in  his 
and  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  the  age  dreams.  And  so,  in  their  degree,  with 
we  live  in.  We  were  deep  in  talk,  whirl-  every  feature  of  the  life  and  landscape, 
ing  between  Peterborough  and  London ;  40  The  warm,  habitable  age  of  towns  and 
among  other  things,  he  began  to  describe  hamlets,  the  green,  settled,  ancient  look 
some  piece  of  legal  injustice  he  had  re-  of  the  country;  the  lush  hedgerows,  stiles 
cently  encountered,  and  I  observed  in  my  and  privy  pathways  in  the  fields;  the 
innocence  that  things  were  not  so  in  sluggish,  brimming  rivers ;  chalk  and 
Scotland.  *I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  he,  45  smock-frocks;  chimes  of  bells  and  the 
'  this  is  a  matter  of  law.'  He  had  never  rapid,  pertly  sounding  English  speech 
heard  of  the  Scots  law;  nor  did  he  choose  they  are  all  new  to  the  curiosity;  they 
to  be  informed.  The  law  was  the  same  are  all  set  to  English  airs  in  the  child's 
for  the  whole  country,  he  told  me  story  that  he  tells  himself  at  night.  The 
roundly;  every  child  knew  that.  At  last,  50  sharp  edge  of  novelty  wears  off;  the  feel- 
to  settle  matters,  I  explained  to  him  that  ing  is  scotched,  but  I  doubt  whether  it  is 
I  was  a  member  of  a  Scottish  legal  body,  ever  killed.  Rather  it  keeps  returning, 
and  had  stood  the  brunt  of  an  examina-  ever  the  more  rarely  and  strangely,  and 
tion  in  the  very  law  in  question.  There-  even  in  scenes  to  which  you  have  been 
upon  he  looked  me  for  a  moment  full  in  55  long  accustomed  suddenly  awakes  and 
the  face  and  dropped  the  conversation.  gives  a  relish  to  enjoyment  or  heightens 
This  is  a  monstrous  instance,  if  you  like,      the  sense  of  isolation. 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME  931 

One  thing  especially  continues  unfamil-  wrong  direction.  Yet  surely  his  com- 
iar  to  the  Scotchman's  eye  —  the  domestic  plaint  is  grounded;  surely  the  speech  of 
architecture,  the  look  of  streets  and  Englishmen  is  too  often  lacking  in  gener- 
buildings ;  the  quaint,  venerable  age  of  ous  ardor,  the  better  part  of  the  man  too 
many,  and  the  thin  walls  and  warm  5  often  withheld  from  the  social  commerce, 
coloring  of  all.  We  have,  in  Scotland,  and  the  contact  of  mind  with  mind  evaded 
far  fewer  ancient  buildings,  above  all  in  as  with  terror.  A  Scotch  peasant  will 
country  places ;  and  those  that  we  have  talk  more  liberally  out  of  his  own  ex- 
are  all  of  hewn  or  harled  masonry.  perience.  He  will  not  put  you  by  with 
Wood  has  been  sparingly  used  in  their  10  conversational  counters  and  small  jests ; 
construction ;  the  window-frames  are  he  will  give  you  the  best  of  himself,  like 
sunken  in  the  wall,  not  flat  to  the  front,  one  interested  in  life  and  man's  chief 
as  in  England;  the  roofs  are  steeper-  end.  A  Scotchman  is  vain,  interested  in 
pitched;  even  a  hill  farm  will  have  a  himself  and  others,  eager  for  sympathy, 
massy,  square,  cold,  and  permanent  ap-  15  setting  forth  his  thoughts  and  experience 
pearance.  English  houses,  in  comparison,  in  the  best  light.  The  egoism  of  the 
have  the  look  of  cardboard  toys,  such  as  Englishman  is  self-contained.  He  does 
a  puff  might  shatter.  And  to  this  the  not  seek  to  proselytize.  He  takes  no  in- 
Scotchman  never  becomes  used.  His  eye  terest  in  Scotland  or  the  Scotch,  and, 
can  never  rest  consciously  on  one  of  these  20  what  is  the  unkindest  cut  of  all,  he  does 
brick  houses  —  rickles  of  brick,  as  he  not  care  to  justify  his  indifference.  Give 
might  call  them  —  or  on  one  of  these  him  the  wages  of  going  on  and  being  an 
flat-chested  streets,  but  he  is  instantly  re-  Englishman,  that  is  all  he  asks;  and  in 
minded  where  he  is,  and  instantly  travels  the  meantime,  while  you  continue  to 
back  in  fancy  to  his  home.  '  This  is  no  25  associate,  he  would  rather  not  be  re- 
my  ain  house ;  I  ken  by  the  biggin'  o't.'  minded  of  your  baser  origin.  Compared 
And  yet  perhaps  it  is  his  own,  bought  with  the  grand,  tree-like  self-sufiiciency 
with  his  own  money,  the  key  of  it  long  of  his  demeanor,  the  vanity  and  curiosity 
polished  in  his  pocket ;  but  it  has  not  yet,  of  the  Scot  seem  uneasy,  vulgar,  and  inl- 
and never  will  be,  thoroughly  adopted  by  30  modest.  That  you  should  continually  try 
his  imagination ;  nor  does  he  cease  to  re-  to  establish  human  and  serious  relations, 
member  that,  in  the  whole  length  and  that  you  should  actually  feel  an  interest 
breadth  of  his  native  country,  there  was  in  John  Bull,  and  desire  and  invite  a  re- 
no  building  even  distantly  resembling  it.      turn    of    interest    from    him,    may    argue 

But  it  is  not  alone  in  scenery  and  35  something  more  awake  and  lively  in  your 
architecture  that  we  count  England  for-  mind,  but  it  still  puts  you  in  the  attitude 
eign.  The  constitution  of  society,  the  of  a  suitor  and  a  poor  relation.  Thus 
very  pillars  of  the  empire,  surprise  and  even  the  lowest  class  of  the  educated 
even  pain  us.  The  dull,  neglected  peas-  English  towers  over  a  Scotchman  by  the 
ant,     sunk     in     matter,     insolent,     gross,  40  head  and  shoulders. 

and    servile,    makes    a    startling    contrast  Different   indeed   is   the   atmosphere   in 

with  our  own  long-legged,  long-headed,  which  Scotch  and  English  youth  begin 
thoughtful,  Bible-quoting  plowman.  A  to  look  about  them,  come  to  themselves 
week  or  two  in  such  a  place  as  Suffolk  in  life,  and  gather  up  those  first  apprehen- 
leaves  the  Scotchman  gasping.  It  seems  45  sions  which  are  the  material  of  future 
incredible  that  within  the  boundaries  of  thought  and,  to  a  great  extent,  the  rule 
his  own  island  a  class  should  have  been  of  future  conduct.  I  have  been  to  school 
thus  forgotten.  Even  the  educated  and  in  both  countries,  and  I  found,  in  the  boys 
intelligent,  who  hold  our  own  opinions  of  the  North,  something  at  once  rougher 
and  speak  in  our  own  words,  yet  seem  50  and  more  tender,  at  once  more  reserve 
to  hold  them  with  a  difference  or  from  and  more  expansion,  a  greater  habitual 
another  reason,  and  to  speak  on  all  things  distance  checkered  by  glimpses  of  a 
with  less  interest  and  conviction.  The  nearer  intimacy,  and  on  the  whote  wider 
first  shock  of  Englisli  society  is  like  a  extremes  of  temperament  and  sensibility, 
cold  plunge.  It  is  possible  that  the  Scot  55  The  boy  of  the  South  seems  more  whole- 
comes  looking  for  too  much,  and  to  be  some,  but  less  thoughtful;  he  gives  him- 
sure   his  first  experiment  will   be   in   the      self  to  games  as  to  a  business,  striving  to 


932 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


excel,  but  is  not  readily  transported  by 
imagination;  the  type  remains  with  me  as 
cleaner  in  mind  and  body,  more  active, 
fonder  of  eating,  endowed  with  a  lesser 
and  a  less  romantic  sense  of  life  and  of 
the  future,  and  more  innncrscd  in  present 
circumstances.  And  certainly,  for  one 
thing,  English  boys  are  younger  for  their 
age.  Sabbath  observance  make  a  series 
of  grim,  and  perhaps  serviceable,  pauses 
in  the  tenor  of  Scotch  boyhood  —  days 
of  great  stillness  and  solitude  for  the  re- 
liellious  mind,  when  in  the  dearth  of 
books  and  play,  and  in  the  intervals  of 
studying  the  Shorter  Catechism,  the  intel- 
lect and  senses  prey  upon  and  test  each 
other.  The  typical  English  Sunday,  with 
the  huge  midday  dinner  and  the  plethoric 
afternoon,  leads  perhaps  to  different  re- 
sults. About  the  very  cradle  of  the  Scot 
there  goes  a  hum  of  metaphysical  di- 
vinity; and  the  whole  of  two  divergent 
systems  is  summed  up,  not  merely  spe- 
ciously, in  the  two  first  questions  of  the 
rival  catechisms,  the  English  tritely  in- 
quiring, 'What  is  your  name?'  the  Scot- 
tish striking  at  the  very  roots  of  life  with, 
'  What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  ?  '  and  an- 
swering nobly,  if  obscurely,  'To  glorify 
God  and  to  enjoy  Him  forever.'  I  do 
not  wish  to  make  an  idol  of  the  Shorter 
Catechism ;  but  the  fact  of  such  a  ques- 
tion being  asked  opens  to  us  Scotch  a 
great  field  of  speculation;  and  the  fact 
that  it  is  asked  of  all  of  us,  from  the  peer 
to  the  plowboy,  binds  us  more  nearly 
together.  No  Englishman  of  Byron's 
age,  character,  and  history,  would  have 
had  patience  for  long  theological  discus- 
sions on  the  way  to  fight  for  Greece; 
but  the  daft  Gordon  blood  and  the  Aber- 
donian  schooldays  kept  their  influence  to 
the  end.  We  have  spoken  of  the  material 
conditions ;  nor  need  much  more  be  said 
of  these :  of  the  land  lying  everywhere 
more  exposed,  of  the  wind  always  louder 
and  bleaker,  of  the  black,  roaring  win- 
ters, of  the  gloom  of  high-lying,  old  stone 
cities,  imminent  on  the  windy  seaboard ; 
compared  with  the  level  streets,  the  warm 
coloring  of  the  brick,  the  domestic  quaint- 
ness  of  the  architecture,  among  which 
English  children  begin  to  grow  up  and 
come  to  themselves  in  life.  As  the  stage 
of  the  university  approaches,  the  con- 
trast becomes  more  express.  The  English 
lad  goes  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge;  there. 


in  an  ideal  world  of  gardens,  to  lead  a 
semi-scenic  life,  costumed,  disciplined, 
and  drilled  by  proctors.  Nor  is  this  to  be 
regarded  merely  as  a  stage  of  education ; 
5  it  is  a  piece  of  privilege  besides,  and  a 
step  that  separates  him  further  from  the 
bulk  of  his  compatriots.  At  an  earlier 
age  the  Scottish  lad  begins  his  greatly 
different  experience  of  crowded  class- 
ic rooms,  of  a  gaunt  quadrangle,  of  a  bell 
hourly  booming  over  the  traffic  of  the 
city  to  recall  him  from  the  public-house 
where  he  has  been  lunching,  or  the 
streets    where    he    has    been    wandering 

15  fancy-free.  His  college  life  has  little  of 
restraint,  and  nothing  of  necessary  gen- 
tility. He  will  find  no  quiet  clique  of  the 
exclusive,  studious,  and  cultured;  no  rot- 
ten borough  of  the  arts.     All  classes  rub 

20  shoulders  on  the  greasy  benches.  The 
raffish  young  gentleman  in  gloves  must 
measure  his  scholarship  with  the  plain, 
clownish  laddie  from  the  parish  school. 
They   separate,   at  the   session's  end,   one 

25  to  smoke  cigars  about  a  watering-place, 
the  other  to  resume  the  labors  of  the 
field  beside  his  peasant  family.  The  first 
muster  of  a  college  class  in  Scotland  is  a 
scene  of  curious  and  painful  interest;  so 

30  many  lads,  fresh  from  the  heather,  hang 
round  the  stove  in  cloddish  embarrass- 
ment, ruffled  by  the  presence  of  their 
smarter  comrades,  and  afraid  of  the  sound 
of  their  own  rustic  voices.     It  was  in  these 

35  early  days,  I  think,  that  Professor  Blackie 
won  the  affection  of  his  pupils,  putting 
these  uncouth,  umbrageous  students  at 
their  ease  with  ready  human  geniality. 
Thus,  at  least,  we  have  a  healthy  demo- 

4^  cratic  atmosphere  to  breathe  in  while  at 
work;  even  when  there  is  no  cordiality 
there  is  always  a  juxtaposition  of  the 
different  classes,  and  in  the  competition 
of   study   the    intellectual    power   of   each 

45  is  plainly  demonstrated  to  the  other. 
Our  tasks  ended,  we  of  the  North  go 
forth  as  freemen  into  the  humming,  lamp- 
lit  city.  At  five  o'clock  you  may  see  the 
last  of  us  hiving  from  the  college  gates, 

50  in  the  glare  of  the  shop  windows,  under 
the  green  glimmer  of  the  winter  sunset. 
The  frost  tingles  in  our  blood ;  no  proctor 
lies  in  wait  to  intercept  us;  till  the  bell 
sounds  again,  we  are  the  masters  of  the 

5^  world ;  and  some  portion  of  our  lives  is 
always  Saturday,  la  trcve  de  Dicn  [the 
truce  of  God]. 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME  933 

Nor  must  we  omit  the  sense  of  the  Highlander  wore  a  different  costume, 
nature  of  his  country  and  his  country's  spoke  a  different  language,  worshipped  in 
history  gradually  growing  in  the  child's  another  church,  held  different  morals, 
mind  from  story  and  from  observation.  and  obeyed  a  different  social  constitution 
A  Scottish  child  hears  much  of  ship-  5  from  his  fellow-countrymen  either  of  the 
wreck,  outlying  iron  skerries,  pitiless  South  or  North.  Even  the  English,  it  is 
breakers,  and  great  sea-lights;  much  of  recorded,  did  not  loathe  the  Highlander 
heathery  mountains,  wild  clans,  and  and  the  Highland  costume  as  they  were 
hunted  Covenanters.  Breaths  come  to  loathed  by  the  remainder  of  the  Scotch, 
him  in  song  of  the  distant  Cheviots  and  10  Yet  the  Highlander  felt  himself  a  Scot, 
the  ring  of  foraying  hoofs.  He  glories  He  would  willingly  raid  into  the  Scotch 
in  his  hard-fisted  forefathers,  of  the  iron  lowlands;  but  his  courage  failed  him  at 
girdle  and  the  handful  of  oatmeal,  who  the  border,  and  he  regarded  England  as  a 
rode  so  swiftly  and  lived  so  sparely  on  perilous,  unhomely  land.  When  the 
their  raids.  Poverty,  ill-luck,  enterprise,  ,5  Black  Watch,  after  years  of  foreign 
and  constant  resolution  are  the  fibers  of  service,  returned  to  Scotland,  veterans 
the  legend  of  his  country's  history.  The  leaped  out  and  kissed  the  earth  at  Port 
heroes  and  kings  of  Scotland  have  been  Patrick.  They  had  been  in  Ireland, 
tragically  fated;  the  most  marking  in-  stationed  among  men  of  their  own  race 
cidents  in  Scottish  history  —  Flodden,  20  and  language,  where  they  were  well  liked 
Darien,  or  the  Forty-five  —  were  still  and  treated  with  affection;  but  it  was  the 
either  failures  or  defeats;  and  the  fall  soil  of  Galloway  that  they  kissed  at  the 
of  Wallace  and  the  repeated  reverses  of  extreme  end  of  the  hostile  lowlands, 
the  Bruce  combine  with  the  very  small-  among  a  people  who  did  not  understand 
ness  of  the  country  to  teach  rather  a  ^5  their  speech,  and  who  had  hated,  harried, 
moral  than  a  material  criterion  for  life.  and  hanged  them  since  the  dawn  of  his- 
Britain  is  altogether  small,  the  mere  tap-  tory.  Last,  and  perhaps  most  curious, 
root  of  her  extended  empire;  Scotland,  the  sons  of  chieftans  were  often  educated 
again,  which  alone  the  Scottish  boy  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  They  went 
adopts  in  his  imagination,  is  but  a  little  30  abroad  speaking  Gaelic;  they  returned 
part  of  that,  and  avowedly  cold,  sterile,  speaking,  not  English,  but  the  broad 
and  unpopulous.  It  is  not  so  for  noth-  dialect  of  Scotland.  Now,  what  idea 
ing.  I  once  seemed  to  have  perceived  had  they  in  their  minds  when  they  thus, 
in  an  American  boy  a  greater  readiness  in  thought,  identified  themselves  with 
of  sympathy  for  lands  that  are  great,  and  35  their  ancestral  enemies?  What  was  the 
rich,  and  growing,  like  his  own.  It  sense  in  which  they  were  Scotch  and  not 
proved  to  be  quite  otherwise:  a  mere  English,  or  Scotch  and  not  Irish?  Can 
dumb  piece  of  boyish  romance,  that  I  a  bare  name  be  thus  influential  on  the 
had  lacked  penetration  to  divine.  But  the  minds  and  affections  of  men,  and  a  polit- 
error  serves  the  purpose  of  my  argument ;  40  ical  aggregation  blind  them  to  the  nature 
for  I  am  sure,  at  least,  that  the  heart  of  of  facts?  The  story  of  the  Austrian 
young  Scotland  will  be  always  touched  Empire  would  seem  to  answer.  No;  the 
more  nearly  by  paucity  of  number  and  far  more  galling  business  of  Ireland 
Spartan  poverty  of  life.  clenches  the  negative  from  nearer  home. 

So  we  may  argue,  and  yet  the  differ-  45  Is  it  common  education,  common  morals, 
ence  is  not  explained.  That  Shorter  a  common  language,  or  a  common  faith. 
Catechism  which  I  took  as  being  so  that  joins  men  into  nations?  There 
typical  of  Scotland,  was  yet  composed  in  were  practically  none  of  these  in  the  case 
the    city    of    Westminster.     The    division      we  are  considering. 

of  races  is  more  sharply  marked  within  5o  The  fact  remains :  in  spite  of  the  dif- 
the  borders  of  Scotland  itself  than  be-  ference  of  blood  and  language,  the  Low- 
tween  the  countries.  Galloway  and  lander  feels  himself  the  sentimental 
Buchan,  Lothian  and  Lochaber,  are  like  countryman  of  the  Highlander.  When 
foreign  parts;  yet  you  may  choose  a  man  they  meet  abroad,  they  fall  upon 
from  any  of  them,  and,  ten  to  one,  he  ^5  each  other's  necks  in  spirit;  even 
shall  prove  to  have  the  headmark  of  a  at  home  there  is  a  kind  of  clannish 
Scot.     A    century    and    a    half    ago    the      intimacy    in    their    talk.     But     from     bis 


934   ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

compatriot  in  the  South  the  Lowlander  It  is  a  staggering  thought,  and  one  that 
.stands  consciously  apart.  He  has  had  a  affords  a  fine  figure  of  the  imperishahiHty 
(Hfferent  training;  he  ohcys  different  of  men's  acts,  that  the  steaUh  of  the 
laws;  he  makes  his  will  in  other  terms,  private  inquiry  office  can  he  carried  so 
is  otherwise  divorced  and  married;  his  5  far  back  into  the  dead  and  dusty  past, 
eyes  are  not  at  home  in  an  English  land-  We  are  not  so  soon  quit  of  our  concerns 
scape  or  with  English  houses;  his  ear  as  Villon  fancied.  In  the  extreme  of  dis- 
continues to  remark  the  English  speech ;  solution,  when  not  so  much  as  a  man's 
and  even  though  his  tongue  acquire  the  name  is  remembered,  when  his  dust  is 
Southern  knack,  he  will  still  have  a  lo  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  and  perhaps 
strong  Scotch  accent  of  the  mind.  the    very   grave   and    the   very   graveyard 

(1882)  where  he  was  laid  to  rest  have  been  for- 

gotten, desecrated,  and  buried  under  pop- 
ulous towns, —  even  in  this  extreme  let  an 

FRANCOIS   VILLON,    STUDENT,      i5  antiquary    fall    across    a    sheet    of   manu- 

POET    AND  HOUSEBREAKER  script,  and  the  name  will  be  recalled,  the 

'  old  infamy  will  pop  out  into  daylight  like 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  revo-  a  toad  out  of  a  fissure  in  the  rock,  and 
lutions  in  literary  history  is  the  sudden  the  shadow  of  the  shade  of  what  was 
bull's-eye  light  cast  by  M.  Longnon  on  the  ^°  p"ce  a  man  will  be  heartdy  pilloried  by 
obscure  existence  of  Franqois  Villon.^  his  descendants.  A  httle  while  ago  and 
His  book  is  not  remarkable  merely  as  a  X^^O"  was  almost  totally  forgotten;  then 
chapter  of  biography  exhumed  after  four  he  was  revived  for  the  sake  of  his  verses ; 
centuries.  To  readers  of  the  poet  it  will  and  now  he  is  being  revived  with  a  ven- 
recall,  with  a  flavor  of  satire,  that  char- ^5  geance  in  the  detection  of  his  misdemean- 
acteristic  passage  in  which  he  bequeaths  o^s.  How  unsubstantial  is  this  projection 
his  spectacles  —  with  a  humorous  reserva-  of  a  man  s  existence,  which  can  he  in 
tion  of  the  case -to  the  hospital  for  abeyance  for  centur.es  and  then  be 
blind  paupers  known  as  the  Fifteen-Score,  brushed  up  again  and  set  forth  for  the 
Thus  equipped,  let  the  blind  paupers  go  30  consideration  of  posterity  by  a  few  dips 
and  separate  the  good  from  the  bad  in  '"  an  antiquary  s  inkpot!  This  precari- 
the  cemetery  of  the  Innocents!  For  his  ous  tenure  of  fame  goes  a  long  way  to 
own  part  the  poet  can  see  no  distinction,  justify  those  (and  they  are  not  few) 
Much  have  the  dead  people  made  of  their  who  prefer  cakes  and  cream  in  the  im- 
advantages.  What  does  it  matter  now  35  mediate  present, 
that    they    have    lain    in    state    beds    and 

nourished   portly   bodies   upon   cakes   and  ^  wild  youth. 

cream  !     Here  they  all  lie,  to  be  trodden  Francois  de  Montcorbier,  alias  Fran<;ois 

in  the  mud ;  the  large  estate  and  the  small,  des  Loges,  aliais  Franqois  Villon,  alias 
sounding  virtue  and  adroit  or  powerful  40  Michel  Mouton,  Master  of  Arts  in  the 
vice,  in  very  much  the  same  condition;  University  of  Paris,  was  born  in  that 
and  a  bishop  not  to  be  distinguished  from  city  in  the  summer  of  1431.  It  was  a 
a  lamplighter  with  even  the  strongest  memorable  year  for  France  on  other  and 
spectacles.  higher     considerations.     A     great-hearted 

Such  was  Villon's  cynical  philosophy.  45  girl  and  a  poor-hearted  boy  made,  the  one 
Four  hundred  years  after  his  death,  when  her  last,  the  other  his  first  appearance 
surely  all  danger  might  be  considered  at  on  the  public  stage  of  that  unhappy  coun- 
an  end  a  pair  of  critical  spectacles  have  try.  On  the  30th  of  May  the  ashes  of 
been  applied  to  his  own  remains;  and  Joan  of  Arc  were  thrown  into  the  Seine, 
thouMi  he  left  behind  him  a  sufficiently  50  and  on  the  2d  of  December,  our  Henry 
ragged  reputation  from  the  first,  it  is  Sixth  made  his  joyous  entry  dismally 
only  after  these  four  hundred  years  that  enough  into  disaffected  and  depopulating 
his  delinquencies  have  been  finally  tracked  Paris.  Sword  and  fire  still  ravaged  the 
home,  and  we  can  assign  him  to  his  open  country.  On  a  single  April  Satur- 
proper  place  among  the  good  or  wicked.  55  day  twelve  hundred  persons,  besides  chil- 
'       .         ,.  „         .       ,,.,.„       dren,     made     their     escape     out     of     the 

'  Ftudc       Biosrrahlnaue      siir      Francois       Villon.  ' .  •      1       /-ni       1  •  j. 

Paris     H.   Mem,  Starving  capital.     The  hangman,  as  is  not 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  935 


uninteresting  to  note  in  connection  with  University  of  Paris  were,  to  our  way  of 
Master  Francis,  was  kept  hard  at  work  thinking,  somewhat  incomplete.  Worldly 
in  143 1 ;  on  the  last  of  April  and  on  the  and  monkish  elements  were  presented  in 
4th  of  May  alone,  sixty-two  bandits  a  curious  confusion,  which  the  youth 
swung  from  Paris  gibbets.^  A  more  con-  5  might  disentangle  for  himself.  If  he  had 
fused  or  troublous  time  it  would  have  an  opportunity,  on  the  one  hand,  of  ac- 
been  difficult  to  select  for  a  start  in  life.  quiring  much  hair-drawn  divinity  and  a 
Not  even  a  man's  nationality  was  cer-  taste  for  formal  disputation,  he  was  put 
tain ;  for  the  people  of  Paris  there  was  in  the  way  of  much  gross  and  flaunting 
no  such  thing  as  a  Frenchman.  The  10  vice  upon  the  other.  The  lecture  room 
English  were  the  English,  indeed,  but  the  of  a  scholastic  doctor  was  sometimes  un- 
French  were  only  the  Armagnacs,  whom,  der  the  same  roof  with  establishments 
with  Joan  of  Arc  at  their  head,  they  had  of  a  very  different  and  peculiarly  unedify- 
beaten  back  from  under  their  ramparts  ing  order.  The  students  had  extraordi- 
not  two  years  before.  Such  public  senti-  15  nary  privileges,  which  by  all  accounts 
ment  as  they  had  centered  about  their  they  abused  extraordinarily.  And  while 
dear  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  the  dear  some  condemned  themselves  to  an  almost 
Duke  had  no  more  urgent  business  than  sepulchral  regularity  and  seclusion,  others 
to  keep  out  of  their  neighborhood.  .  .  .  fled  the  schools,  swaggered  in  the  street 
At  least,  and  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  20 '  with  their  thumbs  in  their  girdle,'  passed 
our  disreputable  troubadour  was  tubbed  the  night  in  riot,  and  behaved  themselves 
and  swaddled  as  a  subject  of  the  English  as  the  worthy  forerunners  of  Jehan  Frollo 
crown.  in  the  romance  of  Notre  Dame  dc  Paris. 

We  hear  nothing  of  Villon's  father  ex-  Villon  tells  us  himself  that  he  was  among 
cept  that  he  was  poor  and  of  mean  ex-  25  the  truants,  but  we  hardly  needed  his 
traction.  His  mother  was  given  piously,  avowal.  The  burlesque  erudition  in 
which  does  not  imply  very  much  in  an  which  he  sometimes  indulged  implies  no 
old  Frenchwoman,  and  quite  uneducated.  more  than  the  merest  smattering  of 
He  had  an  uncle,  a  monk  in  an  abbey  knowledge;  whereas  his  acquaintance 
at  Angers,  who  must  have  prospered  be-  30  with  blackguard  haunts  and  industries 
yond  the  family  average,  and  was  re-  could  only  have  been  acquired  by  early 
ported  to  be  worth  five  or  six  hundred  and  consistent  impiety  and  idleness.  He 
crowns.  Of  this  uncle  and  his  money-  passed  his  degrees,  it  is  true;  but  some 
box  the  reader  will  hear  once  more.  In  of  us  who  have  been  to  modern  universi- 
1448  Francis  became  a  student  of  the  35  ties  will  make  their  own  reflections  on 
University  of  Pans;  in  1450  he  took  the  the  value  of  the  test.  As  for  his  three 
degree  of  Bachelor,  and  in  1452  that  of  pupils,  Colin  Laurent,  Girard  Gossouyn, 
Master  of  Arts.  His  bourse,  or  the  sum  and  Jehan  Marceau  —  if  they  were  really 
paid  weekly  for  his  board,  was  of  the  his  pupils  in  any  serious  sense  — what 
amount  of  two  sous.  Now  two  sous  was  40  can  we  say  but  God  help  them  !  And  sure 
about  the  price  of  a  pound  of  salt  butter  enough,  by  his  own  description,  they 
in  the  bad  times  of  1417 ;  it  was  the  price  turned  out  as  ragged,  rowdy,  and  igno- 
of  half-a-pound  in  the  worse  times  of  rant  as  was  to  be  looked  for  from  the 
1419;  and  in  1444,  just  four  years  before  views  and  manners  of  their  rare  pre- 
Villon  joined  the  University,  it  seems  to  45  ceptor. 

have  been  taken  as  the  average  wage  for  At  some  time  or  other,  before  or  dur- 

a  day's  manual  labor.^     In  short,  it  can-      jng   his    university    career,    the    poet    was 

not  have  been  a  very  profuse  allowance      adopted   by   Master   Guillaume  de   \^illon 

to  keep  a  sharp-set  lad  in  breakfast  and      chaplain  of  Saint  Benoit-le-Betourne  near 

supper   for  seven  mortal  days;   and  Vil- 50  the    Sorbonne.     From    him    he    borrowed 

Ion's   share  of  the   cakes   and  pastry   and      the    surname   by   which    he    is   known    to 

general  good  cheer,  to  which  he  is  never      posterity.     It    was    most    likely    from    his 

weary     of     referring,     must     have     been      house,   called   the   Porte  Rouge,   and   sit- 

slender  from  the  first.  uated  in  a  garden  in  the  cloister  of  Saint 

The    educational    arrangements    of    the  55  Benoit.    that    Master    Francis    heard    the 

» Bourgeois  de  Paris,  ed  Pantheon,  pp.  688,  689.      '^^'l  ^f  the  Sorbonne  ring  out  the  Angelus 

^Bourgeois,  pp.  627,  636,  and  725.  while  he  was  finishing  his  Small   Testa- 


936  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

ment  at   Christmastide   in    1456.     Toward      he  tells  us,  the  leisures  of  a  rich  ecclesi- 
this  benefactor  he  usually  gets  credit  for      astic. 

a    respectable    display    of    gratitude.     But  It  was,  perhaps,  of  some  moment  in  the 

with  his  trap  and  pitfall  style  of  writing,  poet's  life  that  he  should  have  inhabited 
it  is  easy  to  make  too  sure.  His  senli-  5  the  cloister  of  Saint  Benoit.  Three  of  the 
ments  are  about  as  much  to  be  relied  on  most  remarkable  among  his  early  ac- 
as  those  of  a  professional  beggar;  and  in  quaintances  are  Catherine  de  Vauselles, 
this,  as  in  so  many  other  matters,  he  for  whom  he  entertained  a  short-lived 
comes  toward  us  whining  and  piping  the  affection  and  an  enduring  and  most  un- 
eye,  and  goes  off  again  with  a  whoop  and  10  manly  resentment ;  Regnier  dc  Montigny, 
his  finger  to  his  nose.  Thus,  he  calls  Guil-  a  young  blackguard  of  good  birth;  and 
laume  de  Villon  his  '  more  than  father,'  Colin  de  Cayeux,  a  fellow  with  a  marked 
thanks  him  with  a  great  show  of  sincerity  aptitude  for  picking  locks.  Now  we  are 
for  having  helped  him  out  of  many  on  a  foundation  of  mere  conjecture,  but 
scrapes,  and  bequeaths  him  his  portion  of  15  it  is  at  least  curious  to  find  that  two  of 
renown.  But  the  portion  of  renown  the  canons  of  Saint  Benoit  answered  re- 
which  belonged  to  a  young  thief,  dis-  spectively  to  the  names  of  Pierre  de 
tinguished  (if,  at  the  period  when  he  Vaucel  and  Etienne  de  Montigny,  and 
wrote  this  legacy,  he  was  distinguished  at  that  there  was  a  householder  called 
all)  for  having  written  some  more  or  less  20  Nicolas  de  Cayeux  m  a  street  —  the  Rue 
obscene  and  scurrilous  ballads,  must  have  des  Poirees  —  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
been  little  fitted  to  gratify  the  self-re-  hood  of  the  cloister.  M.  Longnon  is  al- 
spect  or  increase  the  reputation  of  a  most  ready  to  identify  Catherine  as  the 
benevolent  ecclesiastic.  The  same  re-  niece  of  Pierre;  Regnier  as  the  nephew 
mark  applies  to  a  subsequent  legacy  of  the  25  of  Etienne,  and  Colin  as  the  son  of  Nic- 
poet's  library,  with  specification  of  one  olas.  Without  going  so  far,  it  must  be 
work  which  was  plainly  neither  decent  owned  that  the  approximation  of  names  is 
nor  devout.  We  are  thus  left  on  the  significant.  As  we  go  on  to  see  the  part 
horns  of  a  dilemma.  If  the  chaplain  played  by  each  of  these  persons  in  the 
was  a  godly,  philanthropic  personage,  30  sordid  melodrama  of  the  poet's  life,  we 
who  had  tried  to  graft  good  principles  shall  come  to  regard  it  as  even  more 
and  good  behavior  on  this  wild  slip  of  notable.  Is  it  not  Clough  who  has  re- 
an  adopted  son,  these  jesting  legacies  marked  that,  after  all,  everything  lies  in 
would  obviously  cut  him  to  the  heart.  juxtaposition?  Many  a  man's  destiny 
The  position  of  an  adopted  son  toward  35  has  been  settled  by  nothing  apparently 
his  adoptive  father  is  one  full  of  deli-  more  grave  than  a  pretty  face  on  the 
cacy;  where  a  man  lends  his  name  he  opposite  side  of  the  street  and  a  couple 
looks  for  great  consideration.  And  this  of  bad  companions  round  the  corner, 
legacy  of  Villon's  portion  of  renown  may  Catherine  de  Vauselles    (or  de   Vaucel 

be  taken  as  the  mere  fling  of  an  un-  40  —  the  change  is  within  the  limits  of  Vil- 
regenerate  scapegrace  who  has  wit  Ion's  license)  had  plainly  delighted  in  the 
enough  to  recognize  in  his  own  shame  the  poet's  conversation ;  near  neighbors  pr 
readiest  weapon  of  offense  against  a  not,  they  were  much  together;  and  Vil- 
prosy  benefactor's  feelings.  The  grati-  Ion  made  no  secret  of  his  court,  and  suf- 
tr.de  of  Master  Francis  figures,  on  this  45  fered  himself  to  believe  that  his  feeling 
reading,  as  a  frightful  minus  quality.  If,  was  repaid  in  kind.  This  may  have  been 
on  the  other  hand,  those  jests  were  given  an  error  from  the  first,  or  he  may  have 
and  taken  in  good  humor,  the  whole  re-  estranged  her  by  subsequent  misconduct 
lation  between  the  pair  degenerates  into  or  temerity.  One  can  easily  imagine  Vil- 
the  unedifying  complicity  of  a  debauched  50  Ion  an  impatient  wooer.  One  thing,  at 
old  chaplain  and  a  witty  and  dissolute  least,  is  sure:  that  the  affair  terminated 
young  scholar.  At  this  rate  the  house  in  a  manner  I)itterly  humiliating  to  Mas- 
with  the  red  door  may  have  rung  with  ter  Francis.  In  presence  of  his  lady-love, 
the  most  mundane  minstrelsy;  and^it  may  perhaps  under  her  window  and  certainly 
have  been  below  its  roof'  that  Villon,  S5  with  her  connivance,  he  was  unmercifully 
through  a  hole  in  the  plaster,  studied,  as      thrashed  by  one  Noe  le  Joly  — beaten,  as 


i 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  937 


he  says  himself,  Hke  dirty  linen  on  the  and  counting  as  acquaintances  the  most 
washing-board.  It  is  characteristic  that  disreputable  people  he  could  lay  his  hands 
his  malice  had  notably  increased  between  on :  fellows  who  stole  ducks  in  Paris 
the  time  when  he  wrote  the  Small  Testa-  Moat ;  sergeants  of  the  criminal  court, 
nicnt  immediately  on  the  back  of  the  oc-  5  and  archers  of  the  watch ;  blackguards 
currence,  and  the  time  when  he  wrote  the  who  slept  at  night  under  the  butchers' 
Large  Testament  five  years  after.  On  stalls,  and  for  whom  the  aforesaid  archers 
the  latter  occasion  nothing  is  too  bad  for  peered  about  carefully  with  lanterns; 
his  '  damsel  with  the  twisted  nose,'  as  he  Regnier  de  Montigny,  Colin  de  Cayeux, 
calls  her.  She  is  spared  neither  hint  nor  10  and  their  crew,  all  bound  on  a  favoring 
accusation,  and  he  tells  his  messenger  to  breeze  toward  the  gallows ;  the  disorderly 
accost  her  with  the  vilest  insults.  Villon,  abbess  of  Port  Royal,  who  went  about 
it  is  thought,  was  out  of  Paris  when  these  at  fair  time  with  soldiers  and  thieves,  and 
amenities  escaped  his  pen ;  or  perhaps  the  conducted  her  abbey  on  the  queerest  prin- 
stroijg  arm  of  Noe  le  Joly  would  have  15  ciples ;  and  most  likely  Perette  Mauger, 
been  again  in  requisition.  So  ends  the  the  great  Paris  receiver  of  stolen  goods, 
love  story,  if  love  story  it  may  properly  not  yet  dreaming,  poor  woman !  of  the 
be  called.  Poets  are  not  necessarily  last  scene  of  her  career  when  Henry 
fortunate  in  love;  but  they  usually  fall  Cousin,  executor  of  the  high  justice,  shall 
among  more  romantic  circumstances  and  20  bury  her,  alive  and  most  reluctant,  in 
bear  their  disappointment  with  a  better  front  of  the  new  Montigny  gibbet.^  Nay, 
grace.  our  friend  soon  began  to  take  a  foremost 

The  neighborhood  of  Regnier  de  Mon-  rank  in  this  society.  He  could  string  off 
tigny  and  Colin  de  Cayeux  was  probably  verses,  which  is  always  an  agreeable  tal- 
more  influential  on  his  after  life  than  the  25  ent ;  and  he  could  make  himself  useful  in 
contempt  of  Catherine.  For  a  man  who  many  other  ways.  The  whole  ragged 
is  greedy  of  all  pleasures,  and  provided  army  of  Bohemia,  and  whosoever  loved 
with  little  money  and  less  dignity  of  char-  good  cheer  without  at  all  loving  to  work 
acter,  we  may  prophesy  a  safe  and  speedy  and  pay  for  it,  are  addressed  in  contem- 
voyage  downward.  Humble  or  even3oporary  verses  as  the  'Subjects  of 
truckling  virtue  may  walk  unspotted  in  Franqois  Villon.'  He  was  a  good  genius 
this  life.  But  only  those  who  despise  to  all  hungry  and  unscrupulous  persons; 
the  pleasures  can  afford  to  despise  the  and  became  the  hero  of  a  whole  legendary 
opinion  of  the  world.  A  man  of  a  strong,  cycle  of  tavern  tricks  and  cheateries. 
heady  temperament,  like  Villon,  is  very  35  At  best,  these  were  doubtful  levities, 
differently  tempted.  His  eyes  lay  hold  on  rather  too  thievish  for  a  schoolboy,  rather 
all  provocations  greedily,  and  his  heart  too  gamesome  for  a  thief.  But  he  would 
flames  up  at  a  look  into  imperious  de-  not  linger  long  in  this  equivocal  border 
sire ;  he  is  snared  and  broached  to  by  land.  He  must  soon  have  complied  with 
anything  and  everything,  from  a  pretty  40  his  surroundings.  He  was  one  who 
face  to  a  piece  of  pastry  in  a  cook-shop  would  go  where  the  cannikin  clinked,  not 
window;  he  will  drink  the  rinsing  of  the  caring  who  should  pay;  and  from  supping 
wine  cup,  stay  the  latest  at  the  tavern  in  the  wolves'  den,  there  is  but  a  step  to 
party ;  tap  at  the  lit  windows,  follow  the  hunting  with  the  pack.  And  here,  as  I 
sound  of  singing,  and  beat  the  whole  45  am  on  the  chapter  of  his  degradation,  I 
neighborhood  for  another  reveler,  as  he  shall  say  all  I  mean  to  say  about  its 
goes  reluctantly  homeward;  and  grudge  darkest  expression,  and  be  done  with  it 
himself  every  hour  of  sleep  as  a  black  for  good.  Some  charitable  critics  see  no 
empty  period  in  which  he  cannot  follow  more  than  a  jcn  d 'esprit,  a  graceful  and 
after  pleasure.  Such  a  person  is  lost  50  trifling  exercise  of  the  imagination,  in 
if  he  have  not  dignity,  or,  failing  that,  the  grimy  ballad  of  Fat  Peg  {Grosse 
at  least  pride,  which  is  its  shadow  and  Mar  got).  I  am  not  able  to  follow  these 
in  many  ways  its  substitute.  Master  gentlemen  to  this  polite  extreme.  Out  of 
Francis,  I  fancy,  would  follow  his  own  all  Villon's  works  that  ballad  stands 
eager  instincts  without  much  spiritual  55  forth  in  flaring  reality,  gross  and  ghastly, 
struggle.     And   we    soon    find    him    fallen      as    a    thing   written    in    a    contraction    of 

among    thieves     in     sober,     literal     earnest,  ^Chromquc    Scandaleuse,    ed.    Pantheon,    p.    237. 


938  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

disgust.  M.  Longnon  shows  us  more  and  So  these  three  dallied  in  front  of  St. 
more  clearly  at  every  page  that  we  are  Benoit,  taking  their  pleasure  (pour  soy 
to  read  our  poet  literally,  that  his  names  csbatrc).  Suddenly  there  arrived  upon 
are  the  names  of  real  persons,  and  the  the  scene  a  priest,  Philippe  Chcrmoye  or 
events  he  chronicles  were  actual  events.  5  Sermaise,  also  with  sword  and  cloak,  and 
But  even  if  the  tendency  of  criticism  had  accompanied  by  one  Master  Jehan  le 
run  the  other  way,  this  ballad  would  Mardi.  Sermaise,  according  to  Villon's 
have  gone  far  to  prove  itself.  I  can  well  account,  which  is  all  we  have  to  go  upon, 
understand  the  reluctance  of  worthy  per-  came  up  blustering  and  denying  God;  as 
sons  in  this  matter;  for  of  course  it  is  lo  Villon  rose  to  make  room  for  him  upon 
unpleasant  to  think  of  a  man  of  genius  the  bench,  thrust  him  rudely  back  into 
as  one  who  held,  in  the  words  of  Marina  his  place;  and  finally  drew  his  sword 
to  Boult —  and   cut   open    his    lower   lip,    by    what   I 

should  imagine  was  a  very  clumsy  stroke. 
A  place,  for  which  the  pained'st  fiend  i5  Up  to  this  point,  Villon  professes  to  have 

Of  hell  would  not  in  reputation  change.  been  a  model  of  courtesy,  even  of  feeble- 

ness ;  and  the  brawl  in  his  version,  reads 
But  beyond  this  natural  unwillingness,  like  the  fable  of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb, 
the  whole  difficulty  of  the  case  springs  But  now  the  lamb  was  roused ;  he  drew 
from  a  highly  virtuous  ignorance  of  life.  20  his  sword,  stabbed  Sermaise  in  the  groin, 
Paris  now  is  not  so  different  from  the  knocked  him  on  the  head  with  a  big  stone, 
Paris  of  then;  and  the  whole  of  the  do-  and  then,  leaving  him  to  his  fate,  went 
ings  of  Bohemia  are  not  written  in  the  away  to  have  his  own  lip  doctored  by  a 
sugar-candy  pastorals  of  Murger.  It  is  barber  of  the  name  of  Fouquet.  In  one 
really  not  at  all  surprising  that  a  young  25  version,  he  says  that  Gilles,  Isabeau,  and 
man  of  the  fifteenth  century,  with  a  Le  Mardi  ran  away  at  the  first  high 
knack  of  making  verses,  should  accept  words,  and  that  he  and  Sermaise  had  it 
his  bread  upon  disgraceful  terms.  The  out  alone;  in  another,  Le  Mardi  is  repre- 
race  of  those  who  do  is  not  extinct;  and  sented  as  returning  and  wresting  Villon's 
some  of  them  to  this  day  write  the  pretti-30  sword  from  him:  the  reader  may  please 
est  verses  imaginable.  .  .  .  After  this,  himself.  Sermaise  was  picked  up,  lay  all 
it  were  impossible  for  Master  Francis  to  that  night  in  the  prison  of  Saint  Benoit, 
fall  lower:  to  go  and  steal  for  himself  where  he  was  examined  by  an  official  of 
would  be  an  admirable  advance  from  the  Chatelet  and  expressly  pardoned  Vil- 
every  point  of  view,  divine  or  human.      35  Ion,  and  died  on  the   following  Saturday 

And  yet  it  is  not  as  a  thief,  but  as  a      in  the  Hotel  Dieu. 
homicide,  that  he  makes  his  first  appear-  This,  as  I  have  said,  was  in  June.     Not 

ance  before  angry  justice.  On  June  5,  before  January  of  the  next  year  could  Vil- 
1455,  when  he  was  about  twenty-four.  Ion  extract  a  pardon  from  the  king;  but 
and  had  been  Master  of  Arts  for  a  matter  40  while  his  hand  was  in,  he  got  two.  One 
of  three  years,  we  behold  him  for  the  is  for  '  Franqois  des  Loges,  alias  (aiitre- 
first  time  quite  definitely.  Angry  justice  ment  dit)  de  Villon  ' ;  and  the  other  runs 
had  as  it  were,  photographed  him  in  the  in  the  name  of  Fran(;ois  de  Montcorbier. 
act  of  his  homicide ;  and  M.  Longnon,  Nay,  it  appears  there  was  a  further  corn- 
rummaging  among  old  deeds,  has  turned  45  plication;  for  in  the  narrative  of  the  first 
up  the  negative  and  printed  it  off  for  our  of  these  documents,  it  is  mentioned  that 
instruction.  Villon  had  been  supping —  he  passed  himself  off  upon  Fouquet,  the 
copiously  we  may  believe  —  and  sat  on  barber-surgeon,  as  one  Michel  Mouton. 
a  stone  bench  in  front  of  the  Church  M.  Longnon  has  a  theory  that  this  un- 
of  St.  Benoit,  in  company  with  a  priest  50  happy  accident  with  Sermaise  was  the 
called  Gilles  and  a  woman  of  the  name  cause  of  Villon's  subsequent  irregularities; 
of  Isabeau.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  a  mighty  and  that  up  to  that  moment  he  had  been 
late  hour  for  the  period,  and  evidently  a  the  pink  of  good  behavior.  But  the 
fine  summer's  night.  Master  Francis  matter  has  to  my  eyes  a  more  dubious 
carried  a  mantle,  like  a  prudent  man,  to  55  air.  A  pardon  necessary  for  Des  Loges 
keep  him  from  the  dews  (scrain),  and  had  and  another  for  Montcorbier?  and  these 
a  sword  below  it  dangling  from  his  girdle,      two  the   same   person?  and  one   or   both 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  939 


of   them    known   by   the    alias   of   Villon,  prised  to  meet  with  thieves  in  the  shape 

however  honestly  come  by?  and  lastly,  in  of    tonsured   clerks,   or   even    priests    and 

the   heat  of   the   moment,   a   fourth   name  monks. 

thrown  out  with  an  assured  countenance?  To  a  knot  of  such  learned  pilferers  our 
A  ship  is  not  to  be  trusted  that  sails  under  5  poet  certainly  belonged ;  and  by  turning 
so  many  colors.  This  is  not  the  simple  over  a  few  more  of  M.  Longnon's  nega- 
bearing  of  innocence.  No  —  the  young  tives,  we  shall  get  a  clear  idea  of  their 
master  was  already  treading  crooked  character  and  doings.  Montigny  and  De 
paths ;  already,  he  would  start  and  blench  Cayeux  are  names  already  known ;  Guy 
at  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  with  the  look  10  Ta'bary,  Petit-Jehan,  Dom  Nicolas,  little 
we  know  so  well  in  the  face  of  Hogarth's  Thiljault,  who  was  both  clerk  and  gold- 
Idle  Apprentice ;  already,  in  the  blue  smith,  and  who  made  picklocks  and 
devils,  he  would  see  Henry  Cousin,  the  melted  plate  for  himself  and  his  compan- 
executor  of  high  justice,  going  in  dolor-  ions  —  with  these  the  reader  has  still  to 
ous  procession  toward  Montfaucon,  and  ,5  become  acquainted.  Petit-Jehan  and  De 
hear  the  wind  and  the  birds  crying  around  Cayeux  were  handy  fellows  and  enjoyed 


Paris  gibbet.  a   useful    preeminence    in   honor   of   their 

A  Gang  of  Thieves 


doings  with  the  picklock.  '  Dictus  des 
Cahyeus  est  fortis  operator  croclietorum 
In  spite  of  the  prodigious  number  of  ^o  [the  said  De  Cayeux  is  an  able  manipula- 
people  who  managed  to  get  hanged,  the  tor  of  picklocks],' says  Tabary's  interroga- 
fifteenth  century  was  by  no  means  a  bad  tion,  '  sed  dictus  Petit-Jehan,  ejus  socius, 
time  for  criminals.  A  great  confusion  est  forcins  operator  [but  the  said  Petit- 
of  parties  and  great  dust  of  fighting  Jehan,  his  companion,  is  a  more  able  ma- 
favored  the  escape  of  private  house- 25  nipulator].'  But  the  flower  of  the  flock 
breakers  and  quiet  fellows  who  stole  was  little  Thibault;  it  was  reported  that 
ducks  in  Paris  Moat.  Prisons  were  no  lock  could  stand  before  him :  he  had  a 
leaky;  and  as  we  shall  see,  a  man  with  a  persuasive  hand;  let  us  salute  capacity 
few  crowns  in  his  pocket  and  perhaps  wherever  we  may  find  it.  Perhaps  the 
some  acquaintance  among  the  officials,  30  term  gang  is  not  quite  properly  applied  to 
could  easily  slip  out  and  become  once  the  persons  whose  fortunes  we  are  now 
more  a  free  marauder.  There  was  no  about  to  follow;  rather  they  were  inde- 
want  of  a  sanctuary  where  he  might  pendent  malefactors,  socially  intimate, 
harbor  until  troubles  blew  by;  and  ac-  and  occasionally  joining  together  for 
complices  helped  each  other  with  more  35  some  serious  operation,  just  as  modern 
or  less  good  faith.  Clerks,  above  all,  had  stock-jobbers  form  a  syndicate  for  an  im- 
remarkable  facilities  for  a  criminal  way  portant  loan.  Nor  were  they  at  all  par- 
of  life;  for  they  were  privileged,  except  ticular  to  any  branch  of  misdoing.  They 
in  cases  of  notorious  incorrigibility,  to  be  did  not  scrupulously  confine  themselves  to 
plucked  from  the  hands  of  rude  secular  40  a  single  sort  of  theft,  as  I  hear  is  common 
justice  and  tried  by  a  tribunal  of  their  among  modern  thieves.  They  were  ready 
own.  In  1402,  a  couple  of  thieves,  both  for  anything,  from  pitch-and-toss  to  man- 
clerks  of  the  University,  were  condemned  slaughter.  Montigny,  for  instance,  had 
to  death  by  the  Provost  of  Paris.  As  neglected  neither  of  these  extremes,  and 
they  were  taken  to  Montfaucon,  they  kept  45  we  find  him  accused  of  cheating  at  games 
crying  '  high  and  clearly  '  for  their  benefit  of  hazard  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the 
of  clergy,  but  were  none  the  less  pitilessly  other  of  the  murder  of  one  Thevenin 
hanged  and  gibbeted.  Indignant  Alma  Pensete  in  a  house  by  the  Cemetery  of 
Mater  interfered  before  the  king;  and  the  St.  John.  If  time  had  only  spared  us 
Provost  was  deprived  of  all  royal  offices,  50  some  particulars,  might  not  this  last  have 
and  condemned  to  return  the  bodies  and  furnished  us  with  the  matter  of  a  grisly 
erect    a    great    stone    cross,    on    the    road      vvinter's  tale? 

from  Paris  to  the  gibbet,  graven  with  the  At   Christmas-time   in    1456,   readers  of 

effigies  of  these  two  holy  martyrs.^  We  Villon  will  remember  that  he  was  en- 
shall  hear  more  of  the  benefit  of  clergy ;  55  gaged  on  the  Small  Testament.  About 
for  after  this  the  reader  will  not  be  sur-      the   same  period,   circa  festnm   nativitatis 

»MonstreIet:     Pantheon     Littcraire,     p.     26.  Domini     [about     the     feast     of     the     birth 


940  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


of  Our  Lord],  he  took  part  in  a  mem-  suspicion  it  was  Dom  Nicolas,  the  Pic- 
orable  supper  at  the  Mule  Tavern,  in  ardy  monk)  hurried  them  away.  It  was 
front  of  the  church  of  St.  Mathurin.  ten  o'clock  when  they  mounted  the  lad- 
Tabary,  who  seems  to  have  been  very  der ;  it  was  about  midnight  before  Tabary 
much  Villon's  creature,  had  ordered  the  5  beheld  them  coming  back.  To  him  they 
supper  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  gave  ten  crowns,  and  promised  a  share 
He  was  a  man  who  had  had  troubles  in  of  a  two-crown  dinner  on  the  morrow ; 
his  time  and  languished  in  the  Bishop  whereat  wc  may  suppose  his  mouth 
of  Paris's  prisons  on  a  suspicion  of  pick-  watered.  In  course  of  time,  he  got  wind 
ing  locks;  confiding,  convivial,  not  very  lo  of  the  real  amount  of  their  booty  and 
astute  —  who  had  copied  out  a  whole  im-  understood  how  scurvily  he  had  been 
proper  romance  with  his  own  right  hand,  used ;  but  he  seems  to  have  borne  no 
This  supper-party  was  to  be  his  first  in-  malice.  How  could  he,  against  such 
troduction  to  De  Cayeux  and  Petit-Jehan,  superb  operators  as  Petit-Jehan  and  De 
which  was  probably  a  matter  of  some  15  Cayeux;  or  a  person  like  Villon,  who 
concern  to  the  poor  man's  muddy  wits;  could  have  made  a  new  improper  romance 
in  the  sequel,  at  least,  he  speaks  of  both  out  of  his  own  head,  instead  of  merely 
with  an  undisguised  respect,  based  on  copying  an  old  one  with  mechanical  right 
professional     inferiority     in     the     matter      hand? 

of  picklocks.  Dom  Nicolas,  a  Picardy  20  The  rest  of  the  winter  was  not  un- 
monk,  was  the  fifth  and  last  at  table,  eventful  for  the  gang.  First  they  made 
When  supper  had  been  despatched  and  a  demonstration  against  the  Church  of 
fairly  washed  down,  we  may  suppose,  St.  Mathurin  after  chalices,  and  were 
with  white  Baigneux  or  red  Beaune,  ignominiously  chased  away  by  barking 
which  were  favorite  wines  among  the  25  dogs.  Then  Tabary  fell  out  with  Casin 
fellowship,  Tabary  was  solemnly  sworn  Chollet,  one  of  the  fellows  who  stole 
over  to  secrecy  on  the  night's  perform-  ducks  in  Paris  Moat,  who  subsequently 
ances;  and  the  party  left  the  Mule  and  became  a  sergeant  of  the  Chatelet  and 
proceeded  to  an  unoccupied  house  belong-  distinguished  himself  by  misconduct,  fol- 
ing  to  Robert  de  Saint-Simon.  This,  3o  lowed  by  imprisonment  and  public  cas- 
over  a  low  wall,  they  entered  without  ligation,  during  the  wars  of  Louis 
difficulty.  All  but  Tabary  took  off  their  Eleventh.  The  quarrel  was  not  con- 
upper  garments;  a  ladder  was  found  and  ducted  with  a  proper  regard  to  the  king's 
applied  to  the  high  wall  which  sepa-  peace,  and  the  pair  publicly  belabored 
rated  Saint-Simon's  house  from  the  court  35  each  other  until  the  police  stepped  in, 
of  the  College  of  Navarre;  the  four  fel-  and  Master  Tabary  was  cast  once  more 
lows  in  their  shirtsleeves  (as  we  might  into  the  prisons  of  the  Bishop.  While 
say)  clambered  over  in  a  twinkling;  and  he  still  lay  in  durance,  another  job  was 
Master  Guy  Tabary  remained  alone  be-  cleverly  executed  by  the  band  in  broad 
side  the  overcoats.  From  the  court  the  40  daylight,  at  the  Augustine  Monastery, 
burglars  made  their  way  into  the  vestry  Brother  Guillaume  Coiffier  was  beguiled 
of  the  chapel,  where  they  found  a  large  by  an  accomplice  to  St.  Mathurin  to  say 
chest,  strengthened  with  iron  bands  and  mass ;  and  during  his  absence,  his  cham- 
closed  with  four  locks.  One  of  these  ber  was  entered  and  five  or  six  hundred 
locks  they  picked,  and  then,  by  levering  45  crowns  in  money  and  some  silver-plate 
up  the  corner,  forced  the  other  three,  successfully  abstracted.  A  melancholy 
Inside  was  a  small  coffer,  of  walnut  wood,  man  was  Coifiier  on  his  return  !  Eight 
also  barred  with  iron,  but  fastened  with  crowns  from  this  adventure  were  for- 
only  three  locks,  which  were  all  com-  warded  by  little  Thibault  to  the  incarcer- 
fortably  picked  by  way  of  the  keyhole.  5°  ated  Tabary ;  and  with  these  he  bribed 
In  the  walnut  coffer  —  a  joyous  sight  by  the  jailer  and  reappeared  in  Paris  fav- 
our thieves'  lantern  —  were  five  hundred  erns.  Some  time  before  or  shortly  after 
crowns  of  gold.  There  was  some  talk  this,  Villon  set  out  for  Angers,  as  he  had 
of  opening  the  aumries,  where,  if  they  promised  in  the  Sinall  Testament.  The 
had  only  known,  a  booty  eight  or  nine  55  object  of  this  excursion  was  not  merely 
times  greater  lay  ready  to  their  hand ;  to  avoid  the  presence  of  his  cruel  mis- 
but  one  of  the  party  (  I  have  a  humorous     tress  or  the   strong  arm  of   Noe  le  Joly, 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  941 


but  to  plan  a  deliberate  robbery  on  his  six,  wearing  long  hair  behind.  The 
uncle  the  monk.  As  soon  as  he  had  prior  expressed,  through  Tabary,  his  an- 
properly  studied  the  ground,  the*  others  xiety  to  become  their  accomplice  and  al- 
were  to  go  over  in  force  from  Paris  —  together  such  as  they  were  (dc  leur  sorte 
picklocks  and  all  —  and  away  with  my  let  le  leurs  complices).  Mighty  polite 
uncle's  strongbox !  This  throws  a  com-  they  showed  themselves,  and  made  him 
ical  sidelight  on  his  own  accusation  many  fine  speeches  in  return.  But  for 
against  his  relatives,  that  they  had  '  for-  all  that,  perhaps  because  they  had  longer 
gotten  natural  duty '  and  disowned  him  heads  than  Tabary,  perhaps  because  it  is 
because  he  was  poor.  A  poor  relation  10  less  easy  to  wheedle  men  in  a  body,  they 
is  a  distasteful  circumstance  at  the  best,  kept  obstinately  to  generalities  and  gave 
but  a  poor  relation  who  plans  deliberate  him  no  information  as  to  their  exploits, 
robberies  against  those  of  his  blood,  and  past,  present,  or  to  come.  I  suppose 
trudges  hundreds  of  weary  leagues  to  put  Tabary  groaned  under  this  reserve ;  for 
them  into  execution,  is  surely  a  little  on  15  no  sooner  were  he  and  the  Prior  out  of 
the  wrong  side  of  toleration.  The  uncle  the  church  than  he  fairly  emptied  his 
at  Angers  may  have  been  monstrously  heart  to  him,  gave  him  full  details  of 
undutiful;  but  the  nephew  from  Paris  many  hanging  matters  in  the  past,  and 
was  upsides  with  him.  explained    the    future    intentions    of    the 

On  the  23d  April,  that  venerable  and  20  band.  The  scheme  of  the  hour  was  to 
discreet  person.  Master  Pierre  Marchand,  rob  another  Augustine  monk,  Robert  de 
Curate  and  Prior  of  Paray-le-Monial,  in  la  Porte,  and  in  this  the  Prior  agreed  to 
the  diocese  of  Chartres,  arrived  in  Paris  take  a  hand  with  simulated  greed.  Thus, 
and  put  up  at  the  sign  of  the  Three  in  the  course  of  two  days,  he  had  turned 
Chandeliers,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Huchette.  25  this  wineskin  of  a  Tabary  inside  out. 
Next  day,  or  the  day  after,  as  he  was  For  a  while  longer  the  farce  was  carried 
breakfasting  at  the  sign  of  the  Arm-  on ;  the  Prior  was  introduced  to  Petit- 
chair,  he  fell  into  talk  with  two  cus-  Jehan,  whom  he  describes  as  a  little,  very 
tomers,  one  of  whom  was  a  priest  and  smart  man  of  thirty,  with  a  black  beard 
the  other  our  friend  Tabary.  The  idiotic  30  and  a  short  jacket;  an  appointment  was 
Tabary  became  mighty  confidential  as  to  made  and  broken  in  the  de  la  Porte 
his  past  life.  Pierre  Marchand,  who  was  affair;  Tabary  had  some  breakfast  at  the 
an  acquaintance  of  Guillaume  Coiffier's  Prior's  charge  and  leaked  out  more 
and  had  sympathized  with  him  over  his  secrets  under  the  influence  of  wine  and 
loss,  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  mention  35  friendship ;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden,  on 
of  picklocks,  and  led  on  the  transcriber  the  17th  of  May,  an  alarm  sprang  up, 
of  improper  romances  from  one  thing  to  the  Prior  picked  up  his  skirts  and  walked 
another,  until  they  were  fast  friends,  quietly  over  to  the  Chatelet  to  make  a 
For  picklocks  the  Prior  of  Paray  pro-  deposition,  and  the  whole  band  took  to 
fessed  a  keen  curiosity;  but  Tabary,  upon  40  their  heels  and  vanished  out  of  Paris  and 
some  late  alarm,  had  thrown  all  his  into  the  sight  of  the  police, 
the     Seine.     Let     that     be     no     difficulty,  Vanish   as   they   like,   they  all   go   with 

however,  for  was  there  not  little  Thibault,  -a  clog  about  their  feet.  Sooner  or  later, 
who  could  make  them  of  all  shapes  and  here  or  there,  they  will  be  caught  in 
sizes,  and  to  whom  Tabary,  smelling  an  45  the  fact,  and  ignominiously  sent  home, 
accomplice,  would  be  only  too  glad  to  From  our  vantage  of  four  centuries 
introduce  his  new  acquaintance?  On  the  afterward,  it  is  odd  and  pitiful  to  watch 
morrow,  accordingly,  they  met;  and  the  order  in  which  the  fugitives  are  cap- 
Tabary,  after  having  first  wet  his  whistle  tured  and  dragged  in. 
at  the  Prior's  expense,  led  him  to  Notre  50  Montigny  was  the  first.  In  August  of 
Dame  and  presented  him  to  four  or  five  that  same  year,  he  was  laid  by  the  heels 
'  young  companions,'  who  were  keeping  on  many  grievous  counts ;  sacrilegious 
sanctuary  in  the  church.  They  were  all  robberies,  frauds,  incorrigibility,  and  that 
clerks,  recently  escaped,  like  Tabary  bad  business  about  Thevenin  Pensete  in 
himself,  from  the  episcopal  prisons.  55  the  house  by  the  Cemetery  of  St.  John. 
Among  these  we  may  notice  Thibault,  He  was  reclaimed  by  the  ecclesiastical 
the   operator,    a   little    fellow   of   twenty-      authorities  as  a  clerk;  but  the  claim  was 


942 


ROP.KRT  LOUIS  STKVENSON 


rebutted  on  the  score  of  incorrigibility,  1460  was  an  ill-starred  year:  for  justice 
and  ultimately  fell  to  the  ground ;  and  he  was  making  a  clean  sweep  of  '  poor  and 
was  condemned  to  death  by  the  Provost  indigent  persons,  thieves,  cheats,  and 
of  Paris.  It  was  a  very  rude  hour  for  lock])ickers,'  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Montigny,  but  hope  was  not  yet  over.  5  Paris;  >  and  Colin  dc  Caycux,  with  many 
lie  was  a' fellow  of  some  birth;  his  father  others,  was  condemned  to  death  and 
had  been  king's  pantler;  his  sister,  hanged.- 
probably  married  to  some  one  about  the 

Court,   was   in   the    family   way,   and   her  Villon  and  the  Gallows 

health  would  be  endangered  if  the  exc- 10  villon  was  still  absent  on  the  Angers 
cution  was  proceeded  with.  So  down  expedition  when  the  Prior  of  Paray  sent 
comes  Charles  the  Seventh  with  letters  guch  a  bombshell  among  his  accomplices; 
of  mercy,  commuting  the  penalty  to  a  ^^-^^l  ^j^^  j^tes  of  his  return  and  arrest 
year  in  a  dungeon  on  bread  and  water,  remain  undiscoverable.  M.  Campaux 
and  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St.  15  plausibly  enough  opined  for  the  autumn 
James  in  Galicia.  Alas!  the  document  qJ  j^^^^  which  would  make  him  closely 
was  incomplete;  it  did  not  contani  the  follow  on  Montigny,  and  the  first  of 
full  tale  of  Montigny's  enormities;  it  did  ^i^gg^  denounced  by  the  Prior  to  fall  into 
not  recite  that  he  had  been  denied  benefit  ^\^q  tojig.  We  may  suppose,  at  least,  that 
of  clergy,  and  it  said  nothing  about  20  ((■  ^^g  not  long  thereafter;  we  may  sup- 
Thevenin  Pensete.  Montigny's  hour  was  pQgg  i-jj,-,^  competed  for  between  lay  and 
at  hand.  Benefit  of  clergy,  honorable  clerical  Courts;  and  we  may  suppose  him 
descent  from  king's  pantler,  sister  in  the  alternately  pert  and  impudent,  humble 
family  way,  royal  letters  of  commuta-  and  fawning,  in  his  defense.  But  at  the 
tion  —  all  were  of  no  avail.  He  had  as  end  of  all  supposing,  we  come  upon  some 
been  in  prison  in  Rouen,  in  Tours,  in  nuggets  of  fact.  For  first,  he  was  put  to 
Bordeaux,  and  four  times  already  in  ^^g  question  by  water.  He  who  had 
Paris;  and  out  of  all  these  he  had  come  tossed  off  so  many  cups  of  white  Baig- 
scathless;  but  now  he  must  make  a  Httle  ^^nx  or  red  Beaune,  now  drank  water 
excursion  as  far  as  Montfaucon  with  30  through  linen  folds,  until  his  bowels  were 
Henry  Cousin,  executor  of  high  justice,  flooded  and  his  heart  stood  still.  After 
There  let  him  swing  among  the  carrion  go  much  raising  of  the  elbow,  so  much 
crows.  outcry    of    fictitious    thirst,    here    at    last 

About  a  year  later,  in  July,  1458.  the  ^as  enough  drinking  for  a  lifetime, 
police  laid  hands  on  Tabary.  Before  the  35  Truly,  of  our  pleasant  vices,  the  gods 
ecclesiastical  commissary  he  was  twice  make  whips  to  scourge  us.  And  secondly 
examined,  and,  on  the  latter  occasion,  he  was  condemned  to  be  hanged.  A 
put  to  the  question  ordinary  and  extraor-  nian  may  have  been  expecting  a  catas- 
dinary.  What  a  dismal  change  from  trophe  for  years,  and  yet  find  himself 
pleasant  suppers  at  the  Mule,  where  he  sat  40  unprepared  when  it  arrives.  Certainly, 
in  triumph  with  expert  operators  and  Villon  found,  in  this  legitimate  issue  of 
great  wits !  He  is  at  the  lees  of  life,  poor  hig  career,  a  very  staggering  and  grave 
rogue;  and  those  fingers  which  once  consideration.  Every  beast,  as  he  says, 
transcribed  improper  romances  are  now  clings  bitterly  to  a  whole  skin.  If  every- 
agonizingly  stretched  upon  the  rack.  45  thing  is  lost,  and  even  honor,  life  still 
We  have  no  sure  knowledge,  but  we  may  remains;  nay,  and  it  becomes,  like  the 
have  a  shrewd  guess  of  the  conclusion.  g^^g  iamb  in  Nathan's  parable,  as  dear 
Tabary,  the  admirer,  would  go  the  same  as  all  the  rest.  '  Do  you  fancy,'  he  asks, 
way  as  those  whom  he   admired.  Jn  a  lively  ballad,  '  that  I  had  not  enough 

The  last  we  hear  of  is  Colin  de  Cayeux.  50 
He   was   caught   in   autumn    1460,    in   the         ^Chron.   Scand.    ut   supra. 

/"I  ?  r      Ci.       T  j'TT  „  2  Here     and     there,     princinallv    in     the    order    of 

great     Church     of     St.     Leu     d  Esserens.      ^^.^^^^   ^^^.^  ^^^.^^^  ^.J^^^  ^l^^-  ^    j^^^^^^r^'s  own 

which   makes   so   fine   a   figure   in   the   pleas-        reading     of     his     material.     The     ground     on     which 
ant    Oise    valley    between    Creil    and    Beau-        he     defers     the     execution     of     Montigny     and     De 
mont.       He   was   reclaimed   by   no   less   than  55   Cayeux    beyond    the    date    of    their    trials    seems    >n^ 
...  1     ^    ^1         T)  r         ^1.  sufficient.     There    is    a    law    of    parsimony    for    the 

two    bishops;    but    the     PrOCUreur    for    the        construction    of    historical    documents;    simplicity    is 
Provost     held     fast    by     incorrigible     Colin.        the   first   duty   of   narration;    and    hanged   they   were. 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  943 


philosophy  under  my  hood  to  cry  out:  shuddering  soul.  There  is  an  intensity 
I  appeal?  If  I  had  made  any  bones  of  consideration  in  the  piece  that  shows 
about  the  matter,  I  should  have  been  it  to  be  the  transcript  of  familiar 
planted  upright  in  the  fields,  by  the  St.  thoughts.  It  is  the  quintessence  of  many 
Denis  Road  ' —  Montfaucon  being  on  the  5  a  doleful  nightmare  on  the  straw,  when 
way  to  St.  Denis.  An  appeal  to  Par-  he  felt  himself  swing  helpless  in  the  wind, 
'  liament,  as  we  saw  in  the  case  of  Colin  and  saw  the  birds  turn  about  him,  scream- 
de  Cayeux,  did  not  necessarily  lead  to  ing  and  menacing  his  eyes, 
an  acquittal  or  a  commutation ;  and  while  And,  after  all,  the  Parliament  changed 

the  matter  was  pending,  our  poet  had  10  his  sentence  into  one  of  banishment ;  and 
ample  opportunity  to  reflect  on  his  posi-  to  Roussillon,  in  Dauphiny,  our  poet 
tion.  Hanging  is  a  sharp  argument,  and  must  carry  his  woes  without  delay. 
I  to  swing  with  many  others  on  the  gibbet  Travelers  between  Lyons  and  Marseilles 
adds  a  horrible  corollary  for  the  imagina-  may  remember  a  station  on  the  line,  some 
tion.  With  the  aspect  of  Montfaucon  he  15  way  below  Vienne,  where  the  Rhone 
was  well  acquainted;  indeed,  as  the  fleets  seaward  between  vine-clad  hills, 
neighborhood  appears  to  have  been  sacred  This  was  Villon's  Siberia.  It  would  be 
to  junketing  and  nocturnal  picnics  of  a  little  warm  in  summer,  perhaps,  and  a 
wild  young  men  and  women,  he  had  little  cold  in  winter  in  that  draughty 
probably  studied  it  under  all  varieties  of  20  valley  between  two  great  mountain  fields ; 
hour  and  weather.  And  now,  as  he  lay  but  what  with  the  hills,  and  the  racing 
in  prison  waiting  the  mortal  push,  these  river,  and  the  fiery  Rhone  wines,  he  was 
different  aspects  crowded  back  on  his  im-  little  to  be  pitied  on  the  conditions  of  his 
agination  with  a  new  and  startling  signifi-  exile.  Villon,  in  a  remarkably  bad  bal- 
cance ;  and  he  wrote  a  ballad,  by  way  of  25  ]ad,  written  in  a  breath,  heartily  thanked 
epitaph  for  himself  and  his  companions,  and  fulsomely  belauded  the  Parliament; 
which  remains  unique  in  the  annals  of  the  envoi,  like  the  proverbial  postscript 
mankind.  It  is,  in  the  highest  sense,  a  of  a  lady's  letter,  containing  the  pith  of 
piece    of   his    biography :  —  his   performance    in    a    request    for   three 

30  days'   delay   to   settle   his   affairs   and   bid 
La  pluye  nous  a  debuez  et  lavez,  his    friends    farewell.     He    was    probably 

Et  le  soleil   dessechez  et  noirciz;  not   followed   out   of   Paris,   like   Antoine 

Pies,  corbeaulx,  nous  ont  les  yeux  cavez,  Fradin,     the    popular    preacher,     another 

Et  arrachez  la  barbe  et  les  sourcilz.  exile   of   a    few   years   later,    by   weeping 

Jamais,  nul  temps,  nous  ne  sommes  rassis ;      35  multitudes ;  ^    but   I    dare   say   one   or   two 
Puis  ga,  puis  la,  comme  le  vent  varie,  rogues    of    his    acquaintance    would    keep 

A  son  plaisir  sans  cesser  nous  charie,  him    company    for    a    mile    or    so    on    the 

Plus  becquetez  d'  oiseaulx  que  dez  a  couldre.       south   road,   and  drink  a  bottle  with   him 
Ne  soyez  done  de  nostre  confrairie,  before  they  turned.     For  banished  people, 

Mais  priez  Dieu  que  tous  nous  vueille  ab-  40  in   those   days,   seem   to   have   set   out   on 
souldre.  their    own    responsibility,    in    their    own 

guard,  and  at  their  own  expense.     It  was 

[The  rain  has  soaked  us  and  washed  us,  no  joke  to  make  one's  way  from  Paris 
and  the  sun  has  dried  us  and  tanned  us ;  to  Roussillon  alone  and  penniless  in  the 
magpies  and  crows  have  pecked  out  our  45  fifteenth  century.  Villon  says  he  left  a 
eyes,  and  snatched  away  our  beards  and  rag  of  his  tails  on  every  bush.  Indeed, 
eye-brows.  Never,  never  are  we  at  rest!  he  must  have  had  many  a  weary  tramp. 
Now  here,  now  there,  as  the  wind  shifts,  it  many  a  slender  meal,  and  many  a  to-do 
carries  us  along  at  its  pleasure,  ceaselessly,  with  blustering  captains  of  the  Ordon- 
more  pecked  by  birds  than  thimbles  for  50  nance.  But  with  one  of  his  light  fingers, 
sewing.  Do  not  join,  then,  our  band,  but  we  may  fancy  that  he  took  as  good  as 
pray  God  that  he  may  be  willing  to  absolve  he  gave;  for  every  rag  of  his  tail,  he 
"s.]  would  manage  to  indemnify  himself  upon 

the   population   in   the   shape   of   food,   or 

Here  is' some  genuine  thieves'  litera-^S  wine,  or  ringing  money;  and  his  route 
ture  after  so  much  that  was  spurious;  would  be  traceable  across  France  and 
sharp     as    an     etching,     written     with     a         ^  Chrou.  Scand.,  p.  338. 


944  ROBERT  LOUTS  STEVENSON 

Burgundy  by  housewives  and  inn-keepers  — this  we  know  not,  nor,  from  the  de- 
lamenting  over  petty  thefts,  hke  the  track  struction  of  authorities,  are  we  ever  likely 
of  a  single  human  locust.  A  strange  to  learn.  But  on  Octolicr  2d,  1461,  or 
figure  he  must  have  cut  in  the  eyes  of  the  some  day  inmiediately  preceding,  the  new 
good  country  people:  this  ragged,  black-  5  King,  Louis  Eleventh,  made  his  joyous 
guard  city  poet,  with  a  smack  of  the  Paris  entry  into  Meun.  Now  it  was  a  part  of 
student,  and  a  smack  of  the  Paris  street  the  formality  on  such  occasions  for  the 
arab,  posting  along  the  highways,  in  rain  new  King  to  liljcrate  certain  prisoners; 
or  sun,  among  the  green  fields  and  vine-  and  so  the  basket  was  let  down  into 
yards.  For  himself,  he  had  no  taste  for  10  Villon's  pit,  and  hastily  did  Master 
rural  loveliness;  green  fields  and  vine-  Francis  scramble  in,  and  was  most  joy- 
yards  would  be  mighty  indifferent  to  fully  hauled  up,  and  shot  out,  blinking 
Master  Francis ;  but  he  would  often  have  and  tottering,  but  once  more  a  free  man, 
his  tongue  in  his  cheek  at  the  simplicity  into  the  blessed  sun  and  wind.  Now  or 
of  rustic  dupes,  and  often,  at  city  gates,  i5  never  is  the  time  for  verses !  Such  a 
he  might  stop  to  contemplate  the  gibbet  happy  revolution  would  turn  the  head  of 
with  its  swinging  bodies,  and  hug  himself  a  stocking-weaver,  and  set  him  jingling 
on  his  escape.  rimes.     And     so  —  after     a     voyage     to 

How  long  he  stayed  at  Roussillon,  how  Paris,  where  he  finds  Montigny  and  De 
far  he  became  the  protege  of  the  Bour-  20  Cayeux  clattering  their  bones  upon  the 
bons,  to  whom  that  town  belonged,  or  gibbet,  and  his  three  pupils  roystering  in 
when  it  was  that  he  took  part,  under  the  Paris  streets,  '  with  their  thumbs  under 
auspices  of  Charles  of  Orleans,  in  a  their  girdles,' — down  sits  Master  Fran- 
riming  tournament  to  be  referred  to  once  cis  to  write  his  Large  Testament,  and 
again  in  the  pages  of  the  present  volume,  25  perpetuate  his  name  in  a  sort  of  glorious 
are  matters  that  still  remain  in  dark-  ignominy, 
ness,    in    spite   of   M.    Longnon's   diligent 

rummaging    among   archives.     When    we  The  '  Large  Testament  ' 

next  find  him,  in  summer  1461,  alas !   he  Of  this   capital   achievement   and,   with 

is  once  more  in  durance :  this  time  at  30  it,  of  Villon's  style  in  general,  it  is  here 
Meun-sur-Loire,  in  the  prisons  of  Thi-  the  place  to  speak.  The  Large  Testament 
bault  d'Aussigny,  Bishop  of  Orleans.  is  a  hurly-burly  of  cynical  and  senti- 
He  had  been  lowered  in  a  basket  into  mental  reflections  about  life,  jesting  leg- 
a  noisome  pit,  where  he  lay,  all  summer,  acies  to  friends  and  enemies,  and,  in- 
gnawing  hard  crusts  and  railing  upon  35  terspersed  among  these  many  admirable 
fate.  His  teeth,  he  says,  were  like  the  ballades,  both  serious  and  absurd.  With 
teeth  of  a  rake :  a  touch  of  haggard  so  free  a  design,  no  thought  that  occurred 
portraiture  all  the  more  real  for  being  to  him  would  need  to  be  dismissed  with- 
excessive  and  burlesque,  and  all  the  more  out  expression ;  and  he  could  draw  at  full 
proper  to  the  man  for  being  a  caricature  40  length  the  portrait  of  his  own  bedeviled 
of  his  own  misery.  His  eyes  were  soul,  and  of  the  bleak  and  blackguardly 
'  bandaged  with  thick  walls.'  It  might  world  which  was  the  theater  of  his  ex- 
blow  hurricanes  overhead ;  the  lightning  ploits  and  sufferings.  If  the  reader  can 
might  leap  in  high  heaven ;  but  no  word  conceive  something  between  the  slap- 
of  all  this  reached  him  in  his  noisome  45  dash  inconsequence  of  Byron's  Don  Juan 
pit.  ' //  n'cntre,  ou  gist,  n'escler  ni  and  the  racy  humorous  gravity  and  brief 
tourbillon  [Where  he  lies  neither  light-  noble  touches  that  distinguish  the  ver- 
ning  nor  whirlwind  enters].'  Above  all,  nacular  poems  of  Burns,  he  will  have 
he  was  fevered  with  envy  and  anger  at  formed  some  idea  of  Villon's  style.  To 
the  freedom  of  others;  and  his  heart  50  the  latter  writer  —  except  in  the  ballades, 
flowed  over  into  curses  as  he  thought  of  which  are  quite  his  own,  and  can  be 
Thibault  d'Aussigny,  walking  the  streets  paralleled  from  no  other  language  known 
in  God's  sunlight,  and  blessing  people  to  me  —  he  bears  a  particular  reseni- 
with  extended  fingers.  So  much  we  find  blance.  In  common  with  Burns  he  has 
sharply  lined  in  his  own  poems.  Why  55  a  certain  rugged  compression,'  a  brutal 
he  was  cast  again  into  prison  —  how  he  vivacity  of  epithet,  a  homely  vigor,  a 
had  again  managed  to  shave  the  gallows      delight   in   local   personalities,   and   an   in- 


FRANCOIS  VILLON  945 


terest  in  many  sides  of  life,  that  are  shame,  and  death;  monks  and  the  serv- 
often  despised  and  passed  over  by  more  ants  of  great  lords  hold  high  wassail 
effete  and  cultured  poets.  Both  also,  in  upon  cakes  and  pastry;  the  poor  man 
their  strong,  easy,  colloquial  way,  tend  licks  his  lips  before  the  baker's  window; 
to  become  difficult  and  obscure ;  the  ob-  5  people  with  patched  eyes  sprawl  all  night 
scurity  in  the  case  of  Villon  passing  at  under  the  stall;  chuckling  Tabary  tran- 
times  into  the  absolute  darkness  of  cant  scribes  an  improper  romance ;  bare- 
language.  They  are  perhaps  the  only  bosomed  lasses  and  ruffling  students  swag- 
two  great  masters  of  expression  who  ger  into  the  streets;  the  drunkard  goes 
keep  sending  their  readers  to  a  glossary.  10  stumbling  homeward;  the  graveyard  is  ful' 

'Shall  we  not  dare  to  say  of  a  thief,'  of  bones;  and  away  on  Montfaucon,  Colir 
asks  Montaigne,  '  that  he  has  a  handsome  de  Cayeux  and  Montigny  hang  draggled 
leg'?  It  is  a  far  more  serious  claim  that  in  the  rain.  Is  there  nothing  better  to 
we  have  to  put  forward  in  behalf  of  be  seen  than  sordid  misery  and  worth- 
Villon.  Beside  that  of  his  contempo- 15  less  joys?  Only  where  the  poor  old 
raries,  his  writing,  so  full  of  color,  so  mother  of  the  poet  kneels  in  church  be- 
eloquent,  so  picturesque,  stands  out  in  an  low  painted  windows,  and  makes  tremu- 
almost  miraculous  isolation.  If  only  one  lous  supplication  to  the  Mother  of  God. 
or    two    of    the    chroniclers    could    have  In  our  mixed  world,  full  of  green  fields 

taken  a  leaf  out  of  his  book,  history  20  and  happy  lovers,  where  not  long  before, 
would  have  been  a  pastime,  and  the  [oan  of  Arc  had  led  one  of  the"  highest 
fifteenth  century  as  present  to  our  minds  and  noblest  lives  in  the  whole  storv  of 
as  the  age  of  Charles  Second.  This  mankind,  this  was  all  worth  chronicling 
gallows-bird  was  the  one  great  writer  of  that  our  poet  could  perceive.  His  eyes 
his  age  and  country,  and  initiated  modern  25  were  indeed  sealed  with  his  own  filth, 
literature  for  France.  Boileau,  long  ago.  He  dwelt  all  his  life  in  a  pit  more  noi- 
in  the  period  of  perukes  and  snuff-boxes,  some  than  the  dungeon  at  Meun.  In  the 
recognized  him  as  the  first  articulate  poet  moral  world,  also,  there  are  large  phe- 
in  the  language;  and  if  we  measure  him,  nomena  not  cognizable  out  of  holes  and 
not  by  priority  of  merit,  but  living  dura-  3^  corners.  Loud  winds  blow,  speeding 
tion  of  influence;  not  on  a  comparison  home  deep-laden  ships  and  sweeping  rub- 
with  obscure  forerunners,  but  with  great  bish  from  the  earth;  the  lightning  leaps 
and  famous  successors,  we  shall  install  and  cleans  the  face  of  heaven ;  high  pur- 
this  ragged  and  disreputable  figure  in  a  poses  and  brave  passions  shake  and  sub- 
far  higher  niche  m  glory's  temple  than  35  Hmate  men's  spirits;  and  meanwhile,  in 
was  ever  dreamed  of  by  the  critic.  It  the  narrow  dungeon  of  his  soul,  Villon 
is,  in  Itself,  a  memorable  fact  that,  be-  is  mumbling  crusts  and  picking  vermin, 
fore  1542,  in  the  very  dawn  of  printing,  Along  with  this  deadly  gloom  of  out- 

and  while  modern  France  was  in  the  look,  we  must  take  another  characteristic 
making,  the  works  of  Villon  ran  through  40  of  his  work :  its  unrivaled  insincerity, 
seven  different  editions.  Out  of  him  I  can  give  no  better  similitude  of  this 
flows  much  of  Rabelais;  and  through  quality  than  I  have  given  already:  that 
Rabelais,  directly  and  indirectly,  a  deep,  he  comes  up  with  a  whine,  and  runs 
permanent,  and  growing  inspiration.  away  with  a  whoop  and  his  finger  to 
Not  only  his  style,  but  his  callous  per- ^5  his  nose.  His  pathos  is  that  of  a  profes- 
tinent  way  of  looking  upon  the  sordid  sional  mendicant  who  should  happen  to 
and  ugly  sides  of  life,  becomes  every  be  a  man  of  genius;  his  levity  that  of 
day  a  more  specific  feature  in  the  liter-  a  bitter  street  arab,  full  of  bread.  On 
ature  of  France.  And  only  the  other  a  first  reading,  the  pathetic  passages  pre- 
year,  a  work  of  some  power  appeared  in  50  occupy  the  reader,  and  he  is  cheated  out 
Paris,  and  appeared  with  infinite  scandal,  of  an  alms  in  the  shape  of  sympathy, 
which  owed  its  whole  inner  significance  But  when  the  thing  is  studied  the  illu- 
and  much  of  its  outv^ard  form  to  the  sion  fades  away:  in  the  transitions, 
study  of  our  riming  thief.  above  all,  we  can  detect  the  evil,  ironical 

The   world   to   which   he   introduces   us  55  temper    of    the    man ;    and    instead    of    a 
is,  as  before  said,  blackguardly  and  bleak.      flighty     work,     where     many     crude     but 
Paris   swarms   before   us,   full   of   famine,      genuine   feelings  tumlile   together   for  the 
60 


946  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

mastery  as  in  the  lists  of  tournament,  beseeching  here  in  the  street,  but  I  would 
we  are  tempted  to  think  of  the  Lar^^e  not  go  down  a  dark  road  with  him  for 
Testament   as    of   one    long-drawn    epical      a  large  consideration. 

grimace,  pulled  by  a  merry-andrew,  who  The  second  of  the  points  on  which  he 

has  found  a  certain  despicable  eminence  5  was  genuine  and  emphatic  was  common 
over  human  respect  and  human  affections  lo  the  middle  ages;  a  deep  and  somewhat 
by  perching  himself  astride  upon  the  sniveling  conviction  of  the  transitory 
g-allows.  Between  these  two  views,  at  nature  of  this  life  and  the  pity  and  hor- 
best,  all  temperate  judgments  will  be  ror  of  death.  Old  age  and  the  grave, 
found  to  fall;  and  rather,  as  I  imagine,  lo  with  some  dark  and  yet  half-sceptical 
toward  the  last.  terror    of    an     after-world  —  these     were 

There  were  two  things  on  which  he  ideas  that  clung  about  his  bones  like  a  dis- 
felt  with  perfect  and,  in  one  case,  even  case.  An  old  ape,  as  he  says,  may  play 
threatening  sincerity.  all   the  tricks   in   its   repertory,   and   none 

The  first  of  these  was  an  undisguised  15  of  them  will  tickle  an  audience  into  good 
envy  of  those  richer  than  himself.  He  humor.  Tousjours  vieil  synge  est  des- 
was  forever  drawing  a  parallel,  already  plaisant.  It  is  not  the  old  jester  who 
exemplified  from  his  own  words,  between  receives  most  recognition  at  a  tavern 
the  happy  life  of  the  well-to-do  and  the  party,  but  the  young  fellow,  fresh  and 
miseries  of  the  poor.  Burns,  too  proud  20  handsome,  who  knows  the  new  slang,  and 
and  honest  not  to  work,  continued  carries  off  his  vice  with  a  certain  air. 
through  all  reverses  to  sing  of  poverty  Of  this,  as  a  tavern  jester  himself,  he 
with  a  light,  defiant  note.  Beranger  would  be  pointedly  conscious.  As  for 
waited  till  he  was  himself  beyond  the  the  women  with  whom  he  was  best  ac- 
reach  of  want,  before  writing  the  Old  25  quainted,  his  reflections  on  their  old  age, 
Vagabond  or  Jacques.  Samuel  Johnson,  in  all  their  harrowing  pathos,  shall  re- 
although  he  was  very  sorry  to  be  poor,  main  in  the  original  for  me.  Horace 
'  was  a  great  arguer  for  the  advantages  of  has  disgraced  himself  to  something  the 
poverty  '  in  his  ill  days.  Thus  it  is  that  same  tune ;  but  what  Horace  throws  out 
brave  men  carry  their  crosses,  and  smile  3^  with  an  ill-favored  laugh,  Villon  dwells 
with  the  fox  burrowing  in  their  vitals,  on  with  an  almost  maudlin  whimper. 
But  Villon,  who  had  not  the  courage  to  It   is   in  death   that  he   finds   his  truest 

be  poor  with  honesty,  now  whiningly  inspiration;  in  the  swift  and  sorrowful 
implores  our  sympathy,  now  shows  his  change  that  overtakes  beauty;  in  the 
teeth  upon  the  dung-heap  with  an  ugly  35  strange  revolution  by  which  great  for- 
snarl.  He  envies  bitterly,  envies  pas-  tunes  and  renowns  are  diminished  to  a 
sionately.  Poverty,  he  protests,  drives  handful  of  churchyard  dust ;  and  in  the 
men  to  steal,  as  hunger  makes  the  wolf  utter  passing  away  of  what  was  once 
sally  from  the  forest.  The  poor,  he  goes  lovable  and  mighty.  It  is  in  this  that 
on,  will  always  have  a  carping  word  to  40  the  mixed  texture  of  his  thought  enables 
say,  or,  if  that  outlet  be  denied,  nourish  him  to  reach  such  poignant  and  terrible 
rebellious  thoughts.  It  is  a  calumny  on  effects,  and  to  enhance  pity  with  ridicule, 
the  noble  army  of  the  poor.  Thousands  like  a  man  cutting  capers  to  a  funeral 
in  a  small  way  of  life,  ay,  and  even  in  march.  It  is  in  this,  also,  that  he  rises 
the  smallest,  go  through  life  with  tenfold  45  out  of  himself  into  the  higher  spheres 
as  much  honor  and  dignity  and  peace  of  of  art.  So,  in  the  ballade  by  which  he 
mind,  as  the  rich  gluttons  whose  dainties  is  best  known,  he  rings  the  changes  on 
and  state-beds  awakened  Villon's  cov-  names  that  once  stood  for  beautiful  and 
etous  temper.  And  every  morning's  sun  queenly  women,  and  are  now  no  more 
sees  thousands  who  pass  whistling  to  So  than  letters  and  a  legend.  '  Where  are 
their  toil.  But  Villon  was  the  '  manvais  the  snows  of  yester  year?'  runs  the  bur- 
pauvre':  defined  by  Victor  Hugo,  and,  den.  And  so,  in  another  not  so  famous, 
in  its  English  expression,  so  admirably  he  passes  in  review  the  different  degrees 
stereotyped  by  Dickens.  He  was  the  of  bygone  men,  from  the  holy  Apostles 
first  wicked  sans-culotte  [tatterdemalion].  55  and  the  golden  Emperor  of  the  East, 
He  is  the  man  of  genius  with  the  mole-  down  to  the  heralds,  pursuivants,  and 
skin    cap.     He    is    mighty    pathetic    and      trumpeters,   who   also   bore    their   part   in 


IN  THE  STATES  947 


the   world's   pageantries   and   ate   greedily  BED  in  summer 

at  great   folks'   tables:   all   this  to   the   re-  in  winter  1  get  up  at  night 

frain     of     '  So     much     carry     the     winds  And  dress  by  yellow  candle-light, 

away !  '     Probably,   there   was   some   mel-  In  summer,  quite  the  other  way,— 

ancholy    in    his    mind    for    a    yet    lower  5  I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 
grade,  and  Montigny  and  Colin  de  Cayeux 

clattering    their    bones    on    Paris    gibbet.  I   have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 
Alas,    and   with    so   pitiful    an    experience  The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree, 
of   life,    Villon    can   ofYer   us    nothing   but  Or  hear  the  grown-up  people's   feet 
terror     and     lamentation     about     death  !  1°  Still  going  past  me  in  the  street. 
No    one    has    ever    more    skilfully    com- 
municated   his    own    disenchantment ;    no  And  docs  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
one  ever  blown  a  more  ear-piercing  note  When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue,            10 
of   sadness.     This   unrepentant    thief    can  And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
attain     neither    to     Christian     confidence,  '5  To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day? 
nor  to  the  spirit  of  the  bright  Greek  say- 
ing,  that  whom   the   gods  love  die   early.  SYSTEM 
It    is    a    poor   heart,    and    a    poorer    age.  Every  night  my  prayers  I  say, 
that  cannot  accept  the   conditions  of  life  And  get  my  dinner  every  day; 
with   some  heroic   readiness.  ^°  And  every  day  that  I  've  been  good, 
I  get  an  orange  after  food. 

The   date    of   the   Larpe    Testament    is      -r.  ^    t  -i^  *u  ^  •        ..1  1 

.,        ,     ^      ,   ^       •       ^1         ^    .'      1  ■  1  ^he  chdd  that  is  not  clean  and  neat.  s 

the    last    date    m    the    poet  s    biography       ^-^^  j^^^  ^^  ' 

After  having  achieved  that  admirable  and  .5  He  is  a  naughty  child,  I  'm  sure- 

despicable     performance,     he     disappears      q,  ^^^^  ^is  dear  papa  is  poor 

into    the    night    from    whence    he    came. 

How  or  when  he  died,  whether  decently  HAPPY  THOUGHT 

in   bed   or   trussed   up   to   a   gallows,    re-      rp,  , ,  .  r  ,,     r  ,         .    ^  ■ 

•  1  11      r       J-     11       1  ^  Ine  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  thinss 

mams  a  riddle   for  foolhardy  commenta-  ,0  t  '  u     ,j    n  u    """"^*''  "'  unioi'. 

A  r^  1  •     1      1^1     1     1        rr       1  '^    t  111  surc  wc  should  all  be  as  hannv  as  kinsrs 

tors.     It  appears  his  health  had  suffered  ^^^        «viiis3. 

in  the  pit  at  Meun;  he  was  thirty  years  jq  auntie 

of  age  and  quite  bald ;  with  the  notch  in      ^,  .   , 

his  under  lip  where  Sermaise  had  struck      £^'^^,f/  our  aunts  — not  only  I, 
him   with   the   sword,   and   what  wrinkles,.  ^"^  all  your  dozen  of  nurslings  cry- 
the    reader   may    imagine.     In   default   of      ^^''^'  ^"^  '^'^  other  children  do? 
portraits,  this  is  all   I  have  been  able  to      "^'"^  ''''"^^  '''"''  childhood,  zvantmg  you? 
piece    together,     and     perhaps     even     the  Cioo5) 

baldness   should   be   taken   as   a   figure   of 
his    destitution.     A    sinister    dog,    in    all  40 
likelihood,    but    with    a    look    in    his    eye, 
and    the    loose    flexile    mouth    that    goes      ^y-^^  ^^jf  ^  ^^^^^  j  ^^^^^^  ^^^^ 
with    wit    and    an    overweening    sensual        ^^   ^^^^  ^^   ^^^  ^^^^^  , 
temperament.     Certainly   the    sorriest   fig-      ^  brother -yet  though  young  in   years, 
ure  on  the   rolls  of  fame.  45      An  elder  brother.  I. 

(1877) 

You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine,  ■■ 

Though  both  were  English  born. 
From  A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES       ^   towards  the  night  of  time  decline. 

5°      You   mount   into   the  morn. 

WHOLE    DUTY    OF    CHILDREN  ,,        ,       ,     „ 

iouth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and  free. 
A  child  should  always   say  what's  true,  But  age  must  still  decay:  10 

And  speak  when  he  is  spoken  to.  To-morrow   for  the   States, —  for  me. 

And  behave  mannerly  at  table :  55      England    and    Yesterday. 

At  least  as  far  as  he  is  able.  (1887) 

San  Francisco. 


IN  THE  STATES 


948 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


HEATHER  ALE: 

Down   by  the  shore  he   had  them ; 

45 

A  GALLOWAY   LEGEND 

And  there  on  the  giddy  brink  — 
'  I  will  give  you  life,  ye  vermin. 

From  the  bonny  bells  of  heather 

For  the  secret  of  the  drink.' 

They  brewed  a  drink  long-syne, 

Was  sweeter   far  than   honey, 

Was   stronger    far   than    wino. 
They  brewed   it   and   they  drank  it,                s 

And  lay  in  a  blessed  swound 
For  days  and  day  together 

In  their  dwellings  underground. 

There  stood  the  son  and  father; 

And  they  looked  high  and  low ; 
The  heather  was  red  around  them. 

The   sea   rumbled   below. 
And  up  and  spoke  the   father, 

Shrill  was  his  voice  to  hear: 

50 

There  rose  a  king  in  Scotland, 
A  fell  man  to  his  foe,                               ■" 

'  I  have  a  word  in  private, 
A  word  for  the  royal  ear. 

55 

He  smote  the  Picts  in  battle. 

He  hunted  them  like  roes. 

'  Life  is  dear  to  the  aged. 

Over  miles  of  the  red  mountain 

And  honor  a  little  thing; 

He  hunted  as  they  fled, 

I  would  gladly  sell  the  secret,' 

And  strewed  the  dwarfish  bodies                  is 

Quoth  the  Pict  to  the  King. 

60 

Of  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

His  voice  was  small  as  a  sparrow's. 
And  shrill  and  wonderful  clear: 

Summer  came  in  the  country. 

'  I  would  gladly  sell  my  secret, 

Red  was  the  heather  bell ; 

Only  my  son  I   fear. 

But  the  manner  of  the  brewing 

Was  none  alive  to  tell.                                20 

'  For  life  is  a  little  matter. 

6S 

In  graves  that  were  like  children's 

And  death  is  naught  to  the  young ; 

On  many  a  mountain  head, 

And  I  dare  not  sell  my  honor 

The    Brewsters    of    the    Heather 

Under  the  eye  of  my  son. 

Lay  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Take  him,  0  king,  and  bind  him, 

And  cast  him  far  in  the  deep; 

70 

The  king  in  the  red  moorland                     ^S 

And  it 's  I  will  tell  the  secret 

Rode  on  a  summer's  day ; 

That  I  have  sworn  to  keep.' 

And  the  bees  hummed,  and  the  curlews 

Cried  beside  the  way. 

They  took  the  son  and  bound  him, 

The  king  rode,  and  was  angry. 

Neck  and  heels  in  a  thong, 

Black  was  his  brow  and  pale,                   3© 

And  a  lad  took  him  and  swung  him. 

75 

To  rule  in  a  land  of  heather 
And  lack  the  Heather  Ale. 

And  flung  him  far  and  strong. 
And  the  sea  swallowed  his  body. 

It  fortuned  that  his  vassals, 
Riding   free  on  the  heath. 

Like  that  of  a  child  of  ten  ; — 
And  there  on  the  cliff  stood  the   father. 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  men. 

80 

Came  on  a  stone  that  was  fallen                 35 

And  vermin  hid  beneath. 

Rudely  plucked   from  their  hiding, 

*  True  was  the  word  I  told  you : 

Never  a  word  they  spoke : 

Only  my  son  I   feared; 

A  son  and  his  aged  father  — 

For  I   doubt  the   sapling  courage 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  folk.                           40 

That  goes   without   the  beard. 

But  now  in  vain  is  the  torture, 

8S 

And  the  king  sat  high  on  his  charger, 

Fire  shall  never  avail : 

He   looked  on  the  little  men; 

Here  dies  in  my  bosom 

And  the  dwarfish  and  swarthy  couple 

The   secret   of    Heather   Ale.' 

Looked  at  the  king  again. 

(1891) 

t 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  (1828-1909) 

Meredith  is  perhaps  most  widely  known  by  his  novels,  but  during  recent  years  his  poetry  has 
come  in  for  an  increasing  share  of  attention.  His  radical  ideas,  especially  with  respect  to  the 
emancipation  of  women,  which  are  suggested  rather  than  openly  advocated  in  the  novels,  are 
explicitly  avowed  in  the  poems;  and  the  form  of  his  poetry,  while  no  less  characteristic  than 
the  style  of  his  prose,  is  equally  distiuguished,  and  at  times  excjuisitely  musical.  Meredith  had 
to  wait  a  long  time  to  come  by  his  own;  his  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  as  long  ago  as 
3851,  and  his  first  work  of  fiction.  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  appeared  in  I80G.  The  Ordeal  of 
Richard  Fcverel  (1859)  established  his  position  in  the  world  of  fiction,  as  Modern  Love  (18G2) 
won  him  recognition  as  one  of  the  leading  poets  of  the  day ;  an  unappreciative  review  provoked 
Swinburne  to  a  letter  of  vigorous  protest,  in  the  course  of  which  he  said :  '  Mr.  Meredith  is 
one  of  the  three  or  four  poets  now  alive  whose  work,  perfect  or  imperfect,  is  always  as  noble 
in  design  as  it  is  often  faultless  in  result.'  But  after  winning  the  suffrages  of  contemporary 
men  of  letters,  Meredith  had  still  to  conquer  the  public.  The  Egoist  (1879)  is  usually  re- 
garded as  turning  the  tide  in  his  favor,  but  in  reviewing  the  Poems  and  Lyries  of  the  Joy  of 
Earth  in  1883  Mark  Pattisou  could  still  write:  'Mr.  Meredith  is  well  known,  by  name,  to 
the  widest  circle  of  readers  —  the  novel  readers.  By  name,  because  his  name  is  a  label  warn- 
ing them  not  to  touch.'  Diana  of  the  Crossaaps  (1885)  opened  the  way  for  a  larger  circle  of 
readers  not  only  of  this,  but  of  the  earlier  and  later  novels,  especially  in  the  United  States;  the 
poems  have  made  their  way  much  more  slowly  to  any  considerable  popularity,  if  indeed  they 
can  be  said,  as  a  whole,  to  have  won  it  yet.  Except  in  a  few  love  lyrics  and  wayside  studies, 
Meredith  makes  large  demands  upon  his  readers'  powers  of  comprehension.  He  has  his  own 
system  of  philosophy,  which  needs  some  familiarity  with  his  modes  of  expressing  it  before  it 
can  be  understood.  '  Where  other  writers  appeal  to  the  christian  divinities  or  to  humanity,' 
says  a  recent  critic,  '  he  speaks,  somewhat  insistently,  of  the  Earth,  a  term  to  which  he  at- 
taches his  own  mystic  meaning.  The  Earth  is  Nature,  considered  not  as  the  malign  step- 
mother which  she  is  in  pessimistic  theory,  but  as  a  stern  yet  genial  mother  and  instructress. 
The  Earth  gives  us  our  bodies,  our  fund  of  power,  and  our  basis  of  instinct.  Life  is  an  ad- 
justment and  realization  of  the  inward  forces  that  the  Earth  generates,  and  love  it  is  that  both 
tasks  and  rewards  most  completely  our  power  of  controlling  these  forces.'  These  are  high 
themes  for  young  readers,  and  they  may  well  leave  them  till  they  are  older  and  wiser.  If 
they  can  appreciate  Meredith's  simpler  poems,  the  understanding  of  the  more  difficult  ones  will 
come  later. 

Of  the  external  events  of  Meredith's  life  there  is  little  to  be  said.  Of  Welsh  descent,  he  was 
born  in  Hampshire,  and  educated  in  Germany.  During  his  early  manhood  he  worked  as  a 
journalist,  and  in  1866  he  was  a  war  correspondent  in  Italy  and  Austria,  his  sympathy  with 
the  cause  of  Italian  unity  and  independence  being  shown  in  his  novel  Vittoria,  published  the 
following  year.  The  last  thirty  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  quiet  retirement  at  Boxhill, 
near  London,  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  admiration  of  an  ever-widening  circle  of  readers. 
In  1905  he  received  the  Order  of  Merit,  perhaps  the  most  distinguished  of  British  decorations, 
and  in  1908,  on  his  eightieth  birthday,  an  address  of  congratulation  was  presented  to  him  from 
the  leading  writers  of  the  English-speaking  world. 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

Under     yonder     beech-tree     single     on     the 
greensward, 
Couched  with  her  arms  behind  her  golden 
head, 
Knees  and  tresses  folded  to  slip  and  ripple 
idly, 
Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had    I   the   heart   to    slide   an    arm    beneath 
her,  5 


Press    her    parting    lips    as    her    waist    I 
gather  slow, 
Waking  in  amazement  she  could  not  but  em- 
brace me ; 
Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let  me 
go? 

Shy    as    the    squirrel    and    wayward    as    the 
swallow, 
Swift    as    the    swallow    along    the    river':^ 
light  'o 


949 


950 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  niirrorod 
winglets, 
Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her 
flight. 
Shy   as    the    squirrel    that    leaps    among    the 
pine-tops, 
Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set 
of  sun, 
She    whom    I    love    is    hard    to    catch    and 
conquer  'S 

Hard,   but   oh,   the  glory   of  the   winning 
were  she  won ! 

When    her    mother    tends    her    before    the 
laughing  mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often     she     thinks,     were     this     wild     thing 
wedded, 
More  love   should   I  have,  and  much  less 
care.  2° 

When    her    mother    tends    her    before    the 
lighted   mirror, 
Loosening   her    laces,    combing   down    her 
curls, 
Often    she    thinks,    were    this    wild    thing 
wedded, 
I  should  miss  but  one  for  many  boys  and 
girls. 

Heartless    she    is    as    the    shadow    in    the 
meadows  25 

Flying  to  the  hills  on  a  blue  and  breezy 
noon. 
No,    she    is    athirst    and    drinking    up    her 
wonder ; 
Earth  to  her  is  young  as  the  slip  of  the 
new   moon. 
Deals  she  an  unkindness,  't  is  but  her  rapid 
measure. 
Even  as   in   a   dance ;   and   her   smile   can 
heal    no    less:  3° 

Like  the  swinging  May-cloud  that  pelts  the 
flowers  with  hailstones 
Off    a    sunny    border,    she    was    made    to 
bruise  and  bless. 

Lovely    are    the    curves    of    the    white    owl 
sweeping 
Wavy  in   the  dusk  lit  by  one  large   star. 
Lone  on  the   fir-branch,   his   rattle-note   un- 
varied, 35 
Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown 
eve-jar. 
Darker    grows    the    valley,    more    and    more 
forgetting : 
So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be 
willed. 
Tell   the  grassy  hollow  that   holds   the   bub- 
bling  well-spring, 


Tell   it  to   forget  the   source  that   keeps  it 
lilkd.  40 

Stepping  down   the   hill   with   her   fair   com- 
panions. 
Arm  in  arm,  all  against  the  raying  West, 
Boldly    she    sings,    to    the    merry    tune    she 
marches. 
Brave    in    her    shape,    and    sweeter    un- 
possessed. 
Sweeter,    for    she    is    what    my    heart    first 
awaking  45 

Whispered  the  world  was;  morning  light 
is  she. 
Love   that   so   desires  would   fain  keep  her 
changeless; 
Fain  would   fling  the  net,  and   fain  have 
her  free. 

Happy    happy    time,    when    the    white    star 
hovers 
Low    over   dim    fields    fresh    with   bloomy 
dew,  50 

Near  the  face  of  dawn,  that  draws  athwart 
the  darkness. 
Threading    it    with    color,    as    yewberries 
the  yew. 
Thicker   crowd   the   shades  while  the  grave 
East  deepens 
Glowing,  and   with  crimson  a  long  cloud 
swells. 
Maiden   still  the  morn  is;  and   strange  she 
is,  and  secret ;  55 

Strange  her  eyes ;  her  cheeks  are  cold  as 
cold  sea-shells. 

Sunrays,  leaning  on  our  southern  hills  and 
lighting 
Wild  cloud-mountains  that  drag  the  hills 
along. 
Oft  ends  the  day  of  your  shifting  brilliant 
laughter 
Chill  as  a  dull  face  frowning  on  a  song.  6° 
Ay,    but    shows    the    South-west    a    ripple- 
feathered  bosom 
Blown    to    silver    while    the    clouds    are 
shaken  and  ascend 
Scaling    the    mid-heavens    as    they    stream, 
there  comes  a  sunset 
Rich,    deep    like    love    in    beauty    without 
end. 

When   at   dawn   she   sighs,   and   like  an  in- 
fant to  the  window  65 
Turns   grave   eyes   craving   light,    released 
from  dreams. 
Beautiful   she  looks,  like  a   white   water-lily. 
Bursting    out    of    bud    in    havens    of    the 
streams. 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 


951 


When    from    bed    she    rises    clothed     from 
neck   to    ankle 
In   her    long   nightgown    sweet   as   boughs 
of  May,  70 

Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  tall  garden-lily, 
Pure  from  the  night,  and  splendid  for  the 
day. 

Mother   of  the   dews,   dark   eye-lashed  twi- 
light ; 
Low-lidded     twilight,     o'er     the     valley's 
brim, 
Rounding    on    thy    breast    sings    the    dew- 
delighted   skylark,  75 
Clear  as  though  the  dew-drops  had  their 
voice  in  him. 
Hidden  where  the  rose-flush  drinks  the  ray- 
less  planet, 
Fountain-full      he      pours      the      spraying 
fountain-showers. 
Let  me  hear  her  laughter,  I  would  have  her 
ever 
Cool   as   dew   in   twilight,  the   lark  above 
the   flowers.                                           80 

All  the  girls  are  out  with  their  baskets  for 
the  primrose; 
Up   lanes,    woods    through,   they   troop   in 
joyful   bands. 
My   sweet    leads :    she   knows   not    why,   but 
now  she  loiters. 
Eyes   the   bent   anemones,   and   hangs   her 
hands. 
Such   a    look   will    tell    that    the   violets    are 
peeping,  85 

Coming  the  rose;   and  unaware  a  cry 
Springs    in    her    bosom    for    odors    and    for 
color, 
Covert    and    the    nightingale ;    she    knows 
not   why. 

Kerchiefed  head  and  chin  she  darts  between 
her   tulips. 
Streaming   like   a   willow  gray   in   arrowy 
rain :  90 

Some    bend    beaten    cheek    to    gravel,    and 
their   angel 
She   will   be ;   she   lifts  them,  and  on   she 
speeds    again. 
Black  the  driving  raincloud  breasts  the  iron 
gate-way ; 
She  is   forth  to  cheer  a  neighbor  lacking 
mirth. 
So   when    sky   and   grass   met   rolling  dumb 
for   thunder  9S 

Saw    I    once   a    white   dove,    sole   light   of 
earth. 


Prim   little   scholars   are   the   flowers   of   her 
garden, 
Trained    to    stand    in    rows,    and    asking 
if    they    please. 
I  might  love  them  well  but  for  loving  more 
the  wild  ones  ; 
O   my  wild  ones!  they  tell  me  more  than 
these,  10° 

You,  my  wild  one,  you  tell  of  honied   field- 
rose, 
Violet,    blushing    eglantine    in    life;    and 
even  as  they, 
They,   by  the   wayside   are   earnest  of  your 
goodness. 
You   are  of  life's  on  the  banks  that   line 
the  way. 

Peering   at   her   chamber   the   white   crowns 
the  red  rose,  '05 

Jasmine    winds   the   porch   with    stars   two 
and  three. 
Parted     is     the    window ;     she    sleeps ;     the 
starry   jasmine 
Breathes     a     falling    breath    that    carries 
thoughts  of  me. 
Sweeter  unpossessed,  have  I  said  of  her  my 
sweetest  ? 
Not  while  she  sleeps :  while  she  sleeps  the 
jasmine  breathes,  "o 

Luring  her  to  love;   she  sleeps;   the   starry 
jasmine 
Bears  me  to  her  pillow  under  white  rose- 
wreaths. 

Yellow   with  birdfoot-trefoil   are  the   grass- 
glades  ; 
Yellow    with    cinquefoil    of   the    dew-gray 
leaf; 
Yellow    with    stonecrop;    the    moss-mounds 
are  yellow;  us 

Blue-necked    the    wheat    sways,    yellowing 
to  the  sheaf. 
Green-yellow,    bursts    from    the    copse    the 
laughing  yaffle. 
Sharp   as   a    sickle   is    the    edge   of    shade 
and    shine : 
Earth    in    her    heart    laughs    looking    at    the 
heavens. 
Thinking  of  the  harvest :  I  look  and  think 
of  mine.  '^o 

This    I    may    know:    her    dressing    and    un- 
dressing 
Such    a   change   of    light    shows    as    when 
the   skies   in   sport 

Shift    from    cloud   to   moonlight;    or   edging 
over  thunder 


952 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


Slips    a    ray    of    sun ;    or    sweeping    into 
port 
White  sails  furl;  or  on  the  ocean  borders  '^s 
White  sails  lean  along  the  waves  leaping 
green. 
Visions     of     her     shower    before    me,     but 
from   eyesight 
Guarded  she  would  be  like  the  sun  were 
she   seen. 

Front    door    and    back    of   the    mossed    old 
farmhouse 
Open    with    the    morn,    and    in    a    breezy 
link  '30 

Freshly  sparkles  garden  to  stripe-shadowed 
orchard, 
Green    across    a    rill    where    on    sand    the 
minnows   wink. 
Busy  in  the  grass  the  early  sun  of  summer 
Swarms,     and     the     blackbird's     mellow 
fluting   notes 
Call  my  darling  up  with  round  and  roguish 
challenge:  '35 

Quaintest,    richest    carol    of    all    the    sing- 
ing throats ! 

Cool  was  the   woodside;   cool  as  her  white 
dairy 
Keeping   sweet   the  cream-pan ;   and  there 
the    boys    from    school, 
Cricketing    below,    rushed    brown    and    red 
with   sunshine ; 
O  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep-eyed 
cool !  140 

Spying   from  the  farm,  herself  she   fetched 
a  pitcher 
Full  of  milk,  and  tilted  for  each  in  turn 
the  beak. 
Then  a  little   fellow,  mouth  up  and  on  tip- 
toe, 
Said,  '  I  will  kiss  you ' :  she  laughed  and 
leaned  her  cheek. 

Doves  of  the  fir-wood  walling  high  our  red 
roof  145 

Through    the    long    noon    coo,    crooning 
through  the  coo. 
Loose    droop    the     leaves,     and    down    the 
sleepy    roadway 
Sometimes  pipes  a  chaffinch ;  loose  droops 
the    blue. 
Cows    flap    a    slow    tail    knee-deep    in    the 
river, 
Breathless,  given  up  to  sun  and  gnat  and 
fly,  "50 

Nowhere  is  she  seen;  and  if  I   see  her  no- 
where. 


Lightning   may    come,    straight    rains    and 
tiger  sky. 

O    the   golden    sheaf,   the    rustling    treasure- 
armful  ! 
O    the    nutbrown    tresses    nodding    inter- 
laced ! 
O  the  treasure-tresses  one  another  over  155 
Nodding!     O    the    girdle    slack   about    the 
waist ! 
Slain  are  the  poppies  that  shot  their  random 
scarlet 
Quick  amid  the  wheat-ears:  wound  about 
the   waist. 
Gathered,    see    these    brides    of    Earth    one 
blush   of   ripeness ! 
O    the    nutbrown    tresses    nodding    inter- 
laced! >6o 

Large   and    smoky   red  the    sun's   cold   disk 
drops. 
Clipped   by   naked   hills,   on  violet   shaded 
snow : 
Eastward  large  and   still  lights  up  a  bower 
of    moonrise. 
Whence    at    her    leisure    steps    the    moon 
aglow. 
Nightlong      on      black      print-branches      our 
beech-tree  165 

Gazes   in  this   whiteness:    nightlong  could 
L 
Here  may  life  on  death  or  death  on  life  be 
painted. 
Let   me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  can- 
not  die! 

Gossips  count  her  faults !  they  scour  a  nar- 
row  chamber 
Where    there    is    no    window,    read    not 
heaven   or   her.  170 

'  When    she    was    a    tiny,'   one   aged    woman 
quavers. 
Plucks  at  my  heart  and  leads  me  by  the 
ear. 
Faults  she  had  once  as  she  learned  to  run 
and   tumbled : 
Faults    of    feature    some    see,    beauty    not 
complete. 
Yet,  good  gossips,  beauty  that  makes  holy 
Earth    and    air,    may    have    faults    from 
head  to   feet.  ^76 

Hither    she   comes ;    she   comes   to   me ;    she 

lingers, 
Deepens    her    brown    eyebrows,    while    in 

new    surprise 
High     rise     the     lashes     in     wonder     of     a 

stranger. 


JUGGLING  TERRY 


953 


Yet  am  I  the  light  and  living  of  her  eyes. 

Something    friends    have    told    her    fills    her 

heart  to  brimming,  '8i 

Nets  her  in  her  blushes,  and  w^ounds  her, 

and  tames. — 

Sure  of  her  haven,  O  like  a  dove  alighting, 

Arms  up,  she  dropped ;  our  souls  were  in 

our  names. 

Soon    will    she   lie   like   a  white  frost    sun- 
rise. i8s 
Yellow  oats  and  brown  wheat,  barley  pale 
as  rye, 
Long    since    your    sheaves    have  yielded    to 
the  thresher. 
Felt  the  girdle  loosened,  seen  the  tresses 

fly. 

Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  blood-red  sunset. 
Swift    with   the    to-morrow,   green-winged 
Spring!  190 

Sing   from  the   South-west,  bring  her   back 
the  truants, 
Nightingale   and    swallow,   song   and    dip- 
ping wing. 

Soft  new  beech-leaves,  up  to  beamy  April 
Spreading    bough    on    bough    a    primrose 
mountain,  you 
Lucid  in  the  moon,  raise  lilies  to  the   sky- 
fields,  •     I9S 
Youngest  green  transfused  in  silver  shin- 
ing through : 
Fairer    than    the    lily,    than    the    wild    white 
cherry: 
Fair  as  in  image  my  seraph  love  appears 
Born  to  me  by  dreams  when  dawn  is  at  my 
eyelids; 
Fair  as  in  the  flesh  she  swims  to  me  on 
tears.  200 

Could    I    find    a    place    to    be    alone    with 
heaven, 
I  would  speak  my  heart  out :  heaven  is  my 
need. 
Every    woodland    tree    is    flushing    like    the 
dogwood. 
Flashing     like     the     whitebeam,     swaying 
like  the  reed. 
Flushing     like     the     dogwood     crimson     in 
October ;  205 

Streaming    like    the    flag-reed    south-west 
blown ; 
Flashing    as     in     gusts    the     sudden-lighted 
whitebeam : 
All    seem    to    know    what    is    for    heaven 
alone. 

(1851-78) 


THE  LAST  WORDS  OF  JUGGLING 
JERRY 

Pitch    here    the    tent,    while    the    old    horse 
grazes : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we  '11  halt  a  stage. 
It 's  nigh  my   last  above   the   daisies : 

My  next  leaf  '11  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl!  and  it's  no  use  crying:  5 

Juggler,    constable,    king,    must    bow. 
One  that  out  juggles  all 's  been   spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  has  me  now. 

We  've  traveled  times  to  this  old  common :  9 

Often  we  've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman! 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  gray  horse. 
Races,    and    fairs,    and    royal    occasions. 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call : 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  our  stations:  '5 

There 's    a  Juggler   outjuggles   all ! 

Up  goes   the  lark,   as   if  all   were  jolly! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
It  's   easy   to   think   that  grieving 's    folly, 

When  (he  hand's  firm  as  driven  stakes!  20 
Ay,    when    we  're    strong,    and    braced,    and 
manful. 

Life's  a  sweet  fiddle:   but  we're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Great  Juggler's  han'ful: 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch. 

Here 's     where     the     lads     of     the     village 
cricket :  25 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here: 
Couldn't   I   juggle  the  bale  off  the  wicket? 

Like  an  old   world   those   days   appear ! 
Donkey,     sheep,     geese     and    thatched     ale- 
house —  I    know    'em  ! 
They    are    old    friends    of    my   halts,    and 
seem,  30 

Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  *em: 
Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem. 

Juggling  's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual : 

Nature   allows   us   to  bait   for  the   fool. 
Holding    one's    own    makes    us    juggle    no 
little;  35 

But,    to    increase    it,    hard    juggling 's    the 
rule. 
You   that  are   sneering   at  my   profession. 

Have  n't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount  ? 
There  's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Session. 
Juggles     more     games     than     my     sins  'II 
count.  40 

I  've  murdered   insects   with   mock  thunder : 
Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 


954 


GEORGE  iVlEREDlTH 


I  've  made  broad  from  the  hump  of  wonder: 
That  's  my  business,   and   there  's  my  talc. 

Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  professor; 

Ay !    and    I  've    had    my    smile    from    the 

Queen :  46 

Bravo,  Jerry!  she  meant:  God  bless  her! 
Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene? 

I  've   studied  men    from   my   topsy-turvy 

Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true.  so 

Some  are  fine  fellows:  some,  right  scurvy; 

Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 
But   it  's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more   kindly   of   the   race: 
And    it's    a    woman,    old    girl,    that    shakes 
me  55 

When  the  Great  Juggler   I   must  face. 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal : 

Honest  we  've  lived  since  we  've  been  one. 
Lord !   I  could  then  jump  like  *ii  eagle : 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun.  6o 
Birds  in  a  May-bush  we  were!  right  merry! 

All  night  we  kissed,  we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the   heart   of   Juggling  Jerry ! 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he  's  juggled  away. 

It's   past  parsons   to   console  us;  65 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me : 
I   can   die   without   my  bolus ; 

Two  of  a  trade,   lass,   never  agree! 
Parson      and      Doctor !  —  don't      they     love 
rarely, 

Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields !  70 
Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly: 

Then  sec  how  the  rascal  yields ! 

I,  lass,  have  lived   no  gipsy,   flaunting 

Finery   while   his   poor   helpmate   grubs : 
Coin  I  've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  wanting : 
You    sha  'n  't    beg    from   the   troughs    and 
tubs.  76 

Nobly  you  've    stuck   to   me,   though    in   his 
kitchen 
Duke  might  kneel  to  call  you   Cook! 
Palaces    you    could    have    ruled    and    grown 
rich  in, 
But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook.  80 

Hand  up  the  chirper !  ripe  ale  winks  in  it; 

Let 's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once    a    stout    draft    made    me    light    as    a 
linnet. 
Cheer  up !  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May   be  —  for   none    see   in    that   black  hol- 
low—  85 
It 's    just    a    place    where    we  're    held    in 
pawn. 


And,   when   the   Great  Juggler   makes  as  to 
swallow, 
It's    just    the    sword-trick — I    ain't    quite 
gone. 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorsc,   so  nutty, 
Gold-like    and    warm :    it 's    the    prime    of 
May.  90 

Better   than    mortar,   brick,   and   putty, 

Is   God's  house  on   a   blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound ;  now  I  feel  it ; 
All       the       old      heath-smells!     Ain't      it 
strange? 
There's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal 
it !  9S 

But  He  's  by  us,  juggling  the  change. 

I  mind   it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 
Once  —  it  's    long    gone  —  when    two    gulls 
we  beheld, 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 
Down     a     big     wave     that     sparked     and 
swelled. 
Crack  went  a  gun ;  one  fell :  the  second  100 
Wheeled  round  him  twice,  and  was  off  for 
new    luck : 
There      in      the      dark      her      white      wing 
beckoned ;  — 
Give    me    a    kiss  —  I'm    the    bird    dead- 
struck  ! 

(1859) 

THE  OLD  CHARTIST 

Whate'er  I  be,  old  England  is  my  dam  ! 
So    there's     my    answer    to    the    judges, 
clear. 
I'm  nothing  of  a  fox,  nor  of  a  lamb; 
I   don't   know   how   to   cheat,   nor   how   to 
leer : 
I  'm    for   the    nation  !  S  1 

That  's    why    you    see    me    by    the    waysidej 
here, 
Returning  home  from  transportation. 

It 's  Summer  in  her  bath  this  morn,  I  thinlcj 
I  'm  fresh  as  dew,  and  chirpy  as  the  birds  :| 
And  just  for  joy  to  see  old  England  wink 
Thro'   leaves   again,   I   could   harangue   the*] 
herds : 
Is  n't  it   something 
To  speak  out  like  a  man  when  you  've  gotj 
words, 
.•\nd    prove    you  're    not    a    stupid    dumb] 
thing? 

They     shipped     me    off     for     it:     I'm    here] 
again. 
Old  England  is  my  dam,  whate'er   I  be.  '* 


THE  OLD  CHARTIST 


955 


Says    I,    I  '11    tramp    it    home,    and    see    the 
grain : 
If  you  see  well,  you're  king  of  what  you 
see: 
Eyesight  is  having, 
If  you're  not  given,  I  said,  to  gluttony.     20 
Such  talk  to  ignorance  sounds  as  raving. 

You  dear  old  brook,  that   from  his  Grace's 
park 
Come  bounding!  on  you  run  near  my  old 
town : 
My  lord  can't  lock  the  water ;  nor  the  lark, 
Unless    he    kills    him,    can    my    lord    keep 
down.  25 

Up,  is  the  song-note ! 
I've    tried    it,    too:  —  for    comfort    and    re- 
nown, 
I  rather  pitched  upon  the  wrong  note. 

I  'm    not    ashamed :     Not    beaten 's    still    my 
boast : 
Again  I  '11  rouse  the  people  up  to  strike.  3° 
But     home's     where     different    politics     jar 
most. 
Respectability   the   women   like. 
This  form,  or  that  form  — 
The  Government  may  be  hungry  pike, 
But    don't    you    mount    a    Chartist    plat- 
form !  35 

Well,  well!     Not  beaten  —  spite  of  them,   I 
shout ; 
And     my     estate     is     suffering     for     the 
Cause. — 
Now,  what  is  yon  brown  water-rat  about, 
Who  washes  his  old  poll  with  busy  paws? 
What  does  he  mean  by  't?  40 

It's  like   defying  all   our  natural   laws. 
For  him  to  hope  that  he  '11  get  clean  by  't. 

His  seat  is  on  a  mud-bank,  and  his  trade 
Is    dirt:  —  he's    quite    contemptible;    and 
yet 
The  fellow  's  all  as  anxious  as  a  maid       45 
To  show  a  decent  dress,  and  dry  the  wet. 
Now  it 's  his  whisker, 
And  now  his  nose,  and  ear ;  he  seems  to  get 
Each  moment  at  the  motion  brisker! 

To  see  him  squat  like  little  chaps  at  school, 
I    can't    help    laughing    out    with    all    my 
might.  51 

He   peers,   hangs   both   his    fore-paws :    bless 
that    fool. 
He 's   bobbing    at    his    frill    now !    what    a 
sight ! 
Licking  the  dish   up, 


As    if    he    thought    to    pass    from    black    to 
white,  55 

Like    parson    into    lawny    bishop. 

The  elms  and  yellow  reed-flags  in  the  sun. 
Look     on     quite     grave: — the      sunlight 
flecks  his   side; 
And    links    of    bindweed-flowers    round    him 
run, 
And    shine    up    doubled    with    him    in    the 
tide.  60 

I  'm  nearly  splitting, 
But  nature  seems  like  seconding  his  pride, 
And  thinks  that  his  behavior  's  fitting. 

That  isle  o'  mud  looks  baking  dry  with  gold. 
His  needle-muzzle  still  works  out  and  in. 
It  really  is  a  wonder  to  behold,  66 

And    makes    me    feel    the    bristles    of    my 
chin. 
Judged  by  appearance, 
I  fancy  of  the  two  I  'm  nearer  Sin, 
And  might  as  well  commence  a  clearance. 

And  that 's   what  my  fine   daughter   said :  — 
she  meant:  71 

Pray  hold  your  tongue,  and  wear  a  Sun- 
day face. 
Her  husband,  the  young  linendraper,  spent 
Much      argument     thereon :  —  I  'm      their 
disgrace. 
Bother  the  couple  !  75 

I    feel   superior  to  a  chap  whose  place 
Commands   him   to  be   neat   and   supple. 

But  if   I  go  and  say  to  my  old  hen: 
I  '11    mend    the    gentry's    boots,    and    keep 
discreet, 
Until  they  grow  too  violent, —  why,  then,  80 
A    warmer    welcome    I    might    chance    to 
meet : 
Warmer  and  better. 
And   if   she    fancies   her  old   cock   is  beat, 
And  drops  upon  her  knees  —  so  let  her ! 

She     suffered      for     me: — women,     you'll 
observe,  §5 

Don't  suffer  for  a  Cause,  but  for  a  man. 
When   I    was   in   the    dock   she   showed   her 
nerve : 
I  saw  beneath  her  shawl  my  old  tea-can 
Trembling    .     .     .     she  brought  it 
To  screw  me  for  my  work:  she  loathed  my 
plan,  90 

And  therefore  doubly  kind  I  thought  it. 

I've  never  lost  the  taste  of  that  same  tea: 

That  liquor  on  my  logic  floats  like  oil. 
When  I  state  facts,  and   fellows  disagree. 


956 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


For  human  creatures  all  are  in  a  coil ;     95 
All  may  want  pardon. 
I  see  a  clay  when  every  put  will  boil 
Ifarmonious  in  one  great  Tea-garden  ! 

We  wait  the  setting  of  the  Dandy's  day, 
Before   that    time!  — He's    furbishing   his 
dress—  '°° 

He  will  be  ready  for  it!  — and  I  say 
That  yon  old  dandy  rat  amid  the  cress,— 
Thanks  to  hard  labor !  — 
If   cleanliness    is   next   to   godliness, 
The  old   fat   fellow 's  Heaven's  neighbor ! 

You  teach  me  a  fine  lesson,  my  old  boy  !  'o^ 
I  've  looked  on  my  superiors  far  too  long. 
And  small  has  been  my  profit  as  my  joy. 
You  've    done    the    right    while    1  've    de- 
nounced  the  wrong. 
Prosper    me    later!  "° 

Like     you     I     will     despise     the     sniggering 
throng, 
And  please  myself  and  my  Creator. 

I  '11  bring  the  linendraper  and  his  wife 

Some  day  to  see  you;  taking  off  my  hat. 
Should   they  ask  why,   I  '11   answer :    in   my 
life  "5 

I  never  found  so  true  a  democrat. 
Base  occupation 
Can't  rob  you  of  your  own  esteem,  old  rat ! 
I  'II  preach  you  to  the  British  nation. 

(1862) 


FRANCE   1870 

We  look  for  her  that  sunlike  stood 

Upon  the   forehead  of  our  day. 
An  orb  of  nations,  radiating  food 

For  body  and  for  mind  alway. 

Where  is  the  Shape  of  glad  array ;         5 

The  nervous  hands,  the  front  of  steel. 
The  clarion   tongue?     Where   is  the   bold 
proud   face? 

We  see  a  vacant  place ; 

We  hear  an  iron  heel. 

O  she  that  made  the  brave  appeal  1° 

For  manhood  when  our  time  was  dark. 
And   from   our   fetters   struck  the   spark 
Which   was   as   lightning  to  reveal 
New    seasons,   with    the   swifter   play 
Of   pulses,   and   benigner   day;  >5 

She  that   divinely  shook  the  dead 
From   living   man  ;   that'  stretched   ahead 
Her    resolute    forefinger    straight. 
And   marched   towards  the   gloomy  gate 


Of   earths   Untried,  gave   note,   and   in     2c 

The  good  name  of  Humanity 
Called    forth    the  daring    vision !    she. 
She   likewise  half   corrupt   of   sin, 
Angel   and   Wanton!     Can    it   be? 
Her    star    has    foundered    in    eclipse,        25 
The  shriek   of   madness  on   her   lips; 
Shreds  of  her,  and  no  more,  we  see. 

There    is    a    horrible    convulsion,    smothered 
din, 

As   of   one   that   in    a   grave-cloth    struggles 
to  be  free. 

Look  not   on    spreading  boughs  30 

For  the  riven   forest  tree. 
Look  down   where  deep  in  blood  and  mire 
Black  thunder  plants  his  feet  and  plows 
The  soil  for  ruin ;  that  is  France : 

Still   thrilling   like   a   lyre,  35 

Amazed  to   shivering  discord    from   a   fall 
Sudden  as  that  the  lurid  hosts  recall 
Who    met    in    Heaven    the    irreparable    mis- 
chance. 

O  that  is  France ! 
The  brilliant  eyes  to  kindle  bliss,  40 

The  shrewd  quick  lips  to  laugh  and  kiss, 
Breasts  that  a  sighing  world  inspire, 
And    laughter-dimpled   countenance 
Whence  soul  and  senses  caught  desire ! 

Ever  invoking  fire  from  Heaven,  the  fire    45 
Has  seized  her,  unconsumable,  but  framed 
For   all   the   ecstasies   of   suffering   dire. 
Mother   of   Pride,   her   sanctuary   shamed : 
Mother  of  Delicacy,  and  made  a  mark 
For   outrage :     Mother    of    Luxury,    stripped 

stark: 
Mother  of  Heroes,  bondsmen;  through   the 

rains. 
Across    her    boundaries,    lo    the    league-long 

chains ! 
Fond    mother    of    her    martial    youth;    they 

pass. 
They  are  specters  in  her  sight,  are  mown  as 

grass ! 
Mother  of  Honor,  and  dishonored:     Mother 
Of    Glory,    she    condemned    to    crown    with 

bays  56 

Her   victor,  and   be    fountain   of   his  praise. 
Is   there   another  curse?     There   is   another: 
Compassionate  her  madness :  is  she  not 
Mother    of    Reason?    she    that    sees    them 

mown,  60 

Like    grass,    her    young    ones !     Yea,    in    the 

low   groan. 
And  under  the  fixed  thunder  of  this  hour 
\\']iich  holds  the  animate  world  in  one  foul 

blot 


♦ 


FRANCE  1870 


957 


Tranced      circumambient      while      relentless 

Power 
Beaks    at    her    heart    and    claws    her    limbs 

down-thrown,  65 

She,   with  the  plunging  lightnings  overshot. 
With  madness  for  an  armor  against  pain, 
With  milkless  breasts  for  little  ones  athirst, 
And    round    her    all    her    noblest    dying    in 

vain, 
Mother  of  Reason  is  she,  trebly  cursed,    7° 
To  feel,  to  see,  to  justify  the  blow; 
Chamber  to  chamber   of  her   sequent  brain 
Gives  answer  of  the  cause  of  her  great  woe. 
Inexorably    echoing   through    the    vaults, 
"Tis    thus    they    reap    in    blood,    in    blood 

who   sow :  75 

This   is   the   sum   of   self-absolved   faults.' 
Doubt  not  that  through  her  grief,  with  sight 

supreme. 
Through    her    delirium    and    despair's    last 

dream. 
Through   pride,  through  bright  illusion  and 

the  brood 
Bewildering  of  her  various  Motherhood,  8° 
The    high    strong    light    within    her,    though 

she  bleeds. 
Traces   the   letters   of   returned   misdeeds. 
She  sees  what   seed  long  sown,  ripened  of 

late, 
Bears    this    fierce    crop;    and    she    discerns 

her    fate 
From  origin  to  agony,  and  on  85 

As  far  as  the  wave  washes  long  and  wan 
Off   one   disastrous   impulse:    for   of    waves 
Our    life    is,    and    our    deeds    are    pregnant 

graves 
Blown     rolling     to     the     sunset     from     the 

dawn. 

Ah,  what  a  dawn  of  splendor,  when  her 
sowers  90 

Went  forth  and  bent  the  necks  of  popula- 
tions. 

And  of  their  terrors  and  humiliations 

Wove  her  the  starry  wreath  that  earthward 
lowers 

Now  in  the  figure  of  a  burning  yoke ! 

Her  legions  traversed  North  and  South 
and    East,  95 

Of  triumph  they  enjoyed  the  glutton's 
feast : 

They  grafted  the  green  sprig,  they  lopped 
the  oak. 

They  caught  by  the  beard  the  tempests,  by 
the  scalp 

The  icy  precipices,  and  clove  sheer  through 

The  heart  of  horror  of  the  pinnacled   Alp, 

Emerging  not  as  men   whom  mortals  knew. 


They    were   the    earthquake    and   the    hurri- 
cane, 102 
The  lightnings  and   the  locusts,  plagues  of 

blight. 
Plagues    of    the    revel:    they    were    Deluge 

rain. 
And  dreaded   Conflagration;   lawless   Might. 
Death     writes     a     reeling     line     along     the 

snows,  106 

Where    under    frozen    mists    they    may    be 

tracked. 
Who   men   and   elements   provoked   to    foes. 
And    Gods:    they   were    of    God    and    Beast 

compact : 
Abhorred    of    all.     Yet,    how    they    sucked 

the    teats  no 

Of  Carnage,  thirsty  issue  of   their  dam, 
Whose     eagles,     angrier     than     their     ori- 

fiamme. 
Flushed    the    vext    earth    with    blood,    green 

earth    forgets. 
The     gay     young     generations     mask     her 

grief; 
Where   bled   her  children   hangs   the   loaded 

sheaf.  IIS 

Forgetful  is  green  earth;  the  Gods  alone 
Remember   everlastingly:    they   strike 
Remorselessly,    and    ever    like    for    like. 
By    their    great    memories    the     Gods     are 

known. 


They   are   with   her   novy,   and   in   her   ears, 

and  known.  120 

'Tis    they    that    cast    her    to    the    dust    for 

Strength, 
Their    slave,    to    feed    on    her    fair    body's 

length. 
That    once    the    sweetest    and    the    proudest 

shone ; 
Scoring    for    hideous    dismemberment 
Her     limbs,     as     were     the     anguish-taking 

breath  125 

Gone    out    of    her    in    the    insufferable    de- 
scent 
From   her   high   chieftainship;   as   were   she 

death. 
Who    hears    a    voice    of    justice,    feels    the 

knife 
Of  torture,  drinks  all   ignominy  of   life. 
They   are    with   her,    and   the   painful    Gods 

might    weep,  130 

If  ever  rain  of  tears  came  out  of  Heaven 
To    flatter    Weakness    and    bid    Conscience 

sleep. 
Viewing  the   woe  of  this   Immortal,   driven 
For  the  soul's  life  to  drain  the  maddening 

cup 
Of  her  own  children's  blood   implacably: 


958 


(lEORGE  MEREDITH 


Unsparing  even  as  they  to   furrow  up     '36 
The  yellow   land   to  likeness  of   a   sea: 
The   bountiful    fair   land   of   vine   and   grain. 
Of    wit    and    grace    and    ardor,    and    strong 

roots, 
Fruits    perishable,    imperishable    fruits;      Ho 
Furrowed  to  likeness  of  the  dim  gray  main 
Behind    the    black    obliterating    cyclone. 

Behold,    the    Gods    are    with    her,    and    arc 

known. 
Whom    they    abandon    misery    persecutes 
No  more:   them  half-eyed   apathy  may  loan 
The  happiness   of   the   pitiable   brutes.        146 
Whom    the    just    Gods    abandon    have    no 

light. 
No   ruthless   light   of   introspective   eyes 
That  in  the  midst  of  misery   scrutinize 
The  heart   and   its   iniquities   outright.        150 
They  rest,  they   smile   and   rest;   they  have 

earned   perchance 
Of  ancient  service  quiet  for  a  term; 
Quiet  of  old  men  dropping  to  the  worm; 
And    so    goes    out    the    soul.     But    not    of 

France. 
She    cries    for    grief,   and   to   the    gods    she 
cries,  ^55 

For    fearfully    their    loosened    hands    chas- 
tise, 
And    mercilessly   they    watch    the    rod's    ca- 
ress 
Ravage   her    flesh    from   scourges   merciless, 
But  she,  inveterate  of  brain,  discerns 
That  Pity  has  as  little  place  as  Joy  160 

Among    their    roll    of    gifts;    for    Strength 

she   yearns, 
For   Strength,  her   idol   once,   too    long  her 

toy. 
Lo,    Strength    is    of    the    plain    root-Virtues 

born : 
Strength    shall    ye    gain    by    service,    prove 

in    scorn, 
Train  by  endurance,  by  devotion  shape.   165 
Strength  is   not   won  by  miracle  or  rape. 
It   is   the   offspring   of   the   modest  years. 
The  gift  of  sire  to  son,  through  those  sound 

laws 
Which     we     name     Gods,     which     are     the 

righteous   cause. 
The   cause   of   man,  and   Manhood's   minis- 
ters. 170 
Could     France    accept    the     fables    of    her 

priests, 
Who    blest    her    banners    in    this    game    of 

beasts, 
And    now    bid    hope    that    Heaven    will    in- 
tercede 


To  violate  its  laws  in  her  sore  need. 

She  would  find  comfort  in  their  opiates.  175 

Mother     of     Reason!     can     she     cheat     the 

Fates? 
Would     she,    the    champion    of    the    open 

mind. 
The    Omnipotent's    first    gift  —  the    gift    of 

growth  — 
Consent  even   for  a  night-time  to  be  blind, 
And  sink  her  soul  on  the  delusive  sloth  180 
For    fruits    ethereal    and   material,   both, 
In   peril   of   her   place   among  mankind? 
The   Mother  of   the   many   Laughters   might 
Call    one    poor    shade    of    laughter    in    the 

light 
Of    her    unwavering    lamp    to    mark    what 

things  185 

The    world    puts    faith    in,    careless    of    the 

truth  : 
What  silly  puppet-bodies  danced  on  strings, 
Attached   by   credence,    we   appear   in    sooth, 
Demanding    intercession,    direct    aid. 
When  the  whole  tragic  tale  hangs  on  a  for- 
feit blade!  190 

She   swung  the  sword   for  centuries;    in   a 

day 
It   slipped  her,   like   a    stream   cut    from   its 

source. 
She    struck    a    feeble    hand,    and    tried    to 

pray, 
Clamored  of  treachery,  and  had  recourse 
To    drunken    outcries    in    her    dream    that 

Force  '95 

Needed  but  to  hear  her  shouting  to  obey. 
Was     she    not     formed    to    conquer?     The 

bright  plumes 
Of  crested   vanity   shed   graceful   nods: 
Transcendent    in    her    foundries.    Arts    and 

looms. 
Had   France   to   fear   the  vengeance   of   the 

Gods?  200 

Her    Gods    were    then    the    battle-roll    of 

names 
Sheathed   in   the   records   of  old  war;   with 

dance 
And    song    she    thrilled    her    warriors    and 

her  dames. 
Embracing     her      Dishonorer:      gave      him 

France 
From  head  to  foot,  France  present  and  to 

come,  ^°5 

So    she    might    hear    the    trumpet    and    the 

drum  — 
Bellona   and   Bacchante!   rushing   forth 
On  those  stout  marching   Schoolmen  of  the 

North. 


FRANCE  1870 


959 


Inveterate  of  brain,  well  knows   she  why 
Strength   failed  her,  faithful  to  himself  the 

first;  210 

Her   dream   is  done,  and   she  can   read   the 

sky, 
And  she  can  take  into  her  heart  the  worst 
Calamity  to  drug  the   shameful   thought 
Of    days    that    made    her    as    the    man    she 

served, 
A   name   of   terror,   but   a   thing   unnerved ; 
Buying     the     trickster,     by     the     trickster 

bought,  216 

She   for  dominion,  he  to  patch  a  throne. 

Behold    the    Gods    are    with    her    now,    and 

known : 
And  to  know  them,  not  suffering  for  their 

sake, 
Is  madness  to  the  souls  that  may  not  take 
The  easy  way  of  death,  being  divine.         221 
Her  frenzy  is  not  Reason's  light  extinct 
In    fumes    of    foul    revenge    and    desperate 

sense. 
But  Reason  rising  on  the  storm  intense. 
Three-faced,   with  present,  past,  and   future 

linked;  22s 

Informed   three- fold  with  duty  to  her  line. 
By   sacrifice   of   blood   must   she  atone, 
(Since    thus    the    foe    decrees    it)     to    her 

own : 
That  she  who  cannot  supplicate,  n-or  cease. 
Who    will    not    utter    the    false    word    for 

Peace,  230 

May  burn  to  ashes,  with  a  heart  of  stone, 
Whatso    has    made    her    of    all    lands    the 

flower. 
To  spring  in  flame  for  one  redeeming  hour, 
For   one   propitious   hour   arise   from   prone, 
Athwart     Ambition's    path,    and    have    and 

wrench  235 

His  towering  stature  from  the  bitter  trench. 
Retributive,    by    her   taskmasters    shown, — 
The  spectral  trench  where  bloody  se^d  was 

sown. 

Henceforth   of   her  the   Gods  are  known. 
Open  to  them  her  breast  is  laid.  240 

Inveterate   of   brain,    heart-valiant, 
Never  did   fairer  creature  pant 
Before  the  altar  and  the  blade! 

Swift  fall  the  blows,  and  men  upbraid, 
And   friends  give  echo  blunt  and  cold,  ,  245 
The  echo  of  the  forest  to  the  axe. 
Within  her  are  the  fires  that  wax 
For  resurrection  from  the  mold. 

She   snatched   at   Heaven's   flame  of  old. 
And   kindled   nations:    she  was   weak:        zso 


Frail   sister   of   her   heroic   prototype. 
The   Man ;    for    sacrifice   unripe, 
She  too  must  fill  a  Vulture's  beak. 

Once  more,  O  earthly   fortune,   speak ! 

Has   she  a  gleam  of   victory?  one  255 

Outshining   of  her   old   historic   sun? 

For  a  while !  for  an  hour ! 

And   sunlight   on   her   banner   seems 

A    miracle   conceived    in    dreams. 

The    faint   reflux  of  orient  beams  260 

Through  a  lifting  shower. 

Now  is  she  in  the  vulture-grasp  of  Power, 
And  all  her  sins  are  manifest  to  men. 
Now   may  they   reckon  with   punctilious  pen 
Her    list   of    misdemeanors,    and    her   dower 
Of  precious  gifts  that  gilded  the  rank  fen 
Where  lay  a  wanton  greedy  to  devour.      267 

Now  is  she  in  the  vulture-grasp  of  Power. 
The  harlot  sister  of  the  man  sublime, 
Prometheus,    she,    though    vanquished    will 

not  cower.  270 

Offending     Heaven,     she     groveled     in     the 

slime; 
Offending  Man,  she  aimed  beyond  her  time; 
Offending    Earth,     her     Pride    was    like     a 

tower. 

O   like  the  banner  on  the  tower. 

Her   spirit   was,  and  toyed   and  curled       275 

Among  its   folds  to  lure  the  world  — 

It  called  to   follow.     But  when  strong  men 

thrust 
The  banner  on  the  winds,  't  was  flame, 
And    pilgrim-generations    tread    its    dust, 
And    kiss    its    track.     Disastrously    unripe, 
Imperfect,    changeful,    full    of    blame,       281 
Still   the   Gods   love   her,   for   that   of   high 

aim 
Is  this  good  France,  the  bleeding  thing  they 

stripe. 

She  shall   rise  worthier  of  her  prototype 

Through  her  abasement  deep ;  the  pain  that 
runs  285 

From  nerve  to  nerve  some  victory  achieves. 

They  lie  like  circle-strewn  soaked  Autumn- 
leaves 

Which  stain  the  forest  scarlet,  her  fair 
sons ! 

And  of  their  death  her  life  is:  of  their 
blood 

From  many  streams  now  urging  to  a  flood, 

No  more  divided,  France  shall  rise 
afresh.  291 

Of  them  she  learns  the  lesson  of  the 
flesh:  — 


960 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


The  lesson   writ   in   red  since  first  Time  ran 
A   hunter   hunting  down   the   beast   in    man: 
That  till  the  chasing  out  of  its  last  vice,  ^95 
The  flesh  was  fashioned  hut  for  sacrifice. 
Cast    hence    the    slave's    delights,    the    wan- 
ton's   lures, 
O  France!  and  of  thy  folly  pay  full  price; 
The    limitary    nature    that    immures 
A     spirit     dulled    in    clay    shall    break,    as 
thrice  300 

It    has    broken    on    a    night    of    blood    and 

tears, 
To  give  thy  ghost  free  breath,  and  joy  thy 
peers. 

Immortal  mother  of  a  mortal  host! 

Thou  suffering  of  the  wounds  that  will  not 

slay. 
Wounds  that  bring  death  but  take  not  life 

away !  —  •^"S 

Stand    fast    and   hearken    while   thy   victors 

boast : 
Hearken,   and    loathe   that   music   evermore. 
Slip    loose    thy    garments    woven    of    pride 

and    shame : 
The   torture   lurks   in   them,   with   them  the 

blame 
Shall    pass    to    leave    thee    purer    than    be- 
fore. 310 
Undo    thy    jewels,    thinking    whence    they 

came. 
For  what,  and  of  the  abominable  name 
Of   her   who   in    imperial   beauty   wore. 

O  Mother  of  a  fated  fleeting  host 
Conceived    in    the    past    days    of    sin,    and 

born  315 

Heirs  of  disease  and  arrogance  and  scorn, 
Surrender,    yield    the    weight    of    thy    great 

ghost, 
Like    wings    on    air,   to    what    the    Heavens 

proclaim 
With     trumpets     from     the     multitudinous 

mounds 
Where  peace  has  filled  the  hearing  of   thy 

sons :  3^0 

Albeit   a   pang    of   dissolution    rounds 
Each     new     discernment     of     the     undying 

Ones, 
Stoop   to  these   graves  here   scattered   thick 

and   wide 
Along  thy  fields,  as  sunless  billows  roll; 
These  ashes  have  the  lesson  for  the  soul.  3^5 
'  Die  to  thy  Vanity,   and   to   thy   Pride, 
And  to  thy   Luxury:   that  thou   may'st   live. 
Die  to  thyself,'  they  say,  'as  we  have  died 
From    dear   existence,   and   the    foe    forgive, 
Nor  pray  for  aught  save  in  our  little  space 


To     warm     good     seed     to     greet     the     fair 

earth's    face."  J3' 

O   mother!   take  their  counsel,  and   so   ^hail 

The   broader   world   breathe    in    on    this   thy 

home. 
Light    clear    for    thee    the    counter-changing 

dome. 
Fire  lift  thee  to  the  heights  meridional,  335 
Strength  give  thee,  like  an  ocean's  vast  ex- 
panse 
Off   mountain   cliffs,   the   generations    all. 
Not     whirling     in     their     narrow     rings     of 

foam. 
But   like  a  river   forward.     Soaring   France! 
Now  is   Humanity  on   trial   in   thee :  340 

Now  may'st  thou  gather  humankind  in   fee : 
Now    prove    that    Reason    is    a    quenchless 

scroll ; 
Make   of   calamity   thine   aureole. 
And   bleeding   lead   us   through   the   troubles 
of  the  sea. 

(1871) 


THE  LARK  ASCENDING 

He    rises    and    begins    to    round. 

He  drops  the  silver  chain  of  sound, 

Of  many  links  without  a  break. 

In  chirrup,  whistle,  slur  and  shake, 

All  intervolved  and  spreading  wide,  S 

Like   water-dimples  down   a   tide 

Where  ripple  ripple  overcurls 

And  eddy  into  eddy  whirls; 

A  press  of  hurried  notes  that  run 

So  fleet  they  scarce  are  more  than  one,       1° 

Yet  changingly  the  trills  repeat 

And  linger  ringing  while  they  fleet. 

Sweet  to  the  quick  o'  the  car,  and  dear 

To  her  beyond   the  handmaid  ear. 

Who   sits   beside   our   inner   springs,  i5 

Too  often  dry  for  this  he  brings, 

Which  seems  the  very  jet  of  earth 

At  sight  of  sun,  her  music's  mirth. 

As  up  he  wings  the  spiral  stair, 

A    song   of    light,   and   pierces   air  20 

With  fountain  ardor,  fountain  play, 

To  reach  the  shining  tops  of  day. 

And  drink  in  everything  discerned 

An   ecstasy  to  nmsic  turned, 

Impelled   by   what   his   happy   bill  25 

Disperses;  drinking,  showering  still. 

Unthinking  save  that  he  may  give 

His  voice  the  outlet,  there  to  live 

Renewed  in  endless  notes  of  glee, 

So  thirsty  of  his  voice  is  he,  3<J 

For   all    to   hear   and    all    to  know 

That  he  is  joy,  awake,  aglow, 


THE  WOODS  OF  WESTERMAIN 


961 


The  tumult  of  the  heart  to  hear 
Through  pureness  filtered  erystal-clear, 
And  know  the  pleasure  sprinkled  hright     35 
By  simple  singing  of  delight, 
Shrill,   irreflective,   unrestrained, 
Rapt,   ringing,  on   the   jet   sustained 
Without  a  break,  without  a   fall, 
Sweet-silvery,   sheer  lyrical,  4° 

Perennial,   quavering  up  the  chord 
Like    myriad    dews    of    sunny    sward 
That  trembling   into   fullness   shine, 

I   And  sparkle  dropping  argentine  ; 

:    Such  wooing  as  the  ear  receives,  45 

From    zephyr  caught   in   choric   leaves 
Of  aspens  when  their  chattering  net 
Is  flushed  to  white  with  shivers  wet ; 
And  such  the  water-spirit's  chime 
On  mountain  heights  in  morning's  prime,  50 
Too  freshly  sweet  to  seem  excess, 
Too  animate  to  need  a  stress; 
But  wider  over  many  heads 
The  starry  voice  ascending  spreads, 
Awakening,  as  it  waxes  thin,  55 

The  best  in  us  to  him  akin ; 
And  every  face  to  watch  him  raised, 
Puts  on  the  light  of  children  praised, 
So  rich  our  human  pleasure  ripes 
When    sweetness    on    sincereness    pipes,     60 
Though   naught  be  promised   from  the   seas. 
But  only  a  soft  ruffling  breeze 
Sweep  glittering  on   a    still   content, 
Serenity  in   ravishment. 

For  singing  till  his  heaven  fills,  65 

'Tis  love  of  earth  that  he  instils. 

And  ever  winging  up  and  up, 

Our  valley  is  his  golden  cup; 

And  he  the  wine  which  overflows 

To  lift  us  with  him  as  he  goes,  70 

But  not  from  earth  is  he  divorced, 

He  joyfully  to  fly  enforced; 

The  woods  and  brooks,  the  sheep  and  kine. 

He  is,  the  hills,  the  human  line. 

The  meadows  green,  the   fallows  brown,  75 

The   dreams  of   labor  in   the   town ; 

He  sings  the  sap,  the  quickened  veins. 

The  wedding  song  of  sun  and  rains 

He   is,   the   dance   of   children,   thanks 

Of  sowers,  shout  of  primrose-banks,  80 

And    eye    of    violets    while    they    breathe ; 

All   these   the   circling   song   will    wreathe. 

And   you    shall   hear  the  herb    and   tree, 

The  better  heart  of  men   shall   see. 

Shall    feel    celestially,    as    long  85 

As  you  crave  nothing  save  the  song. 

Was  never  voice  of  ours  could  say 
Our  inmost  in  the  sweetest  way, 
61 


Like    yonder    voice    aloft,    and    link 

All   hearers   in   the  song  they   drink:  90 

Our  wisdom  speaks  from  failing  blood, 

Our  passion   is  too   full   in   flood. 

We  want  the  key  of  his  wild  note 

Of  truthful  in  a  tuneful  throat, 

The   song   seraphically   free  95 

Of   taint   of   personality. 

So  pure  that  it  salutes  the  suns 

The  voice  of  one  for  millions. 

In  whom  the  millions  rejoice 

For  giving  their  one  spirit  voice.  100 

Yet  men  have  we,  whom  we  revere. 
Now  names,  and  men  still  housing  here, 
Whose  lives,  by  many  a  battle-dint 
Defaced,  and  grinding  wheels  on  flint. 
Yield     substance,     though     they     sing     not, 
sweet  los 

For  song  our  highest  heaven  to  greet, 
Whom  heavenly  singing  gives  us  new, 
Enspheres   them   brilliant   in   our  blue, 
From   firmest  base  to    farthest   leap, 
Because  their  love  of  Earth  is  deep,         no 
And  they  are  warriors  in  accord 
With  life  to  serve  and  pass  reward, 
So  touching  purest,  and  so  heard 
In  the  brain's  reflex  of  yon  bird ; 
Wherefore   their   soul   in  me,  or   mine,     "S 
Through    self-forgetfulness   divine, 
In  them,  that  song  aloft  maintains, 
To  fill  the  sky  and  thrill  the  plains 
With  showerings  drawn  from  human  stores 
As  he  to  silence  nearer  soars,  120 

Extends  the  world  at   wings  and  dome. 
More  spacious  making  more  our  home. 
Till  lost  on  his  aerial  rings 
In   light,  and  then  the   fancy  sings. 

(188O 


THE  WOODS  OF  WTSTERMAIN 


Enter  these  enchanted  woods. 

You  who  dare. 
Nothing  harms  beneath  the  leaves 
More  than   waves  a   swimmer  cleaves. 
Toss  your  heart  up  with  the  lark,  5 

Foot  at  peace  with  mouse  and  worm. 

Fair  you  fare. 
Only  at  a  dread  of  dark 
Quaver,  and  they  quit  their  form : 
Thousand   eyeballs   under  hoods  10 

Have  you  by  the  hair. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods, 

You  who  dare. 


962 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


Here  the  snake  across  your  path 

Stretches  in  his  golden  hath  : 

Mossy  footed   squirrels   leap 

Soft  as  winnowing  plumes  of  Sleep: 

Yaffles  on  a  chuckle  skim 

Low  to  laugh  from  hranches  dim: 

Up  the  pine,  where  sits  the  star, 

Rattles  deep  the  moth-winged  jar, 

Each  has  husiness  of  his  own ; 

But  should  you  distrust  a  tone, 

Then  beware. 
Shudder  all   the  haunted   roods. 
All  the  eyeballs  under  hoods 

Shroud  you  in  their  glare. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods, 

You  who  dare. 


Open  hither,  open  hence,  3o 

Scarce  a  bramble  weaves  a  fence, 

Where  the  strawberry  runs  red. 

With   white   star-flower  overhead; 

Cumbered  by  dry  twig  and  cone. 

Shredded  husks  of  seedlings  flown,  35 

i\Jine  of  mole  and  spotted  flint: 

Of   dire   wizardry   no   hint, 

Save  mayhap  the  print  that  shows 

Hasty  outward-tripping  toes. 

Heels  to  terror,  on  the  mold.  4° 

These,  the  woods  of  Westermain, 

Are  as  others  to  behold, 

Rich  of  wreathing  sun  and  rain; 

Foliage  luster ful   around 

Shadowed  leagues  of  slumbering  sound.       45 

Wavy  tree-tops,  yellow  whins, 

Shelter  eager  minikins. 

Myriads,  free  to  peck  and  pipe: 

Would  you  better?     Would  you  worse? 

You  with  them  may  gather  ripe  50 

Pleasures   flowing   not    from   purse. 

Quick  and  far  as  Color  flies 

Taking  the   delighted   eyes. 

You    of    any    well   that    springs, 

May  unfold  the  heaven  of  things;  55 

Have   it   homely   and   within, 

And  thereof  its  likeness  win. 

Will   you  so  in  soul's  desire: 

This  do  sages  grant  t'  the  lyre. 

This  is  being  bird  and  more,  ^° 

More  than  glad  musician  this; 

Granaries  you  will  have  a  store 

Past  the  world  of  woe  and  bliss; 

Sharing  still   its  bliss  and  woe; 

Harnessed   to   its   hungers,   no.  ^s 

On  the  throne  Success  usurps. 

You  shall  seat  the  joy  you  feel 


Where  a  race  of  water  chirps, 

Twisting  hues  of  flourished  steel : 

Or  where  light  is  caught  in  hoop  7° 

Up  a  clearing's  leafy  rise, 

Where  the  crossing  deerherds  troop 

Classic  splendors,  knightly  dyes. 

Or,  where  old-eyed  oxen  chew 

Speculation  with  the  cud,  7S 

Read  their  pool  of  vision  through 

Back  to  hours   when   mind   was   mud ; 

Nigh  the  knot,  which  did  untwine 

Timclcssly  to  drowsy  suns; 

Seeing  Earth  a  slimy  spine,  80 

Heaven  a  space  for  winging  tons. 

Farther,  deeper,  may  you  read, 

Have   you   sight    for   things   afield. 

Where  peeps  she,  the  Nurse  of  seed, 

Cloaked,  but  in  the  peep  revealed ;  85 

Showing  a  kind   face  and  sweet : 

Look  you  with  the  soul  you  see  't. 

Glory  narrowing  to  grace, 

Grace    to    glory    magnified, 

Following  that  will  you  embrace  90 

Close  in  arms  or  aery  wide. 

Banished  is  the  white  Foam-born 

Not  from  here,  nor  under  ban 

Phoebus  lyrist,   Phoebe's  horn. 

Pipings   of  the   reedy   Pan.  95 

Loved  of  Earth  of  old  they  were, 

Loving   did    interpret   her ; 

And  the  sterner  worship  bars 

None  whom  Song  has  made  her   stars. 

You  have  seen  the  huntress  moon  'oo 

Radiantly  facing  dawn, 

Dusky  meads  between  them  strewn 

Glimmering  like  downy  awn; 

Argent  Westward  glows  the  hunt, 

East  the  blush  about  to  climb;  los 

One    another    fair   they    front. 

Transient,  yet  outshine  the  time; 

Even  as  dewlight  off  the  rose 

In  the  mind  a  jewel  sows. 

Thus  opposing  grandeurs  live  "o 

Here  if  Beauty  be  their  dower: 

Doth   she  of  her  spirit  give. 

Fleetingness  will  spare  her  flower. 

This  is  in  the  tune  we  play. 

Which   no   spring   of   strength   would   quell ; 

In  subduing  does  not  slay;  "^ 

Guides  the  channel,  guards  the  well : 

Tempered  holds  the  young  blood-heat. 

Yet  through  measured  grave  accord. 

Hears  the  heart  of  wildness  beat 

Like    a    centaur's    hoof    on    sward. 

Drink  the   sense  the  notes  infuse. 

You  a  larger  self  will  find: 

Sweetest  fellowship  ensues 

With  the  creatures  of  your  kind.  '^sj 


I 


THE  WOODS  OF  WESTERMAIN 


963 


Ay,  and  Love,  if  Love  it  be 

Flaming  over  /  and  ME, 

Love  meet  they  who  do  not  shove 

Cravings  in  the  van  of  Love. 

Courtly  dames  are  here  to  woo, 

Knowing  love  if  it  be  true. 

Reverence   the  blossom-shoot 

Fervently,  they  are   the   fruit. 

Mark  them  stepping,  hear  them  talk, 

Goddess,  is  no  myth  inane. 

You  will  say  of  those  who  walk 

In    the    woods    of   Westermain. 

Waters  that  from  throat  and  thigh 

Dart  the  sun  his  arrows  back; 

Leaves   that   on   a    woodland   sigh 

Chat  of  secret  things  no  lack; 

Shadowy  branch-leaves,   waters   clear, 

Bare  or  veiled  they  move  sincere ; 

Not  by  slavish   terrors   tripped ; 

Being  anew   in   nature   dipped, 

Growths    of    what    they    step    on,    these ; 

With  the  roots  the  grace  of  trees. 

Casket-breasts  they  give,  nor  hide, 

For  a  tyrant's  flattered  pride. 

Mind,   which   nourished   not   by  light, 

Lurks  the  shuffling  trickster  sprite : 

Whereof  are  strange  tales  to  tell ; 

Some  in  blood  writ,  tombed  in  hell. 

Here  the  ancient  battle  ends. 

Joining   two   astonished    friends, 

Who  the  kiss  can  give  and  take 

With   more   warmth   than    in   that   world 

Where  the  tiger  claws  the  snake. 

Snake  her  tiger  clasps  infurled, 

And  the  issue  of  their  fight 

Peoples  lands  in  snarling  plight. 

Here  her  splendid  beast  she  leads 

Silken-leashed  and  decked  with  weeds 

Wild  as  he,  but  breathing   faint 

Sweetness    of    unfelt    constraint. 

Love,  the  great  volcano,  flings 

Fires  of  lower  Earth  to  sky ; 

Love,  the   sole  permitted,   sings 

Sovereignly  of  ME  and  /. 

Bowers  he  has  of  sacred  shade, 

Spaces  of  superb  parade. 

Voice ful.     .     .     .     But   bring  you   a  note 

Wrangling,  howsoe'er  remote, 

Discords  out  of  discord  spin 

Round  and  round  derisive  din: 

Sudden  will  a  pallor  pant 

Chill  at  screeches  miscreant ; 

Owls  or  specters,  thick  they  flee; 

Nightmare  upon  horror  broods ; 

Hooded   laughter,   monkish   glee. 

Gaps  the  vital  air. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods 

You  who  dare. 


\ou  must  love  the  light  so  well 

That  no  darkness  will  seem  fell.  185 

Love  it  so  you  could  accost 

Fcllowly  a  livid  ghost, 

Whish  !     The  phantom  wisps  away. 

Owns  him  smoke  to  cocks  of  day. 

In  your  breast  the  light  must  burn  190 

Fed  of  you,  like  corn  in  quern 

Ever  plumping  while  the   wheel 

Speeds  the  mill  and  drains  the  meal. 

Light  to  light  sees  little  strange. 

Only   features  heavenly   new;  i95 

Then  you  touch  the  nerve  of  Change, 

Then  of  Earth  you  have  the  clue; 

Then  her  two-sexed  meanings  melt 

Through  you,  wed  the  thought  and   felt. 

Sameness    locks   no   scurfy  pond  -200 

Here  for  Custom,  crazy-fond: 

Change  is  on  the  wing  to  bud 

Rose  in  brain  from  rose  in  blood. 

Wisdom  throbbing  shall  you  see 

Central  in  complexity;  205 

From  her  pasture  'mid  the  beasts 

Rise  to  her  ethereal   feasts. 

Not,  though   lightnings  track  your  wit 

Starward,  scorning  them  you  quit : 

For  be   sure   the   bravest   wing  210 

Preens  it  in  our  common  spring, 

Thence  along  the  vault  to  soar. 

You  with  others,  gathering  more, 

Glad  of  more,  till  you  reject 

Your  proud  title  of  elect,  215 

Perilous  even  here  while  few 

Roam  the  arched  greenwood  with  you. 

Heed  that  snare. 
Muffled  by  his  cavern-cowl 
Squats    the    scaly    Dragon-fowl,  220 

Who  was  lord  ere  light  you  drank. 
And   lest   blood   of   knightly   rank 
Stream,   let  not  your   fair  princess 
Stray:  he  holds  the  leagues  in   stress, 

Watches   keenly   there.  225 

Oft  has  he  been  riven;  slain 
Is  no  force  in  Westermain. 
W'ait,  and  we  shall  forge  him  curbs, 
Put  his  fangs  to  uses,  tame. 
Teach    him,    quick    as    cunning   herbs,       230 
How  to  cure  him  sick  and  lame. 
Much   restricted,  much  enringed. 
Much  he  frets,  the  hooked  and  winged, 

Never  known  to  spare. 
'T  is  enough :   the  name  of   Sage  235 

Hits   no  thing  in   nature,   naught, 
Man  the  least,  save  when  grave  Age 
From  yon  Dragon  guards  his  thought. 
Eye  him   when  you  hearken   dumb 
To  what  words    from   Wisdom  come.       240 


964 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


When  she  says  how   few  are  by 
Listening  to  her,  eye  his  eye. 

Self,  his   name   declare. 
Him    shall   Change,   transforming   late, 
Wonderously   renovate,  ^45 

Hug  himself  the  creature   may: 
What  he  hugs  is  loathed  decay. 
Crying,  slip  thy  scales,  and  slough! 
Ciiange  will  strip  his  armor  off; 
Make  of  him  who  was  all  maw,  -^so 

Tnly   only   thrilling-shrewd. 
Such  a  servant  as  none  saw 
Through  his  days  of  dragonhood. 
Days  when  growling  o'er  his  bone, 
Sharpened   he    for   mine   and   thine ;  255 

Sensitive    within    alone; 
Scaly  as  in  clefts  of  pine. 
Change,  the  strongest  son  of  Life, 
Has  the  Spirit  here  to  wife. 
Lo,   their   young   of   vivid   breed,  260 

Bear  the  lights  that  onward  speed. 
Threading  thickets,  mounting  glades. 
Up  the  verdurous  colonnades, 
Round  the  fluttered  curves,  and  down. 
Out  of  sight  of  Earth's  blue  crown,  265 

Whither,  in  her  central  space. 
Spouts  the  Fount  and  Lure  o'  the  chase. 
Fount  unresting.  Lure  divine ! 
There  meet  all :   too  late  look  most. 
Fire  in  water  hued  as  wine,  270 

Springs  amid  a  shadowy  host ; 
Circled:   one  close- headed  mob. 
Breathless,  scanning  divers  heaps 
Where  a  Heart  begins  to  throb, 
Where    it    ceases,    slow,    with    leaps.  275 

And   't   is  very   strange,   't  is  said, 
How  you  spy  in  each  of  them 
Semblance    of    that    Dragon    red, 
As  the  oak  in  bracken-stem. 
And,   't  is   said,   how   each   and  each :       280 
Which  commences,  which  subsides : 
First  my  Dragon  !  doth  beseech 
Her  who  food  for  all  provides. 
And  she  answers  with  no  sign; 
Utters  neither  yea  nor  nay;  285 

Fires  the  water  hued  as  wine; 
Kneads  another  spark  in  clay. 
Terror  is  about  her  hid; 
Silence  of  the  thunders  locked; 
Lightnings   lining   the   shut   lid;  290 

Fixity  on   quaking  rocked. 
Lo,  you  look  at  Flow  and  Drought 
Interflashed    and    interwrought : 
Ended  is  begun,  begun 

Ended,  quick  as  torrents  run.  295 

Young   Impulsion   spouts  to   sink; 
Luridncss  and  luster  link; 
'T  is  your  come  and  go  of  breath  ; 


Mirrored  pants  the  Life,  the  Death; 

Each  of  either  reaped  and  sown;  300 

Rosiest    rosy   wanes   to   crone. 

See  you  so?  your  senses  drift; 

'T  is  a  shuttle  weaving  swift. 

Look  with  spirit  past  the  sense, 

Spirit  shines  in   permanence.  30S 

That  is  She,  the  view  of  whom 

Is  the  dust  within  the  tomb, 

Is  the  inner  blush  above, 

Look  to  loathe,  or  look  to  love; 

Think  her  Lump,  or  know  her  Flame;     3io 

Dread  her  scourge,  or  read  her  aim; 

Shoot   your    hungers    from    their    nerve- 

Or,  in  her  example,  serve. 

Some  have   found  her  sitting  grave: 

Laughing,  some ;  or,  browed  with  sweat,  315 

Hurling  dust  of   fool   and  knave 

In  a  hissing  smithy's  jet. 

More  it  were  not  well  to  speak; 

Burn  to  see,  you  need  but   seek. 

Once  beheld   she  gives  the  key  320 

Airing  every  doorway,   she. 

Little  can  you  stop  or  steer 

Ere  of  her  you  are  the  seer. 

On   the   surface    she   will    witch, 

Rendering   Beauty  yours,  but  gaze  325 

Under,  and  the  soul  is  rich 

Past  computing,  past  amaze. 

Then  is  courage  that  endures 

Even  her  awful  tremble  yours. 

Then,  the  reflex  of  that  Fount  33o 

Spied  below,  will   Reason  mount 

Lordly  and  a  quenchless  force. 

Lighting    Pain    to    its   mad   source, 

Scaring  Fear  till   Fear  escapes, 

Shot    through    all    its    phantom    shapes.     335 

Then   your  spirit   will  perceive 

Fleshly  seed  of   fleshly  sins; 

Where   the   passions    interweave, 

How  the  serpent  tangle  spins 

Of    the    sense    of    Earth    misprised,  340 

Brainlessly  unrecognized ; 

She  being  Spirit  in  her  clods, 

Footway  to  the  God  of  Gods. 

Then  for  you  are  pleasures  pure, 

Sureties  as  the   stars  are   sure:  345 

Not  the  wanton  beckoning  flags 

Which,  of  flattery  and  delight, 

Wax  to  the  grim  Habit-Hags 

Riding  souls  of  men  to  night : 

Pleasures  that  through  blood  run  sane,     350 

Quickening   spirit   from   the   brain. 

Each  of  each  in  sequent  birth. 

Blood  and  brain  and  spirit,  three 

(Say  the  deepest  gnomes  of  Earth), 

Join   for  true  felicity.  355 

Are  they  parted,  then  expect 


THE  WOODS  OF  WESTERMAIN 


965 


Some  one  sailing  will   be  wrecked: 

Separate  hunting  are  they  sped, 

Scan  the  morsel  coveted. 

Earth  that  Triad  is:   she  hides  360 

Joy   from  him  who  that  divides; 

Showers  it  when  the  three  are  one 

Glassing  her  in  union. 

Earth   your   haven,    Earth   your   helm. 

Von   command   a  double  realm  :  365 

Lalioring   here   to   pay  your   debt, 

Till  your  little  sun  shall  set; 

Leaving  her  the    future   task: 

Loving  her  too  well  to  ask. 

Eglantine   that   climbs   the   yew,  370 

She   her   darkest   wreathes    for  those 

Knowing  her  the  Ever-new, 

And  themselves  the  kin  o'  the  rose. 

Life,  the  chisel,  axe  and  sword, 

Wield  who  have  her  depths  explored  :       375 

Life,   the   dream,    shall    be    their    robe. 

Large  as  air  about  the  globe ; 

Life,  the  question,  hear  its  cry 

Echoed    with    concordant    Why ; 

Life,   the   small   self-dragon   ramped,  380 

Thrill  for  service  to  be  stamped. 

Ay,  and  over  every  height 

Life  for  them  shall  wave  a  wand; 

That,    the    last,    where    sits    affright. 

Homely    shows    the    stream    beyond.  38s 

Love  the  light  and  be  its  lynx 

You  will  track  her  and  attain; 

Read  her  as  no  cruel  Sphinx 

In  the  woods  of  Wcstermain. 

Daily    fresh    the    woods    are    ranged ;         39o 

Glooms  which  otherwhere  appal, 

Sounded :  here,  their  worths  exchanged, 

Urban   joins   with   pastoral : 

Little  lost,  save  what  may  drop 

Husk-like,   and   the   mind   preserves.  395 

Natural  overgrowths  they  lop. 

Yet   from  nature  neither  swerves, 

Trained  or  savage:  for  this  cause: 

Of  our  Earth  they  ply  the  laws. 

Have  in  Earth  their   feeding  root,  400 

Mind  of  man  and  bent  of  brute. 

I  Hear  that  song;  both  wild  and  ruled. 

Hear  it :  is  it  wail  or  mirth  ? 

,  Ordered,  bubbled,  quite  unschooled? 

None,  and  all :   it  springs  of   Earth.  405 

O  but   hear  it!     'tis  the  mind; 

Mind  that  with  deep  Earth  unites, 

Round   the  solid  trunk  to  wind 

Rings  of  clasping  parasites. 

Music  have  you  there  to   feed  410 

Simplest   and   most    soaring  need. 

Free  to  wind,  and  in  desire 

Winding,  they  to  her  attached 

Feel  the  trunk  a  spring  of  fire. 


And  ascend  to  heights  unmatched,  41s 

Whence  the  tidal  world  is  viewed 

As  a  sea  of  windy  wheat, 

Momently  black,  barren,  rude; 

Golden-brown,   for  harvest  meet ; 

Dragon-reaped   from   folly-sown  ;  420 

Bride-like   to   the   sickle-blade: 

Quick  it  varies,  while  the  moan. 

Moan  of  a  sad  creature  strayed. 

Chiefly  is  its  voice.     So  flesh 

Conjures    tempest-flails    to    thresh  4^5 

Good  from  worthless.     Some  clear  lamps 

Light   it;  more  of  dead   marsh-damps. 

Monster   is   it    still,   and   blind. 

Fit  but  to  be  led  by  Pain. 

Glance    we    at    the    paths    behind,  43o 

Fruitful   sight  has  Westerniain. 

There  we  labored,  and  in  turn 

Forward  our  blown  lamps  discern, 

As  you  see  on  the  dark  deep 

Far    the   loftier   billows   leap,  435 

Foam   for  beacon   bear. 
Hither,  hither,  if  you  will. 
Drink  instruction,  or  instil. 
Run  the   woods   like  vernal   sap, 
Crying,    hail    to    luminousness !  44o 

But   have   care. 
In   yourself  may  lurk  the  trap: 
On  conditions  they  caress. 
Here  you  meet  the  light  invoked : 
Here   is   never  secret  cloaked.  445 

Doubt  you  with  the  monster's   fry 
All   his   orbit  may   exclude ; 
Are  you  of  the  stiff,  the  dry. 
Cursing  the  not  understood  ; 
Grasp  you  with   the  monster's  claws ;       4So 
Govern  with  his  truncheon-saws ; 
Hate,  the  shadow  of  a  grain ; 
You  are  lost  in  Westermain ; 
Earthward  swoops  a  vulture  sun, 
Nighted  upon  carrion  :  455 

Straightway  venom  wine  cups   shout 
Toasts  to  One  whose  eyes  are  out : 
Flowers    along   the    reeling   floor 
Drip  henbane  and  hellebore : 
Beauty,  of   her   tresses   shorn,  460 

Shrieks    as    nature's    maniac : 
Hideousness  on  hoof  and  horn 
Tumbles,  yapping  in  her  track : 
Haggard   Wisdom,  stately  once, 
Leers    fantastical    and    trips :  465 

Allegory  drums  the  sconce, 
Impiousness  nibblenips. 
Imp  that  dances,  imp  that  f^its. 
Imp  o'  the  demon-growing  girl, 
Maddest !    whirl    with   imp   o'   the   pits       47° 
Round  you,  and  with  them  you  whirl 
Fast  where  pours  the  fountain-rout 


966 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


Out  of  Ilim  whose  eyes  :ire  out; 
Multitudes  on  multitudes, 
Drenched    in    wallowing   devilry: 
And  you  ask  where  yon  may  be, 

In  what  reek  of  a  lair 
Given    to    bones    and    ogre-broods: 

And  they  yell  you  Where. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods, 

You  who  dare. 


4S0 


(1883) 


From  MODERN  LOVE 


In   our  old   shipwrecked   days   there   was   an 

hour 
When,   in   the   firelight   steadily   aglow, 
Joined    slackly,    we    beheld    the    red    chasm 

grow 
Among     the     clicking     coals.     Our     library- 
bower 
That  eve  was  left  to  us ;  and  hushed  we  sat 
As  lovers  to   whom   Time   is   whispering.     6 
From    sudden-opened   doors   we   heard   them 

sing; 
The   nodding   ciders   mixed   good   wine   with 

chat. 
Well   knew   we  that  Life's  greatest  treasure 

lay 
With    us,    and    of    it    was    our    talk.     '  Ah, 

yes!  '« 

Love  dies !  '  I  said :  I  never  thought  it  less. 
She  yearned  to  me  that  sentence  to  unsay. 
Then    when    the    fire    domed    blackening,    I 

found 
Her    cheek    was    salt    against    my    kiss,    and 

swift 
Up  the   sharp   scale  of  sobs  her  breast  did 

lift:—  15 

Now    am    I    haunted    by    that    taste!    that 

sound. 

XLIII 

Mark     where     the     pressing     wind     shoots 

javelin  like. 
Its    skeleton    shadow    on    the    broad-backed 

wave ! 
Here  is  a   fitting   spot  to  dig  Love"s  grave ; 
Here  where  the  ponderous  breakers  plunge 

and  strike. 
And    dart    their    hissing    tongues    high    up 

the  sand:  s 

In   hearing   of   the   ocean,   and    in    sight 
Of   those    ribbed   wind-streaks   running   into 

white. 
If  I  the  death  of  Love  had  deeply  planned. 


I  never  could  have  made  it  half  so  sure, 
As  by  the  unblest  kisses  which  upbraid     'o 
The    full-waked   senses;   or   failing  that,  de- 
grade ! 
'T  is   morning:   but   no   morning  can   restore 
What  we  have  forfeited.     I  see  no  sin: 
The    wrong    is   mixed.     In   tragic    life,   God 

wot, 
No  villain  need  be!     Passions  spin  the  plot: 
We  are  betrayed  by  what  is  false  within.  '6 

XLVII 

We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky 
And  in  the  osier-isle  we  heard  them  noise. 
We  had  liot  to  look  back  on  summer  joys, 
Or  forward  to  a  summer  of  bright  dye: 
Eut  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth  5 
Our  spirits  grew  as  we  went  side  by  side. 
The  hour  became  her  husband  and  my  bride. 
Love    that    had    robbed    us    so,   thus   blessed 

our   dearth  ! 
The  pilgrims  of  the  year  waxed  very  loud 
In  multitudinous  chatterings,  as  the  flood  •<> 
l'"ull   brown  came   from  the  West,  and  like 

pale  blood 
Expanded   to   the    upper   crimson    cloud. 
Love     that     had     robbed     us     of     immortal 

things. 
This    little   moment    mercifully   gave, 
Where     I     have    seen    across    the    twilight 

wave  15 

The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her 

wings. 

L 
Thus  piteously  Love  closed  what  he  begat; 
The  union  of  this   ever-diverse  pair! 
These   two    were   rapid    falcons   in    a   snare, 
Condemned  to  do  the  flitting  of  the  bat. 
Lovers  beneath  the  singing  sky  of  May,       s 
They  wandered  once;   clear  as  the  dew  on 

flowers. 
But  they   fed  not  on  the  advancing  hours: 
Their   hearts   held   cravings    for   the   buried 

day. 
Then  each  applied  to  each  that  fatal  knife. 
Deep   questioning,   which   probes   to   endless 

dole.  10 

Ah !   what  a  dusty  answer  gets  the  soul 
When  hot  for  certainties  in  this  our  life!  — 
In  tragic  hints  here   see  what  evermore 
Moves    dark    as    yonder     midnight    ocean's 

force, 
Thundering   like    ramping   hosts   of    warrior 

horse,  '5 

To    throw    that    faint    thin    line    upon    the 

shore. 

(1851-62) 


APPENDIX 


BEOWULF 

It  is  supposed  that  Beowulf,  the  hero  of  this  poem,  was  a  real  person.  Although  Beowulf 
himself  does  not  appear  in  sober  history,  his  uncle,  Hygelac  of  the  poem,  is  identified  with  a 
historical  Scandinavian  hero  who  invaded  the  land  of  enemies  on  the  Lower  lihine  about  51U 
A.  1).  (See  Section  XL  of  the  text  below.)  Even  though  the  uncle  was  disastrously  defeated 
in  this  foray,  the  nephew  Beowulf  seems  to  have  distinguished  himself  for  bravery  and  for 
astounding  feats  of  endurance.  We  infer  that,  as  a  result  of  his  prowess,  Beowulf  was  cele- 
brated in  song  and  story,  and  that  one  generation  of  narrators  after  another  enhanced  his 
achievements,  the  enhancement  consisting  largely,  no  doubt,  in  the  attachment  to  our  hero 
of  exploits  originally  associated  with  other  personages, —  heroes  or  gods.  Such  a  natural 
process  of  story  growth  seems  to  account  for  the  presence  in  our  poem  of  some  four  sepa- 
rate stories:  (1)  a  fight  with  Grendel,  ^jij^a  fight  with  Grendel's  mother,  _(3j_  the  vic- 
torious return  ofTlie  hero  to  his  home,  and  (4)  _a  fight  with  a  dragon.  These  four  stories, 
originally,  no  doubt,  told  or  sung  separat?3tj',  were  probably  combined  into  a  form  ap- 
proaching  that  of  the  present  poem,  in  the  course  of  the  seventh  century.  The  events  of 
lf^5*1the  poem  take  pkice  in  Denmark_and  southern  Sweden,  and  since  England  is  nowhere  men- 
tioned, it  seems  likely  that  the  main  elements  of  the  story  had  been  gathered  together  before 
the  last  migration  of  the  Angles  to  the  island.  The  present  form  of  the  poem,  however,  with 
its  unfortunate  admixture  of  Christian  elements,  is  due  to  a  final  recension  in  England. 

The  chief  merit  of  Beowulf  will  hardly  escape  him  who  reads  the  poem  as  a  vigorous  nar- 
rative of  stirring  adventure,  heroic  endeavor,  and  elgvated  sentirnents.  Imagination  and  de- 
scriptive  power  are  not  lacking,  and  the  cEarm  of  picturesque  phrasTng  pervades  tlie  poem7^ 


THE  FIRST  PART 

PROLOGUE.  THE  CHIVALRY  OF  THE  DANISH 
EMPIRE.  THE  COMING  OF  SCYLD  AND 
HIS     GLORIOUS     CAREER.      THE     BIRTH     OF 


BEOWULF  To  him  was  born  a  son  to  come  after 

him,  a  young  (prince)  in  the  palace, 
whom  God  sent  for  the  people's  com- 
fort. He  (God)  knew  the  hard  calamity. 
5  what  they  had  erst  endured  when  they 
were  without  a  king  for  a  long  while ; 
and  in  consideration  thereof  the  Lord 
HIS  YOUTH.     THE  PASSING  OF  SCYLD.  ^f  Life,   the   Ruler  of  Glory  accorded   to 

What   ho !    we   have   heard   tell    of   the      them  a  time  of  prosperity, 
grandeur    of    the    imperial    kings    of    the  lo      Beowulf     was      renowned,     his      fame 
spear-bearing  Danes  in  former  days,  how      sprang  wide;  heir  of  Scyld  in  the  Scede- 
those  ethelings  promoted  bravery.     Often      lands.     So  ought  a  young  chief  to  'woj^ 
did  Scyld  of  the  Sheaf  wrest  from  harry-      with  his  wealth,  with  gracious  large^s|^ 
ing  bands,   from   many  tribes,   their   con-      while  in  his  father's  nurture;  that  in  his 
vivial   seats;   the  dread  of  him   fell   upon  15  riper    age    willing   comrades    may    in    re- 
warriors,  whereas  he  had  at  the  first  been      turn  stand  by  him  at  the  coming  of  war, 
a  lonely  foundling;  —  of  all  that  (humilia-      and  that  men  may  do  his  bidding.     Em- 
tion)    he   lived   to    experience    solace;   he      inence  must,  in  every  nation,  be  attained 
waxed  great  under  the  welkin,  he  flour-      by  deeds   (worthy)   of  praise, 
ished    with    trophies,    till    that    every   one  20      As  for  Scyld,  he  departed,  at  the  des- 
of  the   neighboring  peoples   over   tlie   sea      fined    hour,    full    of    exploit,    to    go    into 
were    constrained    to   obey   hinu    and    pay      the    Master's    keeping.     They    then    car- 
trewage :  —  that  was  a  good  king !  ried   him    forth   to   the   shore   of   the   sea, 

967 


968  APPENDIX 


his  faithful  comrades,  as  lie  himself  had  of  men  had  ever  heard  tell  of;  and  that 
requested,  while  he  with  his  words  held  therewithin  he  would  freely  deal  out  to 
sway  as  lord  of  the  Scyldings ;  dear  chief  young  and  old  what  God  should  give  him, 
of  the  land,  he  had  long  tenure  of  power.      save  people's  land  and  lives  of  men. 

There  at  liithe  stood  the  ship  with  5  Then  I  heard  of  work  widely  pro- 
ringed  prow,  glistening  fresh,  and  out-  claimed  to  many  a  tribe  throughout  this 
ward  bound;  convoy  for  a  prince.  world,  to  make  a  fair  gathering-place  of 
Down  laid  they  there  the  loved  chief,  people.  His  plan  was  in  good  time  ac- 
dispenser  of  jewels,  on  the  lap  of  the  complished,  with  a  quickness  surprising 
ship,  the  illustrious  (dead)  by  the  mast.  lo  to  men;  so  that  it  was  all  ready,  the 
There  was  store  of  precious  things,  greatest  of  hall-buildings.  He  gave  it 
ornaments  from  remote  parts,  brought  the  name  of  Heorot,  he  who  with  his 
together;  never  heard  I  of  craft  comelier  word  had  wide  dominion.  He  belied  not 
fitted  with  slaughter  weapons  and  cam-  his  announcement;- — rings  he  dis- 
paigning  harness,  with  bills  and  breast-  '5  tributed,  treasure  at  the  banquet.  The 
mail:  —  in  his  keeping  lay  a  multitude  hall  towered  aloft,  high  and  with  pin- 
of  treasures,  which  were  to  pass  with  nacles  spanning  the  air ;  awaited  the 
him  far  away  into  the  watery  realm.  scathing  blasts  of  destructive  fiame.  No 
Not  at  all  with  less  gifts,  less  stately  appearance  was  there  as  yet  of  knife- 
opulence,  did  they  outfit  him,  than  those  20  hatred  starting  up  between  son-in-law 
had  done,  who  at  the  first  had  sent  him  and  father-in-law  in  revenge  of  blood, 
forth,  lone  over  the  wave,  when  he  was  Then    the    outcast     creature,     he    who 

an  infant.  Furthermore  they  set  up  by  dwelt  in  darkness,  with  torture  for  a 
him  a  gold-wrought  banner,  high  over  time  endured  that  he  heard  joyance  day 
his  head ;  they  let  the  holm  bear  him,  2,  by  day,  loud  sounding  in  hall ;  there  was 
gave  him  over  to  ocean ;  sad  was  their  the  swough  of  the  harp,  the  ringing  song 
soul,  mourning  their  mood.  {  Men  do  not      of  the  minstrel. 

know   to   say   of    a    sooth,    not   heads    of  Said    one   who    was    skilled    to    narrate 

halls,  men  of  mark  under  heaven,  who  from  remote  time  the  primeval  condition 
received  that  burden  !     I  30  of  men  ;  quoth  he  — '  The  Almighty  made 

the     earth,     the     country     radiant     with 
I  beauty,    all    that    water    surroundcth,    de- 

lighting   in    magnificence.     He    ordained 
KING    HROTHGAR.     HIS    POPULARITY.     THE      gun    and    moon,    luminaries    for    light    to 

BUILDING    OF    HEOROT   AND   THE    HAPPY  35  the   dwellcrs   on   earth,    and    adorned   the 

LIFE  OF  THE  COURT.     GRENDEL.  rustic  regions  with  branches  and  leaves; 

Then  was  in  the  towers  Beowulf  of  life  also  he  created  for  all  the  kinds  that 
the   Scyldings,  the  dear  king  of  his  peo-      live  and  move.' 

pie,   for   a  long  time   famous   among  the  Thus    they,    the    warrior-liand,    in    joy- 

nations  —  his  father  was  gone  other-  40  ance  lived  and  full  delight ;  —  until  that 
where,  patriarch  from  family  seat  —  one  began  to  work  atrocity,  a  fiend  in  the 
till  in  succession  to  him  was  born  the  hall.  The  grim  visitant  was  called 
lofty  Healfdene ;  he  governed  while  he  Grendel,  the  dread  mark-ranger,  he  who 
lived,  old  and  warlike,  contented  Scyld-  haunted  moors,  fen  and  fastness :  —  the 
irigs.  To  him  four  children,  one  after  45  unblessed  man  had  long  time  kept  the 
another,  awoke  in  the  world :  Heorogar,  abode  of  monsters,  ever  since  the  Creator 
commander  of  armies,  and  Hrothgar,  and  had  prescribed  them.  On  Cain's  pos- 
Halga  the  good :  I  heard  that  Elan  queen  terity  did  the  eternal  Lord  wreak  that 
was  consort  of  the  warlike  Scylding.  slaughter,    for    that    he    slew    Abel.     He 

To  Hrothgar  was  given  martial  spirit,  50  profited  not  by  that  violence ;  but  He 
warlike  ambition ;  insomuch  that  his  banished  him  far  away,  the  Maker  for 
cousins  gladly  took  him  for  leader,  until  that  crime  banished  him  from  mankind. 
the  young  generation  grew  up,  a  mighty  From  that  origin  all  strange  broods 
regiment  of  clansmen.  Into  his  mind  it  awoke,  eotens  and  elves  and  ogres,  as 
came,  that  he  would  give  orders  for  men  55  well  as  giants  who  warred  against  God 
to  construct  a  hall-building,  a  great  longtime;  —  He  repaid  them  due  rctribu- 
niead-house,    (greater)    than   the   children      tion. 


BEOWULF  969 


II  the  foul  ruffian,  a  dark  shadow  of  death, 

was     pursuing     the     venerable     and     the 

GRENDEL.     HIS  SUCCESSFUL  RAID.     THE  DE-      youthful    alike.     He    prowled    about    and 

JECTION   OF  HROTHGAR  AND  HIS  COURT.      j^y  j^  wait;  at  nights  he  Continually  held 

He  set  out  then  as  soon  as  night  was    5  the  misty  moors ;  —  men  do  not  know  in 

come,  to  explore  the  lofty  house ;  how  the      what  direction  hell's  agents  move  in  their 

mailed     Danes     had     after     carousal     be-      rounds. 

stowed    themselves    in    it.     So    he    found  Many  were  the  atrocities  which  the  foe 

therein  a  princely  troop  sleeping  after  of  mankind,  the  grisly  prowler,  oft  ac- 
feast;  they  knew  not  sorrow,  desolation  'o  complished,  hard  indignities,— Heorot  he 
of  men.  The  baleful  wight,  grim  and  occupied,  the  richly  decorated  hall,  in 
greedy,  was  ready  straight,  fierce  and  fu-  dark  nights  — yet  was  he  by  no  means 
rious,  and  in  their  sleep  he  seized  thirty  able  to  come  nigh  the  throne,  sacred  to 
of  the  thanes;  thence  hied  him  back,  God,  nor  did  he  share  the  sentiment 
yelling  over  his  prey,  to  go  to  his  home  »5  thereof. 

with  the  war-spoils,  and  reach  his  habita-  That    was    a    huge    affliction     for    the 

tion.  Then  was  in  the  dawning  and  with  friend  of  the  Scyldings,  heart  breaking, 
early  day  the  war-craft  of  Grendel  plain  IMany  a  time  and  oft  did  the  realm  sit 
to  the  grooms;  then  was  upraised  after  in  conclave;  they  meditated  on  a  remedy, 
festivity  the  voice  of  weeping,  a  great  20  what  course  it  were  best  for  them,  soul- 
cry  in  the  morning.  The  illustrious  burdened  men,  to  take  against  these 
ruler,  the  honored  prince,  sat  woebegone ;  awful  horrors.  Sometimes  they  vowed 
majestic  rage  he  tholed,  he  endured  sor-  at  idol  fanes,  honors  of  sacrifice;  with 
row  for  his  thanes :  — since  they  had  words  they  prayed  that  the  goblin-queller 
surveyed  the  track  of  the  monster,  of  the  25  would  afford  them  relief  against  huge 
accursed  goblin ;  — that  contest  was  too  oppressions.  Such  was  their  custom, 
severe,  horrible,  and  prolonged.  It  was  heathens'  religion;  they  thought  of  hell 
not  a  longer  space,  but  the  interval  of  in  their  imagination;  they  were  not 
one  night,  that  he  again  perpetrated  a  aware  of  the  Maker,  the  Judge  of  actions, 
huger  carnage ;  and  he  recked  not  of  it  -50  they  knew  not  God  the  Governor,  nor  did 
—  outrage  and  atrocity;  he  was  too  fixed  they  at  all  understand  how  to  glorify  the 
in  those  things.  Then  was  it  not  hard  Crowned  Head  of  the  heavens,  the  Ruler 
to  find   some   who  sought  a   resting-place      of  glory. 

elsewhere    more    at   large,    a   bed    among  It  is  woe  for  him  who  is  impelled  by 

the  castle-bowers,  when  to  them  was  35  headlong  perversity  to  plunge  his  soul 
manifested  and  plainly  declared  by  con-  into  the  gulf  of  fire;  not  to  believe  in 
spicuous  proof  the  malice  of  the  hell-  consolation  nor  in  any  way  turn:  — well 
thane ;  — whoever  had  once  escaped  the  is  it  for  him  who  is  permitted,  after 
fiend  did  from  thenceforward  hold  him-  death-day,  to  visit  the  Lord,  and  claim 
self  farther  aloof  and  closer.  So  dom-  40  sanctuary  in  the  Father's  arms, 
ineered  and  nefariously  warred  he  single 

against   them    all,    until   that   the   best   of  m 

houses  stood  emotv.     The  time  was  long ;  ^„ 

iiuuaca   31UUU  ^     [J  y.  ...      .         ,  .        ,    ^;  THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    HERO.      A    PARLEY. 

twelve    winters     space   did   the    friend   ot 

the  Scyldings  suffer  indignity,  woes  of  45  Thus  was  the  son  of  Healfdene  per- 
every  kind,  unbounded  sorrows;  and  so  petually  tossed  with  the  trouble  of  that 
in  process  of  time  it  became  openly  time;  the  sapient  man  was  unable  to 
known  to  the  sons  of  men  through  bal-  avert  the  woe.  Too  heavy,  horrible,  and 
lads  in  lamentable  wise,  that  Grendel  protracted  was  the  struggle  which  had 
warred  continually  against  Hrothgar ;  he  50  overtaken  that  people ;  tribulation  cruel, 
waged  malignant  hostilities,  violence  and  hugest  of  nocturnal  pests, 
feud,    many    seasons,    unremitting    strife ;  That  in  his  distant  home  learnt  a  thane 

he  would  not  have  peace  with  any  man  of  Hygelac's,  a  brave  man  among  the 
of  the  Danish  power,  or  remove  the  life-  Goths ;  he  learnt  the  deeds  of  Grendel ; 
bale,  or  compound  for  tribute;  nor  could  55  he  was  of  mankind  strongest  in  might 
any  of  the  senators  expect  worthy  com-  in  the  day  of  this  life;  he  was  of  noble 
pensation  at  the  hands  of  the  destroyer;      birth  and  of  robust  growth.     He  ordered 


970 


APPENDIX 


a  wave-traveler,  a  good  one,  to  l)e  pre- 
pared for  him;  said  he  would  pass  over 
the  swan-road  and  visit  the  gallant  king, 
the  illustrious  ruler,  inasmuch  as  he  was 
in  need  of  men.  That  adventure  was 
little  grudged  him  by  sagacious  men, 
though  he  was  dear  to  them ;  they  egged 
on  the  dareful  spirit,  they  observed  au- 
guries. The  brave  man  had  selected 
champions  of  the  leeds  of  the  Goths,  the 
keenest  whom  he  could  find;  with  four- 
teen in  company  he  took  to  ship ;  —  a 
swain  for  pilot,  a  water-skilled  man, 
pointed   out   the   landmarks. 

Time  went  on ;  the  floater  was  on  the 
waves,  the  boat  under  the  cliff.  War- 
riors ready  dight  mounted  on  the  prow; 
currents  eddied,  surf  against  the  beach ; 
lads  bore  into  the  ship's  lap  bright  ap- 
parel, gallant  harness  of  war ;  the  men, 
the  brave  men  on  adventure,  shoved  off 
the  tight-timbered  craft.  So  the  foamy- 
necked  floater  went  forth  over  the  swell- 
ing ocean  urged  by  the  wind,  most  like 
to  a  bird;  till  that  in  due  time,  on  the 
next  day,  the  coily-stemmed  cruiser  had 
made  such  way  that  the  voyagers  saw 
land,  sea-cliffs  gleaming,  hills  towering, 
headlands  stretching  out  to  sea ;  then 
was  the  voyage  accomplished,  the  water- 
passage  ended.  Then  lightly  up  the 
Weder  Leeds  and  sprang  ashore,  they 
made  fast  the  sea-wood,  they  shook  out 
their  sarks,  their  war-weeds,  they  thanked 
God  for  that  their  seafaring  had  been 
easy. 

Then  from  his  rampart  did  the  Scyld- 
ings'  warden,  he  who  had  to  guard  the 
sea-cliffs,  espy  men  bearing  over  bul- 
wark bright  shields,  accoutrements  ready 
for  action ;  —  curiosity  urged  him  with 
impassioned  thought  (to  learn)  who 
those  men  were.  Off  he  set  then  to 
the  shore,  riding  on  horseback,  thane  of 
Hrothgar;  powerfully  he  brandished  a 
huge  lance  in  his  hands,  and  he  demanded 
with  authoritative  words  — '  Who  are  ye 
arm-bearing  men,  fenced  with  mail-coats, 
who  have  come  thus  with  proud  ship  over 
the  watery  highway,  hither  over  the 
billows?  Long  time  have  I  been  in  fort, 
stationed  on  the  extremity  of  the  coun- 
try; I  have  kept  the  coast-guard,  that  on 
the  land  of  the  Danes  no  enemy  with 
ship-harrying  might  be  able  to  do  hurt: 
—  never  have  shield-bearing  men  more 
openly    attempted    to    land    here;    nor    do 


ye  know  beforehand  the  pass-word  of 
our  warriors,  the  confidential  token  of 
kinsmen.  I  never  saw,  of  eorls  upon 
ground,  a  finer  figure  in  harness  than  is 
5  one  of  yourselves;  he  is  no  mere  good- 
man  bedizened  with  armor,  unless  his 
look  belies  him,  his  unique  aspect.  Now 
I  am  bound  to  know  your  nationality,  be- 
fore ye  on  your  way  hence  as  explorers 

10  at  large  proceed  any  further  into  the 
land  of  the  Danes.  Now  ye  foreigners, 
mariners  of  the  sea,  ye  hear  my  plain 
meaning;  haste  is  best  to  let  me  know 
whence  your  comings  are.' 

15 

IV 

BEOWULF  EXPLAINS  THEIR  VISIT  TO  THE 
warden's  SATISFACTION.  THEREUPON 
HE  GUIDES  THEIR  MARCH  TO  HEOROT. 
THE   WARDEN    RETURNS. 

To  him  the  chiefest  gave  answer;  the 
captain  of  the  band  unlocked  the  treasure 
of    words :     '  We    are    people    of    Gothic 

25  race,  and  hearth-fellows  of  Hygelac. 
My  father  was  celebrated  among  the  na- 
tions, a  noble  commander  by  the  name  of 
Ecgtheow ;  he  lived  to  see  many  years, 
ere  he  departed  an  aged  man  out  of  his 

30  mansion ;  he  is  quickly  remembered  by 
every  worshipful  man  all  over  the  world. 
We  with  friendly  intent  have  come  to 
visit  thy  lord,  the  son  of  Healfdene,  the 
guardian  of  his  people;  be  thou  good  to 

3S  us  with  instructions !  We  have  for  the 
illustrious  prince  of  the  Danes  a  great 
message ;  there  is  no  need  to  be  dark 
about  the  matter,  as  I  suppose.  Thou 
knowest  if  it  is  so  as  we  have  heard  say 

40  for  a  truth,  that  among  the  Scyldings 
some  strange  depredator,  a  mysterious 
author  of  deeds,  in  the  darkness  of  night 
inflicts  in  horrible  wise  monstrous  atroc- 
ity, indignity,  and  havoc.     Of  this  I  can, 

45  in  all  sincerity  of  heart,  teach  Hrothgar 
a  remedy ;  how  he,  so  wise  and  good, 
shall  overpower  the  enemy;  if  for  him 
the  fight  of  afflictions  was  ever  destined 
to  take  a  turn,  better  times  to  come  again, 

50  and  ..  the  seethings  of  anguish  grow 
calmer;  or  else  for  ever  hereafter  tholeth 
he  a  time  of  tribulation,  sore  distress, 
so  long  as  the  best  of  houses  resteth  there 
upon  her  eminence.' 

55  The  warden  addressed  them,  where  he 
sat  on  his  horse,  an  officer  undaunted: 
'  Of   every    particular    must    a    sharp   es- 


BEOWULF  971 


quire  know  the  certainty  as  to  words  the  martial  crew  as  to  their  kindred:  — 
and  works  —  any  one  who  hath  a  sense  '  Whence  bring  ye  damasked  shields,  gray 
of  duty.  I  gather  from  what  I  hear  that  sarks,  and  visored  helms ;  —  a  pile  of 
this  is  a  friendly  band  to  the  lord  of  the  war  shafts?  I  am  Hrothgar's  herald 
Scyldings.  March  ye  forward,  bearing  5  and  esquire.  Never  saw  I  foreigners,  so 
weapons  and  weeds ;  I  will  guide  you :  many  men,  loftier  looking.  I  think  that 
likewise  I  will  command  my  kinsmen  ye  for  daring,  not  at  all  of  desperate 
thanes  honorably  to  keep  against  every  fortune,  but  for  courageous  emprise,  have 
foe  your  vessel,  the  newly  dight,  the  boat  come  to  visit  Hrothgar.' 
on  the  beach :  until  the  neck-laced  craft  10  To  him  then  with  gallant  bearing  an- 
shall  bear  back  again  over  the  water-  swered  the  proud  leed  of  the  Wederas ; 
streams  her  dear  lord  to  Wedermark.  words  spake  he  back,  firm  under  helmet: 
To  such  a  benign  adventurer  is  it  given,  — '  We  are  Hygelac's  tal)le-fellows ;  my 
that  he  passeth  unscathed  through  the  name  is  Beowulf.  I  will  expound  mine 
encounter  of  battle,'  15  errand   to   the   son   of   Heal  f dene,   to   the 

They  proceeded  then  on  their  march ;  illustrious  prince,  to  thy  lord,  if  he  will 
the  vessel  remained  still,  rode  on  her  ca-  deign  us  that  we  may  approach  him  so 
ble,  the  wide-bosomed  ship,  at  anchor  fast ;      good.' 

—  the  boar-figures  shone  over  the  cheek-  Wulfgar  addressed  them  —  that  was  a 
guards,  pranked  with  gold,  ornate  and  20  leed  of  the  Wendlas ;  his  courage  had 
hard-welded ;  —  the  farrow  kept  guard.  been  witnessed  by  many,  his  valor  and 
In  fighting  mood  they  raged  along,  the  wisdom :  — *  Thereanent  will  I  ask  the 
men  pushed  forward;  down-hill  they  ran  friend  of  the  Danes,  the  Scyldings'  lord, 
together,  until  they  could  see  the  hall  the  ring-dispenser,  according  as  thou 
structure,  gallant  and  gold-adorned;  that  25  dost  petition,  the  illustrious  chief  (will 
was  to  dwellers  on  earth  the  most  cele-  I  ask)  concerning  thy  visit;  and  to  thee 
brated  of  all  mansions  under  the  sky,  that  promptly  declare  the  answer,  which  the 
in   which   the   ruler  dwelt;   the   gleam   of      brave  prince  is  pleased  to  give  me.' 

it   shot  over   many   lands.     Then   did   the  Thereupon     he      returned     briskly     to 

warrior  point  out  to  them  the  court  of  30  where  Hrothgar  sat,  old  and  hoary,  with 
the  valiant,  which  was  now  conspicuous;      his  guard  of  warriors:  he  went  with  gal- 

—  that  they  could  go  straight  to  it.  Like  Jant  bearing  till  he  took  his  stand  before 
a  man  of  war,  he  wheeled  about  his  the  shoulders  of  the  Danish  prince;  he 
horse,  and  spake  a  parting  word:  'It  is  knew  the  custom  of  nobility.  Wulfgar 
time  for  me  to  go ;  may  the  allwielding  3S  addressed  himself  to  his  liege  lord : 
Father  graciously  keep  you  safe  in  ad-  '  Here  are  arrived,  come  from  far,  over 
ventures!  I  will  to  the  sea,  to  keep  the  circuit  of  ocean,  men  of  the  Goths; 
guard  against  hostile  force.'  the  companions  name  their  chief  Beo- 
wulf.    They  make  petition,  that  they,  my 

^'  40  prince,    may    be    permitted    to    exchange 

ARRIVAL  AND  ACCOST.     BEOWULF  SENDS  IN      (liscourse   with   thee :   do   not  thou   award 

HIS  NAME.  them   a   refusal   of   thy   conversation,   be- 

The  street  was  stone-paven ;  the  path  nignant  Hrothgar !  they  by  their  war- 
guided  the  banded  men.  The  war-cors-  harness  appear  worthy  of  the  reverence 
let  shone,  hard,  hand-locked;  the  pol- 45  of  eorls ;  certainly  the  chief  is  a  valiant 
ished  ring-iron  sang  in  its  meshes,  when  man,  he  who  has  conducted  those  mar- 
they  in  grim  harness  now  came  marching  tial  comrades  hither, 
to     the     hall.     The     sea-weary     men     set  yj 

down  their  broad  shields,  bucklers  mortal 

hard,  against  the  terrace  of  that  man- so  the  old  king  knows  all  about  him 
sion.  Then  they  seated  themselves  on  and  orders  him  to  be  admitted,  be- 
the  bench:  — their  mail-coats  rang,  bar-  owulf  explaineth  his  visit  and  en- 
ness     of     warriors;  — the     spears'  stood,  terpriseth   the  battle  to  fight  the 

sea-men's  artillery,  stacked  together,  ash-         foe.     he  will  remove  the  scourge,  or 
timber   with   tip   of  gray :   the^  iron   troop  55      die  in  the  attempt. 
was  accoutred  worthily.  Hrothgar,   crown   of   Scyldings,   uttered 

Then   a   proud   officer   there   questioned      speech :    '  I    knew    him    when    he    was    a 


972  APPENDIX 


page.  His  good  old  father  was  Ecgth-  battered  by  foes,  where  I  hound  five 
eow  by  name;  to  whose  home  Hrethel  monsters,  humbled  the  eoten  brood;  and 
of  the  Goths  gave  over  his  only  daughter;  in  the  waves  I  slew  nickers  in  the  night- 
it  is  his  offspring  surely,  his  grown-up  time,  I  ran  narrow  risks,  avenged  the 
son,  that  is  hither  come,  come  to  visit  a  5  grievance  of  the  Wederas  —  they  had 
loyal  friend.  Sure  enough  they  did  say  been  acquainted  with  grief  — a  grinding 
that  —  the  sailors  who  carried  thither  for  I  gave  the  spoilers ;  —  and  now  against 
compliment  the  presents  to  the  Goths —  Grendcl  I  am  bound,  against  that  for- 
that  he  hath  thirty  men's  strength  in  his  midahle  one,  single-handed,  to  champion 
handgrip,  a  valiant  campaigner.  Him  lo  the  quarrel  against  the  giant.  Where- 
hath  holy  God  of  high  grace  sent  to  us,  fore  I  will  now  petition  thee,  prince  of 
sent  to  the  western  Danes,  as  I  hope,  the  glorious  Danes,  thou  roof-tree  of  the 
against  Grendel's  terror;  I  must  proffer  Scyldings,  one  petition;  that  thou  refuse 
the  brave  man  treasures  for  his  great-  me  not,  oh  thou  shelter  of  warriors,  thou 
heartedness.  Be  thou  full  of  alacrity,  i5  imperiallord  of  nations,  now  I  have  come 
request  the  banded  friends  to  enter,  one  from  such  a  distance,  t  '  I  may  have 
and  all,  into  my  presence.  Say  to  them  the  task  alone  —  I  and  my  band  of  eorls, 
moreover  expressly  with  words,  that  they  this  knot  of  hardy  men  -—  to  purge 
are  welcome  visitors  to  the  Danish  leeds.'  Heorot.  I  have  learnt  too  that  the  ter- 
[Then  to  the  door  of  the  hall  Wulfgar  20  rible  one  out  of  bravado  despises  weap- 
went]  he  announced  his  message:—  ons ;  I  therefore  will  forgo  the  same — 
'  To  you  I  am  commanded  to  say  by  my  as  I  hope  that  Hygelac  my  prince  may 
chieftain  the  lord  of  the  eastern  Danes,  be  to  me  of  mood  benignant,—  that  I  bear 
that  he  knoweth  your  noble  ancestry,  and  not  sword  or  broad  shield,  or  yellow 
ye  to  him  are,  over  the  sea- waves,  men  ^5  buckler,  to  the  contest,;  but  with  hand- 
of  hardihood,  welcome  hither.  Now  ye  grip  I  undertake  to  encounter  the  enemy, 
can  go,  in  your  warlike  equipage,  with  ''^nd  contend  for  life,  foe  to  foe;  there 
helm  on  head,  to  the  presence  of  Hroth-  shall  he  whom  death  taketh  resign  him- 
gar;  leave  the  war-boards,  here  to  abide,  self  to  the  doom  of  the  Lord, 
and  the  wooden  battle-shafts  till  the  par-  30  '  I  suppose  that  he  will,  if  he  can  have 
ley  is  over.'  Up  then  arose  the  prince:  his  way,  in  the  hall  of  battle  devour 
about  him  many  a  trooper,  a  splendid  fearlessly  the  men  of  the  Goths,  just  as 
band  of  thanes;  some  remained  there,  he  often  did  the  power  of  the  Hrethmen. 
they  kept  the  armor,  as  their  brave  cap-  Thou  wilt  not  need  to  cover  my  head 
tain  bade.  They  formed  all  together,  as  35  (with  a  mound),  but  he  will  have  me 
the  ofificer  (Wulfgar)  showed  the  way,  all  blood-besprent,  if  death  taketh  me; 
under  the  roof  of  Heorot;  [he  went  with  he  will  bear  away  the  gory  corpse  with 
courage  high]  with  a  firm  look  under  intent  to  feast  upon  it,  the  solitary  ranger 
his  helmet,  till  he  took  his  stand  in  the  will  eat  it  remorselessly,  will  stain  the 
royal  chamber.  Beowulf  uttered  a  speech  40  moor-swamps ;  no  need  wilt  thou  have  to 
—  on  him  his  byrnie  shone,  a  curious  care  any  longer  for  the  disposal  of  my 
net-work  linked  by  cunning  device  of  the  body.  Send  to  Hygelac,  if  Hild  take  me, 
artificer— 'To  Hrothgar  hail!  I  am  the  matchless  armor  that  protects  my 
Hygelac's  kinsman  and  cousin-thane;  I  breast,  bravest  of  jackets ;  — that  is  a 
have  undertaken  many  exploits  in  young-  45  relic  of  Hrethla's,  a  work  of  Weland  s. 
sterhood.  To  me  on  my  native  soil  the  Wyrd  goeth  ever  as  she  is  bound.' 
affair  of  Grendel  became  openly  known ; 

seafaring  men  say  that  this  hall  do  stand,  vii 

fabric  superb,  of  every  trooper  empty  ^^^^^^^^  embraces  his  visitor's  offer 
and  useless,  as  soon  as  the  light_  of  even- 50  ^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^_ 
mg  under  the   cope   of  heaven   is  hidden  ^  ^     o     ,.   t>t 

,    ^  .  -rt  1-j  ^       4.U      u      4.  ERY.      THE    NEWCOMERS    ARE    FEASTED    IN 

from  view.     Then  did  my  people,  the  best 

of     them,     sagacious     fellows,     O     royal 

Hrothgar,  insense  me  that  I  should  visit  Hrothgar.   crown  of   Scyldings,  uttered 

thee ;  because  they  knew  the  strength  of  55  speech :     '  For  pledged  rescue  thou,   Beo- 

my    might;     they    had    themselves     been      wulf    my     friend,     and     at    honor's    call, 

spectators  when  I  came  off  my  campaign      hast    come    to    visit    us.     Thy    father   did 


BEOWULF 


973 


fight    out    a    mighty    feud;    he    was    the  angered  and  tpius  he  is  drawn  out  to 

banesman  of  Heatholaf  among  the  Wyl-  boast  of  his  youthful  feats 

fings;    then    the    nation    could    not    keep  Unferth   made   a   speech,   Ecglaf's   son; 

him  for  dread  of  invasion.  Therefrom  he  who  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  Scyldings' 
he  went  over  the  yeasty  vvaves  to  visit  5  lord,  broached  a  quarrelsome  theme - 
the  Southron  folk  of  the  Danes,  of  the  the  adventure  of  Beowulf  the  high-souled 
honorable   Scyldings,  a    the  time  when   I      ,^  ,  ,^^^     ^^3^  despite  to  himT  because 

had  JUS  then  become  king  over  the  Da-  he  grudged  that  any  other  man  should 
nish  folk,  and  in  my  prime  swayed  the  ever  in  the  world  achieve  more  exploits 
jewel-stored  trcasure-c.ty  of  heroes :  ,0  under  heaven  than  he  himself :--' Art 
when  Heorogar  my  elder  brother  was  thou  that  Beowulf,  he  who  strove  with 
dead,  no  longer  living  Healfdene  s  son  Breca  on  open  sea  in  swimming-match, 
He  was  better  than  I!  Afterwards  I  ^^here  ye  twain  out  of  bravado  explored 
composed  the  feud  for  money;  I  sent  to  the  floods,  and  foolhardily  in  deep  water 
the  Wylfings  over  the  waters  ndge  an-  .5  jeoparded  your  lives?  nor  could  any  man, 
cient  treasures;  he  swore  oaths  (of  horn-  friend  or  foe,  turn  the  pair  of  you  from 
age)   to  me.  the    dismal     adventure!     What    time    ye 

It  IS  a  sorrow  for  me  in  my  soul  to  twain  plied  in  swimming,  where  ye  twain 
tell  to  any  mortal  men  what  humiliation,  covered  with  your  arms  the  awful  stream 
what  horrors  Grendel  hath  brought  upon  20  meted  the  sea-streets,  buffeted  with  hands' 
me  in  Heorot  with  his  malignant  strata-  shot  over  ocean;  the  deep  boiled  with 
gems.  My  hall-troop,  mv  warrior  band,,  waves,  a  wintry  surge.  Ye  twain  in  the 
IS  reduced  to  nothing;  Wyrd  hath  swept  realm  of  waters  toiled  a  sennight;  he  at 
them  away  m  the  hideous  visitation  of  swimming  outvied  thee,  had  greater  force 
Grendel.  God  unquestionably  can  arrest  25  Then  in  morning  hour  the  swell  cast  him 
the  fell  destroyer  in  his  doings.  Full  oft  ashore  on  the  Heathoram  people  whence 
they  boasted  when  refreshed  with  beer.  he  made  for  his  own  patrimony,  dear  to 
troop-fellows  over  the  ale-can,  that  they  his  leeds  he  made  for  the  land  of  the 
in  the  beer-hall  would  receive  Grendel's  Brondings,  a  fair  stronghold  where  he 
onset  with  clash  of  swords.  Then  was  30  was  lord  of  folk,  of  city,  and  of  rin^rs 
this  mead-hall  at  morning-tide,  this  royal  All  his  boast  to  thee-ward,  Beanstan's 
saloon  bespattered  with  gore,  at  blush  of  son  soothly  fulfilled.  Wherefore  I  an- 
dawn,  all  the  bench-timber  was  reeking  ticipate  for  thee  worse  luck  — thou'^h 
with  blood,  the  hall  with  deadly  gore;  thou  wert  everywhere  doughtv  in  battfe- 
so  much  the  less  owned  I  of  trusty  lieges,  35  shocks,  in  grim  war-tug— if  thou  darest 
of  dear  nobility,  when  death  had  taken  bide  in  Grendel's  way  a  night-long  space.' 
those  away.  Beowulf,     son     of     Ecgtheow.     uttered 

'  Sit  now  to  banquet,  and  merrily  share  speech :  — '  Lo,  big  things  hast  thou,  my 
the  feast,  brave  captain,  with  (thy)  fel-  friend  Unferth,  beer-exalted,  spoken 
lows,  as  thy  mind  moves  thee.'  ^o  about  Breca ;  hast  talked  of  his  adventure  ! 

Then  was  there  for  the  Goth-men  all  Rightly  I  claim,  that  I  have  proved  more 
together,  in  the  beer-hall,  a  table  cleared;  sea-power,  more  buft'etings  in  waves,  than 
there  the  resolute  men  went  to  sit  in  the  any  other  man.  He  and  I  used  to  talk 
pride  of  their  strength.  A  thane  at-  when  we  were  pages,  and  we  used  to 
tended  to  the  service ;  one  who  bore  in  45  brag  of  this  —  we  were  both  of  us  at  that 
his  hand  a  decorated  ale-can;  he  poured  time  in  youngsterhood  —  how  that  we 
forth  the  sheer  nectar.  At  times  a  min-  two  would  out  on  the  main  and  put  our 
strel  sang,  clear-voiced  in  Heorot;  there  lives  in  jeopardy;  and  that  we  matched 
was*  social  merriment,  a  brave  company  so.  Drawn  sword  we  had.  as  we  at 
of  Danes  and  Wederas.  50  swimming  plied,  firm  in  hand :  we  meant 

to    guard    us    against    the    whale-fishes. 

VIII  ^'ot    a    whit    from    me    could    he    further 

fleet  on  sea-waves,  swifter  on  holm;   not 

UNFERTH  the  king's  ORATOR  IS  JEALOUS.       from    him    would    I.     So    we    twain    kept 

HE  BAITS  THE  YOUNG  ADVENTURER  AND  55  together  in  the  sea  for  the  space  of  five 

IN  A  SCOFFING  SPEECH  DARES  HIM  TO  A       nights,  till  the  flood  parted  us.  the  seething 

NiGHTWATCH  FOR  GRENDEL.     BEOWULF  IS      billows,  coldest  Weather,  darkening  night^. 


974  APPENDIX 


and  a  fierce  wind  from  the  north  came  though  thou  wast  banesmen  to  thy 
dead  against  us ;  rough  were  the  waves.  brother,  thy  next  of  kin ;  for  which  thou 
The  sea-fishes'  temper  was  stirred ;  and  shalt  in  hell  damnation  dree,  though 
then  it  was  that  my  body-sark,  firm,  doughty  be  thy  wit.  I  say  to  thee  of  a 
hand-locked,  gave  me  help  against  the  5  sooth,  thou  son  of  Ecglaf,  that  never  had 
spiteful  ones;  the  plaited  war-jacket  lay  Grendel  the  foul  ruffian  made  such  a  tale 
about  my  breast,  gold-pranked.  Me  to  of  horrors  for  thy  prince,  such  disgrace 
bottom  dragged  a  spotty  monster,  tight  in  Heorot,  if  thy  courage  were,  if  thy 
the  grim  thing  had  mc  in  grip ;  nathless  spirit  were,  so  formidable  as  thou  thyself 
't  was  given  me  that  I  got  at  the  vermin  lo  claimest.  But  he  hath  found  out  that  he 
with  point,  with  hand-bill ;  combat  de-  need  not  greatly  fear  reprisals,  grisly 
spatched  the  mighty  sea-brute  by  my  hand.      edge-clash,   from  your  people,  the  mighty 

Scyldings ;    he    taketh    blackmail,    respect- 

IX  eth   no  one   of  the   people   of  the   Danes, 

15  but  maketh  a  sport  of  war,   slaughtereth 

BEOWULF  CONTINUES  HIS  STORY  AND  TELLS      and  feasteth :  —  no  thought  hath  he  of  a 

HOW  HE  MADE  HAVOC  OF  THE  SEA-MON-      fight    with    the    spear-Danes.     But    now 

STERS.     HE   WAXES   WARM    AND   FLOUTS      ghall   the    Goth    show   him   erelong  puis- 

THE  ORATOR.     HE  VOWS  TO  FACE  GRENDEL.      sance   and   emprise   in   the   way   of   war. 

RESTORATION      OF      SOCIAL      HARMONY  20  After   that,   he   who   can   shall   go   proud 

WHEREOF   THE    QUEEN    IS    THE    CENTER.      into   the   mead-hall,    when   over    the    sons 

HROTHGAR    SOLEMNLY    COMMITS    TO    BE-     .of  men  the  morning  light  of  another  day, 

owuLF  THE  NiGHTWARD  OF  HEOROT.  the    sun,    with    radiance    clothed,     shall 

'As   repeatedly   as   the   spiteful   assail-      shine   from  the  south.' 

ants  shrewdly  pressed  me,  I  served  them  25      Then    was    m    bliss    the    dispenser    of 

(liberally)    with    precious    sword   as   was      wealth,   gray-haired   and  militant;   he  be- 

meet.     They  did  not  have  their  slaughter-      lieved  in  help ;  the  prince  of  the  glorious 

ous    revel,    the    foul    brigands,    that    they      Danes,   the   shepherd   of   the   people,   per- 

should    eat    me    up    sitting    around    their      ceived    in    Beowulf    a    resolute    purpose. 

supper,  by  the  floor  of  the  sea;  but   (on  30  There     was     laughter     of     mighty     men; 

the    contrary)     next    morning,    wounded      music    sounded ;    the    words     (of    song) 

with    weapons    along    the    wrack    of    the      were  jovial. 

wave,  they  lay  high  and  dry;  by  swords  Wealhtheow     moved     forward,     Hroth- 

they  '  had  their  quietus,  so  that  never  gar's  queen,  mindful  of  ceremonies ;  she 
afterwards  about  the  swelling  highway  35  greeted  in  her  gold  array  the  men  in 
should  they  let  seafaring  men  of  their  Hall;  and  then  the  noble  lady  presented 
destined  course.  the   beaker   first   to   the   sovereign   of  the 

'Light  came  from  the  east,  the  bright  East-Danes,  wished  him  blithe  at  the 
signal  of  God;  the  waves  grew  calm,  so  banquet,  and  dear  to  his  leeds;  — he 
that  I  was  able  to  see  the  forelands,  the  40  merrily  enjoyed  the  feast  and  the  hall- 
windy  walls.  Fortune  often  rescues  the  cup,  valiant  king.  Then  the  Helming 
warrior,  if  he  is  not  fated  to  die;  pro-  princess  went  the  round,  to  elder  and  to 
vided  that  his  courage  is  sound!  Any-  younger,  every  part;  handed  the  jeweled 
how  't  was  my  good  luck,  that  I  slew  with  cup ;  till  the  moment  came,  that  she.  the 
the  sword  nine  nickers.  Never  did  I  hear  45  diademed  queen,  with  dignity  befitting 
of  a  harder  fight  under  heaven's  roof  in  brought  the  mead-cup  nigh  to  Beowulf; 
the  night-time,  nor  of  a  man  more  dis-  she  greeted  the  leed  of  the  Goths,  she 
tressed  in  ocean  streams;  howbeit  I  thanked  God  with  wise  choice  of  words, 
escaped  the  clutch  of  foes  with  my  life,  for  that  her  desire  was  come  to  pass, 
though  worn  and  spent.  Me  the  sea  up-  so  that  she  in  any  warrior  believed  for 
cast,  the  swirling  flood,  upon  the  land  of  remedy  of  woes.  He,  the  death-doing 
the  Finns,  the  heaving  billow.  I  never  warrior,  accepted  the  beaker  at  Wealh- 
heard  say  aught  by  thee  of  such  deadly  theow's  hand,  and  then  he  descanted, 
fightings,  sword-clashings :  Breca  never  elate  for  battle ;  — Beowulf,  son  of  Ecg- 
yet,  at  war  play,  not  he  nor  you,  deed  S5  theow,  uttered  speech :  '  I  undertook  that, 
achieved  so  valorously  with  flashing  when  I  went  on  board,  and  sat  on  the 
swords  — of    that     I     brag    not    much-—      sea-boat,    with    the    company   of    my   fel- 


BEOWULF  975 


lows,  that  I  once  for  all  would  work  out  man  Beowulf  the  Goth  utter  some  vaunt- 
the  will  of  your  leeds,  or  fall  in  the  ing  words  ere  he  mounted  on  bed:  '1 
death-struggle,  in  the  grip  of  the  fiend.  reckon  myself  to  be  in  the  fury  of  battle, 
I  am  bound  as  an  eorl  to  fulfill  the  cm-  in  warlike  feats,  no  wise  below  the  pre- 
prise,  or  in  this  mead-hall  to  meet  my  5  tensions  of  Grendel ;  for  that  reason  1 
death-day.'  To  the  lady  the  words  were  will  not  with  sword  give  him  his  quietus, 
well-liking,  the  vaunt-speech  of  the  Goth;  deprive  him  of  life,  although  I  very  well 
she  walked  gold-arrayed,  high-born  queen  may.  Naught  knoweth  he  of  those 
of  the  nation,  to  sit  by  her  lord.  gentle  practices,  to  give  and  take  sword- 

Then  was  again  as  erst  within  the  hall  lo  cuts,  to  hew  the  shield,  dread  though 
the  lofty  word  outspoken,  the  company  he  be  in  feats  of  horror :  —  but  we  twain 
was  happy,  the  sound  was  that  of  a  shall  in  the  night-time  supersede  the 
mighty  people ;  until  that  sudden  the  son  blade,  if  he  dare  to  court  war  without 
of  Healfdene  was  minded  to  retire  to  his  weapon;  and  thereafter  may  the  allwisc 
nightly  rest;  he  knew  that  against  the  15  God,  the  holy  Lord,  adjudge  success  on 
high  hall  war  was  determined  by  the  which  side  soever  may  to  him  appear 
monster,   from  the  time  when  they  could      meet ! ' 

[not]    see    the    sun's    light   or    shrouding  Then    the    daring    warrior    laid    him 

night  came  over  all,  and  the  creatures  down ;  the  pillow  received  the  counte- 
of  darkness  came  stalking  abroad ;  he  20  nance  of  the  eorl ;  and  round  about  him 
warred  in  obscurity.  All  the  company  many  a  smart  sea-warrior  couched  to  his 
arose.  Then  did  man  greet  man,  Hroth-  hall-rest.  Not  one  of  them  thought  that 
gar  greeted  Beowulf,  bespake  him  luck,  from  that  place  he  should  ever  again  visit 
mastery  in  the  house  of  hospitality ;  and  his  own  estate,  his  folk  and  castle,  where 
delivered  this  speech :  '  Never  before,  25  he  was  brought  up ;  but  they  had  been  in- 
since  I  could  heave  hand  and  shield,  did  formed  that  before  now  a  bloody  death 
I  confide  the  guard-house  of  the  Danes  had  all  too  much  reduced  them,  the  Danish 
to  any  man,  but  only  to  thee  now  on  this  people,  in  that  festive  hall.  But  to  them, 
occasion.  Have  now  and  hold  the  best  the  leeds  of  Wedermark,  did  the  Lord 
of  houses ;  resolve  on  success :  show  valor  30  grant  webs  of  war-speed,  strength  and 
amain ;  be  vigilant  against  the  foe !  support,  that  they  by  the  force  of  one, 
Thou  shalt  not  have  any  desire  unful-  by  his  single  prowess,  should  all  be  vic- 
filled,  if  thou  that  mighty  work  with  life  torious  over  their  foe.  For  a  truth  it 
achievest'  is  shown,  that  the  mighty  God  has  gov- 

3S  erned  mankind  in  every  age  ! 
X  He  came  in  dim  night,  marching  along, 

ranger  of  the  dark.     The  defenders  slept, 
BEOWULF  DOFFS  HIS  ARMOR  AND  WATCHES      ^hey   whosc   duty    it   was    to   guard   that 
UNARMED.     A    POINT    OF     HONOR.     HIS      g^^^^^  mansion  —  all  slept  but  one! 
COMPANIONS  SLEEP.  40      jt   was   Very   weTT~kn5^^~t5~ilT'men, 

So  Hrothgar,  chief  of  Scyldings,  took  that  the  ruthless  destroyer  might  not 
his  departure  with  retinue  of  men,  out  of  against  the  will  of  God  whirl  them  under 
hall;  he  was  minded  to  join  Wealhtheow,  darkness;  but  (all  the  same)  he.  vigilant 
his  queen  and  consort.  The  glory  of  in  defiance  of  the  foe.  awaited  in  full- 
kings  had  — so  men  told  one  another  — 45  fraught  mood  the  arbitrament  of  battle, 
set    up    a    hall-warden    against    Grendel ; 

he    had    undertaken    the     single    service  xi 

about  the  patriarch  of  the  Danes,  offered  , 

watch  against  the  monster ;- assuredly  grendel  s  last  meal,  the  battle  be- 
the  Gothic  leed  with  joyous  mien  trusted  5o  gin  . 

in     valorous     might     and     the     smile     of  Then  came  Grendel  marching  from  the 

Providence.  moor    under    the    misty    brows ;    he    bore 

Then  put  he  off  from  him  his  iron  the  wrath  of  God.  The  assassin  meant 
byrnie,  helmet  from  head ;  delivered  to  to  catch  some  one  of  human-kind  in  that 
his  esquire  the  richly-dight  sword,  choic-  55  lofty  hall ;  he  tore  along  under  heaven 
est  steel ;  and  charged  him  with  the  care  in  the  direction  where  he  knew  the  hos- 
of  his  war-harness.     Then  did  the  valiant      pitable    building,    the    gold-hall    of    men, 


976 


APPENDIX 


nictal-spangled,  ever  ready  for  his  en- 
tainment ;  —  that  was  not  the  first  time 
he  had  visited  Hrothgar's  homestead. 
Never  had  he  in  his  Hfc-days,  earlier  or 
later,  met  so  tough  a  warrior,  such  hall- 
guards  ! 

Came  then  journeying  to  the  hall  the 
felon  mirth-bereft;  suddenly  the  door, 
fastened  with  bars  of  wrought  iron, 
sprang  open  as  soon  as  he  touched  it  with 
his  hands;  thus  bale-minded  and  big  with 
rage  he  wrecked  the  vestibule  of  the  hall. 
Quickly  after  that  the  fiend  was  treading 
on  the  paven  floor;  he  went  ravening; 
out  of  his  eyes  there  stood  likest  to  flame 
an  eerie  light.  He  perceived  in  the  hall 
many  warriors,  a  troop  of  kinsmen, 
grouped  together,  a  band  of  cousins, 
asleep.  Then  was  his  mood  exalted  to 
laughter;  he  counted,  the  fell  ruffian,  that 
he  should  sever,  ere  day  came,  the  life  of 
each  one  of  them  from  his  body,  seeing 
that  luck  had  favored  him  to  gratify  his 
slaughterous  appetite.  That  was  not, 
however,  so  destined,  that  he  should  be 
permitted  to  eat  any  more  of  mankind 
after  that  night. 

Mighty  rage  the  kinsman  of  Hygelac 
curbed,  considering  how  the  assassin 
meant  to  proceed  in  the  course  of 
his  ravenings.  Nor  was  the  marauder 
minded  to  delay  it ;  but  he  seized  promptly 
at  his  first  move  a  sleeping  warrior,  tore 
him  in  a  moment,  crunched  the  bony 
frame,  drank  blood  of  veins,  swallowed 
huge  morsels ;  in  a  trice  he  had  devoured 
the  lifeless  body,  feet,  hands,  and  all'. 
He  stepped  up  nearer  forward ;  he  was 
then  taking  with  his  hand  the  great- 
hearted warrior  on  his  bed.  The  fiend 
reached  towards  him  with  his  fang :  — 
he  promptly  seized  with  shrewd  design 
and  grappled  his  arm.  Quickly  did  the 
boss  of  horrors  discover  that,  that  never 
in  all  the  world,  all  the  quarters  of  the 
earth,  had  he  met  man  more  strange  with 
bigger  hand-grip ;  he  in  mood  became 
alarmed  in  spirit ;  but  never  the  quicker 
could  he  get  away.  His  mind  was  to  be 
going;  he  wanted  to  flee  into  darkness; 
rejoin  the  devils'  pack ;  his  entertainment 
there  was  not  such  as  he  before  had  met 
with  in  bygone  days.  Then  did  the  brave 
kinsman  of  Hygelac  remember  his  dis- 
course of  the  evening;  up  he  stood  full 
length,  and  grappled  with  him  amain ; 
his  fingers  cracked   as   they   would  burst. 


The  monster  was  making  off;  the  eorl 
followed  him  up.  The  oaf  was  minded, 
if  so  lie  he  might,  to  fling  himself  loose, 
and  away  therefrom  to  flee  into  fen-hol- 

5  lows;  he  knew  that  the  control  of  his 
fingers  was  in  the  grip  of  a  terrible  foe; 
that  was  a  rash  expedition  which  the 
devastator  had  made  to  Heorot ! 

The   guard-hall   roared  ;  —  upon   all  the 

10  Danes,  upon  the  inhabiters  of  the  castle, 
upon  every  brave  man,  upon  the  eorls, 
came  mortal  panic.  Furious  were  both 
the  maddened  champions ;  the  building  re- 
sounded ;  it  was  a  great  wonder  that  the 

15  genial  saloon  endured  the  combatants, 
that  it  did  not  fall  to  ground,  that  fair 
ornament  of  the  country ;  only  that  it  was 
inwardly  and  outwardly  so  firmly  be- 
smithied    with    iron    staunchions    of   mas- 

20  terly   skill !     There,   from   the   sill   started 

—  as  my  story  tells  —  many  a  mead- 
bench  adorned  with  gold,  where  the  ter- 
rible ones  contended.  Thereanent  had 
the  Scylding  senators  weened  at  the  first, 

25  that  never  would  any  man  i)y  mortal 
force  be  able  to  wreck  it,  the  beautiful 
and  ivoried  house,  or  by  craft  to  disjoint 
it ;  —  leastwise  fire's  embrace  should  swal-: 
low  it  up  in  vapory  reek. 

30  The  noise  rose  high,  with  renewed 
violence ;  the  North-Danes  were  stricken 
with  eldritch  horror  every  one,  whoso- 
ever heard  even  out  on  the  wall  the  dole- 
ful  cry,   the   adversary   of   God   yelling  a 

35  dismal  lay,  a  song  unvictorious :  —  the 
thrall  of  hell  howling  for  his  wound.  He 
held  him  too  fast,  he  who  was  in  main 
the  strongest  of  men  in  the  day  of  this 
life. 

40 

XII 

grendel's  flight,  his  arm  remains 
with  beowulf  and  is  set  up  as  a 
trophy.     heorot  is  purged. 

45 

The  shelter  of  eorls  was  not  by  any 
means  minded  to  let  the  murderous  visit- 
ant escape  alive ;  he  did  not  reckon  his 
life-days  useful  to  any  one  of  the   leeds. 

50  There  did  many  an  eorl  of  Beowulf's 
unsheath  his  old  heirloom;  —  would  res- 
cue the  life  of  their  master,  their  great 
captain ;  if  so  be  they  might.  They  knew 
it  not, —  when  thev  plunged  into  the  fight, 

55  the  stouthearted  companions,  and  thought 
to  hack  him  on  every  side,  reach  his  life, 

—  that  no  choicest  blade  upon   earth,  no 


BEOWULF  977 


war-bill  would  touch  that  destroyer,  but  in  buffets  worsted,  had,  death-doomed 
he  had  by  enchantment  secured  himself  and  fugitive,  fled  in  mortal  terror  to  the 
against  victorious  weapons,  edges  of  all  nickers"  mere.  'I'licrc  was  the  face  of  the 
kinds.  His  life-parting  [in  the  day  of  lake  surging  with  blood,  the  gruesome 
this  life]  was  destined  to  be  woeful,  and  5  plash  of  waves  all  turbid  with  reeking 
the  outcast  spirit  must  travel  far  off  into  gore,  with  sword-spilth;  —  the  death- 
the  rca!m  of  fiends.  Then  discovered  he  doomed  (Grendel)  had  discolored  it ; — 
that,  he  who  erst  in  wanton  mood  had  presently  he,  void  of  joyance,  in  fenny 
wrought  huge  atrocity  upon  mankind —  covert  yielded  up  his  life,  his  heathen 
he  was  out  of  God's  peace  —  that  his  lo  soul ;  there  did  Hela  receive  him. 
body   was   not   at   his   command,    but   the  Thence   back  home  went  the  old  com- 

valiant  kinsman  of  Hygelac  had  got  hold  panions  along  with  many  a  bachelor  from 
of  him  by  the  hand ;  to  either  was  the  the  pleasure-trip ;  from  the  mere  in  high 
other's  life  loathsome.  A  deadly  wound  spirits  riding  on  horses,  barons  on  jen- 
the  foul  warlock  got;  on  his  shoulder  the  15  nets.  There  was  Beowulf's  achievement 
fatal  crack  appeared ;  the  sinews  sprang  rehearsed ;  many  a  one  often  said  that 
wide,  the  bone-coverings  burst.  To  Beo-  south  nor  north  between  the  seas  all  the 
wulf  was  victory  given;  Grendel  must  flee  wide  world  over,  other  none  of  shield- 
life-sick  therefrom  to  the  coverts  of  the  bearing  warriors  under  the  compass  of 
fen,  must  make  for  a  cheerless  habitation ;  20  the  firmament  preferable  were  or  wor- 
—  full  well  he  knew  that  the  end  of  his  thier  of  sovereignty.  They  did  not,  how- 
life  was  reached,  the  number  of  his  days.  ever,  at  all  disparage  their  natural  lord, 
AH  the  Danes  had  in  the  issue  of  that  gracious  Hrothgar;  but  he  was  a  good 
dire   struggle   the   fulfilment   of  their   de-      king ! 

sire.  25      ]\TQ^y    ^j^^    jj^gj^    l-j^g    gallant    warriors 

He  had  then  purged,  he  who  but  now  loosened  their  russet  nags  for  a  gallop, 
Icame  from  far,  sagacious  and  resolute,  to  run  a  match,  where  the  turfways 
■Hrothgar's  hall;  he  had  rescued  it  from  looked  fair,  or  were  favorably  known, 
'danger;  had  succeeded  in  his  night-task  Otherwhiles  a  thane  of  the  king's,  bom- 
with  brilliant  achievement.  The  leed  of  30  bastic  groom,  his  mind  full  of  ballads, 
the  Gothic  companions  had  made  good  the  man  who  remembered  good  store  of 
his  vaunt  to  the  East-Danes;  likewise  he  old-world  tales  —  word  followed  word  by 
had  entirely  remedied  the  horror,  the  the  bond  of  truth  —  began  anon  to  re- 
harrowing  sorrow,  which  they  were  en-  hearse,  cunningly  to  compose,  the  adven- 
during  before,  and  of  dire  necessity  were  35  ture  of  Beowulf,  and  fluently  to  pursue 
1  forced  to  suffer;  —  huge  indignity.  That  the  story  in  its  order,  with  interlacing 
I  was  a  token  conspicuous,  when  the  hero  words.  At  large  he  detailed,  what  he 
;of  battle  had  affixed  the  hand,  arm,  and  had  heard  say  of  Sigemund's  exploits, 
i  shoulder  —  that  was  the  whole  affair  of  much  that  was  strange,  the  battle-toil 
JGrendel's  fang  —  under  the  gabled  roof.  40  of  the  Wselsing,  distant  expeditions, 
j  things   the   sons   of  men   quite   knew   not 

xni     .  of,   feud  and  atrocity;  —  none   but   Fitela 

,  by  his  side,  when  he  would  say  aught  of 

HORSEMEN     UPON     GRENDEL  S     TRACK.      RID-        ^^^^     ^  ^^^j^     ^^     nephew,     aS     they 

ING.    RACING    AND    TALE-TELLING.     BEO-  ,5  j^^d  ever  stood  by  One  another  in   every 
WULFS       ADVENTURE       A       MINSTRELS      struggle:  they  had  with  swords  laid  low 
theme;  his  fame  coupled  with  sige-      ,^any   of   the   monster    brood.     To    Sige- 
MUNDS;   contrasted  with   heremods.      j^^^^j   there    sprang  up   after   his  death- 
Then    was    in    the    morning — so    goes      day    no    little    fame;    forasmuch    as    he, 
my    story  —  about    the    gift-hall    many    a  5o  hardy    in    fight,    had    quelled   the   dragon, 
warrior ;  the  chiefs  of  the  folk  came  from      the  keeper  of  treasure ;  he,  the  son  of  a 
ifar    and    near,    through    divers    ways,    to      prince,   in   under  the   hoary   rock,   single- 
1  survey    the    prodigy,    the    traces    of    the      handed   enterprised   the   perilous   deed;  — 
j  loathed     one.     His     life-ending     was     no      Fitela    was    not    with    him.     Nathless    he 
I  grief  whatever  to  any  of  those  who  sur- 55  succeeded    so    well    that    the    sword    sped 
'veyed   the   track  of  the  vanquished,   how      through     the     stupendous     worm,     till     it 
ihe  in  doleful  mood  away  from  that  place,      stuck  in  the  bank,  noble  iron!  the  dragon 
62 

i 


978  APPENDIX 


died  the  death.  The  champion  had  by  sec  a  remedy  for  any  of  my  woes,  while 
valor  attained  that  he  might  enjoy  the  the  best  of  houses  stood  blood-stained, 
jewel-hoard  at  his  own  discretion;  he  soaked  in  slaughter;  the  woe  had  scat- 
laded  the  sea-boat,  the  son  of  W:els  bore  tercd  all  my  senators,  as  men  who  weened 
to  the  bosom  of  the  ship  the  bright  orna-  5  not  that  they  ever  should  rescue  the  na- 
ments;  the  worm  dissolved  with  heat,  tional  edifice  of  my  leeds  from  the  hate- 
He  was  by  daring  exploits  the  most  ful  ones,  the  demons  and  bogles, 
famous  of  adventurers  far  and  wide  over  '  Now    hath    a    lad,    through    might    of 

the  world,  shelter  of  warriors ;  such  God,  achieved  the  deed  which  we  all  ere- 
emincnce   he   won.  lo  while    were    unal^le   with    our    wisdom    to 

When  Heremod's  warfare  had  slack-  compass.  Lo !  that  may  she  say,  what 
ened,  his  puissance  and  emprise,  he  lady  soever  mothered  that  child  by  human 
among  the  Eotens  was  decoyed  forth  into  generation,  if  yet  she  liveth,  that  to  her 
the  power  of  enemies,  promptly  sent  out  was  the  Ancient  Master  favorable  in  her 
of  the  way.     Him  did  billows  of  sorrow  "5  child-bearing ! 

disable  too  long;  he  to  his  leeds,  to  all  'Now   I   will   heartily  love   thee,   Beo- 

his  princes,  became  a  loyal  anxiety.  wulf,  youth  most  excellent,  as  if  thou 
Moreover,  in  his  earlier  times,  many  a  wert  my  son;  from  this  time  forth  keep 
wise  countryman  had  often  deplored  the  thou  up  the  new  relation.  There  shall 
adventurous  life  of  the  ardent  soul,  such  20  be  no  lack  to  thee  of  any  desires  in  the 
a  one  as  had  trusted  to  him  for  remedy  world,  so  far  as  I  have  power.  Full  oft 
of  grievances,  that  the  royal  child  might  have  I  for  less  service  decreed  reconi- 
grow  powerful,  succeed  to  the  state  of  his  pense,  honor  from  the  treasury,  to  a  less 
fathers,  protect  the  people,  the  treasure  distinguished  hero,  less  prompt  to  fight, 
and  the  castle,  realm  of  heroes,  patri-  2s  '  Thou  thyself  hast  by  deeds  achieved 
mony  of  the  Scyldings.  There  was  he,  that  thy  fame  will  live  ever  and  always. 
Hygelac's  kinsman,  to  all  mankind,  and  May  the  Almighty  reward  thee  with 
to  his  friends,  more  acceptable;  the  other  good,  as  he  hath  just  now  done!' 
was   seized   with   fury.  Beowulf     uttered     speech,     Ecgtheow's 

At  intervals  racing  they  with  their  30  son :  '  We  discharged  that  high  task, 
horses  measured  the  fallow  streets.  fighting  with  right  good  heart ;  shrewdly 
Then  was  the  light  of  morning  launched  we'enterprised  the  terror  of  the  unknown, 
and  advanced;  there  was  many  a  varlet  I  had  liked  it  vastly  better,  that  thou 
going  eager-minded  to  the  lofty  hall  to  hadst  seen  his  very  self,  the  fiend  in  full 
see  the  strange  prodigy ;  —  likewise  the  3s  gear,  ready  to  drop.  I  thought  quickly 
king  himself  from  his  domestic  lodge,  to  fix  him  on  a  bloody  bed  with  hard 
keeper  of  jeweled  hoards,  trod  with  grapplings,  that  he  for  my  hand-grip 
glorious  mien,  gorgeously  distinguished  in  should  lie  death-struggling,  unless  his 
the  midst  of  a  great  retinue ;  —  and  his  body  vanished ;  I  could  not,  as  the  An- 
queen  with  him,  measured  the  path  to  40  cient  would  not,  balk  his  passage ;  I  did 
the  mead-hall  with  a  bevy  of  ladies.  not  stick  close   enough  to  him,   the  man- 

queller ;    the    fiend    was    too    over-mighty 

XIV  in  his  making  off.     However  he  left  his 

fist  —  to  save  his  life  and  mark  his  track 

A      PATRIARCHAL      THANKSGIVING.      BEO- ^5  _  j^jg    ^^^^^    ^^^^    shouldcr :    not    thereby 

wulf's  account  of  the  FRAY.     EFFECT      however  has  the  wretched  being  bought 

UPON   UNFERTH.  reprieve;    none    the    longer    will    he    live. 

Hrothgar  uttered  speech  —  he  was  go-  the  loathsome  pest  burdened  with  crimes; 
ing  to  Hall;  he  stood  on  the  staple;  he  but  the  wound  hath  him.  in  deadly  grip 
beheld  the  steep  roof  gold-glittering  and  5°  close  pinioned,  in  baleful  bands ;  in  that 
the  hand  of  Grendel.  condition  must  he,   crime-stained  wretch, 

'  For  this  spectacle  a  thanksgiving  to  abide  the  great  doom,  according  as  the 
the  Almighty  be  done  without  delay !  Ancient  One  may  will  to  assign  his  por- 
Much    despite    I    endured,    capturings    by      tion.' 

Grendel ;  alwavs  can  God  work  wonder  55  A  silenter  man  was  then  the  son  of 
after  wonder,  the  Lord  of  Glory !  It  was  Ecglaf  in  the  brag  of  martial  exploits; 
but   now   that   I    thought    I    should   never      since    it    was    by    the    hero's    valor    thf 


BEOWULF 


979 


ethelings  beheld  the  hand,  the  fiendish  archers.  I  heard  not  many  instances  of 
fingers,  over  the  high  roof,  every  one  men  giving  to  other  at  ale-bench  four 
straight  before  him.  Each  one  of  the  treasures  gold-bedight  in  friendlier  wise, 
nail-places  was  likest  to  steel,  hand-spur  About  the  helmet's  roof  the  crest  was 
of  the  heathenish  marauder,  horrible  5  fastened  with  wire-bound  fencing  for  the 
spikes;  every  one  declared  there  was  head,  in  order  that  file-wrought  war- 
nothing  so  hard  would  graze  them,  no  scoured  blades  might  not  cruelly  scathe 
sword  of  old  celebrity  that  would  take  it,  when  the  shielded  fighter  had  to  go 
off  the  monster's  bloody  war-fist.  against   angry   foes. 

10      Then  did  the  shelter  of  eorls  command 

>^v  to    bring   eight    horses    gold-cheeked    into 

the  court  within  the  palings;  on  one  of 

iiEOROT    RESTORED.     REJOICINGS    AND    Giv-      ^j,^^   ^^^^^   ^1^^   Saddle   gaily   caparisoned 

iNG  OF  GIFTS.  ^^^  decorated  with  silver,  which  was  the 

Then  was  order  promptly  given  that  '5  w-ar-seat  of  the  high  king,  when  the  son 
the  interior  of  Heorot  should  be  dec-  of  Healfdene  was  mmded  to  exercise  the 
orated;  many  they  were,  of  men  and  of  P'^'^y  ^^  swords ;  — never  failed  in  the 
women,  who  garnished  that  genial  palace,  f^'^'it  the  charger  of  the  famous  (king) 
hospitable  hall.  Gold-glistering  shone  the  when  the  slain  were  falling.  And  then 
brocaded  tapestries  along  the  walls,  pic- 20 '^'^•^  ^^^^  ^^^'^f  of  the  Ingwines  deliver 
tures  many  for  the  wonder  of  all  people  ""to  Beowulf  possession  of  both  at  once, 
who  have  an  eye  for  such.  That  bright  ^'o^h  horses  and  arms ;  — bade  him  enjoy 
building  was  terribly  wrecked  in  its  them  well.  So  manfully  did  the  illustri- 
whole  interior,  though  it  had  been  0"s  chieftam,  the  hoard-warden  of  heroes, 
strengthened  with  iron  fastenings;  the  25  reward  battle-risks  with  horses  and  treas- 
hinges  were  wrenched  away;  the  roof  "^es,  so  as  never  will  any  mispraise  them 
alone  had  escaped  altogether  unhurt,  who  is  minded  to  speak  sooth  accord- 
when  the  destroyer,  stained  with  atroci-  ^"g  to  right, 
ties,  took  to  flight  in  desperation  of  life.  xvi 

It  is  not  easy  to  elude    fdeath],  try   it  30  , 

who  will;  but  every  living  soul  of  the  ^^^^^  ™  beowulf  s  comrades,  music 
sons    of   men,    of   dwellers    upon    ground,  ^^^  song. 

must  of  necessity  approach  the  destined  Moreover,   to   each   one   of   those   who 

spot,  where  his  body,  bedded  in  fast  re-  had  made  the  voyage  with  Beowulf,  did 
pose,   shall  sleep  after  supper.  35  the   captain   of   warriors   give   a   precious 

Then  was  the  time  and  the  moment,  gift  at  the  mead-bench,  an  old  heir- 
that  Healfdene's  son  should  go  to  hall ;  loom ;  and  gave  orders  to  compensate 
the  king  was  minded  himself  to  share  with  gold  for  that  (missing)  one,  that 
the  feast.  Never  that  I  heard  of  did  one  whom  Grendel  had  atrociously  killed, 
that  nation  in  stronger  force  about  their  40  as  he  would  have  killed 'more  of  them, 
bounty-giver  more  bravely  muster.  They  had  not  the  providence  of  God,  had  not 
went  to  bench  in  merry  guise  —  while  Wyrd,  stood  in  his  way ;  —  and,  the 
their  kinsmen  enjoyed  the  copious  feast,  courage  of  that  man.  The  Ancient  One 
and  with  fair  courtesy  quaffed  many  a  ruled  then,  as  he  now  and  always  doth, 
mead-bowl  —  mighty  men  in  the  lofty  hall,  45  over  all  persons  of  human  race  ;  there- 
Hrothgar  and  Hrothulf.  The  interior  of  fore  is  prudence  eachwhere  best,  fore- 
Heorot  was  wholly  filled  with  friends;  no  cast  of  soul.  Much  experience  of  pleas- 
treachery  had  imperial  Scyldings  at  that  ant  and  of  painful  must  he  make,  who 
early  date  attempted.  long  here  in  these  struggling  days  brooks 

Then  did  the  son  of  Healfdene  present  5o  the   world, 
to  Beowulf  a  golden  ensign  in  reward  of  Then  was  song  and  instrumental  music 

victory,  decorated  staff-banner,  helmet  together  blended,  concerning  Healfdene's 
and  mail-coat ;  many  beheld  when  they  war-chief.—  the  harp  was  struck,  a  ballad 
brought  the  grand  treasure-sword  before  often  recited,  what  time  the  hall-joy 
the  hero.  Beowulf  tasted  the  beaker  on  55  along  the  mead-bench  was  invoked  by 
the  hall-floor ;  no  need  had  he  to  be  Hrothgar's  minstrel, 
ashamed  of  that  bounty-giving  before  the  *     *     * 


cjSo  APPENDIX 


XVII  among  the  treasures  of  men  heard  I  ever 

of  under  heaven,  since  Hama  bore  away 

A   PICTURE  OF   SOCIAL   PLEASURE.     SPEECH      ^^  t],^  bright  fortrcss  the  neckhicc  of  the 

OF  THE  QUEEN   TO  THE   KING.  Brisings  —  jcwel   and  casket;   he  fled  the 

*     *     *  5  toils  of  Eormanric;  chose  eternal  counsel. 

Enjoyment  rose  high  as  before,  l)right  That  collar  had  Hygelac  of  the  Goths, 

was    the    sound    of    revelry,    the    drawers      grandson    (or   nephew)    of    Swcrtmg,   on 

served     wine     out     of     curious     flagons.      his  latest  expedition,  when  under  his  flag 

Then    came    Wcalbtbcow    forward,    niov-      be  defended  his  prize,  guarded  the  spoil; 

ing   under   her   golden   diadem,   to   where  lo  him  Eate  took  off,  when  he  for  wanton- 

the  two  brave  men  sat,  uncle  and  nephew ;      ness  challenged  woe,   feud   with   the   Eri- 

up  to   that   time  was  their  natural   affec-      sians;    he    carried    that    decoration,    the 

tion    undisturbed,    either    to    other    true.      costly    stones    over    the    wave-bowl,    the 

Likewise   there    Unferth    the    speaker    sat      mighty  chieftain;  he  fell  shield  in  hand; 

at  the   feet  of  the  Scyldings'  lord ;  every  15  so    then    came    into    the    power    of    the 

man    of   them    trusted   his    spirit   that   he      Franks  the  corpse  of  the  king,  the  breast 

had    great    courage,    though    he    had    not      apparel,    and    the    collar    along    with    the 

been   loyal  to   his  kindred   at  sword-play.      rest:     inferior     coml)atants     stripped     the 

Spake  then  the  lady  of  the   Scyldings:      slain   by  the   fortune   of  war;   the   people 

— '  Receive    this    beaker,    sovereign    mine,  20  of  the  Goths  tenanted   the  bed  of  death. 

wealth-dispenser!    be   thou   merry,   a   mu-      —The     hall     echoed     with     sound      (of 

nificent  friend  of  men,  and  speak  to  the      music). 

Goths    with    comfortable    words.     So    it  Wealhtheow  uttered  speech;  she  spake 

behooves  one  to  do!  Near  and  far,  thou  before  that  company:  '  Brook  this  collar, 
now  hast  peace !  To  me  it  hath  been  25  Beowulf,  beloved  youth,  with  luck,  and 
said,  that  thou  wouldest  have  the  hero  for  make  use  of  this  mantle ;  stately  posses- 
thy  son.  Heorot  is  purged,  the  bright  sions;  and  prosper  well;  make  thyself 
ring-hall;  dispense  whilst  thou  mayest  famous  by  valor,  and  to  these  boys  be 
many  bounties ;  ^  and  to  thy  children  thou  a  kind  adviser !  I  will  reward  thee 
leave  folk  and  realm,  when  thou  must  30  for  it.  Thou  hast  attained,  that  far  and 
away  to  see  Eternity.  I  know  my  gra-  near,  for  all  future  time,  men  will  cele- 
cious  Hrothulf  that  he  will  honorably  brate  thee,  even  as  widely  as  the  sea 
govern  the  younger  ones,  if  thou  earlier  encircleth  windy  walls.  Be  thou,  whilst 
than  he,  O  friend  of  the  Scyldings,  thou  live,  a  happy  prince !  With  good 
quittest  the  world.  I  think  that  he  will  35  will  I  accord  thee  precious  possessions, 
repay  our  children  with  good,  if  he  that  Be  thou  to  my  son  loyal  with  deeds,  sus- 
fully  remembers,  what  gracious  atten-  taining  joyance.  Here  is  each  warrior  to 
tions  thou  and  I  bestowed  for  his  comfort  other  true,  kindly  disposed,  loyal  to  their 
and  advantage  in  the  time  past  wdien  he  chief;  the  thanes  are  obedient,  the  people 
was  an  infant.'  She  turned  then  towards  4°  all  ready !  Retainers,  be  merry,  do  as  I 
the  bench  where  her  boys  were,  Hrethric      bid  you.' 

and  Hrothmund,  and  the  sons  of  mighty  She  went  then  to  her  chair.     There  was 

men,  the  youth  all  together ;  there  the  high  festivity ;  men  drank  wine,  \Yyrd 
brave  man  sat,  Beowulf  of  the  Goths,  by  they  knew  not,  the  cruel  destiny,  as  it 
the  two  brothers.  45  had   gone   forth,    for   many   a   noble.     By 

and  by  the  evening  came,  and   Hrothgar 

xviii  betook  him  to  his  lodge,  the  prince  to  his 

repose. 

GIFTS   OF   THE   QUEEN    TO   THE    HERO   AND  Countless    uobles    guarded    the    hall,    as 

HER  SPEECH  TO  HIM.     THE  HALL  IS  AR- 50  ^hey  had  oftcu  douc  in  earlier  time:  thev 

RANGED  AS  A  DORMITORY.  ^,^^^^^,    ^^^,^^^    ^,^^    beuch-boards ;    it    wa's 

To  him  the  cup  was  borne ;  and  friendly      strewn  throughout  with  beds  and  bolsters. 

invitation    (to    drink)    was    offered    with      One  of  the  revelers,  whose  end  was  near. 

words ;   and   twisted   gold   was   graciously      lay  down  to  rest  in  hall  a  doomed  man. 

presented,     armlets    two.     a    mantle    and^^  At   their   heads   they   set   the   shields,   the 

rings;    the    grandest    of    carcanets    that    I      bright   bucklers:   there  on   the   bench   was 

have   heard   of  on   earth.     None   superior      over  each   ethcling,  plain   to  be  seen,  the 


BEOWULF 


981 


towering  war-helmet,  the  ringed  mail- 
coat,  the  shaft  of  awful  power.  Their 
custom  was  that  they  were  constantly 
ready  for  war,  whether  at  home  or  in 
the  field,  in  both  cases  alike,  whatever 
the  occasion  on  which  their  liege  lord 
had  need  of  their  services;  —  it  was  ,a 
good  people.  0       Q^ 


THE  SECOND  PART      -^ 
XIX 

TN  THE  NIGHT  THE  OLD  WATER-HAG  COMES, 
SEIZES  ONE  OF  THE  SLEEPERS,  AND 
FETCHES  AWAY  GRENDEL's  ARM.  15E0- 
WULF  IS  HA.STILY  SUMMONED  TO  THE 
KING    AT   EARLY   DAWN. 

So  they  sank  down  to  sleep.  One  there 
was  who  sorely  paid  for  that  night's  rest, 
in  the  manner  that  had  very  often  hap- 
pened to  them,  since  Grendel  had  oc- 
cupied the  gold-hall,  had  perpetrated 
violence,  until  his  end  arrived,  death  after 
crimes.  That  became  manifest,  widely 
known  to  men,  that  an  avenger  still  lived 
after  the  (slain)  foe;  long  to  remember 
the  disaster;  Grendel's  mother,  beldam 
troll-wife,  thought  of  her  desolation, 
creature  that  had  to  dwell  in  the  dreari- 
ness of  water,  cold  streams,  ever  since 
Cain  was  the  knife-bane  of  his  only 
brother,  his  father's  son ;  he  then  went 
forth  an  outlaw,  marked  with  murder, 
shunning  human  society;  he  kept  the 
wilderness.  Thence  grew  a  number  of 
branded  creatures ;  —  one  of  those  was 
Grendel,  horrible  ban-wolf;  he  at  Heorot 
found  a  vigilant  man  waiting  for  battle. 
There  did  the  monster  grapple  with  him ; 
he,  however,  remembered  the  strength  of 
his  might,  the  marvelous  gift  which  God 
had  given  to  him,  and  he  trusted  to  tlie 
Supreme  for  grace,  courage,  and  support ; 
therefore  he  overcame  the  fiend,  subdued 
the  hellish  demon ;  so  he  departed  crest- 
fallen, void  of  joyance,  to  see  his  death- 
place,  foe  of  man.  And  yet  his  mother, 
nevertheless,  bloodthirsty  and  gallows- 
minded,  was  going  to  enter  upon  a 
sorrow-fraught  way  to  wreak  the  death 
of  her  son. 

So  the  hag  came  to  Heorot  where  the 
jeweled  Danes  slept  throughout  the  hall. 
Then  was  it  for  the  eorls  a  sudden  up- 
set, when  Grendel's  mother  burst  into 
their  midst.     The  terror  was  less  just  in 


the  same  proportion  as  female  strength, 
woman's  war-terror,  is  (of  less  account) 
with  an  armed  man ;  when  the  well- 
hafted  steel,  hammer-toughened.  the 
S  bloodstained  sword,  with  edge  effective, 
sheareth  resisting  boar  on  helmet.  Then 
was  the  hard-edged  sword  drawn 
throughout  the  benches,  many  a  wide 
buckler    raised   firm    in    hand;    many   one 

10  thought  not  of  helmet,  nor  of  spacious 
byrnie,  when  the  alarm  surprised  him. 

The  hag  was  in  a  hurry ;  it  wanted  to 
get  out  from  there  with  life,  because  it 
was   discovered ;    promptly   it   had    seized 

15  one  of  the  ethelings  tight,  and  then  it 
went  to  fen.  That  man  was  to  Hrothgar, 
in  quality  of  comra<le,  dearest  of  war- 
riors between  the  seas,  mighty  shield- 
combatant  ;  —  him    the     hag    crushed    in 

20  his  sleep,  illustrious  baron.  Beowulf  was 
not  there ;  but  another  lodging  had  been 
assigned,  after  the  gift-giving,  to  the  dis- 
tinguished Goth.  A  cry  was  heard  in 
Heorot ;  the  blood-sprent  hag  took  away 

25  the  well-known  hand ;  anxiety  was  re- 
newed, was  set  up  in  the  castle.  That 
barter  was  not  good,  which  they  on  both 
sides  were  compelled  to  pay  for  with 
lives  of  friends. 

30  Then  was  the  venerable  king,  the  hoary 
man  of  war,  in  embittered  mood,  when 
he  knew  that  his  chiefest  thane  no  longer 
lived,  that  the  man  most  dear  to  him  was 
dead.     Hastily     to     (the     king's)     bower 

3-  was  Beowulf  fetched,  the  victorious 
stripling.  At  early  dawn,  he  went  with 
his  warriors,  the  noble  champion,  he  and 
his  comrades,  where  the  sapient  king  was 
waiting  to   be   resolved,   whether  the   Al- 

40  mighty  will  ever,  after  the  spell  of  woe, 
bring  about  a  change.  He  then  marched 
along  the  flooring,  the  expedite  man,  with 
his  little  band, —  hall-timbers  echoed  — 
until    he    accosted    with    words    the    wise 

r.  lord  of  the  Ingwines,  and  inquired  if, 
according  to  his  sincere  wish,  he  had 
had  a  restful  night. 


XX 


HROTHG.-VR  S  ANSWER  TO  BEOWULF  S  MORN- 
ING SALUTATION-  HE  DEPLORES  THE 
FATE  OF  .ESCHERE  AND  DESCRIBES  THE 
HAUNT   OF   THE    WATER-DEMONS. 

Hrothgar,  crown  of  Scyldings,  uttered 
speech :  '  Ask  not  thou  after  welfare ! 
Grief    is   renewed    for    the    Danish    leeds. 


982  APPENDIX 


^Eschere      is      dead,      Yrmenlaf's      elder  murky  to  the  clouds,  when  wind  stirreth 

hrother.  niv  secretary  and  my  counselor;  foul    weather,    till    the    air    thickens,    the 

my    body-squire,    when    we    in    battle   de-  skies    crack.     Now    is    it    again    to    thee 

fended  our  heads,  what  time  foot-fighters  alone    that    w.^    look    for    counsel !     The 

closed,  boar-crests  clashed ;  —  such  should  5  haunt     as     yet     thou     knowest     not,     the 

a  warrior  be,  a  long-tried  etheling,   such  dreadful    place,    where    thou    mayest    find 

as  ^schere  was.     In  Heorot  hath  he  met  the  guilty   felon;  go   for  it  if  thou  dare! 

his  death  at  the  hands  of  the  raging  de-  I   will   recompense  thee   for  that   warfare 

stroyer;  I  know  not  in  what  direction  with  treasure,  with  old  stored  wealth,  a> 
the   gruesome   corpse-exulting  thing  took  10  I    did    before,    with    coiled    gold,    if    thou 

its  return-way   leaving  tracks  of  its   for-  comest   away.' 
age.     She    hath    wreaked    the    feud,    for 

that    thou    yesternight   didst    quell    Gren-  xxi 
del    in    masterful    wise    with    stern    grap- 

pling"-   for  that  he  too  long  had  wasted  15  ^'^«^^^'"''   ^^^^"'^"^   ^"^    ^^^^    "''''   ^^^^^^ 

a        des  royed    my    people.     He    in    fight  undertakes      the      new      adventure. 

s  ccumbed    with    forfeiture    of    life;    and  ^he    cavalcade    to     the     mere,     the 

bU(_Lumucu     w  ^,1,^^       ^      J;rTl-.f,.  LOOK  OF  IT.       BEOWULF  ARMS  ;    HIS   SWORD 

now    hath    come    the    other,    a    mighty 
ravager,    would    avenge    her    kin;  — yea,  is  described. 

hath  further  aggravated  the  feud,  as  may  20  Beowulf,  son  of  Ecgtheow,  uttered 
well  appear  to  many  a  thane,  who  along  speech :  '  Sorrow  not,  experienced  sire ! 
with  his  sovereign  groans  in  spirit,  in  better  is  it  for  every  man  that  he  should 
cruel  heart-grief;  now  the  hand  of  him  avenge  his  friend,  than  that  he  should 
who  was  the  promoter  of  all  your  de-  greatly  mourn.  Every  one  of  us  must 
sires  lies  still  in  death.  25  ]Qok  for  the  end  of  worldly  life;  he  who 

'  That  I  did  hear  say  by  land-owners,  has  the  chance  should  achieve  renown 
leeds  of  mine,  heads  of  halls,  that  they  before  death;  that  is  for  a  mighty  man, 
saw  a  pair  of  such,  huge  mark-stalkers,  when  life  is  past,  the  best  memorial, 
keeping  the  moors,  creatures  of  strange  Rouse  thee,  guardian  of  the  kingdom  !  let 
fashion ;  one  of  them  was,  according  to  30  us  promptly  set  forth  to  explore  the  route 
the  clearest  they  could  make  out,  a  bel-  of  Grendel's  kin.  I  vow  it  to  thee ;  he 
dam's  likeness,  the  other  miscreated  thing  shall  by  no  means  escape  to  covert; 
trod  lonely  tracks  in  man's  figure;  only  neither  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  nor 
he  was  huger  than  any  other  man ;  him  in  the  haunted  wood,  nor  in  ocean's  depth 
in  old  times  the  country  folk  used  to  35  —  go  where  he  will !  This  day  have  thou 
call  Grendel:  they  know  not  about  any  patience  of  all  thy  woes,  as  I  have  high 
father,  whether  they  had  any  in  pedigree  confidence  in  thy  behalf.' 
before  them  of  mysterious  goblins.     They  Up   sprang   then   the   agfcct    fUing)  ;   he 

inhabit  unvisited  land,  wolf-crags,  windy  thanked  God,  the  mighty  Le.d,  for  wJiat 
bluffs,  the  dread  fen-track,  where  the  40  that  man  had  spoken.  Then  Hrothgar's 
mountain  waterfall  amid  precipitous  horse  was  bridled,  the  crull-maned 
gloom  vanished  beneath,  flood  under  charger.  The  wise  monarch  rode  forth 
earth;  not  far  hence  it  is,  reckoning  by  stately;  the  foot-force  marched,  of  shield- 
miles,  that  the  mere  standeth,  and  over  bearing  men.  Traces  there  were  broadly 
it  hang  rimy  groves  ;■  a  wood  with  45  visible  along  the  slopes  of  the  weald,  the 
clenched  roots  overshrouds  the  water.  track  (of  the  foe)  over  the  grounds: 
There  may  every  night  a  fearful  portent  right  forward  (the  warlock)  had  gone, 
be  seen,  fire  on  the  flood;  none  so  wise  over  the  murky  moor,  it  had  carrie<l  off, 
liveth  of  the  children  of  men  as  to  know  lifeless,  the  most  t^eioved  of  kindred 
the  depth.  Though  the  heath-roamer,  50  thanes,  of  those  who  kept  home  with 
when     exhausted     by    hounds,     the     hart      Hrothgar. 

strong  in  his  horns,  make  for  the  wood-  Then    did   the    scion   of   ethelings    pass 

coverts,  driven  from  afar;  sooner  will  lightly  over  steep  stone-banks,  narrow 
he  resign  his  breath,  his  life  on  the  bank,  gullies,  strait  lonesome  paths,  an  un- 
sooner  than  he  will  there  in  plunge  his  55  traveled  route,  sheer  bluffs,  nnny  habita- 
head.  That  is  no  comfortable  place;  tions  of  nickers.  He  with  tew  compan- 
therefrom    mount    up    the    raging    waves,      ions,    practised    men,     went     lorward     to 


BEOWULF  983 


explore  the  ground,  until  that  he  of  a  need ;  —  the  name  of  that  hafted  blade 
sudden  perceived  the  gloomy  trees  over-  was  Hrunting,  it  was  preeminently  one 
hanging  the  grisly  rock,  a  joyless  wood;  of  old  heirlooms;  —  the  edge  was  iron, 
beneath  it  was  a  standing  water,  dreary  mottled  with  poison-twigs,  hardened  with 
and  troubled.  All  the  Danes,  all  the  5  battle-gore ;  never  had  it  in  conflict 
friends  of  the  Scyldings,  had  a  shock  of  proved  false  to  any  man  who  brandished 
feeling,  many  a  thane  had  to  suffer;  hor-  it  with  hands,  such  man  as  durst  adven- 
ror  seized  each  warrior,  when  on  that  ture  on  paths  of  terror,  where  nations 
lake-cliff  they  came  across  the  head  of  meet  as  foes ;  that  was  not  the  first  occa- 
-^schere.  The  pool  seethed  with  blood  10  sion  on  which  it  had  been  required  to  dis- 
—  the  folk  beheld  it  —  with  hot  gore.  charge  heroic  work.     Manifestly  Ecglaf's 

The  horn  sounded  from  time  to  time  a  son,  of  doughty  puissance,  remembered 
spirited  bugle-blast.  The  troop  all  sat  not  what  he  had  recently  uttered  when 
them  down ;  there  saw  they  along  the  flushed  with  wine,  seeing  now  he  made 
water  many  things  of  serpent  kind,  mon-  15  loan  of  that  weapon  to  a  rarer  sword- 
strous  sea-snakes  at  their  swimming  gallant;  —  for  himself  he  durst  not  ad- 
gambols;  and  likewise  on  the  jutting  venture  his  life  among  the  turmoil  of 
slopes  nickers  lying,  those  that  in  the  early  waves,  to  fulfil  mastery ;  —  there  he  fell 
hours  of  the  morning  often  procure  short  of  glory,  of  high  achievement.  It 
disastrous  going  on  the  sailroad;  dragons  20  was  not  so  with  the  other,  when  he  had 
and  strange  beasts  :  —  they  tumbled  harnessed  him  for  combat. 
away,   spitish   and   rage-blown;   they  had 

caught  sound  of  the  racket,  the  clarion's  xxii 

clang.     The   leed   of   the    Goths   with   an 

arrow  out  of  his  bow  detached  one  of^sBEOWULFS  nuncupatory  will.  he 
them  from  life,  and  from  all  future  swim-  plunges    into    the   abyss    and    meets 

ming  matches;  insomuch  that  in  his  vitals  the  troll-wife.    the  battle  begins. 

stood  fixed  the  inexorable  war-shaft;  he  Beowulf,     son     of     Ecgtheow,     uttered 

in  the  element  was  the  slacker  at  swim-  speech :  '  Bethink  thee  now,  great  son  of 
ming,  from  the  circumstance  that  death  3°  Healfdene,  sapient  monarch,  now  I  am 
had  caught  him.  Promptly  was  he  on  ready  to  start,  oh,  thou  gold-friend  of 
the  waves  v/ith  boar-poles  harpoon-  men,  what  we  two  lately  talked  of ;  — 
armed,  tightly  nipped  —  barred  of  his  If  I  in  thy  service  had  to  quit  life,  that 
tricks  —  and  landed  on  the  point,  the  thou  to  me  wouldest  ever  be,  after  my  de- 
prodigious  wave-tosser ;  —  the  men  be-  3^  parture,  in  the  place  of  a  father ;  —  be 
held  the  grisly  goblin.  thou  protector  to  my  kindred  thanes,  my 

Beowulf  geared  himself  in  knightly  familiar  comrades,  if  Hild  should  take 
armor ;  in  no  wise  was  he  anxious  for  his  me ;  in  such  a  case  do  thou,  beloved 
life ;  now  must  the  war-byrnie,  hand-  Hrothgar,  forward  the  presents  which 
woven,  spacious  and  decorated,  make  4°  thou  hast  given  me,  to  Hygelac.  So  will 
trial  of  swimming;  the  byrnie  which  the  master  of  the  Goths  be  able  to  under- 
knew  to  protect  the  body,  that  his  breast,  stand  by  that  gold,  Hrethel's  son  will  l)c 
his  life,  might  not  be  scathed  by  the  able  to  see  for  himself  when  he  gazeth 
grip  of  battle,  the  spiteful  clutch  of  the  upon  that  treasure,  that  I  had  found  a 
furious  one.  Moreover  the  white  hel-  4?  bountifully  good  distributor  of  jewels, 
met  guarded  his  head,  the  helmet  that  and  was  in  luck  while  my  fortune  lasted, 
was  to  plunge  into  the  depths  of  the  And  do  thou  let  Unferth  have  the  ancient 
pool,  to  face  buffeting  waters,  with  all  heir-loom,  the  curious  damasked  sword; 
its  decoration  of  silver,  encircled  witli  let  the  far-famed  man  have  Hardedge; 
princely  wreathings,  as  a  weapon-smith  50  I  will  with  Hrunting  achieve  for  myself 
in  ancient  days  wrought  it,  wonderfully  renown,  or  death  shall  take  me.' 
executed   it,   set   it   round   with   boar   fig-  After    these    words     the     leed    of    the 

ures,  so  that  never  might  brand  nor  war-  Weder-Goths  dashed  bravely  off,  would 
blades  make  any  impression  upon  it.  await    no    answer ;  —  the    eddying    flood 

That  moreover  was  not  the  least  im-  55  engulfed  the  warrior.  It  was  then  a 
portant  of  helps  to  his  valor,  which  main  while  of  the  day  ere  he  could  reach 
llrothgar's    orator    lent    to    him    at     his      die   country   at   the   bottom. 


984  APPENDIX 


Soon  was  that  perceived  by  the  l)lood-  was  full  of  rage,  sway  his  deadly  adver- 
thirsty  creature,  grim  and  greedy,  which  sary  so  that  she  sank  on  the  pavement, 
for  a  hundred  seasons  had  kept  the  wa-  The  hag  swiftly  paid  him  back  reprisal 
tery  region,  that  one  of  the  children  of  with  fell  grapplings,  and  closed  in  upon 
men  was  ex])loring  from  above  the  hab-  Shim:  —  then  staggered  he  with  spirits 
itation  of  goblins.'  It  made  a  grab  then  exhausted,  he  the  strongest  of  warriors, 
towards  hi'm ;  it  caught  the  brave  man  the  champion-soldier,  insomuch  that  he 
with  grisly  talons ;  nevertheless  it  pierced  fell  prostrate.  Then  did  the  hag  sit  upon 
not  to  wound  the  wholeness  of  his  body;  the  visitant  of  her  hall,  and  drew  her 
ring-mail  outside  fenced  him  about,  in- 10  knife,  broad  and  brown-edged;  would 
somuch  that  the  hag  could  not  get  revenge  her  bairn,  her  only  offspring, 
through  that  jacket  of  service,  well-knit  About  his  shoulder  lay  the  breast-net  in- 
limb-sark,  with  its  loathsome  fingers.  terlaced ;  that  fenced  his  life ;  against 
Then  did  the  she-wolf  of  the  lake,  when  point  and  against  edge  it  barred  the  en- 
she  came  to  the  bottom,  bear  the  jeweled  15  trance. 

prince  to  her  mansion,  so  that  he  had  Then  had  the  son  of  Ecgtheow,  the 
no  power  at  all  —  courage  enough  he  had  champion  of  the  Goths,  miscarried  under 
—  to  wield  his  weapons;  but  so  many  the  vast  profound,  had  not  his  campaign- 
monsters  harassed  him  in  swimming,  ing  byrnie,  his  hard  war-net,  afforded 
many  a  water-beast  with  hostile  tusks  20  help ;  —  and  holy  God  controlled  the 
battered  his  war-sark,  the  brigands  were  victory,  the  Lord  of  providence,  the 
in  pursuit.  heavenly  Ruler,  he  determined   it  aright, 

Then    did    the    eorl    perceive    that    he  and  that  with  ease ; —  presently  he  again 

was  in  some  strange  abysmal  hall,  where  stood  erect  on  his  feet. 

no  water  at  all  molested  him,  nor  could  3^ 

the  violence  of  the  flood  touch  him,  be-  xxiii 
ins  kept  off  by  the  roofed  hall;  firelight 

1                                        •       1       f^.-      .U;,.;,.\y    h^iXi  BEOWULF     FINISHES     THE     BUSINESS.      THE 

he    saw,    an   eerie   luster,    shinmg    briglit.  ,^    „.„.^„    ^„t,^    t,t.^    irr,     A^Tr^    r-r. 

Then  the  hero  knew  it  was  the  she- wolf 

of   the   abyss,   the   mighty   carline   of   the  30 
mere; 


KING  S     PARTY     GIVE     HIM      UP     AND     GO 
HOME.      BEOWULF's       COMRADES      REMAIN 


onset  he  deHvered  with   slaugh-  '       ^^     the     cliff,     fidelity     rewarded. 
ter-bill,  his  hand  delayed  not  the  stroke,  ^^  after-dinner  surprise. 

so  that  about  her  head  the  costly  blade  Then  saw  he  among  the  armor  a  mon- 

resounded  a  greedy  war-song.  Then  did  umental  cutlass,  an  old  eotenish  sword, 
the  visitor  discover  that  the  battle-  3s  of  edge  effective,  a  trophy  of  warriors; 
gleamer  would  not  bite,  not  scathe  life,  —  that  was  the  very  pride  of  weapons, 
but  the  edge  failed  the  master  at  need ;  only  then  it  was  huger  than  any  other 
it  had  in  times  past  supported  many  en-  man  could  bear  to  the  battle-game;  it 
counters,  had  often  cleft  helmet,  war-  was  good  and  gallant,  handiwork  of 
harness  of  the  doomed ;  —  that  was  the  40  giants.  Then  did  he,  the  champion  of 
first  time  for  the  honored  treasure,  that  the  Scyldings,  grasp  Fetelhilt;  exasperate 
its  fame  broke  down.  Again  he  was  for  and  greedy  of  fight  he  drew  the  jeweled 
action,  in  courage  never  faltering,  mind-  arm;  despairing  of  his  life,  he  smote  m 
ful  of  exploits,  Hygelac's  kinsman.  his  fury;  insomuch  that  the  hard  steel 
Away  did  the  wrathful  combatant  then  iS  caught  her  by  the  neck,  broke  through 
fling  the  damascened  blade  cunningly  the  lionc-rings,  the  bill  sped  all  through 
bedizened,  insomuch  that  it  lay  along  on  the  doomed  flesh-jacket ;  — she  dropped 
the  earth,  stark  and  steel-edged;  he  on  the  pavement;  the  sword  was  gory; 
trusted  to  his  strength,  the  hand-grip  of  the  lad  was  fain  of  his  work, 
his  might.  '^o      The    glimmer    flashed    up,    light    filled 

So  it  behooves  a  man  to  act.  when  he  '  the  place  even  as  when  from  heaven 
in  battle  thinks  to  attain  enduring  praise;  serenely  shineth  the  candle  of  the  firma- 
_he  will  not  be  caring  about  his  life.  "lent.     He    scanned    the    apartmen     with 

Then  did  the  leed  of  the  warlike  Goths  b's  eye,  then  took  his  way  along  by  he 
-naught  recked  he  of  deadly  peril  -  55  wall ;  stubborn  the  thane  of  Hygelac 
seize  Grendel's  dam  bv  the  shoulder;  swung  his  weapon  aloft  by  the  hilt,  fierce 
then  did  the  man   valiant  in  fight,   as  he      and     aggressive.     That     blade     was     not 


BEOWULF  985 


flung  away  by  the  hero,  but  he  was  strange  goblin  which  had  perished  there 
forthwith    minded    to    repay    Grendel    the      in  that  habitation. 

many   fatal   assauhs   he   had   wrought   on  Soon   was   he   swimming,   he   who   erst 

the  West  Danes  oftener  far  than  a  single  had  strugglingly  encountered  the  onset 
once,  when  he  slew  Hrothgar's  hearth-  5  of  furious  beasts ;  up  through  the  water 
comrades  in  their  slumber;  sleeping  men  he  dived;  the  wave-depths  were  all  puri- 
of  the  Danish  folk  he  devoured  fifteen,  fied,  spacious  haunts ;  now  that  the  goblin 
and  an  equal  number  he  conveyed  away,  had  quitted  life,  and  this  transitory 
hideous     spoil.     He     had     paid     him     his      scene. 

recompense  for  that,  the  furious  cham- 10  Then  came  he  to  land,  the  crown  of 
pion  had;  insomuch  that  he  now  beheld  the  men  from  over  the  sea,  bravely  swim- 
him  at  rest,  weary  of  war,  even  Grendel  niing;  —  he  exulted  in  his  lake-spoil,  in 
he  saw  lying,  bereft  of  life,  so  deadly  for  the  mighty  burden  which  he  had  with 
him  had  erst  the  conflict  at  Heorot  him.  Then  went  they  to  meet  him,  they 
been.  The  carcass  gaped  wide,  when  it  15  thanked  God,  the  valiant  band  of  thanes, 
after  death  received  the  blow,  the  hard  they  rejoiced  over  their  captain,  for  that 
sword-slash ;  then  did  he  cut  the  head  they  had  been  so  happy  as  to  get  sight 
from  of¥  him.  of    him     whole     and     sound.     Then     was 

Forthwith  was  that  perceived  by  the  from  the  ardent  hero  his  helmet  and 
observant  men  who  with  Hrothgar  were  20  byrnie  promptly  slackened :  —  sullenly  the 
watching  over  the  water,  that  the  wave-  mere  subsided,  water  under  welkin,  dusk 
plash  was  all  turbid,  the  surf  was  tinged      with   battle-gore. 

with    blood:    the    men    of    grizzled    locks.  Forth     thence     they     fared     upon     the 

the  old  men,  spake  together  about  the  tracks  of  their  (former)  march,  fain  in 
brave  man,  how  that  they  expected  not  25  their  souls,  they  passed  over  the  country, 
the  etheling  back  again,  did  not  expect  and  along  the  public  highways;  men  of 
that  he  would  come  radiant  with  victory  kingly  courage  bore  the  head-piece  away 
to  seek  the  illustrious  prince ;  inasmuch  from  the  mere-cliff,  toilsomely  for  every 
as  the  more  part  were  of  opinion,  that  one  of  them :  of  the  lusty  and  stalwart 
the  she-wolf  of  the  mere  had  torn  him  30  fellows  four  were  required  to  convey 
in  pieces.  with  much  ado  on  the  gory  pole  the  head 

Then  came  the  ninth  hour  of  the  day.  of  Grendel  to  the  gold-hall;  (and  so  they 
The  impetuous  Scyldings  quitted  the  went)  till  that  unexpectedly  to  hall  the 
bluff;  the  gold-friend  of  men  took  his  brave  adventurers  arrived,  fourteen  of 
departure  homeward  thence.  The  for- 35  Goths  marching;  their  captain  withal, 
eigners  sat  fast,  sick  at  heart,  and  upon  glorious  in  their  midst,  trod  the  grounds 
the  pool  they  gazed;  they  wished  and  did  of  the  mead-hall.  Then,  did  the  com- 
not  expect,  that  they  might  ever  get  mander  of  the  thanes  proceed  to  enter, 
sight  of  their  lord  and  captain  in  the  deed-keen  man,  adorned  with  glory,  war- 
body.  40  like   hero,  to  accost   Hrothgar :   then   was 

Then  did  that  sword  begin  —  under  Grendel's  head  borne  by  the  hair  into 
spilth  of  blood  in  fearful  clots  —  the  the  hall  where  men  drank ;  —  startling 
war-bill  began  to  waste  away ;  —  that  for  the  nobles  and  the  lady  withal ;  a 
was  a  marvelous  thing  that  it  melted  all  visage  indescribable  did  men  behold, 
away,  likest  to  ice  when  the  Father  dis-  45 

solveth    the    rigor   of    frost    and    unwind-  xxiv 

eth  the  ropes  of  the  torrent,  he  who  hath 

control  of  tunes  and  seasons;  that  is  the  beowulf  reports  his  experience  to 
true  Governor  hrothgar   and   gives    him    the   won- 

The  leed  of  the  Weder-Goths  took 50  d«ous  hilt  which  is  examined  and 
not  of  rare  possessions  in  those  halls-  described,  hrothgar  s  paternal  dis- 
though  he  saw  many  there  —  aught  more  course. 

than  the  head,   and  with   it  the  hilt  that  Beowulf,     son     of     Ecgtheow,     uttered 

was  metal-spangled ;  the  sword  had  al-  speech :  '  Lo  and  behold !  we  unto  thee, 
ready  melted  away,  the  decorated  55  oh,  son  of  Healfdene,  leed  of  the  Scyld- 
weapon  had  burnt  up;  —  so  fiercely  hot  ings,  have  joyfully  brought  these  mere- 
was    that    blood,    and    so    venomous    the      spoils    which    thou    here    lookest    on,    in 


986  APPENDIX 


token  of  achievement!     Not  easily  did  I  Then    did    the    wise    son    of    llealfdene 

fight  it  through  with  life:  in  hattle  un-  utter  speech  —  all  held  their  peace  — : 
der  water  I  had  hardly  faced  out  the  '  That,  lo !  may  a  man  say,  a  man  who 
task,  well-nigh  had  the  struggle  failed,  promoteth  truth  and  right  among  folk, 
only  that  God  shielded  me.  1  could  not  5  —  he  remembereth  all  long  ago,  the  old 
in  conflict  accomplish  aught  with  Hrunt-  housemaster  —  that  this  eorl  was  born 
ing,  though  that  be  a  good  weapon ;  but  superior !  The  fame  is  spread  through 
the  Ruler  of  men  vouchsafed  to  me  that  distant  parts,  my  friend  Beowulf,  the 
I  on  the  wall  saw  smilingly  hanging  an  fame  of  thee  over  every  nation.  YVithal 
old  sword  of  huge  size  —  oftenest  hath  lo  thou  dost  carry  it  modestly  thy  prowess 
He  guided  men  when  they  have  no  other  with  discretion  of  mind.  I  shall  make 
friend  —  insomuch  that  I  grasped  at  that  good  to  thee  my  plighted  love,  according 
weapon.  Then  smote  I  in  that  campaign  as  was  before  said  betwixt  us  two ; 
—  occasion  favoring  me  —  the  keepers  of  thou  art  destined  to  prove  a  comfort  sure 
the  house.  Then  did  that  battle-bill  con-  15  and  lasting  to  thy  leeds,  a  help  to  man- 
sume  away,  that  twisted  piece,  by  reason      kind. 

of   that    blood    which    gushed    forth,    hot-  '  Heremod    did    not    prove    so    to    the 

test  of  battle-gore;  I  brought  away  from  descendants  of  Ecgwela,  to  the  honorable 
the  enemy  that  hilt  as  a  trophy;  I  Scyldings ;  he  waxed  great  not  for  their 
avenged  tlie  atrocities,  the  death-agony  20  pleasure,  but  for  mortal  fray  and  for 
of  Danes,  as  it  was  meet.  Accordingly  death-blows  to  the  Danish  leeds ;  he  in  his 
I  promise  it  to  thee  that  thou  in  Heorot  ungoverned  mood  crushed  his  boon  com- 
mayest  sleep  free  from  care  with  the  panions,  the  squires  of  his  body;  until 
regiment  of  thy  troopers;  and  so  may  that  at  last  he  wandered  forth  alone,  the 
every  thane  of  thy  leeds,  of  the  seniority  25  illustrious  monarch,  away  from  human 
and  of  the  juniority,  for  that  thou  need-  society;  notwithstanding  that  the  mighty 
est  not  on  their  account  apprehend  dan-  God  had  with  the  attractions  of  strength, 
ger,  O  chief  of  Scyldings,  in  that  quarter,  wath  puissance,  exalted  him,  promoted 
life-bale  to  warriors;  as  erewhile  thou  him,  above  all  men.  Nevertheless  in  his 
didst.'  30  soul   there   grew   a   blood-thirsty  passion ; 

Then  was  the  gilded  hilt  given  to  the  —  far  was  he  from  giving  rings  to  the 
veteran  soldier,  the  hoary  leader  in  battle,  Danes  according  to  merit;  he  continued 
given  into  his  hand,  ancient  workman-  estranged  from  social  joy,  so  that  he 
ship  of  giants;  it  passed,  after  the  de-  suffered  the  penalty  of  that  outrage  in 
mons  were  quelled,  into  the  possession  35  the  settled  disaffection  of  his  people, 
of   the   prince   of   the    Danes,   a   work   of  'Do    thou    take    warning   by   that;    un- 

mystic  smiths ;  -and  so  when  the  atrocious  derstand  the  ornament  of  man !  It  is 
creature,  God's  enemy,  murder-crimi-  about  thee  that  I  being  old  in  years  and 
nous,  left  this  world,  and  his  mother  too,  experience  have  told  this  tale, 
it  went  into  the  possession  of  the  best  40  '  Wonderful  it  is  to  tell,  how  the  mighty 
of  worldly  kings  between  the  seas,  of  all  God  with  large  intelligence  dispenses  un- 
that  even  in  Scania  distributed  wealth.  derstanding   to    mankind,    dispenses    posi- 

Hrothgar  uttered  speech;  —  he  sur-  tion  and  prowess  —  he  holds  the  disposi- 
veyed  the  hilt,  the  old  relic;  upon  it  was  tion  of  all  things.  Sometimes  he  lets  the 
written  the  origin  of  the  primeval  quar- 45  purpose  of  a  man  of  noble  race  turn 
rel,  what  time  the  flood,  the  rushing  towards  possession,  he  giveth  to  him 
ocean,  destroyed  the  giant's  brood;  they  earthly  joy  on  his  estate,  to  hold  the 
got  for  themselves  a  bitter  fate;  that  citadel  of  men,  he  assigns  to  him  regions 
was  a  tribe  estranged  from  the  Eternal  of  the  world  so  extensive,  a  realm  so 
Captain,  to  them  did  the  Ruler  assign  50  wide,  that  he  in  his  unwisdom  is  not  able 
final  retribution  with  whelming  water.  to  carry  his  thought  to  the  end  of  it ;  he 
Likewise  on  the  mounting  of  sheer  gold  dwelleth  in  prosperity,  not  anything 
there  was  with  rune-staves  rightly  in-  annoys  him,  not  sickness  nor  age  nor 
scribed,  set  down,  and  said,  for  whom  carking  care  darkens  his  spirits,  no  quar- 
that  sword  had  erst  been  wrought,  best  55  rel  on  any  side,  no  feud  appears;  but  all 
of  steely  fabrics,  with  wreathen  hilt,  and  the  world  moves  to  his  mind,  he  knows 
dragon    ornarnent.  not  reverse. 


BEOWULF 


987 


XXV 

THE  CONCLUSION  OF  HROTHGAr's  DIS- 
COURSE. MORE  FEASTING  AND  THEN 
CAME  BED-TIME  FOR  WHICH  THE  HERO 
HAD  HUGE  DESIRE.  BEOWULF  SLEPT  TILL 
THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BIRD  PROCLAIMED 
SUNRISE.  PREPARING  TO  RETURN  HOME 
HE  RESTORES  HRUNTING  TO  UNFERTH 
COURTEOUSLY. 

'  Until  at  length  within  the  man  himself 
something  of  arrogancy  grows  and  devel- 
ops ;  then  sleepeth  the  guardian,  the 
soul's  keeper;  it  is  too  fast  that  sleep, 
awfully  profound,  the  assassin  is  very 
nigh,  he  who  from  his  arrow-bow  malig- 
nantly shooteth.  Then  is  he,  helmetcd 
man,  smitten  in  the  breast  with  a  bitter 
shaft:  he  cannot  defend  himself  from  the 
crooked  exorbitant  counsels  of  the 
danmed  sprite ;  he  fancies  that  it  is  too 
little,  all  that  he  has  so  long  enjoyed; 
he  is  covetous,  and  malignant;  glorieth 
not  in  the  pomp  of  bestowing  gilded 
decorations ;  and  he  forgetteth  the  ulte- 
rior consequences ;  he  too  lightly  con- 
siders how  that  God  the  Dispenser  of 
glory  had  erewhile  given  him  the  post 
of  dignity.  Then  at  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter it  returns  to  this,  that  the  body 
shrunken  falls  away,  the  outgoing  life 
drops  ;  —  another  fills  his  room,  one  who 
ungrudgingly  distributes  treasure,  the 
eorl's  old  accumulations ;  —  timid  pru- 
dence he  despises. 

'  Guard  thee  against  the  fatal  grudge, 
beloved  Beowulf,  youth  most  excellent, 
and  choose  for  thee  the  better  course, 
enduring  counsels !  incline  not  to  arro- 
gancy, thou  mighty  champion !  Now  is 
thy  strength  in  full  bloom  for  one  while ; 
eftsoons  it  will  happen  that  sickness  or 
sword  will  bereave  thee  of  puissance;  — 
either  clutch  of  fire  or  whelm  of  flood, 
either  assault  of  knife  or  flight  of  jave- 
lin, either  wretched  eld  or  glance  of  eyes, 
will  mar  and  darken  all ;  without  more 
ado  it  will  come  to  pass  that  death  will 
subdue  thee,  thou  captain  of  men ! 

'  For  example,  I  myself  during  fifty 
years  ruled  beneath  the  welkin  over  the 
jeweled  Danes,  and  I  by  valor  made  them 
secure  against  many  a  nation  throughout 
this  world  with  spears  and  swords,  in- 
somuch that  I  had  no  apprehension  of 
any   rival   under   the   circuit   of   the   sky. 


When  lo !  in  my  ancestral  seat  there 
came  a  change  over  all  that;  —  distress 
where  mirth  was  before,  as  soon  as 
Grendel,  the  old  adversary,  became  an 
5  inmate  of  mine;  because  of  that  visitation 
1  continually  carried  great  anxiety  at 
heart.  Thanks  therefore  be  to  the  Gov- 
ernor, the  Eternal  Captain,  for  that  which 
I  have  lived  to  see,  that  I,  the  old  tribu- 

10  lation  past,  upon  that  severed,  that  bloody 
headpiece,  with  mine  eyes  do  gaze ! 

'  Go  now  to  settle,  share  the  festive 
joy,  crowned  with  honors  of  war !  Thou 
and    I    must    have    dealings    together    in 

15  many  many  treasures,  when  to-morrow 
comes.' 

The  Goth  was  glad  of  mood ;  he  moved 
promptly  off,  drawing  to  settle,  as  the 
sapient    king    ordained    him.     Then    was 

20  again  as  before,  to  the  gallant  warriors, 
to  the  company  in  hall,  fair  banquet 
served  afresh. 

Night's  covering  grew  dim,  dark  over 
the  banded  men.     Uprose  all  the  seniors: 

25  —  it  was  that  the  gray-haired  king,  the 
venerable  Scylding,  was  minded  to  draw 
lo  his  bed.  Vastly  well  did  the  Goth,  the 
illustrious  warrior,  like  the  thought  of 
repose ;   promptly  was   he,  now  weary  of 

30  adventure,  the  man'  of  far  country,  mar- 
shaled forth  by  the  chamberlain,  one  who 
with  meet  ceremony  supplied  all  the 
wants  of  a  gentleman,  such  things  as  in 
that  day  the  lords  of  the  main  required 

3S  to  have. 

So  the  great-hearted  hero  rested  him; 
—  high  in  air  loomed  the  edifice,  wide- 
spanning  and  gold-gleaming :  —  the 
stranger    slept    within,     until    the     black 

40  raven  announced  heaven's  glory  with  a 
blithe  heart.  Then  came  bright  light 
striding  over  shadow;  fiends  scampered 
off.  The  ethelings  were  ready  dight  to 
fare   back   to   their   leeds ;  —  the  magnan- 

45  imous  visitor  was  minded  to  take  ship, 
for  a  voyage  far  away. 

Then  did  the  hero  bid  the  son  of  Ecg- 
laf  bear  away  Hrunting,  bade  him  take 
his    sword,    beloved    weapon ;    said    his 

50  thanks  for  the  loan;  quoth  that  he 
counted  that  war-mate  a  good  one,  war- 
serviceable;  with  his  words  did  not  blame 
the  faulchion's  edge;  that  was  a  high- 
souled  lad  ! 

55  And  when  the  departing  warriors  were 
equipped  in  harness,  the  etheling  honored 


988 


APPENDIX 


by  the  Danes  went  up  to  the  dais,  where 
the  other  warlike  hero  was  ;  —  he  greeted 
Hrothgar. 


BEOWULF  S        PARTING        INTERVIEW        WITH 
HROTHGAR   WHO   IS    MOVED   TO  TEARS. 

Beowulf,  son  of  Ecgtheow,  uttered 
speech  :  — '  Now  we  sea-voyagers  wish  to 
say,  we  who  have  come  from  far,  that 
we  are  purposing  to  go  to  Hygelac. 
Here  we  have  been  well  entertained  to 
our  satisfaction ;  thou  hast  been  to  us 
very  generous.  If  I  therefore  may  by 
any  means  upon  earth  undertake  for  thy 
further  gratification,  O  captain  of  men, 
labors  of  war  beyond  what  I  have  yet 
done,  I  shall  be  ready  promptly.  If  they 
bring  me  word  over  the  circuit  of  the 
floods  that  neighbors  press  thee  with 
alarm  as  whilom  thy  haters  did,  I  will 
bring  thee  a  thousand  thanes,  warriors 
to  help  thee.  I  can  undertake  for  Hyge- 
lac, captain  of  the  Goths,  young  though 
he  be,  shepherd  of  people,  that  he 
will  forward  me  by  words  and_  by 
works,  so  that  I  may  do  high  service  to 
thee,  and  for  thy  support  bring  a  forest 
of  spears,  a  mighty  subsidy,  when  thou 
shalt  have  need  of  men :  —  if  moreover 
Hrethric,  princely  child,  is  in  treaty  for 
admission  at  the  courts  of  the  Goths,  he 
may  there  find  many  friends ;  foreign 
countries  are  best  visited  by  him  who  is 
of  high  worth  in  himself.' 

Hrothgar  bespake  him  in  answer: 
'  These  considerate  words  hath  the  All- 
wise  Lord  put  into  thy  mind ;  never 
heard  I  a  man  so  young  in  life  speak 
more  to  purpose ;  thou  art  strong  in  might 
and  ripe  in  understanding;  wise  in  dis- 
course of  speech.  I  count  it  likely,  if  it 
Cometh  to  pass  that  the  spear,  the  grim 
despatch  of  battle,  taketh  away  Hrethel's 
offspring,  if  ailing  or  iron  taketh  thy 
chieftain,  the  shepherd  of  the  people,  and 
thou  hast  thy  life,  that  the  sea-farmg 
Goths  have  not  any  thy  better  to  choose 
for  king,  for  treasurer  of  warriors,  if  thou 
art  willing  to  hold  the  realm  of  thy  kins- 
folk. To  me  thy  disposition  is  well- 
liking  more  and  more,  beloved  Beowulf ; 
thou  hast  achieved,  that  the  nations  — 
Gothic  leeds  and  spear-bearing  Danes  — 
shall   have    mutual    friendship,    and   strife 


shall  cease,  the  hostile  surprises  whence 
they  suffered  erewhile;  —  they  shall  be, 
while  I  rule  the  wide  realm,  a  community 
of  treasure:  many  friends  shall  greet  one 

5  another  with  gifts  across  the  bath  of 
the  gannet ;  the  ringed  ship  shall  bring 
over  ocean  presents  and  tokens  of  love. 
I  know  the  people  to  be  equally  as  to- 
wards    foe    so    towards    friend    constant 

10  in  mind,  either  way  irreproachable,  in 
olden  wise.' 

Then  did  the  shelter  of  warriors,  the 
son  of  Healfdene,  further  give  into  his 
possession     twelve     hoarded     jewels;     he 

15  bade  him  go  with  the  presents,  visit  his 
own  peoi)le  in  comfort,  and  soon  come 
back  again.  Then  did  the  king  of  noble 
ancestry,  the  chief  of  the  Scyldings,  kiss 
the  incomparable  thane  and  clasp  him  by 

20  the  neck ;  tears  from  him  fell,  the  gray- 
haired  man ;  forecast  was  both  ways  to 
the  man  of  old  experience,  but  one  way 
stronger  than  the  other,  namely,  that  they 
might  never  meet  again,  proud  men  in  the 

25  assembly.  To  him  the  man  was  so  dear, 
that  he  could  not  restrain  the  passion  of 
his  breast,  but  deep  in  the  affections  of 
his  soul  a  secret  longing  after  the  be- 
loved  man   stemmed   the    current   of   his 

30  blood. 

Beowulf,  departing  thence,  a  warrior 
gold-bedight,  trod  the  grassy  earth  con- 
scious of  wealth:  —  the  seagoer,  which 
was  riding  at  anchor,  awaited  his  owner 

35  and  lord.  Then  upon  the  march  was  the 
liberality  of  Hrothgar  often  praised;  that 
was  a  king,  every  way  without  reproach ; 
until  old  age  had  bereft  him  of  the 
vantage   of   his   prowess, —  him   who   had 

40  often  been  a  terror  to  many. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  PORT,  HIS  RESPECT- 
FUL  DEMEANOR.  HOW  BEOWULF  RECOM- 
PENSED THE  CARE  OF  THE  BOAT-WARDEN. 
THE    HOME-BOUND   VOYAGE. 

So  the  troop  of  gallant  bachelors  came 
50  to  the  water ;  they  wore  ring-armor,  net- 
ted limb-sarks.  The  land  warden  ob- 
served the  return-march  of  the  eorls. 
just  as  he  had  done  before;  —  not  with 
suspicion  from  the  peak  of  the  cliff  did 
^>  he  greet  the  visitors,  but  he  rode  to- 
wards them ;  he  said  to  the  leeds  of  the 
Wederas  that  the  bright-mailed  explorers 


BEOWULF  989 


came  welcome  to  their  ships.     Then  was  the  third  part 

on    the    beach    the    roomy   sea-boat    laden 

with    war-harness,   the    ring-prowed    ship  xxxii 

with  horses  and  treasures ;  the  mast  rose      .^^^^  ^^  happened  that  the  man  robbed 

high  over  wealth  from  Hrothgar  s  hoard.    5      ,.,,^  ^,,^,^^-3   ^^^^^     ^^^^  ^,,^3^,, 

He    to    the    boat-warden    presented    a  ^^^3   accumulated   store   of    ancient 

gold-bound  sword  insomuch  that  ever  af-  ^^^   forgotten    warriors,    the   drag- 

ter  he  was  on  the  mead-bench  the  more  ^^  prepares  revenge,  the  beginning 
worshipful  by  reason  of  that  decoration,  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^ 

that  sword  of  pedigree.  10 

[The  Gothic  captain  with  his  band  of  Not    of   set   purpose    nor   by   his   own 

warriors]  betook  him  to  ship,  ploughing  free  choice  had  he  visited  the  dragon's 
deep  water;  the  Danes'  land  he  quitted.  hoard,  he  who  brought  sore  trouble  on 
Then  was  by  the  mast  a  manner  of  sea-  himself;  but  for  dire  necessity  had  he, 
garment,  a  sail  with  sheet  made  fast ;  the  15  the  slave  of  some  one  or  other  of  the 
sea-timber  hummed.  There  did  the  wind  sons  of  men,  fled  from  outrageous  stripes 
over  the  billows  not  baffle  the  wave-  a  houseless  wretch,  and  into  that  place 
floater  of  her  course ;  the  sea-goer  had  blundered  like  a  man  in  guilty  ter- 
marched,  scudded  with  foamy  throat  for-  ror.  [Here  four  (or  Hve)  mutilated  lines 
ward  over  the  swell,  with  gorgeous  prow  20  seem  to  say  that  the  fugitive,  though 
over  the  briny  currents,  till  they  were  quickly  horror-struck  at  his  new  danger, 
able  to  espy  the  Gothic  cliffs,  familiar  still  by  the  impetus  of  despair  borne  for- 
headlands.  The  keel  grated  up  ashore,  ward  had  espied  a  cup  of  precious  metal.'] 
with  way  on  her  from  the  wind;  she  There  was  a  quantity  of  such  things  in 
stood  on  land.  Quickly  was  the  hithe-  2^  that  earth-cavern,  ancient  acquisitions ; 
warden  ready  at  the  strand,  he  who  al-  just  as  some  unknown  man  in  days  of 
ready  for  a  long  time  expectant  at  the  yore  had  in  pensive  thought  hidden  them 
water's  edge  had  eyed  the  craft  of  the  there,  the  prodigious  legacy  of  a  noble 
beloved  men ;  he  bound  to  the  shore  race,  treasures  of  worth.  Death  had  car- 
the  wide-bosomed  ship  with  anchor-cables  30  ried  them  all  off  previously,  and  that 
fast,  lest  the  violence  of  the  waves  might  solitary  one  then  of  the  proud  company 
snatch  the  winsome  craft  away  from  who  had  there  longest  kept  afoot,  a 
them.  possessor    mourning    lost    friends,    would 

fain  survive,  if  only  that  he  might  for  a 

*  *     *  35  little    space    enjoy    the    long-accumulated 

wealth. 

A  barrow  already  existed  on  the  down, 

XXXI  nigh  by  the  waves,  sheer  over  the  cliff, 

cunningly  secured ;  therein  did  the  owner 

BEOWULF  COMES  TO  THE  THRONE.  40  of   rings   carry   a   ponderous   quantity   of 

*  *     *  beaten    gold :    a    few    words    he     spake : 

'  Hold  thou  now,  O  earth,  now  that  the 
Consequently  the  broad  realm  came  to  heroes  could  not,  the  possessions  of 
the  hand  of  Beowulf;  he  governed  well  mighty  men.  Lo !  in  thee  at  first  the 
fifty-winters  —  that  was  a  venerable  king,  45  brave  men  found  it ;  a  violent  death  car- 
an  ethel-warden  —  until  one  began  in  ried  them  away,  a  fearful  slaughter  car- 
dark  nights,  even  a  dragon,  to  have  ried  off  every  one  of  the  men,  my  peers, 
mastery;  one  that  on  a  high  heath  kept  a  who  surrendered  this  life;  they  attained 
hoard,  a  steep  stone-castle;  a  path  lay  be-  the  joy  of  the  (supernal)  hall.  Not  one 
neath,  unfrequented  by  people.  There-  5°  have  I  to  wear  a  sword,  or  furbish  the 
within  had  gone  some  man  or  other,  bossy  tankard,  the  precious  drink-stoup; 
[deftly]  he  took  of  the  heathen  hoard,  the  valiant  are  departed  otherwhere, 
[took  a  thing]  glistening  with  precious  Now  must  the  hard  helmet,  damascened 
metal;  —  that  he  afterwards  [rued],  that  with  gold,  shed  its  intayled  foliations;  the 
he  had  tricked  the  horrid  keeper  while  55  furbishers  sleep,  they  whose  task  it  was  to 
sleeping,  with  thievish  dexterity  .  .  .  keep  the  masks  of  war;  likewise  the 
that  he  was  infuriate.  war-coat    which    in    battle    and    through 


990  APPENDIX 


the  crash  of  shields  was  proof  against  the  evening  came;  so  enraged  was  the  master 
bite  of  swords,  shall  molder  like  the  of  the  barrow,  the  malignant  one  designed 
warrior.  No  longer  can  the  ringed  mail  with  fire  to  revenge  the  loss  of  the  pre- 
along  with  the  war-chief  widely  travel  cious  tankard.  Presently  the  day  was 
by  the  hero's  side ;  —  no  delight  of  harp,  5  gone,  the  worm  had  his  will ;  no  longer 
no  joy  of  gleewood,  no  good  hawk  swing-  would  he  bide  in  fenced  wall,  but  he  issued 
ing  through  the  hall,  no  swift  horse  forth  with  burning,  equipped  with  fire, 
tramping  in  the  castle-court.  Destructive  The  commencement  of  it  was  frightful 
death  hath  sent  many  generations  far  to  the  people  in  the  country;  likewise  it 
away.'  Thus  did  he  with  sorrowful  heart  10  speedily  had  a  sore  ending  upon  their 
lament  his  unhappiness,  sole  survivor  of  benefactor, 
all  he  sadly  wept,  by  day  and  by  night, 

until    that   death's   ripple   touched   at   his  xxxiii 

heart. 

The    dazzling   hoard    was    found    open  15 '^"'^   dragons   devastation,     the   king's 
standing  by  the  old  pest  of  twilight,  the  mansion  burnt,     beowulf's  proud  re- 

flaming   one    that    haunteth    barrows,    the  ^olve    to    fight    the    dragon    single- 

scaly  spiteful  dragon,  that  flieth  by  night,  handed. 

surrounded  with  fire,  whom  country-folk  Then   the  monster  began   to   spirt  fire- 

hold  in  awful  dread.  His  portion  is  to  20  gleeds,  to  burn  the  cheerful  farmsteads; 
resort  to  the  hoard  under  ground,  where  the  flame-light  glared  aloft,  in  defiance  of 
he  with  winters  aged  shall  guard  heathen  man ;  the  hostile  air-flyer  would  leave 
gold ;  he  will  be  no  whit  the  better  for  nothing  there  alive.  The  war-craft  of  the 
it.  So  had  that  wide-ravager  for  three  worm  was  manifest  in  all  parts;  the  rage 
hundred  winters  held  in  the  earth  an  25  of  the  deadly  foe  was  seen  far  and  near ; 
enormous  treasure-house,  until  that  one  how  the  ravaging  invader  hated  and 
angered  him,  a  man  angered  his  mood;  ruined  the  Gothic  people;  to  his  hoard  he 
—  to  his  chieftain  the  man  bore  a  tank-  shot  back  again,  to  his  dark  mansion, 
ard  bossed  with  gold,  and  prayed  his  lord  before  the  hour  of  day.  He  had  encom- 
for  a  covenant  of  peace.  Then  was  the  ^o  passed  the  landfolk  with  flame,  with  fire 
hoard  rifled,  quantity  of  jewels  carried  and  conflagration ;  he  trusted  in  his  moun- 
off;  the  friendless  man  had  his  petition  tain,  his  war-craft  and  his  rampart;  that 
granted.  The  lord  contemplated  men's  confidence  deceived  him. 
ancient  work  for  the  first  time.  Then  was  the  crushing  news  reported 

When  the  worm  woke,  the  quarrel  was  33  to  Beowulf  with  swiftness  and  certainty, 
begun ;  forthwith  he  sniffed  the  scent  that  his  own  mansion,  best  of  buildings, 
along  the  rock;  the  marble-hearted  one  was  melting  away  in  fiery  eddies,  even  the 
found  the  enemy's  track;  —  he  had  gift-seat  of  the  Goths.  That  was  to  the 
stepped  forth  abroad  with  undetected  goodman  a  rude  experience  in  his  breast, 
craft,  hard  by  the  dragon's  head.  So  may  40  hugest  of  heart-griefs ;  the  wise  man  felt 
that  man  who  retains  the  fealty  of  the  as  if  he  should,  in  despite  of  venerable 
Supreme,  elude  death  and  freely  escape  law,  break  out  against  Providence,  against, 
both  harm  and  pursuit.  The  hoard-keeper  the  Eternal  Lord,  with  bitter  outrage ;  his 
sought  diligently  over  the  ground,  he  breast  within  him  surged  with  murky 
wanted  to  find  the  man,  the  man  who  had  45  thoughts,  in  a  manner  unwonted  with  him. 
wrought  him  mischief  in  his  sleep;  fiery  The  fire-drake  had  desolated  the  strong- 
and  in  raging  mood  he  often  swung  hold  of  the  nobles,  the  sea-board  front, 
around  the  mound,  all  out  round  about;  that  enclosed  pale,  with  fiery  missiles. 
there  was  not  any  man  there  in  that  For  him  therefore  the  war-king,  the  lord 
desert  waste.  Nevertheless  he  exulted  in  5°  of  the  Storm-folk,  studied  revenge.  He 
purpose  of  battle,  of  bloody  work;  at  in-  gave  orders,  that  they  should  make  for 
tervals  he  would  dash  back  into  the  him,  the  shelter  of  warriors,  the  captain 
barrow,  would  seek  the  costly  vessel;  of  knights,  wholly  of  iron,  a  war-shield, 
presently  he  had  satisfied  himself  of  that,  a  master-piece;  he  knew  assuredly,  that 
that  some  one  of  manfolk  had  invaded  55  forest-timber  would  not  serve  him,  linden- 
the  gold,  the  mighty  treasures.  The  wood  against  flame !  Destined  he  was, 
hoard-keeper   waited  with  difficulty   until      the  prince  of  proved  valor,  to  meet  the 


BEOWULF  991 


end   of  his   allotted   days,   of   his   worldly      gold,  or  else  war  carrieth,  pitiless  life-bale 
life;  —  and  the  worm  (was  to  die)  at  the      carrieth  away  your  lord!  ' 
same  time,   long  though  he  had  held  the  Up  rose  then  by  the  brink  the  resolute 

hoarded    wealth.  warrior,  stern  under  his  helmet,  he  wore 

Then  did  he,  of  rings  the  patron,  think  5  battle-sark  among  rugged  clitYs,  he  trusted 
it  scorn  that  he  should  go  seek  the  wide-  the  strength  of  his  single  manhood;  such 
flyer  with  a  band,  with  a  large  host;  he  is  not  the  way  of  a  craven.  Then  he  be- 
had  no  fear  of  the  encounter  for  him-  held  near  the  rampart  —  he  who,  excellent 
self,  nor  did  the  worm's  war-craft  at  all  in  accomplishments,  had  survived  a  great 
subdue  his  puissance  and  enterprise ;  for- 10  number  of  wars,  of  battle-clashes,  when 
asmuch  as  he  whilere.  in  shrewd  jeopardy,  armed  men  close  —  beheld  where  stood  a 
had  carried  him  safe  through  many  a  con-  rocky  arch,  and  out  of  it  a  stream  break- 
test,  many  a  battle-clash,  since  the  time  ing  from  the  barrow,  the  surface  of  that 
that  he,  a  victorious  boy,  had  purged  burn  was  steaming  hot  with  cruel  fire; 
Hrothgar's  hall,  and  with  battle-grip  had  15  nigh  to  the  hoard  could  not  the  hero  un- 
done for  Grendel's  kinsfolk,  a  loathsome  scorched  any  while  survive  for  the  flame 
brood.  of  the  dragon. 

*  *     *  Then    did    the    prince    of    the    Storm- 

Goths,    being   elate   with   rage,    let    forth 

XXXV  20  word  out  of  his  breast,  the  strong-hearted 

stormed;  the  shout  penetrated  within  (the 

FURTHER     DISCOURSES     OF     BEOWULF.     HE      cavern),   vibrating   clear   as   a   battle-cry, 

GIVES  A  GREAT  SHOUT  AND  THE  DRAGON      under  the  hoary  rock.     Fury  was  stirred; 

COMES  FORTH.     THE  FIGHT  BEGINS ;  BEO-      the    hoard-warder    recognized    speech    of 

WULF  IN  DISTRESS.  25  man ;  opportunity  was  there  no  more,  to 

*  *     *  stickle   for   terms   of  peace.     In   advance 
Beowulf  uttered   speech,   with   boastful      first  of  all  there  came  the  reeking  breath 

words  he  spake,  for  the  last  time :  '  I  oi  the  monster,  out  from  the  rock,  a  hot 
hazarded  many  wars  in  youth;  yet  again  Jet  of  defiance;  the  ground  trembled, 
will  I,  the  aged  keeper  of  the  folk,  seek  30  The  warrior  under  the  barrow  side,  the 
strife,  and  do  famously;  if  the  fell  rav-  Gothic  captain,  swung  his  mighty  shield 
ager  out  of  his  earthen  dome  will  come  aganist  the  hideous  customer;  therewithal 
forth  to  meet  me.'  Then  did  he  address  was  the  heart  of  the  ringy  worm  incited 
a  word  of  greeting  to  each  of  his  men,  to  seek  battle.  Already  the  brave  war- 
the  keen  helm-wearers,  for  the  last  time,  35  l^mg  liad  drawn  sword,  ancient  heirloom 
his  own  familiar  comrades.  'I  would  not  oi  speedy  edge;  each  of  the  belligerents 
bear  sword  or  weapon  to  meet  the  worm,  had  a  dread  of  the  other.  Resolute  in 
if  I  knew  how  I  might  otherwise  main-  mi"d  the  prince  of  friends  took  stand 
tain  my  vaunt  against  the  monster,  as  I  well  up  to  his  hoised  shield,  while  the 
formerlv  did  against  Grendel.  But  there  40  worm  buckled  suddenly  in  a  bow;  — he 
I  expect  fire,  deadly  scorching,  blast  and  stood  to  his  weapons, 
venom ;   for  that  reason  I  have  upon  me  Then  did  the   flaming  foe,   curved   like 

shield  and  byrnie.  I  will  not  flee  away  an  arch,  advance  upon  him  with  headlong 
from  the  keeper  of  the  mountain,  no,  not  shufifle.  The  shield  effectually  protected 
a  foot  space;  but  it  shall  be  decided  be- 45  hfe  and  limb  a  less  while  for  the  glorious 
tween  us  two  on  this  rampart,  as  Wyrd  chieftain  than  his  sanguine  hope  ex- 
allots  us,  (and)  the  Governor  of  every  pected,  supposing  he,  that  time,  early  in 
man.  I  am  in  spirit  so  eager  for  action,  the  morning,  was  to  achieve  glory  in  the 
that  I  cut  short  bragging  against  the  strife;  —  so  had  Wyrd  not  ordained  it. 
wingy  warrior.  Await  ye  on  the  moun-  50  Up  swung  he  his  hand,  the  Gothic  captain, 
tain,  with  your  byrnies  about  you,  men-  he  smote  the  spotted  horror  with  the 
at-arms,  to  see  which  of  us  twain  may  mighty  heirloom,  that  its  brown  edge 
after  deadly  tussle  best  be  able  to  survive  turned  upon  the  bony  crust ;  less  effec- 
his  hurt.  That  is  not  your  mission,  nor  tually  bit  than  was  required  by  the  king's 
any  man's  task  save  mine  alone,  that  he  55  need,  who  was  sorely  pressed.  Then  was 
try  stiength  against  the  monster,  achieve  the  keeper  of  the  barrow  after  that 
heroism.     I    must    with    daring    conquer      shrewd    assault    furious    with    rage,    cast 


992  APPENDIX 


forth  devouring  fire,  the  deadly  sparks  (ioths  armor  untold  of  every  sort;  after 
sprang  every  way:  the  gold-friend  of  the  which  he  departed  out  of  life,  ripe  for 
Goths    plumed    him    not    on    strokes    of      the  parting  journey. 

vantage;  the  war-bill  had  failed  him  with  Now   this    was   the   first   adventure    for 

its  bared  edge  on  the  foe,  as  it  had  not  5  the  young  champion  wherein  he  had  with 
been  expected  to  do,  metal  of  old  renown.  his  liege  lord  to  enterprise  the  risk  of 
That  was  no  light  experience,  inducing  war;  his  courage  did  not  melt  in  him, 
the  nughty  son  of  Ecgtheow  to  relinquish  nor  did  his  kinsman's  heirloom  prove 
that  emprise;  he  must  consent  to  inhabit  weak  in  the  conflict;  a  fact  wliich  the 
a  dwelling  otherwhere ;  —  so  must  every  lo  worm  experienced,  as  soon  as  they  had 
man  resign  allotted  days.  •  come  to  close  quarters. 

Then   was    it   not   long   until   the   com-  Wiglaf   discoursed    much    that    was   fit- 

batants  closed  again.  The  hoard-warder  ting;  he  said  to  his  comrades  that  his 
rallied  his  courage,  out  of  his  breast  shot  soul  was  sad :  — '  I  recall  the  time,  when 
steam,  as  beginning  again;  —  direly  suf-  i^  we  enjoyed  the  mead,  then  did  we  promise 
fering,  encompassed  with  fire,  was  he  who  our  lord  in  the  festive  hall,  to  him  who 
erewhile  had  ruled  men.  Not  (alas!)  in  gave  us  rings,  that  we  would  repay  him 
a  band  did  his  life-guardsmen,  sons  of  the  war-harness,  if  any  need  of  this  kind 
ethelings,  stand  about  him  with  war-cus-  should  befall  him,  would  repay  him  for 
tom  of  comrades ;  no,  to  the  wood  they  20  helmets  and  tempered  swords.  That  is 
slunk,  to  shelter  life.  In  one  only  of  why  he  chose  us  of  his  host  for  this  ad- 
them  did  his  soul  surge  in  a  tumult  of  venture  by  his  own  preference,  reminded 
grief;  —  kindred  may  never  be  diverted  us  of  glory  and  promised  rewards,  be- 
from  duty,  for  the  man  who  is  rightly  cause  he  counted  us  brave  warriors,  keen 
minded.  25  he!m-wearers ;  although  our  lord  had  de- 

signed   single-handed    to    accomplish    this 
XXXVI  mighty  work,  the  shepherd  of  his  people, 

forasmuch  as  he  of  all  men  had  achieved 
BEOWULF  HAD  ONE  FAITHFUL  FOLLOWER  IN       ^^qs^    of    famous    exploits,    of    desperate 
THE    DESPERATE    STRUGGLE.     HIS    FATAL  30  jgeds.     Now    is   the   day   come,    that    our 
WOUND.  liege  lord  behooves  the  strength  of  brave 

Wiglaf  was  his  name,  Weohstan's  son,  warriors ;  let  us  go  to  him,  help  our  war- 
a  beloved  warrior,  a  leed  of  the  Scylfings,  chief,  while  the  scorching  heat  is  on  him, 
a  kinsman  of  ^Ifhere:  he  beheld  his  liege-  the  grim  fiery  terror !  God  knows  of  me, 
lord  under  helmet,  distressed  by  the  heat.  35  that  I  had  much  liever  the  flame  should 
Then  did  he  remember  the  (territorial)  swallow  my  body  with  my  gold-giver, 
honor  which  he  (Beowulf)  had  formerly  Me  thinketh  it  indecent,  that  we  bear  our 
given  him,  the  well-stocked  homestead  of  shields  back  to  our  home,  unless  we  can 
the  Wsegmundings,  every  political  pre-  first  quell  the  foe,  and  rescue  the  life  of 
rogative  which  his  father  had  enjoyed ;  40  the  Storm- folk's  ruler.  I  know  well  those 
then  could  he  not  refrain;  hand  grasped  were  not  the  old  habits  of  service,  that 
shield,  yellow  linden,  drew  the  old  sword,  he  alone  of  the  Gothic  nobles  should  bear 
known  among  men  as  the  relic  of  Ean-  the  brunt,  should  sink  in  fight;  our  sover- 
mund,  son  of  Ohthere,  whom,  when  a  eign  must  be  requited  for  sword  and 
lordless  exile,  Weohstan  had  slain,  in  fair  4s  helm,  byrnie  and  stately  uniform,  and  so 
fight,  with  weapon's  edge;  and  from  his  he  shall  by  me,  though  a  common  death 
kindred  had  carried  off  the  brown-mottled      take  us  both.' 

helmet,     ringed     byrnie,     old     mysterious  Then  he  sped  through  the  deadly  reek, 

sword;  which  Onela  yielded  to  him,  his  he  came  with  helm  on  head  to  his  lord's 
nephew's  war-harness,  accoutrement  com-  50  assistance ;  few  words  spake  he :  '  My 
plete ;  not  a  word  spake  he  (Onela)  about  liege  Beowulf,  now  make  good  all  that 
the  feud,  although  he  (Weohstan)  had  which  thou  once  saidst  in  time  of  youth, 
killed  his  brother's  son.  He  (Weohstan)  that  thou  never  by  thy  lifetime  wouldest 
retained  the  spoils  many  years,  bill  and  let  thy  glory  decline ;  now  must  thou, 
byrnie,  until  when  his  boy  was  able  to  55  glorious  in  deeds,  etheling  impetuous, 
claim  warrior's  rank,  like  his  father  be-  with  all  thy  might  defend  life;  I  shall 
fore  him;  then  gave  he  to  him  before  the      support  thee  to  the  utmost.' 


BEOWULF 


993 


After  these  words  were  spoken,  the  middle.  They  had  quelled  the  foe,  death- 
worm  came  on  in  fury,  the  fell  malignant  daring  prowess  had  executed  revenc^e, 
monster  came  on  for  the  second  time,  and  they  two  together,  cousin  ethelings,' 
with  fire-jets  flashing,  to  engage  his  had  destroyed  him ;  — such  should  a  fel- 
enemies,  hated  men;  with  the  waves  of  5  low  be,  a  thane  at  need.  To  the  chieftain 
flame  the  shield  was  consumed  all  up  to  that  was  the  supreme  triumphal  hour  of 
the  boss;  the  mail-coat  could  not  render  his  career  —  by  his  own  deeds  —  of  his 
assistance  to  the  young  warrior;  but  the  life's  completed  work, 
young  stripling  valorously  went  forward  Then  began  the  wound  which  the  earth- 

under  his  knisman's  shield  when  his  own  lo  dragon  had  just  now  inflicted  on  him  to 
was  reduced  to  ashes  by  the  gleeds.  inflame  and  swell.  That  he  soon  disc'ov- 
Ihen  once  more  the  warlike  king  remem-  ered,  that  in  his  breast  fatal  mischief  was 
bered  glory,  remembered  his  forceful  working,  venom  in  the  inward  parts 
strength,  so  smote  with  battle-bill  that  it  Then  the  etheling  went  until  he  sat  him 
stood  in  the  monster's  head,  desperately  15  on  a  stone  by  the  mound,  thoughtfully 
impelled.  NiEgling  flew  in  splinters,  Beo-  pondering ;  he  looked  upon  the  cunning 
wulf's  sword  betrayed  him  m  battle,  vvork  of  dwarfs,  how  there  the  world-old 
though  old  and  monumental  gray,  lo  earth-dome  do  contain  within  it  stone 
him  was  it  not  granted  that  edges  of  iron  arches  firmly  set  upon  piers.  Upon  him 
should  help  him  in  fight;  too  strong  was  20  tiien,  gory  from  conflict,  illustrious  mon- 
the  hand  of  the  man  who  with  his  stroke  arch,  the  thane  immeasurably  good,  ladled 
overtaxed  (as  I  have  heard  say)  all  water  with  hand  upon  his  natural  chief- 
swords  whatsoever;  so  that  when  he  car-  tain,  battle-worn ;  — and  unloosened  his 
ried  to  conflict  a  weapon  preternaturally  helmet.  Beowulf  discoursed  —  in  spite  of 
hard,  he  was  none  the  better  for  it.  25  his  hurt  he  spake,  his  deadly  exhausting 

Then  for  the  third  time  was  the  mon-  wound;  he  knew  well  that  he  had  spent 
strous  ravager,  the  infuriated  fire-drake,  his  hours,  his  enjoyment  of  earth;  surelv 
roused  to  vengeance;  he  rushed  on  the  all  was  gone  of  the  tale  of  his  days 
heroic  man,  as  he  had  yielded  ground,  death  immediately  nigh —' Now  I  would 
fiery  and  destructive,  his  entire  neck  he  30  have  given  my  war-weeds  to  my  son.  had 
enclosed  with  lacerating  teeth ;  he  was  it  so  been  that  any  heir  had  been  given 
bloodied  over  with  the  vital  stream;  gore  to  come  after  me,  born  of  my  body  I 
surged  forth  in  waves.  liave    ruled   this   people   fifty   winters ;  — 

there  was  not  the  king,  not  any  king  of 
XXXVII  35  those  neighboring  peoples,   who  dared   to 

greet  me  with  war-mates,  to  menace  with 
THE  DR.AGON  SLAIN.     BEOWULF  IN  MORTAL      ^gj-ror.     I   in  my  habitation  observed  so- 
^^^^^-  cial  obligations,  I  held  my  own  with  jus- 

Then  I  heard  tell  how,  in  the  glorious  tice,  I  have  not  sought  insidious  quarrels, 
king's  extremity,  the  young  noble  put  40  nor  have  I  sworn  many  false  oaths.  Con- 
forth  exemplary  prowess  of  force  and  sidering  all  this,  I  am  al)le,  though  sick 
daring,  as  was  his  nature  to;  he  regarded  with  deadly  wounds,  to  have  comfort; 
not  that  (formidable)  head,  but  the  forasmuch  as  the  Ruler  of  men  cannot 
valiant  man's  hand  was  scorched,  while  charge  me  with  murder-bale  of  kinsmen, 
he  helped  his  kinsman,  insomuch  that  he  45  when  my  life  quitteth  the  body, 
smote  the  fell  creature  a  little  lower  down,  '  Now  quickly  go  thou,  to  examine  the 

the  man-at-arms  did,  with  such  effect  that  treasure,  under  the  hoary  rock,  beloved 
the  sword  penetrated,  the  chased  and  Wiglaf,  now  the  worm  lieth  dead,  sleep- 
gilded  sword,  yea,  with  such  effect  that  eth  sore  wounded,  of  riches  bereaved, 
the  fire  began  to  subside  from  that  mo-  5°  Be  now  on  the  alert,  that  I  may  ascertain 
ment.  the   ancient   wealth,   the   golden   property. 

Then  once  more  the  beloved  king  re-  may  fully  survey  the  brilliant,  the  curi- 
covered  his  senses,  drew  the  war-knife,  ous  gems;  that  I  may  be  al)le  the  more 
biting  and  battle-sharp,  which  he  wore  contentedly,  after  (seeing)  the  treasured 
on  his  mail-coat;  the  crowned  head  of  the  5^  store,  to  resign  my  life,  and  the  lordship 
Storm-folk     gashed     the     worm     in     the      which  I  long  have  held.' 


994  APPENDIX 


XXXVIII  treasures    uf    his    breast.     Beowulf     dis- 
coursed,   the    old    man    in    pain,    he    con- 

BEOWULF  IS  ORATiFUcu   WITH   SKKiNG  THE  templated     the     gold:     'I     do     uucr     a 

TREASURES.     HE     DEMISES     THE     CROWN  thanksgiving   to   the    Lord   of   all,    to    tlK. 

AND  DIES.  5  i-iijj,  Qf  g,^^^^  ^Q  ^,^^  eternal  captain,   for 

Then    I    heard    tell    how    the    son    of  those  spoils  upon  which   I   here  do  gaze ; 

Weohstan    after    the   injunction    promptly  to   think   that    I    have   been    permitted    to 

obeyed  his  wounded  death-sick  lord;  bore  acquire  such  for  my  leeds  before  the  day 


his  ring-mail,  linked  war-sark,  under  tlie  of  my  death.  Now  I  have  sold  my  ex- 
roof  of  the  barrow.  Then  the  victorious 'o  piring  life-term  for  a  hoard  of  treasure; 
youth,  as  he  went  along  by  the  stony  ye  now  shall  provide  for  the  requirements 
bench,  the  true  and  courageous  thane,  be-  of  the  leeds;  I  cannot  be  any  longer 
held  many  jewels  of  value,  gold  glisten-  here.  Order  my  brave  warriors  to  erect 
ing,  indenting  the  ground,  wondrous  a  lofty  cairn  after  the  bale-fire,  at  the 
things  in  the  barrow;  —  and  the  lair  of  15  headland  over  the  sea;  it  shall  tower 
the  worm,  the  old  dawn-flyer  —  vases  aloft  on  Hronesness  for  a  memorial  to 
standing,  choice  vessels  of  men  of  old,  my  leeds,  that  sea-faring  men  in  time  to 
with  none  to  burnish  them, —  their  in-  come  may  call  it  Beowulf's  Barrow,  those 
crustations  fallen  away.  There  was  who  on  distant  voyages  drive  their  foamy 
many  a  helmet,  old  and  rusty,  many  a  20  barks  over  the  scowling  floods.' 
bracelet,     with     appendage     of     trinkets.  The    brave-hearted    monarch    took    off 

Treasure  may  easily,  gold  in  the  earth,  from  his  neck  the  golden  collar  and  gave 
may  easily  make  a  fool  of  any  man;  it  to  the  thane,  to  the  young  spear-fighter, 
heed  it  who  will !  Likewise  he  saw  his  gold-hued  helmet,  coronet,  and  Ijyrnie ; 
looming  above  the  hoard  a  banner  all  25  bade  him  brook  them  well :  '  Thou  art 
golden,  greatest  marvel  of  handiwork,  the  last  remnant  of  our  stock,  of  the 
woven  with  arts  of  incantation;  out  of  Wsegmundings ;  Fate  has  swept  all  my 
it  there  stood  forth  a  gleam  of  light,  in-  kinsmen  away  into  eternity,  princes  in 
somuch  that  he  was  able  to  discern  the  chivalry ;  I  must  after  them.' 
surface  of  the  floor,  and  survey  the  30  That  was  the  aged  man's  latest  word, 
strange  curiosities.  Of  the  worm  there  from  the  meditations  of  his  breast,  be- 
was  not  any  appearance,  but  the  knife  fore  he  chose  the  bale-fire,  the  hot  con- 
had  put  him  out  of  the  way.  suming    flames;  —  out    of   his    bosom    the 

Then   heard   I   how   in   the   chambered      soul   departed,    to    enter    into   the   lot   of 
mound  the  old  work  of  dwarfs  was  spoiled  35  the  just, 
by  a  single  man,   how   he  gathered   into 

his  lap  cups  and  platters  at  his  own  dis-  xxxix 

cretion;  the  banner  also  he  took,  the  most 

brilliant  of  ensigns;  the  sword  with  its  ^  brief  review  of  the  situation,  wig- 
iron  edge  had  even  now  despatched  the  40  laf  upbraids  the  recreant  compan- 
old  proprietor,  the  one  who  had  been  the  ions,     he  pronounces  upon  them  and 

possessor  of  these  treasures  for  a  long  their  kin  a  sentence  of  degradation. 
while;   a  hot  and   flaming  terror   he  had  Thus  had  a  hard  experience  overtaken 

waged  for  the  hoard,  gushing  with  de-  the  mexpenenced  youth,  that  he  saw 
struction  at  midnights;  until  he  died  the  45  upon  the  ground  the  man  who  was  dear- 
^Q^l\]  est  to  him  at  his  life's  end  in  a  helpless 

The  messenger  was  in  haste,  eager  to  condition.  His  destroyer  likewise  lay 
return,  fraught  with  spoils ;  painfully  he  dead,  the  horrible  earth-dragon,  bereft  of 
wondered  in  his  brave  soul  whether  he  hfe,  crushed  in  ruin;  no  longer  was  the 
should  find  aUve  the  prince  of  the  Storm- 50  coiled  worm  to  be  lord  of  the  jewel- 
folk,  on  the  open  ground  where  he  left  treasures,  but  they  had  been  wrested 
him  erst,  chivalrously  dying.  He  then  from  him  with  weapons  of  iron,  hard 
bearing  the  treasures,  found  the  illustri-  battle-sharp  relics  of  hammers,  insomuch 
ous  king,  his  captain,  bleeding  from  his  that  the  wide-flyer  tamed  by  wounds  had 
wounds,  at  the  extremity  of  life;  he  be- 55  fallen  on  earth  nigh  to  the  hoard-cham- 
gan  again  to  sprinkle  him  with  water,  ber ;  no  more  through  the  regions  of  air 
until  the  point  of  speech  forced  open  the      did  he  sportively  whirl  at  midnights,  and 


BEOWULF  995 


elate  over  his  treasured  property,  dis-  proof.  Little  protection  could  I  afford 
play  his  presence;  but  on  earth  he  col-  him  in  the  conflict,  and  I  attempted 
lapsed,  through  mighty  hand  of  warrior-  nevertheless  what  was  beyond  my  ability, 
prince.  to  help  my  kinsman;  —  ever  was  he   (the 

Howbeit,  that  has  rarely  in  the  world  5  dragon)  the  feebler,  when  I  with  sword 
prospered  with  men,  even  men  of  fame,  smote  the  destroyer,  the  fire  less  violently 
—  by  my  information, —  daring  though  a  gushed  from  his  inwards.  Defenders  too 
man  might  be  in  all  deeds  whatsoever;  few  pressed  round  their  prince,  when 
that  he  should  rush  against  the  breath  the  dire  moment  overtook  him.  Now 
of  the  poisonous  destroyer,  or  with  hands  lo  must  (all)  sharing  of  treasure,  and  pres- 
molest  the  ring-hall,  if  he  found  the  entation  of  swords,  all  patrimonial 
keeper  waking,  at  home  in  the  barrow,  wealth  and  estate,  escheat  from  your 
Beowulf  had  purchased  the  gain  of  kin;  every  man  of  that  family  may  roam 
princely  treasures  with  his  death ;  he  had  destitute  of  land-right,  as  soon  as  ethel- 
howsoever  reached  the  end  of  transitory  15  ings  at  a  distance  are  informed  of  your 
life.  desertion,      your      ignominious      conduct. 

Then   was   it   not  long  until   the   war-      Death    is   preferable,    for   every   warrior, 
laggards    quitted    the    wood,    the    faint-      rather  than  a  life  of  infamy.' 
hearted    traitors,    ten    all    together,    those 

who  whilere  durst  not  sport  their  lances  20  XL 

in  the  great  need  of  their  liege  lord ;  but 

they  in  shame  bore  their  shields,  their  announcement  of  the  event  to  the 
war-weeds,  to  the  place  where  the  aged  ^^^^^^   "OST.     the  envoy  adds  a  dis- 

warrior    lay    dead ;  —  they    looked    upon         course  reviewing  the  situation. 
Wiglaf!  25      Orders  gave  he  then  to  announce  the 

He  sat  wearied  out,  the  active  cham-  issue  of  the  conflict  to  the  camp  up  over 
pion,  nigh  his  lord's  shoulder;  was  re-  the  seacliff,  where  the  host  of  eorls,  from 
freshing  him  with  water;  his  care  morning  all  day  long,  had  with  anxious 
availed  nothing;  he  could  not  retain  upon  hearts  sat  by  their  shields,  in  divided 
earth,  well  as  he  would  have  wished  it,  30  anticipation  between  a  fatal  day  and  the 
that  chieftain's  life;  nor  turn  the  Al-  return  of  the  beloved  man.  Little  ret- 
mighty's  will;  the  dispensation  of  God  icent  was  he  of  the  latest  tidings,  he 
would  take  effect  upon  men  of  all  con-  who  rode  up  the  bluff;  he  truthfully 
ditions,  just  as  it  does  at  present.  Then  spake  out  in  the  hearing  of  all :  '  Now  is 
had  the  young  man  a  grim  answer  35  the  bounteous  chief  of  the  leeds  of  the 
promptly  ready  for  such  as  erst  had  Stormfolk,  the  captain  of  the  Goths, 
failed  in  courage.  Wiglaf  discoursed,  motionless  on  bed  of  death,  he  dwells  in 
Weohstan's  son ;  the  youth  with  sorrow-  war-like  repose  by  the  deeds  of  the 
ful  heart  looked  upon  men  whom  he  no  worm !  with  him  in  even  case  lieth  his 
longer  loved :  40  mortal     antagonist,     smitten     with    dirk- 

'  That,  look  you,  may  a  man  say,  a  wounds :  —  with  sword  he  could  not  upon 
man  who  is  minded  to  speak  the  truth,  the  monster  by  any  means  effect  a  wound, 
that  the  chieftain  who  gave  you  those  Over  Beowulf  sitteth  Wiglaf,  Weohstan's 
decorations,  military  apparel,  which  ye  ^  boy,  a  living  eorl  over  a  dead ;  over  his 
there  stand  upright  in, —  when  he  at  ale-  unconscious  head  he  holdeth  guard 
bench  often  presented  to  inmates  of  his  against  friend  and  foe. 
hall  helmet  and  byrnie,  as  a  prince  to  '  Now  the  leeds  may  expect  a  time  of 
thanes,  of  such  make  as  he  far  or  near  war,  as  soon  as  the  king's  fall  is  pub- 
could  procure  most  trusty  —  that  he  ^^  lished  abroad  among  Franks  and  Fris- 
utterly  threw  away  those  war-weeds '  ians.  The  obstinate  quarrel  with  the 
miserably.  When  stress  of  battle  over-  Hugas  was  set  up  when  Hygelac  came 
took  him,  the  folk-king  had  by  no  means  with  embarked  army  upon  the  Frisian 
cause  to  boast  of  his  companions-in-arms ;  land,  where  the  Hetware  in  battle  van- 
nevertheless  it  was  accorded  to  him  by^^quished  him;  resolutely  they  struck  with 
God,  the  ordainer  of  victories,  that  he  overwhelming  force,  insomuch  that  the 
avenged  himself  single-handed  with  his  mailed  warrior  was  compelled  to  bow  his 
weapon,   when   his   valor  was   put  to   the      head;    he    fell    among    the    fighting   men: 


996  APPENDIX 


far  was  he  from  giving  spoils  as  chief-  leeds ;  the  banners  of  Hygclac  moved 
tain  to  his  veterans;  —  to  us  ever  since  forward  over  that  peaceful  plain,  and 
that  time  has  the  favor  of  the  Merwing  presently  the  Hrethlings  massed  them- 
bccn  unaccorded.  selves     upon     the     garrison.     Then     was 

'  Nor  do  I  anywise  count  upon  peace  5  Ongcntheow,  the  gray-haired,  driven  to 
or  good  understanding  on  the  side  of  bay  with  sword-edges,  insomuch  that  the 
Sweden ;  —  indcc<l,  it  was  a  far-famed  mighty  king  was  constrained  to  put  up 
story,  how  that  Ongcntheow  slew  Hxth-  with  the  one-handed  decision  of  Eofor. 
eyn  the  son  of  Hrethel,  by  Ravenswood,  Him  (Ongcntheow)  had  Wulf,  son  of 
whenas  the  warlike  Scylfings  had  been  lo  Wonrcd,  fiercely  attacked  with  weapon, 
the  first  to  invade  for  sheer  insolence  the  so  effectually,  that  with  the  stroke  his 
people  of  the  Goths.  Promptly  did  the  blood  flew  from  his  veins  out  from  un- 
veteran,  the  father  of  Ohthere,  old  and  der  his  hair.  He  was  not  daunted,  how- 
awful,  deliver  his  onslaught,  demolished  ever,  the  aged  Scylfing;  but  he  quickly 
the  sea-king  (Hsethcyn),  rescued  his  con- 15  repaid  that  deadly  assault  with  worse 
sort,  the  aged  man  rescued  the  wife  of  barter,  as  soon  as  the  mighty  king  had 
his  youth,  though  plundered  of  her  jew-  collected  himself.  The  brisk  son  of 
els,  the  mother  of  Onela  and  of  Ohthere,  Wonred  failed  to  give  counter-blow  to 
and  then  pursued  his  deadly  foes,  until  the  old  veteran,  but  he  (Ongcntheow) 
they  got  away,  with  great  difficulty,  into  20  had  first  shorn  the  helmet  on  his  head, 
Ravensholt,  bereaved  of  their  lord.  Then  so  that  blood-sprinkled  he  was  forced 
did  he,  with  host  drawn  out,  surround  to  bow,  he  fell  on  the  ground ;  —  he  was 
those  whom  the  sword  had  left,  men  ex-  not  at  that  time  death-doomed  as  yet,  but 
hausted  with  wounds,  he  repeatedly  he  recovered  from  it,  though  the  wotind 
threatened  woe  to  the  poor  band  all  the  25  had  touched  him  close.  Then  did  Hy- 
livelong  night:  he  said  that  in  the  morn-  gelac's  valiant  thane  let  his  broad  blade, 
ing  he  would  reach  them  with  the  edge  gigantesque  old  sword,  his  dwarf- 
of  the  sword,  and  (hang)  some  on  gal-  wrought  helmet,  break  over  the  shield- 
low-trees  to  please  the  birds.  wall;  then  crouched  the  king,  the  people's 
'  Courage  at  length  returned  to  the  de-  30  shepherd,  he  was  fatally  smitten.  Then 
jected  men  with  dawn  of  day,  when  they  were  there  many  who  bound  up  his 
heard  Hygelac's  horn,  and  the  sound  of  brother's  wounds  (of  Wulf  the  brother 
his  trumpet ;  presently  the  brave  (prince)  of  Eofor),  who  quickly  raised  him  up, 
came  marching  upon  their  track  with  the  when  they  had  got  the  ground  cleared, 
best  of  his  leeds.                                                35  so  that  they  had   command  of  the   place 

of    battle.     Meanwhile    warrior     stripped 
XLi  warrior;  he   (Eofor)   captured  on  Ongcn- 

theow    the     iron     breast-mail,     his     hard 
CONCLUSION    OF    THE    envoy's    DISCOURSE,      gword  with  hilt,  and  his  helmet  likewise, 
THE    BATTALION    VISITS    THE    SCENE    OF  ^^  the       gray-bcard's       accoutrements  ;  —  to 
THE  SUPREME  CONFLICT.  Hygclac  he  bare  them.     He  accepted  the 

'Then  was  the  gory  track  of  Swedes  spoils,  and  made  him  a  fair  promise  of 
and  Goths,  the  deadly  strife  of  men,  rewards  before  his  leeds,  and  he  kept  his 
widely  conspicuous,  how  the  folk  on  word;  he,  the  lord  of  the  Goths,  the  son 
either  side  revived  the  feud.  Then  did  ^5  of  Hrethel,  when  he  arrived  at  his  man- 
the  valiant  man  proceed  with  his  com-  sion,  repaid  Eofor  and  Wulf  for  that 
rades,  the  solemn  veteran,  to  seek  a  war-brunt,  with  treasure  extraordinary; 
place  of  strength ;  the  warrior  Ongen-  he  gave  to  each  of  them  a  hundred  thou- 
theow  turned  towards  the  hill ;  he  had  sand  of  land  and  collars  of  filigree ;  none 
heard  tell  of  the  warfare  of  Hygclac,  the  5o  could  jeer  at  them  for  those  rewards, 
war-craft  of  the  valiant;  he  trusted  not  not  a  man  in  the  world,  since  they  had 
in  resistance,  that  he  could  defy  the  sea-  achieved  those  exploits ; —  and  moreover 
men,  the  travelers  of  the  deep,  could  he  bestowed  upon  Eofor,  his  only  daugh- 
protect  his  treasure,  his  children,  and  his  ter,  to  make  his  home  honorable,  and 
wife;  so  he  retired  back  therefrom,  the  ^5  for  a  pledge  of  loyalty, 
old    king    retired    behind    the    earth-wall.  '  Such  is  the  feud  and  the  enmity  and 

Then    was    chase    given    to    the    Swedish      the  deadly  grudge   of  the   men,   even   the 


BEOWULF  997 


Swedish  leeds,  who,  as  I  apprehend,  will  there  dishes  lay  about,  and  swords  of 
attack  us,  as  soon  as  they  shall  learn  price,  rusty  and  corroded,  as  if  they  in 
that  our  prince  is  dead,  he  who  whilere  earth's  lap  a  thousand  winters  there  had 
hath  upheld  against  hostilities,  our  trcas-  sojourned ;  forasmuch  as  that  patrimony, 
ure  and  our  realm,  was  master  of  public  5  huge  and  vast,  that  gold  of  ancient  men, 
counsel,  or  won  ever-increasing  glory  in  had  been  closed  about  with  enchantment ; 
war.  Now  is  quickness  best,  that  we  and  therefore  that  treasure-chamber 
should  there  look  upon  the  mighty  king,  might  not  be  touched  by  any  one  of  man- 
and  bring  him  who  gave  us  bracelets,  on  kind,  save  in  so  far  as  God  himself,  the 
to  the  funeral-pile.  It  is  not  meet  that  lo  true  king  of  achievements,  should  grant 
some  trifling  matter  be  consumed  with  to  the  man  of  his  choice  to  open  the 
the  high-souled  man;  but  yonder  is  a  hoard,  the  sorcerers'  hold:  —  even  to 
hoard  of  precious  things,  gold  uncounted,  such  one  of  mankind  whomso  he  deemed 
frightfully  bargained  for,  and  now  at  to  be  meet, 
last  jewels  purchased  with  the  hero's  own  15 

life;    those    must   fire   devour,    the    flame  xlii 

must  enfold  them;  never  a  warrior  wear 

ornament  for  memorial,  nor  maiden  sheen  Ri^flectigns  upon  the  great  event. 
have  on  her  neck  the  decorated  collar,  but  wiglaf     publishes     beowulf's     dying 

on  the  contrary  must  in  dejected  mdod  20  okders.  preparations  for  the  bale- 
and  stripped  of  gold  ornaments  tread  ^'^^'  ^he  cavern  is  rifled  and  the 
often  and  often  the  land  of  the  stranger,  treasures   are   piled  on   a  wagon   to 

now    the    army    leader    hath    laid    aside  follow   the   bier,     the   last   of   the 

laughter,     game,     and     glee.     Therefore  dragon. 

shall  many  a  spear  in  the  cold  of  the  25  Then  was  it  manifest,  that  good  luck 
morning  be  clutched  in  men's  grasp,  attended  not  upon  the  course  of  them 
hoisted  in  the  hand;  no  swough  of  harp  who  by  unlawful  means  had  closely  safe- 
shall  waken  the  warriors:  but  the  bleak  guarded  valuables  under  the  mound.  At 
raven  fluttering  over  carnage  shall  chat-  first  the  keeper  slew  one  here  and  there ; 
ter  abundantly,  recount  to  the  eagle  of  30  at  length  the  feud  had  grown  to  be  ex- 
his  luck  at  the  spread,  while  alongside  piated  furiously.  By  a  heroic  death 
of  the  wolf  he  stripped  the  slain.'  therefore  in  some  manner  should  a  brave 

Thus  was  the  ardent  youth  discoursing  warrior  accomplish  the  end  of  life's  rec- 
of  painful  themes;  he  erred  not  widely  ord,  seeing  that  he  cannot  much  longer 
of  events  or  words.  All  the  troop  arose,  35  as  a  man  in  the  midst  of  his  kinsfolk 
they  went  unjoyous,  under  the  Eagle's  inhabit  the  mead-hall.  Such  was  Beo- 
Crag,  with  gushing  tears,  to  behold  the  wulf's  lot,  when  he  went  forth  to  seek 
tremendous  sight.  They  found  there,  on  the  keeper  of  the  barrow,  went  to  seek 
the  sand,  bereft  of  life,  and  keeping  his  deadly  strife,  he  himself  knew  not  by 
helpless  bed,  the  man  who  had  given  4°  what  means  his  severance  from  the 
them  rings  in  times  bygone;  there  had  world  was  destined  to  happen,  according 
the  final  day  come  to  the  valiant,  in  that  as  the  mighty  captains,  when  they  that 
the  warlike  king,  the  prince  of  the  Wed-  deposited  there,  had  uttered  a  deep  spell 
eras,  had  perished  with  a  death  heroic.  to  hold  till  doomsday,  that  the  man  who 

.  .  .  never  saw  they  frightfuller  45  invaded  that  ground  should  be  criminally 
object  —  the  dragon  on  the  ground  there  guilty,  cabined  in  heathen  fanes,  fast 
right  before  their  face,  the  loathsome  bound  with  hell-bands,  penally  doomed ; 
beast  lying  dead ;  all  scorched  with  yet  never  did  he  at  any  previous  time 
flames  was  the  fire-drake,  the  grisly  more  effectually  experience  the  gold-be- 
gruesome  pest ;  it  was  fifty  foot-measure-  5°  stowing  favor  of  God. 
ments  long  where  it  lay;  in  the  pride  of  Wiglaf,  son  of  Weohstan,  lifted  up  his 

the  air  he  had  been  supreme  during  the  voice:  'Often  must  many  a  brave  man, 
hours  of  night,  and  then  down  would  he  by  the  will  of  one,  endure  tribulation,  as 
return  back  again  to  reconnoitre  his  lair:  it  hath  happened  to  us.  We  were  not 
^-  now  he  was  there  stock  dead,  had  55  able  to  convince  our  beloved  master,  the 
made  his  last  use  of  earthly  caverns.  shepherd  of  the  kingdom,  by  any  rea- 
By  the  side  of  it  stood  pots  and  bowls;      soning,  that  he  should  not  challenge  yon 


998  APPENDIX 


gold-warden,  but  should  leave  him  to  lie  warrior  bore  in  hand  a  tlaniing  torch, 
where  he  had  long  been,  and  to  dwell  in  and  he  walked  in  front.  It  was  not 
his  haunts  till  the  end  of  the  world,  ful-  staked  upon  lot  who  should  have  the  loot- 
fil  high  destiny.  The  hoard  is  laid  open  ing  of  that  hoard,  when  the  warriors 
lo  our  view,  fearfully  purchased ;  too  5  had  partly  taken  a  view  of  it  in  its  keep- 
overpowering  was  that  boon  which  at-  erless  slate  occupying  the  chamber,  lying 
tracted  our  prince  thither.  I  was  in  the  helpless.  Little  did  any  man  scruple  that 
interior  of  the  place,  and  I  explored  the  they  should  with  all  despatch  convey 
whole  of  it,  the  stores  of  the  chamber,  abroad  the  valuable  treasures;  the  dragon 
inasmuch  as  the  way  had  been  opened  10  moreover  they  haled,  they  shoved  the 
for  me  and  that  by  no  gentle  means,  worm  over  the  precipitous  cliff,  they  let 
passage  was  permitted  in  under  the  earth-  the  wave  take  him,  the  flood  engulf  him, 
ern  dome.  Hurriedly  I  grappled  with  that  warder  of  precious  spoils, 
my    hands    a    huge    mighty    burden    of  There    was     coiled    gold     laden     upon 

hoarded  treasures;  out  hither  I  bore  them  15  wagon,    countless    in    quantity    of    every 
to    the    feet    of    my    king.     He    was    still      kind;  —  the     etheling    was     borne    on     a 
alive  then,  wise   and   sensible;   freely  did      bier,  the  hoary  warrior,  to  Hronesness. 
he  talk,  the  aged  one  in  death-pang;  and 

he  commanded  me  to  give  you  his  greet-  xliii 

ing,  he  bade  that  you  should  construct,  in  20     • 

memory   of   your   chieftain's   deeds,   upon  the  funeral  and  the  epitaph. 

the   scene   of   the   bale-fire,   a   barrow   of  p^j.    j^j,^^    ^j^^,^    ^j^j    ^j^^    j^^^^    ^^    ^j^^ 

the    highest,    mighty    and   magnifical,    ac-      q^jj^^   construct   a   pyre   upon   the   earth,  j 
cording  as  he  was  of  all  men  the  warrior        ^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  dimensions,   hung  about 
most  famous,  through  the  wide  earth,  so  ^5  ^.^^    helmets,    with    battle-boards,    with 
long  as  he  might  enjoy  the  wealth  of  his      j^^ight  byrnies,  as  he  had  requested;  then 
^^^V5"  ,  ,  J      did    they,    heaving    deep     sighs,     lay     in 

Go  to,  let  us  now  hasten,  a  second  ^^e  midst  of  it  the  illustrious  chieftain,  the 
time,  to  see  and  to  visit  the  ruck  of  j^^^o,  the  beloved  lord.  Then  began  the 
jewels,  the  spectacle  beneath  the  earth-  30  warriors  to  kindle  upon  the  hill  the  hug- 
work.  I  will  be  your  guide,  so  that  ye  ^^^  ^f  bale-fires ;  the  wood-smoke 
shall  have  your  fill  of  seeing  close  at  ^lounted  up  black  over  the  combustive 
hand,  collars  and  bullion  gold.  j^^j^ss^     the     roaring     blaze     shot     aloft, 

'Let  the  bier  be  ready,  promptly  mingled  with  the  howling  of  the  wind- 
equipped,  attending  us  as  we  go  forth  3s  currents ;  until  the  sweltering  element 
of  this  place,  and  so  let  us  convey  our  had  demolished  the  bone-house.  With 
master,  the  beloved  man,  to  the  place  hearts  distressed  and  care-laden  minds 
where  he  shall  tarry  long  in  the  safe  they  mourned  their  liege  lord's  death; 
keeping  of  the  Almighty.'  likewise  a  dirge  of  sorrow  [was  sung  in 

Then  did  the  son  of  Weohstan  order  his  40  honor  of  Beowulf  by  the  aged  dame,  her 
brave  warriors  that  they  should  issue  hair  bound  up,  her  soul  sorrowing;  she 
commands  to  many  homestead-owners,  said  repeatedly,  that  she  sorely  dreaded 
for  them  to  haul  pyre-timber  from  far  for  herself  evil  days,  much  bloodshed,  the 
to  meet  the  occasion  of  the  ruler  of  warrior's  horror,  shame  and  captivity], 
men :  — '  Now  must  fire  devour,  the  45  Heaven  swallowed  the  smoke, 
scowling  flame  must  wash,  the  pillar  of  Then   did   the   people   of   the   Wederas 

warriors,  him  who  often  stood  the  shock  construct  a  mound  on  the  hill;  it  was 
of  the  iron  shower,  what  time  the  storm  high  and  broad,  to  sea-voyagers  widely 
of  missiles,  urged  by  bow-strings,  hurtled  conspicuous;  and  during  ten  days  they 
over  the  shield-wall,  the  shaft  did  its  5o  labored  about  the  building  of  the  war- 
duty,  with  feather-fittings  eager  it  backed  hero's  beacon :  they  surrounded  the  ashes 
up  the  arrow's  point.'  of    the    conflagration    with    an    embank- 

Thereupon  the  prudent  son  of  Weohstan  mcnt  in  such  wise  as  men  of  eminent 
called  out  of  the  squadron  some  thanes  skill  could  contrive  it  with  noblest  effect, 
of  the  king,  seven  of  them  together,  the  ^^  They  deposited  in  the  barrow  collars  and 
choicest ;  he  made  the  eighth,  and  went  brilliants,  the  whole  of  such  trappings 
with   them   under   the   dangerous   roof;   a      as   war-breathing  men   had   recently   cap- 


BEOWULF 


999 


tured  in  the  hoard;  they  abandoned  the 
accumulated  wealth  of  eorls  for  the 
earth  to  retain  it,  gold  in  marl,  where  it 
now  still  continues  to  be  as  useless  to 
mankind  as  it  was  erst. 

Then  there  rode  round  the  mound 
war-chiefs,  sons  of  ethelings,  twelve  in 
all ;  they  would  bewail  their  loss,  bemoan 
the  king,  recite  an  elegy,  and  celebrate 
his  name.  They  admired  his  manhood, 
and    they    loftily    appraised    his    daring 


work;  as  it  is  fitting  that  a  man  should 
with  words  extol  his  liege  lord,  should 
cherish  him  in  his  affections,  when  he 
must   take   his   departure    from   the   ten- 

5  emental  body. 

Thus  did  the  leeds  of  the  Goths,  the 
companions  of  his  hearth,  lament  the  fall 
of  their  lord ;  —  they  said  that  he  was 
of    all    kings    in    the    world,    the    mildest 

10  and  most  aft'able  to  his  men ;  most  genial 
to  his  leeds;  and  most  desirous  of  praise. 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  (c.  1375) 

The  romantic  stories  cliorislied  by  the  Norinau  coiKiucruis  of  lOiiglaud  found  cMiual  favor, 
in  course  of  time,  among  tlie  English.  By  the  time  of  Chaucer's  birth,  English  romances  in 
verse  were  in  full  bloom,  and  during  the  course  of  that  poet's  life  appeared  the  finest  of  all 
English  romances,  the  anonymous  8ir  Gaicain  and  the  Green  Knight.  This  romance  as  we 
have  it  combines  two  stories  that  were  originally  separate :  the  test  of  Sir  Gawain's  bravery 
through  the  compact  with  the  Green  Knight,  and  the  test  of  Sir  Gawain's  honor  and  chastity 
through  the  wife  of  his  host  of  the  castle.  Although  the  English  author  probably  drew  ma- 
terials for  his  story  directly  from  French  sources,  many  of  the  structural  and  rhetorical 
e.\'cellencies  of  the  present  poem  are  certainly  his  own.  A  tale  of  daring,  loyalty,  courtesy, 
and  religious  devotion  is  presented  in  a  spirit  of  refinement  not  to  be  exceeded.  The  poet's 
power  of  language  is  best  shown  in  the  scenery  through  which  Sir  Gawain  is  set  a-wandering, — 
the  winter  scenery,  not  of  conventional  romance,  but  of  Arthur's  own  Britain. 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN          one  while  they  would  ride  forth  to  joust 

KNIGHT  and  tourney,  and  again  back  to  the  court 

to  make  carols;   for  there   was  the   feast 

-•■  holden  fifteen  days  with  all  the  mirth  that 

After  the  siege  and  the  assault  of  5  men  could  devise,  song  and  glee,  glorious 
Troy,  when  that  burg  was  destroyed  and  to  hear,  in  the  daytime,  and  dancing  at 
burnt  to  ashes,  and  the  traitor  tried  for  night.  Halls  and  chambers  were  crowded 
his  treason,  the  noble  ^neas  and  his  kin  with  noble  guests,  the  bravest  of  knights 
sailed  forth  to  become  princes  and  pa-  and  the  loveliest  of  ladies,  and  Arthur 
trons  of  well-nigh  all  the  Western  Isles,  'o  himself  was  the  comeliest  king  that  ever 
Thus  Romulus  built  Rome  (and  gave  to  held  a  court.  For  all  this  fair  folk  were 
the  city  his  own  name,  which  it  bears  in  their  youth,  the  fairest  and  most  for- 
even  to  this  day)  ;  and  Ticius  turned  him  tunate  under  heaven,  and  the  king  him- 
to  Tuscany;  and  Langobard  raised  him  self  of  such  fame  that  it  were  hard  now 
up  dwellings  in  Lombardy ;  and  Felix  15  to  name  so  valiant  a  hero. 
Brutus  sailed   far  over  the  French  flood,  Now    the    New    Year    had    but    newly 

and  founded  the  kingdom  of  Britain,  come  in,  and  on  that  day  a  double  por- 
wherein  have  been  war  and  waste  and  tion  was  served  on  the  high  table  to  all  the 
wonder,  and  bliss  and  bale,  ofttimes  noble  guests,  and  thither  came  the  king 
since.  20  with    all    his    knights,    when    the    service 

And  in  that  kingdom  of  Britain  have  in  the  chapel  had  been  sung  to  an  end. 
been  wrought  more  gallant  deeds  than  in  And  they  greeted  each  other  for  the  New 
any  other;  but  of  all  British  kings  Arthur  Year,  and  gave  rich  gifts,  the  one  to  the 
was  the  most  valiant,  as  I  have  heard  tell;  other  (and  they  that  received  them  were 
therefore  will  I  set  forth  a  wondrous  ad-  ^5  not  wroth,  that  may  ye  well  believe!), 
venture  that  fell  out  in  his  tiirie.  And  if  and  the  maidens  laughed  and  made  mirth 
ye  will  listen  to  me,  but  for  a  little  while,  till  it  was  time  to  get  them  to  meat. 
I  will  tell  it  even  as  it  stands  in  story  Then  they  washed  and  sat  them  down 
stiff  and  strong,  fixed  in  the  letter,  as  to  the  feasting  in  fitting  rank  and  order, 
it  hath  long  been  known  in  the  land.        30  and  Guinevere  the  queen,  gaily  clad,  sat 

King  Arthur  lay  at  Camelot  upon  a  on  the  high  dais.  Silken  was  her  seat, 
Christmas-tide,  with  many  a  gallant  lord  with  a  fair  canopy  over  her  head,  of 
and  lovely  lady,  and  all  the  nol)le  brother-  rich  tapestries  of  Tars,  embroidered,  and 
hood  of  the  Round  Table.  There  they  studded  with  costly  gems ;  fair  she  was  to 
held  rich   revels  with   gay  talk  and  jest;3S  look  upon,  with  her  shining  gray  eyes,  a 

1000 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  looi 

fairer  woman  might  no  man  boast  him-  man,  only  the  mightiest  that  might  mount 
self  of  having  seen.  a    steed;    broad    of    chest    and    shoulders 

But  Arthur  would  not  eat  till  all  were      and  slender  of  waist,  and  all  his  features 
served,   so   full  of  joy   and   gladness   was      of  like  fashion;  but  men  marveled  much 
he,   even  as   a  child ;   he  liked   not  either  5  at  his  color,  for  he  rode  even  as  a  knight, 
to   lie   long,   or   to   sit   long  at   meat,   so      yet  was  green  all  over, 
worked  upon  him  his  young  blood  and  his  For  he  was  clad  all  in  green,  with  a 

wild  brain.  And  another  custom  he  had  straight  coat,  and  a  mantle  above;  all 
also,  that  came  of  his  nobility,  that  he  decked  and  lined  with  fur  was  the  cloth 
would  never  eat  upon  an  high  day  till  lo  and  the  hood  that  was  thrown  back  from 
he  had  been  advised  of  some  knightly  his  locks  and  lay  on  his  shoulders.  Hose 
deed,  or  some  strange  and  marvelous  had  he  of  the  same  green,  and  spurs  of 
tale,  of  his  ancestors,  or  of  arms,  or  of  bright  gold  with  silken  fastenings  richly 
other  ventures.  Or  till  some  stranger  worked ;  and  all  his  vesture  was  verily 
knight  should  seek  of  him  leave  to  joust  15  green.  Around  his  waist  and  his  saddle 
with  one  of  the  Round  Table,  that  they  were  bands  with  fair  stones  set  upon 
might  set  their  lives  in  jeopardy,  one  silken  work,  'twere  too  long  to  tell  of  all 
against  another,  as  fortune  might  favor  the  trifles  that  were  embroidered  thereon 
them.  Such  was  the  king's  custom  when  —  birds  and  insects  in  gay  gauds  of  green 
he  sat  in  hall  at  each  high  feast  with  20  and  gold.  All  the  trappings  of  his  steed 
his  noble  knights;  therefore  on  that  New  were  of  metal  of  like  enamel,  even  the 
Year  tide,  he  abode,  fair  of  face,  on  the  stirrups  that  he  stood  in  stained  of  the 
throne,  and  made  much  mirth  withal.  same,   and  stirrups  and  saddle-bow  alike 

Thus  the  king  sat  before  the  high  gleamed  and  shone  with  green  stones, 
tables,  and  spake  of  many  things ;  and  25  Even  the  steed  on  which  he  rode  was 
there  good  Sir  Gawain  was  seated  by  of  the  same  hue,  a  green  horse,  great 
Guinevere  the  queen,  and  on  her  side  sat  and  strong,  and  hard  to  hold,  with  broid- 
Agravain,  d  la  dure  main;  both  were  the  ered  bridle,  meet  for  the  rider, 
king's  sister's  sons  and  full  gallant  The  knight  was  thus  gaily  dressed  in 
knights.  And  at  the  end  of  the  table  30  green,  his  hair  falHng  around  his  shoul- 
was  Bishop  Bawdewyn,  and  Ywain,  King  ders ;  on  his  breast  hung  a  beard,  as  thick 
Urien's  son,  sat  at  the  other  side  alone.  and  green  as  a  bush,  and  the  beard  and 
These  were  worthily  served  on  tlie  dais,  the  hair  of  his  head  were  clipped  all 
and  at  the  lower  tables  sat  many  valiant  round  above  his  elbows.  The  lower  part 
knights.  Then  they  bare  the  first  course  35  of  his  sleeves  was  fastened  with  clasps 
with  the  blast  of  trumpets  and  waving  of  in  the  same  wise  as  a  king's  mantle, 
banners,  with  the  sound  of  drums  and  The  horse's  mane  was  crisp  and  plaited 
pipes,  of  song  and  lute,  that  many  a  lieart  with  many  a  knot  folded  in  with  gold 
was  uplifted  at  the  melody.  Many  were  thread  about  the  fair  green,  here  a  twist 
the  dainties,  and  rare  the  meats ;  so  great  40  of  the  hair,  here  another  of  gold.  The 
was  the  plenty  they  might  scarce  find  tail  was  twined  in  like  manner,  and  both 
room  on  the  board  to  set  on  the  dishes,  were  bound  about  with  a  band  of  bright 
Each  helped  himself  as  he  liked  best,  and  green  set  with  many  a  precious  stone; 
to  each  two  were  twelve  dishes,  with  then  they  were  tied  aloft  in  a  cunning 
great  plenty  of  beer  and  wine.  45  knot,   whereon   rang  many   bells  of  bur- 

Now  I  will  say  no  more  of  the  serv-  nished  gold.  Such  a  steed  might  no  other 
ice,  but  that  ye  may  know  there  was  no  ride,  nor  had  such  ever  been  looked  upon 
lack,  for  there  drew  near  a  venture  that  in  that  hall  ere  that  time;  and  all  who 
the  folk  might  well  have  left  their  labor  saw  that  knight  spake  and  said  that  a 
to  gaze  upon.  As  the  sound  of  the  music  5o  man  might  scarce  abide  his  stroke, 
ceased,    and    the    first    course    had    been  The  knight  bore  no  helm  nor  hauberk, 

fitly  served,  there  came  in  at  the  hall  neither  gorget  nor  breast-plate,  neither 
door  one  terrible  to  behold,  of  stature  shaft  nor  buckler  to  smite  nor  to  shield, 
greater  than  any  on  earth;  from  neck  to  but  in  one  hand  he  had  a  holly-bough, 
loin  so  strong  and  thickly  made,  and  with  55  that  is  greenest  when  the  groves  are 
limbs  so  long  and  so  great  that  he  seemed  bare,  and  in  his  other  an  axe,  huge  and 
even  as  a  giant.     And  yet  he  was  but  a      uncomely,  a  cruel  weapon   in  fashion,   if 


I002  APPENDIX 


one  would  picture  it.  The  head  was  an  proven  in  all  knightly  sports.  And  here, 
ell-yard  long,  the  metal  all  of  green  steel  as  I  have  heard  tell,  is  fairest  courtesy; 
and  gold,  the  blade  burnished  bright,  with  therefore  have  I  come  hither  as  at  this 
a  broad  edge,  as  well  shapcn  to  shear  as  a  time.  Ye  may  be  sure  by  the  branch  that 
sharp  razor.  The  steel  was  set  into  a  5  I  bear  here  that  I  come  in  peace,  seeking 
strong  staff,  all  bound  round  with  iron,  no  strife.  For  had  I  willed  to  journey  in 
even  to  the  end,  and  engraved  with  green  warlike  guise  I  have  at  home  both  hau- 
in  cunning  work.  A  lace  was  twined  berk  and  helm,  shield  and  shining  spear, 
about  it,  that  looped  at  the  head,  and  all  and  other  weapons  to  mine  hand,  but 
adown  the  handle  it  was  clasped  with  lo  since  1  seek  no  war,  my  raiment  is  that 
tassels  on  buttons  of  bright  green  richly  of  peace.  But  if  thou  be  as  bold  as  all 
broidered.  men   tell,   thou   wilt   freely  grant   me   the 

The  knight  rideth  through  the  entrance      boon  I  ask.' 
of  the  hall,  driving  straight  to  the  high  And  Arthur  answered,  '  Sir  Knight,  if 

dais,  and  greeted  no  man,  but  looked  ^5  thou  cravest  battle  here  thou  shalt  not 
ever  upwards;  and  the  first  words  he  fail  for  lack  of  a  foe.' 
spake  were,  '  Where  is  the  ruler  of  this  And  the  knight  answered,  '  Nay,  I  ask 
folk?  I  would  gladly  look  upon  that  no  fight;  in  faith  here  on  the  benches  are 
hero,  and  have  speech  with  him.'  He  but  beardless  children ;  were  I  clad  in 
cast  his  eyes  on  the  knights,  and  mustered  20  armor  on  my  steed  there  is  no  man  here 
them  up  and  down,  striving  ever  to  see  might  match  me.  Therefore  I  ask  in 
who  of  them  was  of  most  renown.  this  court  but  a  Christmas  jest,  for  that 

Then  was  there  great  gazing  to  behold  it  is  Yule-tide,  and  New  Year,  and  there 
that  chief,  for  each  man  marveled  what  are  here  many  fain  for  sport.  If  any 
it  might  mean  that  a  knight  and  his  steed  25  one  in  this  hall  holds  himself  so  hardy, 
should  have  even  such  a  hue  as  the  green  so  bold  both  of  blood  and  brain,  as  to 
grass;  and  that  seemed  even  greener  than  dare  strike  me  one  stroke  for  another,  I 
green  enamel  on  bright  gold.  All  looked  will  give  him  as  a  gift  this  axe,  which  is 
on  him  as  he  stood,  and  drew  near  unto  heavy  enough,  in  sooth,  to  handle  as  he 
him,  wondering  greatly  what  he  might  be ;  30  may  list,  and  I  will  abide  the  first  blow, 
for  many  marvels  had  they  seen,  but  none  unarmed  as  I  sit.  If  any  knight  be  so 
such  as  this,  and  phantasm  and  faerie  did  bold  as  to  prove  my  words,  let  him  come 
the  folk  deem  it.  Therefore  were  the  swiftly  to  me  here,  and  take  this  weapon; 
gallant  knights  slow  to  answer,  and  gazed  I  quit  claim  to  it,  he  may  keep  it  as  his 
astounded,  and  sat  stone  still  in  a  deep  35  own,  and  I  will  abide  his  stroke,  firm 
silence  through  that  goodly  hall,  as  if  a  on  the  floor.  Then  shalt  thou  give  me 
slumber  were  fallen  upon  them.  I  deem  it  the  right  to  deal  him  another,  the  respite 
was  not  all  for  doubt,  but  some  for  of  a  year  and  a  day  shall  he  have.  Now 
courtesy  that  they  might  give  ear  unto  haste,  and  let  see  whether  any  here  dare 
his  errand.  40  say  aught.' 

Then  Arthur  beheld  this  adventurer  be-  Now  if  the  knights  had  been  astounded 

fore  his  high  dais,  and  knightly  he  greeted  at  the  first,  yet  stiller  were  they  all,  high 
him,  for  fearful  was  he  never.  "'  Sir,'  he  and  low,  when  they  had  heard  his  words, 
said,  '  thou  art  welcome  to  this  place  —  The  knight  on  his  steed  straightened  him- 
lord  of  this  hall  am  I,  and  men  call  me  45  self  in  the  saddle,  and  rolled  his  eyes 
Arthur.  Light  thee  down,  and  tarry  fiercely  round  the  hall ;  red  they  gleamed 
awhile,  and  what  thy  will  is,  that  shall  we  under  his  green  and  bushy  brows.  He 
learn  after.'  frowned   and   twisted   his   beard,   waiting 

*  Nay,'  quoth  the  stranger,  *  so  help  to  see  who  should  rise,  and  when  none 
me  he  that  sitteth  on  high,  'twas  not  50 answered  he  cried  aloud  in  mockery, 
mine  errand  to  tarry  any  while  in  this  '  What,  is  this  Arthur's  hall,  and  these 
dwelling;  but  the  praise  of  this  thy  folk  the  knights  whose  renown  hath  run 
and  thy  city  is  lifted  up  on  high,  and  thy  through  many  realms?  Where  are  now 
warriors  are  holden  for  the  best  and  the  your  pride  and  your  conquests,  your 
most  valiant  of  those  who  ride  mail-clad  55  wrath,  and  anger,  and  mighty  words? 
to  the  fight.  The  wisest  and  the  worth-  Now  are  the  praise  and  the  renown  of 
iest    of    this    world    are    they,    and    well      the    Round    Table    overthrown    by    one 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1003 

man's  speech,  since  all  keep  silence  for  well,  nephew,'  quoth  Arthur,  '  that  thou 
dread  ere  ever  they  have   seen  a  blow!'      give  him   but  the  one  blow,   and  if  thou 

With  that  he  laughed  so  loudly  that  the  redest  him  rightly  I  trow  thou  shalt  well 
blood  rushed  to  the  king's  fair  face  for  abide  the  stroke  he  may  give  thee  after.' 
very  shame;  he  waxed  wroth,  as  did  all  s  Gawain  stepped  to  the  stranger,  axe  in 
his  knights,  and  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  hand,  and  he,  never  fearing,  awaited  his 
drew  near  to  the  stranger  and  said,  '  Now  coming.  Then  the  Green  Knight  spake 
by  heaven,  foolish  is  thy  asking,  and  thy  to  Sir  Gawain,  '  Make  we  our  covenant 
folly  shall  find  its  fitting  answer.  I  know  ere  we  go  further.  First,  I  ask  thee, 
no  man  aghast  at  thy  great  words.  Give  10  knight,  what  is  thy  name?  Tell  me  truly, 
me  here  thine  axe  and  I  shall  grant  thee  that  I  may  know  thee.' 
the   boon    thou    hast   asked.'     Lightly   he  '  In     faith,'     quoth     the     good    knight, 

sprang  to  him  and  caught  at  his  hand,  '  Gawain  am  I,  who  give  thee  this  buffet, 
and  the  knight,  fierce  of  aspect,  lighted  let  what  may  come  of  it ;  and  at  this  time 
down  from  his  charger.  15  twelvemonth  will  I  take  another  at  thine 

Then  Arthur  took  the  axe  and  gripped  hand  with  whatsoever  weapon  thou  wilt, 
the  haft,   and  swung  it  round,   ready   to      and  none  other.' 

strike.     And  the  knight  stood  before  him,  Then   the   other   answered   again,   *  Sir 

taller  by  the  head  than  any  in  the  hall;  Gawain,  so  may  I  thrive  as  I  am  fain  to 
he  stood,  and  stroked  his  beard,  and  drew  20  take  this  buffet  at  thine  hand,'  and  he 
down  his  coat,  no  more  dismayed  for  the  quoth  further,  '  Sir  Gawain,  it  liketh  me 
king's  threats  than  if  one  had  brought  well  that  I  shall  take  at  thy  fist  that 
him  a  drink  of  wine.  which  I  have  asked  here,  and  thou  hast 

Then  Gawain,  who  sat  by  the  queen,  readily  and  truly  rehearsed  all  the  cove- 
leaned  forward  to  the  king  and  spake,  '  I  25  nant  that  I  asked  of  the  king,  save  that 
beseech  ye,  my  lord,  let  this  venture  be  thou  shalt  swear  me,  by  thy  troth,  to 
mine.  Would  ye  but  bid  me  rise  from  seek  me  thyself  wherever  thou  hopest 
this  seat,  and  stand  by  your  side,  so  that  that  I  may  be  found,  and  win  thee  such 
my  liege  lady  thought  it  not  ill,  then  reward  as  thou  dealest  me  to-day,  before 
would  I  come  to  your  counsel  before  this  30  this   folk.' 

goodly  court.     For  I  think  it  not  seemly  '  Where     shall     I     seek     thee  ? '     quoth 

when  such  challenges  be  made  in  your  Gawain.  '  Where  is  thy  place  ?  By  him 
hall  that  ye  yourself  should  undertake  it,  that  made  me,  I  wot  never  where  thou 
while  there  are  many  bold  knights  who  sit  dwellest,  nor  know  I  thee,  knight,  thy 
beside  ye,  none  are  there,  methinks,  of  3S  court,  nor  thy  name.  But  teach  me  truly 
readier  will  under  heaven,  or  more  valiant  all  that  pertaineth  thereto,  and  tell  me 
in  open  field.  I  am  the  weakest,  I  wot,  thy  name,  and  I  shall  use  all  my  wit  to 
and  the  feeblest  of  wit,  and  it  will  be  the  win  my  way  thither,  and  that  I  swear 
less  loss  of  my  life  if  ye  seek  sooth.  For  thee  for  sooth,  and  by  my  sure  troth.' 
save  that  ye  are  mine  uncle,  naught  is  40  '  That  is  enough  in  the  New  Year,  it 
there  in  me  to  praise,  no  virtue  is  there  needs  no  more,'  quoth  the  Green  Knight 
in  my  body  save  your  blood,  and  since  to  the  gallant  Gawain,  '  if  I  tell  thee 
this  challenge  is  such  folly  that  it  be-  truly  when  I  have  taken  the  blow,  and 
seems  ye  not  to  take  it,  and  I  have  asked  thou  hast  smitten  me ;  then  will  I  teach 
it  from  ye  first,  let  it  fall  to  me,  and  if  45  thee  of  my  house  and  home,  and  mine 
I  bear  myself  ungallantly,  then  let  all  own  name,  then  mayest  thou  ask  thy  road 
this  court  blame  me.'  and   keep   covenant.     And   if  I   waste   no 

Then  they  all  spake  with  one  voice  that  words  then  farest  thou  the  better,  for 
the  king  should  leave  this  venture  and  thou  canst  dwell  in  thy  land,  and  seek 
grant  it  to  Gawain.  5o  no   further.     But  take   now   thy  toll,   and 

Then  Arthur  commanded  the  knight  to      let  see  how  thou  strikest.' 
rise,    and    he    rose   up   quickly    and   knelt  '  Gladly    will    I,'    quoth    Gawain,    han- 

down  before  the  king,  and  caught  hold  of      dling  his  axe. 

the  weapon;  and  the  king  loosed  his  hold  Then   the    Green   Knight   swiftly   made 

of  it,  and  lifted  up  his  hand,  and  gave  55  him  ready,  he  bowed  down  his  head,  and 
him  his  blessing,  and  bade  him  be  strong  laid  his  long  locks  on  the  crown  that  his 
both    of    heart    and    hand.     '  Keep    thee      bare      neck      might      be      seen.     Gawain 


1004  APPENDIX 


gripped  his  axe  and  raised  it  on  high,  ladies.  But  now  I  may  well  get  me  to 
the  left  foot  he  set  forward  on  the  floor,  meat,  for  I  have  seen  a  marvel  I  may  not 
and  let  the  blow  fall  lightly  on  the  bare  forget.'  Then  he  looked  on  Sir  Gawain, 
neck.  The  sharp  edge  of  the  blade  and  said  gaily,  '  Now,  fair  nephew,  hang 
sundered  the  bones,  smote  through  the  5  up  thine  axe,  since  it  has  hewn  enough,' 
neck,  and  clave  it  in  two,  so  that  the  and  they  hung  it  on  the  dossal  above  the 
edge  of  the  steel  bit  on  the  ground,  and  dais,  where  all  men  might  look  on  it  for 
the  fair  head  fell  to  the  earth  that  many  a  marvel,  and  by  its  true  token  tell  of 
struck  it  with  their  feet  as  it  rolled  forth.  the  wonder.  Then  the  twain  sat  them 
The  blood  spurted  forth,  and  glistened  10  down  together,  the  king  and  the  good 
on  the  green  raiment,  but  the  knight  knight,  and  men  served  them  with  a 
neither  faltered  nor  fell;  he  started  for-  double  portion,  as  was  the  share  of  the 
ward  with  out-stretched  hand,  and  caught  noblest,  with  all  manner  of  meat  and  of 
the  head,  and  lifted  it  up;  then  he  turned  minstrelsy.  And  they  spent  that  day  in 
to  his  steed,  and  took  hold  of  the  bridle,  15  gladness,  but  .Sir  Gawain  must  well  be- 
set his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  mounted.  think  him  of  the  heavy  venture  to  which 
His  head  he  held  by  the  hair,  in  his  hand.  he  had  set  his  hand. 
Then  he  seated  himself  in  his  saddle  as 

if    naught    ailed    him,    and    he    were    not  II 

headless.  He  turned  his  steed  about,  the  20  This  beginning  of  adventures  had  Ar- 
grmi  corpse  bleedmg  freely  the  while,  ^i^uj.  ^t  the  New  Year;  for  he  yearned 
and  they  who  looked  upon  hmi  doubted  ^q  hear  gallant  tales,  though  his  words 
them  much  for  the  covenant.  were  few  when  he  sat  at  the  feast.     But 

For  he  held  up  the  head  m  his  hand,  now  had  they  stern  work  on  hand, 
and  turned  the  face  towards  them  that  25  Gawain  was  glad  to  begin  the  jest  in  the 
sat  on  the  high  dais,  and  it  lifted  up  the  hall,  but  ye  need  have  no  marvel  if  the 
eyelids  and  looked  upon  them  and  spake  end  be  heavy.  For  though  a  man  be 
as  ye  shall  hear.  '  Look,  Gawain,  that  nierry  in  mind  when  he  has  well  drunk, 
thou  art  ready  to  go  as  thou  hast  prom-  yet  a  year  runs  full  swiftly,  and  the  be- 
ised,  and  seek  loyally  till  thou  find  me,  ^  ginning  but  rarely  matches  the  end. 
even  as  thou  hast  sworn  in  this  hall  m  por  Yule  was  now  over-past,  and  the 

the  hearing  of  these  knights.  Come  year  after,  each  season  in  its  turn  follow- 
thou,  I  charge  thee,  to  the  Green  Chapel;  ing  the  other.  For  after  Christmas 
such  a  stroke  as  thou  hast  dealt  thou  hast  comes  crabbed  Lent,  that  will  have  fish 
deserved,  and  it  shall  be  promptly  paid  3;  for  flesh  and  simpler  cheer.  But  then  the 
thee  on  New  Year's  morn.  Many  men  weather  of  the  world  chides  with  winter; 
know  me  as  the  knight  of.  the  Green  the  cold  withdraws  itself,  the  clouds  up- 
Chapel,  and  if  thou  askest,  thou  shalt  lift,  and  the  rain  falls  in  warm  showers 
not  fail  to  find  me.  Therefore  it  be-  on  the  fair  plains.  Then  the  flowers 
hooves  thee  to  come,  or  to  yield  thee  as  40  come  forth,  meadows  and  grove  are  clad 
recreant.'  in  green,  the  birds  make  ready  to  build. 

With  that  he  turned  his  bridle,  and  and  sing  sweetly  for  solace  of  the  soft 
galloped  out  at  the  hall  door,  his  head  in  summer  that  follows  thereafter.  The 
his  hands,  so  that  the  sparks  flew  from  blossoms  bud  and  blow  in  the  hedgerows 
beneath  his  horse's  hoofs.  Whither  he  45  rich  and  rank,  and  noble  notes  enough 
went  none  knew,  no  more  than  they  wist  are  heard  in  the  fair  woods, 
whence  he   had  come;   and  the  king  and  After  the  season  of  summer,  with  the 

Gawain  they  gazed  and  laughed,  for  in  soft  winds,  when  zephyr  breathes  lightly 
sooth  this  had  proved  a  greater  marvel  on  seeds  and  herbs,  joyous  indeed  is  the 
than  any  they  had  known  aforetime.  50  growth  that  waxes  thereout  when  the  dew 

Though  Arthur  the  king  was  astonished  drips  from  the  leaves  beneath  the  blissful 
at  his  heart,  yet  he  let  no  sign  of  it  be  glance  of  the  bright  sun.  But  then  comes 
seen,  but  spake  in  courteous  wise  to  the  harvest  and  hardens  the  grain,  warning 
fair  queen :  '  Dear  lady,  be  not  dis-  it  to  wax  ripe  ere  the  winter.  The 
mayed,  such  craft  is  well  suited  to  Christ-  55  drought  drives  the  dust  on  high,  flying 
inas-tide  when  we  seek  jesting,  laughter,  over  the  face  of  the  land ;  the  angry  wind 
and  song,  and  fair  carols  of  knights  and      of  the  welkin  wrestles  with  the  sun;  the 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1005 

leaves  fall  from  the  trees  and  light  upon  him  the  byrnie  of  bright  steel  rings  sewn 
the  ground,  and  all  brown  are  the  groves  upon  a  fair  stuff.  Well  burnished  braces 
that  but  now  were  green,  and  ripe  is  the  they  set  on  each  arm  with  good  elbow- 
fruit  that  once  was  flower.  So  the  year  pieces,  and  gloves  of  mail,  and  all  the 
passes  into  many  yesterdays,  and  winter  5  goodly  gear  that  should  shield  him  in  his 
comes  again,  as  it  needs  no  sage  to  tell  need.  And  they  cast  over  all  a  rich 
us.  surcoat,  and  set  the  golden  spurs  on  his 

When  the  Michaelmas  moon  was  come  heels,  and  girt  him  with  a  trusty  sword 
in  with  warnings  of  winter.  Sir  Gawain  fastened  with  a  silken  bawdrick.  When 
bethought  him  full  oft  of  his  perilous  10  he  was  thus  clad  his  harness  was  costly, 
journey.  Yet  till  All  Hallows  Day  he  for  the  least  loop  or  latchet  gleamed  with 
lingered  with  Arthur,  and  on  that  day  gold.  So  armed  as  he  was  he  hearkened 
they  made  a  great  feast  for  the  hero's  Mass  and  made  his  ofifering  at  the  high 
sake,  with  much  revel  and  richness  of  the  altar.  Then  he  came  to  the  king,  and  the 
Round  Table.  Courteous  knights  and  15  knights  of  his  court,  and  courteously 
comely  ladies,  all  were  in  sorrow  for  the  took  leave  of  lords  and  ladies,  and  they 
love  of  that  knight,  and  though  they  kissed  him,  and  commended  him  to  Christ, 
spake  no  word  of  it,  many  were  joyless  With    that    was    Gringalet    ready,    girt 

for  his  sake.  with    a    saddle    that    gleamed    gaily    with 

And  after  meat,  sadly  Sir  Gawain  20  many  golden  fringes,  enriched  and 
turned  to  his  uncle,  and  spake  of  his  decked  anew  for  the  venture.  The  bridle 
journey,  and  said,  '  Liege  lord  of  my  life,  was  all  barred  about  with  bright  gold 
leave  from  you  I  crave.  Ye  know  well  buttons,  and  all  the  covertures  and  trap- 
how  the  matter  stands  without  more  pings  of  the  steed,  the  crupper  and  the 
words;  to-morrow  am  I  bound  to  set  forth  25  rich  skirts,  accorded  with  the  saddle; 
in  search  of  the  Green  Knight.'  spread    fair   with   the   rich   red   gold   that 

Then  came  together  all  the  noblest  glittered  and  gleamed  in  the  rays  of  the 
knights,  Ywain  and  Erec,   and  many  an-      sun. 

other.     Sir  Dodinel  le  Sauvage,  the  Duke  Then  the  knight  called  for  his  helmet, 

of  Clarence,  Launcelot  and  Lionel,  and  30  which  was  well  lined  throughout,  and  set 
Lucan  the  Good,  Sir  Bors  and  Bedivere,  it  high  on  his  head,  and  hasped  it  behind, 
valiant  knights  both,  and  many  another  He  wore  a  light  kerchief  over  the  ventail, 
hero,  with  Sir  Mador  de  la  Porte,  and  that  was  broidered  and  studded  with  fair 
they  all  drew  near,  heavy  at  heart,  to  take  gems  on  a  broad  silken  ribbon,  with  birds 
counsel  with  Sir  Gawain.  Much  sorrow  35  of  gay  color,  and  many  a  turtle  and  true- 
and  weeping  was  there  in  the  hall  to  lover's  knot  interlaced  thickly,  even  as 
think  that  so  worthy  a  knight  as  Gawain  many  a  maiden  had  wrought  diligently  for 
should  wend  his  way  to  seek  a  deadly  seven  winters  long.  But  the  circlet  which 
blow,  and  should  no  more  wield  his  sword  crowned  his  helmet  was  yet  more  pre- 
in  fight.  But  the  knight  made  ever  good  40  cious,  being  adorned  with  a  device  in 
cheer,  and  said,  '  Nay,  wherefore  should  diamonds.  Then  they  brought  him  his 
I  shrink?  What  may  a  man  do  but  prove  shield,  which  was  of  bright  red,  with  the 
his  fate?'  pentangle    painted    thereon    in    gleaming 

He  dwelt  there  all  that  day,  and  on  the  gold.  And  why  that  noble  prince  bare 
morn  he  arose  and  asked  betimes  for  his  4S  the  pentangle  I  am  minded  to  tell  you, 
armor;  and  they  brought  it  unto  him  on  though  my  tale  tarry  thereby.  It  is  a 
this  wise :  first,  a  rich  carpet  was  stretched  sign  that  Solomon  set  ere-wliile,  as  be- 
on  the  floor  (and  brightly  did  the  gold  tokening  truth;  for  it  is  a  figure  with  five 
gear  glitter  upon  it),  then  the  knight  points  and  each  line  overlaps  the  other, 
stepped  upon  it,  and  handled  the  steel ;  So  and  nowhere  hath  it  beginning  or  end, 
clad  he  was  in  a  doublet  of  silk,  with  a  so  that  in  English  it  is  called  '  the  end- 
close  hood,  lined  fairly  throughout.  Then  less  knot.'  And  therefore  was  it  well 
they  set  the  steel  shoes  upon  his  feet,  and  suiting  to  this  knight  and  to  his  arms, 
wrapped  his  legs  with  greaves,  with  pol-  since  Gawain  was  faithful  in  five  and 
ished  knee-caps,  fastened  with  knots  of  55  five-fold,  for  pure  was  he  as  gold,  void 
gold.  Then  they  cased  his  thighs  in  of  all  villainy  and  endowed  with  all  vir- 
cuisses   closed   with   thongs,   and   brought      tues.     Therefore    he    bare    the    pentangle 


ioo6  APPENDIX 


oil  shield  and  surcoat  as  truest  of  heroes  none  save  God  with  whom  to  take  counsel, 
and  gentlest  of  knights.  At  length  he  drew  nigh  to  North  Wales, 

For  first  he  was  faultless  in  his  five  and  left  the  isles  of  Anglesey  on  his  left 
senses;  and  his  five  fingers  never  failed  hand,  crossing  over  the  fords  l^y  the  fore- 
him ;  and  all  his  trust  upon  earth  was  in  5  land  over  at  Holyhead,  till  he  came  into 
the  five  wounds  that  Christ  bare  on  the  the  wilderness  of  Wirral,  where  but  few 
cross,  as  the  Creed  tells.  And  wherever  dwell  who  love  God  and  man  of  true 
this  knight  found  himself  in  stress  of  heart.  And  ever  he  asked,  as  he  fared, 
battle  he  deemed  well  that  he  drew  his  of  all  whom  he  met,  if  they  had  heard 
strength  from  the  five  joys  which  the  lo  any  tidings  of  a  Green  Knight  in  the 
Queen  of  Heaven  had  of  her  Child.  country  thereabout,  or  of  a  Green  Chapel? 
And  for  this  cause  did  he  bear  an  image  And  all  answered  him,  Nay,  never  in  their 
of  Our  Lady  on  the  one  half  of  his  shield,  lives  had  they  seen  any  man  of  such  a 
that  whenever  he  looked  upon  it  he  might  hue.  And  the  knight  wended  his  way  by 
not  lack  for  aid.  And  the  fifth  five  that  15  many  a  strange  road  and  many  a  rugged 
the  hero  used  were  frankness  and  fellow-  path,  and  the  fashion  of  his  countenance 
ship  above  all,  purity  and  courtesy  that  changed  full  often  ere  he  saw  the  Green 
never    failed    him,    and    compassion    that      Chapel. 

surpasses    all ;    and    in    these    five    virtues  Many  a  clifT  did  he  climb  in  that  un- 

was  that  hero  wrapped  and  clothed.  And  20  known  land,  where  afar  from  his  friends 
all  these,  five-fold,  were  linked  one  in  the  he  rode  as  a  stranger.  Never  did  he 
other,  so  that  they  had  no  end,  and  were  come  to  a  stream  or  a  ford  but  he  found 
fixed  on  five  points  that  never  failed,  a  foe  before  him,  and  that  one  so  marvel- 
neither  at  any  side  were  they  joined  or  ous,  so  foul  and  fell,  that  it  behooved  him 
sundered,  nor  could  ye  find  beginning  or  25  to  fight.  So  many  wonders  did  that 
end.  And  therefore  on  his  shield  was  knight  behold,  that  it  were  too  long  to 
the  knot  shapen,  red-gold  upon  red,  which  tell  the  tenth  part  of  them.  Sometimes 
is  the  pure  pentangle.  Now  was  Sir  he  fought  with  dragons  and  wolves; 
Gawain  ready,  and  he  took  his  lance  in  sometimes  with  wild  men  that  dwelt  in 
hand,  and  bade  them  all  farewell,  he  3°  the  rocks;  another  while  with  bulls,  and 
deemed  it  had  been  for  ever.  bears,  and  wild  boars,  or  with  giants  of 

Then  he  smote  the  steed  with  his  spurs,  the  high  moorland  that  drew  near  to  him. 
and  sprang  on  his  way,  so  that  sparks  Had  he  not  been  a  doughty  knight,  en- 
flew  from  the  stones  after  him.  All  that  during,  and  of  well-proved  valor,  and  a 
saw  him  were  grieved  at  heart,  and  said  35  servant  of  God,  doubtless  he  had  been 
one  to  the  other,  '  By  Christ,  't  is  great  slain,  for  he  was  oft  in  danger  of  death, 
pity  that  one  of  such  noble  life  should  Yet  he  cared  not  so  much  for  the  strife; 
be  lost !  r  faith,  't  were  not  easy  to  find  what  he  deemed  worse  was  when  the  cold 
his  equal  upon  earth.  The  king  had  done  clear  water  was  shed  from  the  clouds,  and 
better  to  have  wrought  more  warily.  40  froze  ere  it  fell  on  the  fallow  ground. 
Yonder  knight  should  have  been  made  More  nights  than  enough  he  slept  in  his 
a  duke;  a  gallant  leader  of  men  is  he,  harness  on  the  bare  rocks,  near  slain  with 
and  such  a  fate  had  beseemed  him  better  the  sleet,  while  the  stream  leapt  bubbling 
than  to  be  hewn  in  pieces  at  the  will  of  from  the  crest  of  the  hills,  and  hung  in 
an  elfish  man,  for  mere  pride.  Who  ever  45  hard  icicles  over  his  head, 
knew  a  king  to  take  such  counsel  as   to  Thus    in    peril    and   pain,    and    many    a 

risk  his  knights  on  a  Christmas  jest?'  hardship,  the  knight  rode  alone  till  Christ- 
Many  were  the  tears  that  flowed  from  mas  Eve,  and  in  that  tide  he  made  his 
their  eyes  when  that  goodly  knight  rode  prayer  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  she 
from  the  hall.  He  made  no  delaying,  50  would  guide  his  steps  and  lead  him  to 
but  went  his  way  swiftly,  and  rode  many  some  dwelling.  On  that  morning  he  rode 
a  wild  road,  as  I  heard  say  in  the  book.      by   a  hill,   and  came   into   a   thick   forest, 

So  rode  Sir  Gawain  through  the  realm  wild  and  drear;  on  each  side  were  high 
of  Logres,  on  an  errand  that  he  held  for  hills,  and  thick  woods  below  them  of  great 
no  jest.  Often  he  lay  companionless  at  55  hoar  oaks,  a  hundred  together,  of  hazel 
night,  and  must  lack  the  fare  that  he  liked.  and  hawthorn  with  their  trailing  boughs 
No  comrade   had  he   save   his   steed,   and      interwined,      and      rough      ragged      moss 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1007 

spreading  everywhere.  On  the  bare  twigs  wrought  out  of  paper,  so  white  was  it. 
the    birds   chirped   piteously,    for   pain   of  The  knight  on  his  steed  deemed  it  fair 

the  cold.  The  knight  upon  Gringalet  rode  enough,  if  he  might  come  to  be  sheltered 
lonely  beneath  them,  through  marsh  and  within  it  to  lodge  there  while  that  the 
mire,  much  troubled  at  heart  lest  he  5  holy-day  lasted.  He  called  aloud,  and 
should  fail  to  see  the  service  of  the  Lord,  soon  there  came  a  porter  of  kindly  coun- 
who  on  that  self-same  night  was  born  of  tenance,  who  stood  on  the  wall  and 
a  maiden  for  the  cure  of  our  grief;  and  greeted  this  knight  and  asked  his  errand, 
therefore  he  said,  sighing,  T  beseech  thee,  '  Good    sir,'   quoth    Gawain,    '  wilt   thou 

Lord,   and   Mary   thy   gentle   Mother,    for  10  go  mine  errand  to  the  high   lord  of  the 
some  shelter  where  I  may  hear  Mass,  and      castle,  and  crave  for  me  lodging?' 
thy  matins  at  morn.     This  I  ask  meekly,  '  Yea,  by  Saint  Peter,'  quoth  the  porter, 

and  thereto  I  pray  my  Paternoster,  Ave,  '  In  sooth  I  trow  that  ye  be  welcome 
and  Credo.'  Thus  he  rode  praying,  and  to  dwell  here  so  long  as  it  may  like  ye.' 
lamenting  his  misdeeds,  and  he  crossed  is  Then  he  went,  and  came  again  swiftly, 
himself,  and  said,  '  May  the  Cross  of  and  many  folk  with  him  to  receive  tlie 
Christ  speed  me.'  knight.     They  let  down  the   great  draw- 

Now  that  knight  had  crossed  himself  bridge,  and  came  forth  and  knelt  on  their 
but  thrice  ere  he  was  aware  in  the  wood  knees  on  the  cold  earth  to  give  him 
of  a  dwelling  within  a  moat,  above  a  20  worthy  welcome.  They  held  wide  open 
lawn,  on  a  mound  surrounded  by  many  the  great  gates,  and  courteously  he  bade 
mighty  trees  that  stood  round  the  moat.  them  rise,  and  rode  over  the  bridge. 
'T  was  the  fairest  castle  that  ever  a  Then  men  came  to  him  and  held  his 
knight  owned;  built  in  a  meadow  with  a  stirrup  while  he  dismounted,  and  took 
park  all  about  it,  and  a  spiked  palisade,  25  and  stabled  his  steed.  There  came  down 
closely  driven,  that  enclosed  the  trees  for  knights  and  squires  to  bring  the  guest 
more  than  two  miles.  The  knight  was  with  joy  to  the  hall.  When  he  raised 
ware  of  the  hold  from  the  side,  as  it  his  helmet  there  were  many  to  take  it 
shone  through  the  oaks.  Then  he  lifted  from  his  hand,  fain  to  serve  him,  and 
off  his  helmet,  and  thanked  Christ  and  30  they  took  from  him  sword  and  shield. 
Saint    Julian    that    they    had    courteously  Sir  Gawain  gave  good  greeting  to  the 

granted  his  prayer,  and  hearkened  to  his  noble  and  the  mighty  men  who  came  to 
cry.  '  Now,'  quoth  the  knight,  '  I  be-  do  him  honor.  Ciad  in  his  shining  armor 
seech  ye,  grant  me  fair  hostel.'  Then  he  they  led  him  to  the  hall,  where  a  great 
pricked  Gringalet  with  his  golden  spurs,  35  fire  burnt  brightly  on  the  floor ;  and  the 
and  rode  gaily  towards  the  great  gate,  lord  of  the  household  came  forth  from 
and   came   swiftly  to  the  bridge  end.  his  chamber  to   meet  the  hero  fitly.     He 

The  bridge  was  drawn  up  and  the  gates  spake  to  the  knight,  and  said :  '  Ye  are 
close  shut ;  the  walls  were  strong  and  welcome  to  do  here  as  it  likes  ye.  All 
thick,  so  that  they  might  fear  no  tempest.  40  that  is  here  is  your  own  to  have  at  your 
The  knight  on  his  charger  abode  on  the      will  and  disposal.' 

bank  of  the   deep  double   ditch   that  sur-  '  Gramercy !  '      quote      Gawain,      '  may 

rounded   the   castle.     The   walls   were   set      Christ  requite  ye.' 

deep    in   the    water,    and    rose   aloft   to    a  As    friends    "that    were    fain    each    em- 

wondrous  height ;  they  were  of  hard  hewn  45  braced  the  other ;  and  Gawain  looked  on 
stone  up  to  the  corbels,  which  were  the  knight  who  greeted  him  so  kindly, 
adorned  beneath  tlie  battlements  with  and  thought  't  was  a  bold  warrior  that 
fair  carvings,  and  turrets  set  in  between      owned  that  burg. 

with  many  a  loophole;  a  better  barbican  Of  mighty  stature  he  was,  and  of  high 

Sir  Gawain  had  never  looked  upon.  And  5o  age ;  broad  and  flowing  was  his  beard, 
within  he  beheld  the  high  hall,  with  its  and  of  a  bright  hue.  He  was  stalwart  of 
tower  and  many  windows  with  carven  limb,  and  strong  in  his  stride,  his  face 
cornices,  and  chalk-white  chimneys  on  fiery  red,  and  his  speech  free:  in  sooth 
the  turreted  roofs  that  shone  fair  in  the  he  seemed  one  well  fitted  to  be  a  leader 
sun.     And    everywhere,    thickly    scattered  SS  of  valiant  men. 

on  the  castle  battlements,  were  pinnacles.  Then    the    lord    led    Sir    Gawain    to    a 

so  many  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  all      chamber,    and    commanded    folk    to    wait 


ioo8  APPENDIX 


upon  him,  and  at  his  bidding  ihcre  came  in  the  company  of  him  to  whom  belonged 
men  enough  who  brouglit  the  guest  to  a  all  fame,  and  valor,  and  courtesy,  and 
fair  bower.  The  bedding  was  noble,  with  whose  honor  was  praised  above  that  of  all 
curtains  of  pure  silk  wrought  witli  gold,  men  on  earth.  Each  said  softly  to  his 
and  wondrous  coverings  of  fair  cloth  all  5  fellow,  '  Now  shall  we  see  courteous  bear- 
embroidered.  The  curtains  ran  on  ropes  ing,  and  the  manner  of  speech  befitting 
with  rings  of  red  gold,  and  the  walls  were  courts.  What  charm  lieth  in  gentle 
hung  with  carpets  of  Orient,  and  the  same  speech  shall  we  learn  without  asking, 
spread  on  the  floor.  There  with  mirth-  since  here  we  have  welcomed  the  fine 
ful  speeches  they  took  from  the  guest  his  ^o  father  of  courtesy.  God  has  surely 
byrnie  and  all  his  shining  armor,  and  shown  us  his  grace  since  he  sends  us 
brought  him  rich  robes  of  the  choicest  in  such  a  guest  as  Gawain !  When  men 
its  stead.  They  were  long  and  flowing,  shall  sit  and  sing,  blithe  for  Christ's 
and  became  him  well,  and  when  he  was  birth,  this  knight  shall  bring  us  to  the 
clad  in  them  all  who  looked  on  the  hero  is  knowledge  of  fair  manners,  and  it  may 
thought  that  surely  God  had  never  made  Ije  that  hearing  him  we  may  learn  the 
a  fairer  knight :  he  seemed  as  if  he  might  cunning  speech  of  love.' 
be  a  prince  without  peer  in  the  field  where  By  the  time  the  knight  had  risen  from 

men  strive  in  battle.  dinner  it  was  near  nightfall.     Then  chap- 

Then  before  the  hearth-place,  whereon  20  lains  took  their  way  to  the  chapel,  and 
the  fire  burned,  they  made  ready  a  chair  rang  loudly,  even  as  they  should,  for  the 
for  Gawain,  hung  about  with  cloth  and  solemn  evensong  of  the  high  feast, 
fair  cushions;  and  there  they  cast  around  Thither  went  the  lord,  and  the  lady  also, 
him  a  mantle  of  brown  samite,  richly  and  entered  with  her  maidens  into  a 
embroidered  and  furred  within  with  costly  25  comely  closet,  and  thither  also  went 
skins  of  ermine,  with  a  hood  of  the  same,  Gawain.  Then  the  lord  took  him  by  the 
and  he  seated  himself  in  that  rich  seat,  sleeve  and  led  him  to  a  seat,  and  called 
and  warmed  himself  at  the  fire,  and  was  him  by  his  name,  and  told  him  he  was  of 
cheered  at  heart.  And  while  he  sat  thus,  all  men  in  the  world  the  most  welcome, 
the  serving  men  set  up  a  table  on  trestles,  30  And  Sir  Gawain  thanked  him  truly,  and 
and  covered  it  with  a  fair  white  cloth,  and  each  kissed  the  other,  and  they  sat 
set  thereon  salt-cellar,  and  napkin,  and  gravely  together  throughout  the  service, 
silver  spoons;  and  the  knight  washed  at  Then   was   the   lady   fain   to   look   upon 

his  will,  and  set  him  down  to  meat.  that  knight ;  and  she  came  forth  from  her 

The  folk  served  him  courteously  with  35  closet  with  many  fair  maidens.  The  fair- 
many  dishes  seasoned  of  the  best,  a  double  est  of  ladies  was  she  in  face,  and  figure, 
portion.  All  kinds  of  fish  were  there,  and  coloring,  fairer  even  than  Guinevere, 
some  baked  in  bread,  some  broiled  on  the  so  the  knight  thought.  She  came  through 
embers,  some  sodden,  some  stewed  and  the  chancel  to  greet  the  hero;  another 
savored  with  spices,  with  all  sorts  of  40  lady  held  her  by  the  left  hand,  older  than 
cunning  devices  to  his  taste.  And  often  she,  and  seemingly  of  high  estate,  with 
he  called  it  a  feast,  when  they  spake  gaily  many  nobles  about  her.  But  unlike  to 
to  him  all  together,  and  said,  '  Now  take  look  upon  were  those  ladies,  for  if  the 
ye  this  penance,  and  it  shall  be  for  your  younger  were  fair,  the  elder  was  yellow, 
amendment.'  Much  mirth  thereof  did  45  Rich  red  were  the  cheeks  af  the  one. 
Sir  Gawain  make.  rough   and   wrinkled   those   of  the  other; 

Then  they  questioned  that  prince  the  kerchiefs  of  the  one  were  broidered 
courteously  of  whence  he  came;  and  he  with  many  glistening  pearls,  her  throat 
told  them  that  he  was  of  the  court  of  and  neck  bare,  and  whiter  than  the  snow 
Arthur,  who  is  the  rich  royal  king  of  the  5°  that  lies  on  the  hills ;  the  neck  of  the 
Round  Table,  and  that  it  was  Gawain  other  was  swathed  in  a  gorget,  with  a 
himself  who  was  within  their  walls,  and  white  wimple  over  her  black  chin.  Her 
would  keep  Christmas  with  them,  as  the  forehead  was  wrapped  in  sdk  with  many 
chance  had  fallen  out.  And  when  the  folds,  worked  with  knots,  so  that  naught 
lord  of  the  castle  heard  those  tidings  he  55  of  her  was  seen  save  her  black  iirows. 
laughed  aloud  for  gladness,  and  all  men  in  her  eyes,  her  nose,  and  her  lips,  and  those 
that  keep  were  joyful  that  they  should  be      were    bleared,    and    ill    to    look    upon.     A 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1009 

worshipful   lady   in   sooth   one   might   call  So  they  held  high  feast  that  day  and  the 

her !  In  figure  was  she  short  and  broad,  next,  and  the  third  day  thereafter,  and 
and  thickly  made  —  far  fairer  to  behold  the  joy  on  Saint  John's  Day  was  fair  to 
was  she  whom  she  led  by  the  hand.  hearken,   for  't  was   the   last  of  the   feast 

When  Gawain  beheld  that  fair  lady,  5  and  the  guests  would  depart  in  the  gray 
who  looked  at  him  graciously,  with  leave  of  the  morning.  Therefore  they  awoke 
of  the  lord  he  went  towards  them,  and.  early,  and  drank  wine,  and  danced  fair 
bowing  low,  he  greeted  the  elder,  but  the  carols,  and  at  last!,  when  it  was  late,  each 
younger  and  fairer  he  took  lightly  in  his  man  took  his  leave  to  wend  early  on  his 
arms,  and  kissed  her  courteously,  and  10  way.  Gawain  would  bid  his  host  fare- 
greeted  her  in  knightly  wise.  Then  si.e  well,  but  the  lord  took  him  by  the  hand, 
hailed  him  as  friend,  and  he  quickly  and  led  him  to  his  own  chamber  beside 
prayed  to  be  counted  as  her  servant,  if  the  hearth,  and  there  he  thanked  him  for 
she  so  willed.  Then  they  took  him  be-  the  favor  he  had  shown  him  in  honoring 
tween  them,  and  talking,  led  him  to  the  15  his  dwelling  at  that  high  season,  and  glad- 
chamber,  to  the  hearth,  and  bade  them  dening  his  castle  with  his  fair  counte- 
bring  spices,  and  they  brought  them  in  nance.  '  I  wis,  sir,  that  while  I  live  I 
plenty  with  the  good  wine  that  was  wont  shall  be  held  the  worthier  that  Gawain 
to  be  drunk  at  such  seasons.  Then  the  has  been  my  guest  at  God's  own  feast." 
lord  sprang  to  his  feet  and  bade  them  20  '  Gramercy,  sir,'  quoth  Gawain,  '  in 
make  merry,  and  took  off  his  hood,  and  good  faith,  all  the  honor  is  yours,  may  the 
hung  it  on  a  spear,  and  bade  him  win  High  King  give  it  you,  and  I  am  but  at 
the  worship  thereof  who  should  make  your  will  to  work  your  behest,  inasmuch 
most  mirth  that  Christmas-tide.  '  And  I  as  I  am  beholden  to  you  in  great  and 
shall  try,  by  my  faith,  to  fool  it  with  the  25  small  by  rights.' 

best,  by  the  help  of  my  friends,  ere  I  lose  Then  the  lord  did  his  best  to  persuade 

my  raiment.'  Thus  with  gay  words  the  the  knight  to  tarry  with  him,  but  Gawain 
lord  made  trial  to  gladden  Gav^^ain  with  answered  that  he  might  in  no  wise  do  so. 
jests  that  night,  till  it  was  time  to  bid  Then  the  host  asked  him  courteously  wliat 
them  light  the  tapers,  and  Sir  Gawain  30  stern  behest  had  driven  him  at  the  holy 
took  leave  of  them  and  gat  him  to  rest.      season  from  the  king's  court,  to   fare  all 

In  the  morn  when  all  men  call  to  mind      alone,  ere  yet  the  feast  was  ended  ? 
how  Christ  our  Lord  was  born  on  earth  '  Forsooth,'   quoth   the   knight,    '  ye   say 

to  die  for  us,  there  is  joy,  for  his  sake,  but  the  truth:  'tis  a  high  quest  and  a 
in  all  dwellings  of  the  world ;  and  so  was  35  pressing  that  hath  brought  me  afield,  for 
there  here  on  that  day.  For  high  feast  I  am  summoned  myself  to  a  certain  place, 
was  held,  with  many  dainties  and  cun-  and  I  know  not  whither  in  the  world  I 
ningly  cooked  messes.  On  the  dais  sit  may  wend  to  find  it;  so  help  me  Christ,  I 
gallant  men,  clad  in  their  best.  The  an-  would  give  all  the  kingdom  of  Logres  an 
cient  dame  sat  on  the  high  seat,  with  the  40  I  might  find  it  by  New  Year's  morn, 
lord  of  the  castle  beside  her.  Gawain  Therefore,  sir,  I  make  request  of  you  that 
and  the  fair  lady  sat  together,  even  in  ye  tell  me  truly  if  ye  ever  heard  word  of 
the  midst  of  the  board  when  the  feast  the  Green  Chapel,  where  it  may  be  found, 
was  served;  and  so  throughout  all  the  hall  and  the  Green  Knight  that  keeps  it.  For 
each  sat  in  his  degree,  and  was  served  45  I  am  pledged  by  solemn  compact  sworn 
in  order.  There  was  meat,  there  was  between  us  to  meet  that  knight  at  the 
mirth,  there  was  much  joy,  so  that  to  New  Year  if  so  I  were  on  life;  and  of 
tell  thereof  would  take  nie  too  long,  that  same  New  Year  it  wants  but  little 
though  peradventure  I  might  strive  to  —  I'  faith,  I  would  look  on  that  hero 
declare  it.  But  Gawain  and  that  fair  50  more  joyfully  than  on  any  other  fair 
lady  had  much  joy  of  each  other's  com-  sight !  Therefore,  by  your  will,  it  be- 
pany  through  her  sweet  words  and  courte-  hooves  me  to  leave  you,  for  I  have  but 
ous  converse.  And  there  was  music  made  barely  three  days,  and  I  would  as  fain 
before  each  prince,  trumpets  and  drums,  fall  dead  as  fail  of  mine  errand.' 
and  merry  pipings:  each  man  hearkened  55  Then  the  lord  quoth,  laughing,  'Now 
his  minstrel,  and  they  too  hearkened  must  ye  needs  stay,  for  I  will  show  you 
theirs.  vour    goal,    the    Green    Chapel,    ere    your 

64 


loio  APPENDIX 


« 

I 


term  be  at  an  end,  have  ye  no  fear !     But      covenant,  for  he  knew  well  how  to  make 

ye  can  take  your  ease,  friend,  in  your  bed,      sport. 

till  the  fourth  day,  and  go  forth  on  the  III 

first  of  the  year  and  come  to  that  place  Full  early,  ere  daylight,   the   folk  rose 

at  mid-morn  to  do  as  ye  will.     Dwell  here    5  up ;   the   guests   who   would   depart   called 

till  New  Year's  Day,  and  then  rise  and      their  grooms,  and  they  made  them  ready, 

set  forth,  and  ye  shall  be  set  in  the  way;      and   saddled   the   steeds,   tightened   up  the 

'tis  not  two  miles  hence.'  girths,   and  trussed  up  their   mails.     The 

Then  was  Gawain  glad,  and  he  laughed      knights,  all  arrayed  for  riding,  leapt  up 
gaily.     '  Now  I  thank  you  for  this  above  10  lightly,   and  took   their   bridles,   and   each 
all  else.     Now  my  quest  is  achieved  I  will      rode  his  way  as  pleased  him  best, 
dwell  here  at  your  will,  and  otherwise  do  The  lord  of  the  land  was  not  the  last, 

as  ye  shall  ask.'  Ready   for   the   chase,   with   many   of   his 

Then  the  lord  took  him,  and  set  him  men,  he  ate  a  sop  hastily  when  he  had 
beside  him,  and  bade  the  ladies  be  fetched  15  heard  Mass,  and  then  with  blast  of  the 
for  their  greater  pleasure,  tho'  between  bugle  fared  forth  to  the  field.  He  and  his 
themselves  they  had  solace.  The  lord,  for  nobles  were  to  horse  ere  daylight  glim- 
gladness,  made  merry  jest,  even  as  one  mered  upon  the  earth, 
who  wist  not  what  to  do  for  joy;  and  he  Then      the      huntsmen      coupled      their 

cried  aloud  to  the  knight,  '  Ye  have  20  hounds,  unclosed  the  kennel  door,  and 
promised  to  do  the  thing  I  bid  ye :  will  called  them  out.  They  blew  three  blasts 
ye  hold  to  this  behest,  here,  at  once?'  gaily    on    the    bugles,    the    hounds    bayed 

'  Yea,  forsooth,'  said  that  true  knight,  fiercely,  and  they  that  would  go  a-hunt- 
'  while  I  abide  in  your  burg  I  am  bound  ing  checked  and  chastised  them.  A  hun- 
by  your  behest.'  25  dred  hunters   there   were   of  the  best,   so 

'  Ye  have  traveled  from  far,'  said  the  I  have  heard  tell.  Then  the  trackers  gat 
host,  '  and  since  then  ye  have  waked  with  them  to  the  trysting-place  and  uncoupled 
me,  ye  are  not  well  refreshed  by  rest  and  the  hounds,  and  the  forest  rang  again 
sleep,  as  I  know.  Ye  shall  therefore  with  their  gay  blasts, 
abide  in  your  chamber,  and  lie  at  your  30  At  the  first  sound  of  the  hunt  the  game 
ease  to-morrow  at  Mass-tide,  and  go  to  quaked  for  fear,  and  fled,  trembling,  along 
meat  when  ye  will  with  my  wife,  who  the  vale.  They  betook  them  to  the 
shall  sit  with  you,  and  comfort  you  with  heights,  but  the  Hers  in  wait  turned  them 
her  company  till  I  return ;  and  I  shall  rise  back  with  loud  cries ;  the  harts  they  let 
early  and  go  forth  to  the  chase.'  And  35  pass  them,  and  the  stags  with  their 
Gawain  agreed  to  all  this   courteously.  spreading   antlers,    for   the   lord   had   for- 

'  Sir  knight,'  quoth  the  host,  '  we  will  bidden  that  they  should  be  slain,  but  the 
make  a  covenant.  Whatsoever  I  win  in  hinds  and  the  does  they  turned  back,  and 
the  wood  shall  be  yours,  and  whatever  drave  down  into  the  valleys.  Then  might 
may  fall  to  your  share,  that  shall  ye  ex-  40  ye  see  much  shooting  of  arrows.  As  the 
change  for  it.  Let  us  swear,  friend,  to  deer  fled  under  the  boughs  a  broad  whis- 
make  this  exchange,  however  our  hap  may  tling  shaft  smote  and  wounded  each  sorely, 
be,  for  worse  or  for  better.'  so  that,  wounded  and  bleeding,  they  fell 

'  I  grant  ye  your  will,'  quoth  Gawain  dying  on  the  banks.  The  hounds  fol- 
the  good;  '  if  ye  list  so  to  do,  it  liketh  me  45  lowed  swiftly  on  their  tracks,  and  hunters, 
y^Q\\;       '  blowing  the  horn,   sped  after  them  with 

'  Bring  hither  the  wine-cup,  the  bargain  ringing  shouts  as  if  the  cliffs  burst 
is  made,'  so  said  the  lord  of  that  castle,  asunder.  What  game  escaped  those  that 
They  laughed  each  one,  and  drank  of  the  shot  was  run  down  at  the  outer  ring 
wine,  and  made  merry,  these  lords  and  so  Thus  were  they  driven  on  the  hills,  and 
ladies,  as  it  pleased  them.  Then  with  gay  harassed  at  the  waters,  so  well  did  the 
talk  and  merry  jest  they  rose,  and  stood,  men  know  their  work,  and  the  greyhounds 
and  spoke  softly,  and  kissed  courteously,  were  so  great  and  swift  that  they  ran 
and  took  leave  of  each  other.  With  burn-  them  down  as  fast  as  the  hunters  could 
ing  torches,  and  many  a  serving-man,  was  55  slay  them.  Thus  the  lord  passed  the  day 
each  led  to  his  couch;  yet  ere  they  gat  in  mirth  and  joyfulness,  even  to  night- 
them  to  bed  the  old  lord  oft  repeated  their      fall. 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  lOII 

So  the  lord  roamed  the  woods,  and  since  in  this  hour  I  have  him  that  all  men 
Gawain,  that  good  knight,  lay  ever  a-bed,  love,  I  shall  use  my  time  well  with  speech, 
curtained  about,  under  the  costly  cover-  while  it  lasts.  Ye  are  welcome  to  my 
let,  while  the  daylight  gleamed  on  the  company,  for  it  behooves  me  in  sooth  to 
walls.     And  as  he  lay  half  slumbering,  he    ?  be  your  servant.' 

•heard  a  little  sound  at  the  door,  and  he  '  In     good     faith/     quoth     Gawain,     *  I 

raised  his  head,  and  caught  back  a  corner  think  me  that  I  am  not  him  of  whom  ye 
of  the  curtain,  and  waited  to  see  what  it  speak,  for  unworthy  am  I  of  such  service 
might  be.  It  was  the  lovely  lady,  the  as  ye  here  proffer.  In  sooth,  I  were  glad 
lord's  wife;  she  shut  the  door  softly  be-  ,o  if  I  might  set  myself  by  word  or  service 
hind  her,  and  turned  towards  the  bed ;  and  to  your  pleasure ;  a  pure  joy  would  it  be 
Gawain  was  shamed,  laid  him  down  softly      to  me  !  ' 

and  made  as  if  he  slept.     And  she  came  '  In  good  faith.  Sir  Gawain,'  quoth  the 

lightly  to  the  bedside,  within  the  curtain,  gay  lady,  'the  praise  and  the  prowess 
and  sat  herself  down  beside  him,  to  wait  15  that  pleases  all  ladies  I  lack  them  not, 
till  he  wakened.  The  knight  lay  there  nor  hold  them  light;  yet  are  there  ladies 
awhile,  and  marveled  within  himself  enough  who  would  liever  now  have  the 
what  her  coming  might  betoken ;  and  he  knight  in  their  hold,  as  I  have  ye  here,  to 
said  to  himself,  ' 'T  were  more  seemly  if  dally  with  your  courteous  words,  to  bring 
I  asked  her  what  hath  brought  her  hither.'  20  them  comfort  and  to  ease  their  cares, 
Then  he  made  feint  to  waken,  and  turned  than  much  of  the  treasure  and  the  gold 
towards  her,  and  opened  his  eyes  as  one  that  are  theirs.  And  now,  through  the 
astonished,  and  crossed  himself;  and  she  grace  of  Him  who  upholds  the  heavens, 
looked  on  him  laughing,  with  her  cheeks  I  have  wholly  in  my  power  that  which 
red  and  white,  lovely  to  behold,  and  small  25  they  all  desire ! ' 
smiling  lips.  Thus    the    lady,     fair    to    look    upon, 

'  Good  morrow.  Sir  Gawain,'  said  that  made  him  great  cheer,  and  Sir  Gawain, 
fair  lady;  'ye  are  but  a  careless  sleeper,  with  modest  words,  answered  her  again: 
since  one  can  enter  thus.  Now  are  ye  '  Madam,'  he  quoth,  '  may  Mary  requite 
taken  unawares,  and  lest  ye  escape  me  I  30  ye,  for  in  good  faith  I  have  found  in  ye  a 
shall  bind  you  in  your  bed;  of  that  be  ye  noble  frankness.  Much  courtesy  have 
assured ! '  Laughing,  she  spake  these  other  folk  shown  me,  but  the  honor  they 
words.  have  done  me  is  naught  to  the  worship 

'  Good  morrow,  fair  lady,'  quoth  Ga-  of  yourself,  who  knoweth  but  good.' 
wain  blithely.  '  I  will  do  your  will,  as  it  35  '  By  Mary,'  quoth  the  lady,  '  I  think 
likes  me  well.  For  I  yield  me  readily,  otherwise ;  for  were  I  worth  all  the 
and  pray  your  grace,  and  that  is  best,  by  women  alive,  and  had  I  the  wealth  of  the 
my  faith,  since  I  needs  must  do  so.'  Thus  world  in  my  hand,  and  might  choose  me 
he  jested  again,  laughing.  '  But  an  ye  a  lord  to  my  liking,  then,  for  all  that  I 
would,  fair  lady,  grant  me  this  grace  that  40  have  seen  in  ye.  Sir  Knight,  of  beauty 
ye  pray  your  prisoner  to  rise.  I  would  and  courtesy  and  blithe  semblance,  and 
get  me  from  bed,  and  array  me  better,  for  all  that  I  have  hearkened  and  hold 
then  could  I  talk  with  ye  in  more  com-  for  true,  there  should  be  no  knight  on 
fort.'  earth  to  be  chosen  before  ye.' 

'  Nay,  forsooth,  fair  sir,'  quoth  the  45  '  Well  I  wot,'  quoth  Sir  Gawain,  '  that 
lady,  '  ye  shall  not  rise,  I  will  rede  ye  ye  have  chosen  a  better ;  but  I  am  proud 
better.  I  shall  keep  ye  here,  since  ye  can  that  ye  should  so  prize  me,  and  as  your 
do  no  other,  and  talk  with  my  knight  servant  do  I  hold  ye  my  sovereign,  and 
whom  I  have  captured.  For  I  know  well  your  knight  am  I,  and  may  Christ  re- 
that   ye   are    Sir   Gawain,   whom   all   the  50  ward  ye.' 

world     worships,     wheresoever    ye     may  So    they    talked    of    many   matters    till 

ride.  Your  honor  and  your  courtesy  are  mid-morn  was  past,  and  ever  the  lady 
praised  by  lords  and  ladies,  by  all  who  made  as  though  she  loved  him,  and  the 
live.  Now  ye  are  here  and  we  are  alone,  knight  turned  her  speech  aside.  For 
my  lord  and  his  men  are  afield ;  the  serv-  55  though  she  were  the  brightest  of  maid- 
ing men  in  their  beds,  and  my  maidens  ens,  yet  had  he  forborne  to  show  her 
also,   and   the   door   shut   upon   us.     And      love  for  the  danger  that  awaited  him,  and 


IOI2  APPENDIX 


the  blow  that  must  be  given  without  dc-  quoth  the  host,  '  for  by  accord  of  cove- 
lay,  naut  ye  may  claim   it  as  your  own.' 

Then  the   lady   prayed   her   leave    from  '  That    in    sooth,'    quoth    the    other,    '  I 

liim,  and  he  granted  it  readily.  And  she  grant  you  that  same;  and  1  have  fairly 
gave  him  good-day,  with  laughing  glance,  5  won  this  within  walls,  and  with  as  good 
but  he  must  needs  marvel  at  her  words :      will   do  I  yield   it  to  ye.'     With   that  h» 

'  Now  He  that  speeds  fair  speech  re-  clasped  his  hands  round  the  lord's  neck 
ward  ye  this  disport;  but  that  ye  be  Ga-  and  kissed  him  as  courteously  as  he 
wain   my   mind   misdoubts   me   greatly.'  might.     '  Take  ye  here  my  spoils,  no  more 

'  Wherefore?  '  quoth  the  knight  quickly,  10  have    I    won;    ye    should    have    it    freely, 
fearing  lest  he  had  lacked  in  some  cour-      though   it   were   greater   than   this.' 
tesy,  '  'T  is  good,'   said  the  host,   '  gramercy 

And  the  lady  spake :  '  So  true  a  knight  thereof.  Yet  were  I  fain  to  know  where 
as  Gawain  is  holden,  and  one  so  perfect  ye  won  this  same  favor,  and  if  it  were 
in  courtesy,  would  never  have  tarried  so  15  by  your  own  wit?' 

long   with    a    lady    but    he    would    of    his  '  Nay,'    answered    Gawain,    '  that    was 

courtesy  have  craved  a  kiss  at  partmg.'      not  in  the  bond.     Ask  me  no  more:  ye 

Then  quoth  Gawain,  M  wot  I  wdl  do  have  taken  what  was  yours  by  right,  be 
even  as  it  may  please  ye,  and  kiss  at  your      content  with  that.' 

commandment,  as  a  true  knight  should  20  They  laughed  and  jested  together,  and 
who  forbears  to  ask  for  fear  of  displeas-  gat  them  down  to  supper,  where  they  were 
ure.'  served    with    many    dainties;    and    after 

At  that  she  came  near  and  bent  down  supper  they  sat  by  the  hearth,  and  wine 
and  kissed  the  knight,  and  each  com-  ^as  served  out  to  them;  and  oft  in  their 
mended  the  other  to  Christ,  and  she  went  25  jesting  they  promised  to  observe  on  the 
forth  from  the  chamber  softly.  morrow  the  same  covenant  that  they  had 

Then  Sir  Gawain  rose  and  called  his  made  before,  and  whatever  chance  might 
chamberlain  and  chose  his  garments,  and  betide,  to  exchange  their  spoil,  be  it  much 
when  he  was  ready  he  gat  him  forth  to  or  little,  when  they  met  at  night.  Thus 
Mass,  and  then  went  to  meat,  and  made  30  they  renewed  their  bargain  before  the 
merry  all  day  till  the  rising  of  the  moon,  whole  court,  and  then  the  night-drink  was 
and  never  had  a  knight  fairer  lodging  served,  and  each  courteously  took  leave  of 
than  had  he  with  those  two  noble  ladies,  the  other  and  gat  him  to  bed. 
the  elder  and  the  younger.  By  the  time  the  cock  had  crowed  thrice 

And  ever  the  lord  of  the  land  chased  35  the  lord  of  the  castle  had  left  his  bed ; 
the  hinds  through  holt  and  health  till  even-  Mass  was  sung  and  meat  fitly  served, 
tide,  and  then  with  much  blowing  of  The  folk  were  forth  to  the  wood  ere  the 
bugles  and  baying  of  hounds  they  bore  day  broke,  with  hound  and  horn  they  rode 
the  game  homeward ;  and  by  the  time  over  the  plain,  and  uncoupled  their  dogs 
daylight  was  done  all  the  folk  had  re-  40  among  the  thorns.  Soon  they  struck  on 
turned  to  that  fair  castle.  And  when  the  scent,  and  the  hunt  cheered  on  the 
the  lord  and  Sir  Gawain  met  together,  hounds  who  were  first  to  seize  it,  urging 
then  were  they  both  well  pleased.  The  them  with  shouts.  The  others  hastened 
lord  commanded  them  all  to  assemble  in  to  the  cry,  forty  at  once,  and  there  rose 
the  great  hall,  and  the  ladies  to  descend  45  such  a  clamor  from  the  pack  that  the 
with  their  maidens,  and  there,  before  rocks  rang  again.  The  huntsmen  spurred 
them  all,  he  bade  the  men  fetch  in  the  them  on  with  shouting  and  blasts  of  the 
spoil  of  the  day's  hunting,  and  he  called  horn;  and  the  hounds  drew  together  to 
unto  Gawain,  and  counted  the  tale  of  the  a  thicket  betwixt  the  water  and  a  high 
beasts,  and  showed  them  unto  him,  and  50  crag  in  the  cliff  beneath  the  hillside, 
said,  '  What  think  ye  of  this  game.  Sir  There  where  the  rough  rock  fell  ruggedly 
Knight?  Have  I  deserved  of  ye  thanks  they,  the  huntsmen,  fared  to  the  finding, 
for  my  woodcraft?'  and    cast    about    round    the    hill    and    the 

'  Yea,  I  wis,'  quoth  the  other,  '  here  is  thicket  behind  them.  The  knights  wist 
the  fairest  spoil  I  have  seen  this  seven  55  well  what  beast  was  within,  and  would 
vcar   in   the   winter   season.'  drive    him    forth    with    the    bloodhounds. 

'  And    all   this   do   I   give   ye,    Gawain,'      And    as    they    beat    the    bushes,    suddenly 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1013 

over  the  beaters  there  rushed  forth  a  may  not  be  forbid,  ye  are  strong  enough 
wondrous  great  and  fierce  boar,  long  to  constrain  by  strength  an  ye  will,  were 
since  had  he  left  the  herd  to  roam  by  any  so  discourteous  as  to  give  ye  denial.' 
himself.     Grunting,   he   cast  many   to  the  '  Yea,    by    heaven,'    said    Gawain,    '  ye 

ground,  and  fled  forth  at  his  best  speed,  5  speak  well ;  but  threats  profit  little  in  the 
without  more  mischief.  The  men  hal-  land  where  I  dwell,  and  so  with  a  gift 
looed  loudly  and  cried,  '  Hay !  Hay !  '  and  that  is  given  not  of  good  will !  I  am  at 
blew  the  horns  to  urge  on  the  hounds,  your  commandment  to  kiss  when  ye  like, 
and  rode  swiftly  after  the  boar.  Many  a  to  take  or  to  leave  as  ye  list.' 
time  did  he  turn  to  bay  and  tare  the  10  Then  the  lady  bent  her  down  and 
hounds,  and  they  yelped,  and  howled  kissed  him  courteously, 
shrilly.     Then  the  men  made  ready  their  And  as  they   spake  together   she   said, 

arrows  and  shot  at  him,  but  the  points  '  I  would  learn  somewhat  from  ve,  an  ye 
were  turned  on  his  thick  hide,  and  the  would  not  be  wroth,  for  young  ye  bare 
barbs  would  not  bite  upon  him,  for  the  15  and  fair,  and  so  courteous  and  knightly 
shafts  shivered  in  pieces,  and  the  head  as  ye  are  known  to  be,  the  head  of  all 
but  leapt  again  wherever  it  hit.  chivalry,    and    versed    in    all    wisdom    of 

But  when  the  boar  felt  the  stroke  of  love  and  war— 'tis  ever  told  of  true 
the  arrows  he  waxed  mad  with  rage,  and  knights  how  they  adventured  their  lives 
turned  on  the  hunters  and  tare  many,  so  20  for  their  true  love,  and  endured  hard- 
that,  affrightened,  they  fled  before  him.  ships  for  her  favors,  and  avenged  her 
But  the  lord  on  a  swift  steed  pursued  with  valor,  and  eased  her  sorrows,  and 
him,  blowing  his  bugle;  as  a  gallant  brought  joy  to  her  bower;  and  ye  are 
knight  he  rode  through  the  woodland  the  fairest  knight  of  your  time,  and  your 
chasnig  the  boar  till  the  sun  grew  low.      25  fame    and    your    honor    are    everywhere 

So  did  the  hunters  this  day,  while  Sir  yet  I  have  sat  by  ye  here  twice,  and  never 
Gawam  lay  in  his  bed  lapped  in  rich  a  word  have  I  heard  of  love!  Ye  who 
gear;  and  the  lady  forgat  not  to  salute  are  so  courteous  and  skilled  in  such  love 
hmi,  for  early  was  she  at  his  side,  to  cheer  ought  surely  to  teach  one  so  young  and 
his  mood.  ,  ,     ,    ,        30  unskilled  some  little  craft  of  true   love! 

She  came  to  the  bedside  and  looked  on  why  are  ye  so  unlearned  who  art  other- 
the  knight,  and  Gawain  gave  her  fit  ^j^g  so  famous?  Or  is  it  that  ye  deemed 
greeting,  and  she  greeted  him  again  with  „,£  unworthy  to  hearken  to  your  teach- 
ready  words,  and  sat  her  by  his  side  and  i„gp  por  shame.  Sir  Knight!  I  come 
laughed,  and  with  a  sweet  look  she  spoke  3s  hither  alone  and  sit  at  your  side  to  learn 
to  him:  Qf  yg  some  skill;   teach  me  of  your  wit, 

'  Sir,    if   ye    be    Gawain,    I    think    it    a      while  my  lord  is  from  home." 
wonder  that  ye  be  so  stern  and  cold,  and  •  !„  good  faith,'  quoth  Gawain,  '  is  my 

care  not  for  the  courtesies  of  friendship,  joy  and  my  profit  that  so  fair  a  lady  as 
but  if  one  teach  ye  to  know  them  ye  cast  4o  y^  ^re  should  deign  to  come  hither,  and 
the  lesson  out  ot  your  mind.  Ye  have  trouble  ye  with  so  poor  a  man,  and  make 
soon  forgotten  what  I  taught  ye  yester-  sport  with  your  knight  with  kindlv 
day,  by  all  the  truest  tokens  that  I  countenance,  it  pleaseth  me  much.  But 
^"^^^  •  that   I,   in  my  turn,   should   take   it   upon 

'  What  is  that  ?  '  quoth  the  knight.  45  me  to  tell  of  love  and  such  like  matters 
'  I  trow  I  know  not.  If  it  be  sooth  that  to  ye  who  know  more  by  half,  or  a  hun- 
ye  say,  then  is  the  blame  mine  own.'  dred  fold,  of  such  craft  than  I  do,  or  ever 

'  But  I  taught  ye  of  kissing,'  quoth  the  shall  in  all  my  lifetime,  by  my  troth 
fair  lady.  '  Wherever  a  fair  countenance  't  were  folly  indeed  !  I  will  work  your 
is  shown  him,  it  behooves  a  courteous  50  will  to  the  best  of  my  might  as  I  am 
knight  quickly  to  claim  a  kiss.'  bounden,    and    evermore    will    I    be    your 

'  Nay,     my     dear,'     said     Sir     Gawain,      servant,  so  help  me  Christ !  ' 
'cease   that   speech;   that   durst   I   not  do  Then   often    with   guile    she   questioned 

lest  I  were  denied,  for  if  I  were  forbidden  that  knight  that  she  might  win  him  to 
I  wot  I  were  wrong  did  I  furtlier  en-  55  woo  her,  but  he  defended  himself  so  fairly 
^^*^^^-  that  none  might  in  any  wise  blame  him, 

'  r   faith,'  quoth   the   lady   merrily,   '  ye      and  naught  but  bliss  aiid  harmless  jesting 


I0I4  APPENDIX 


was  there  between  them.  They  laughed  them  the  tale,  how  they  hunted  the  wild 
and  talked  together  till  at  last  she  kissed  boar  through  the  woods,  and  of  his  length 
him,  and  craved  her  leave  uf  him,  and  and  breadth  and  height;  and  Sir  CJawain 
went  her  way.  conunended  his  deeds  and  praised  him  for 

Then   the   knight   rose   and    went    forth    5  his   valor,   well   proven,    for   so   mighty   a 
to  Mass,  and  afterward  dinner  was  served      beast  had  he  never  seen  before, 
and  he  sat  and  spake  with  the  ladies  all  Then  they  handled  the  huge  head,  and 

day.  But  the  lord  of  the  castle  rode  ever  the  lord  said  aloud,  '  Now,  Gawain,  this 
over  the  land  chasing  the  wild  boar,  that  game  is  your  own  by  sure  covenant,  as  ye 
fled  through  the  thickets,  slaying  the  best  10  right  well  know.' 

of  his  hounds  and  breaking  their  backs  in  '  'T  is    sooth,'    quoth    the    knight,    '  and 

sunder;  till  at  last  he  was  so  weary  he  as  truly  will  I  give  ye  all  I  have  gained.' 
might  run  no  longer,  but  made  for  a  hole  He  took  the  host  round  the  neck,  and 
in  a  mound  by  a  rock.  He  got  the  mound  kissed  him  courteously  twice.  '  Now  are 
at  his  back  and  faced  the  hounds,  whetting  15  we  quits,"  he  said,  '  this  eventide,  of  all 
his  white  tusks  and  foaming  at  the  mouth.  the  covenants  that  we  made  since  I  came 
The    huntsmen    stood    aloof,    fearing    to      hither.' 

draw    nigh   him ;    so   many    of   them    had  And  the  lord  answered,  '  By  Saint  Giles, 

been  already  wounded  that  they  were  ye  are  the  best  I  know;  ye  will  be  rich 
loath  to  be  torn  with  his  tusks,  so  fierce  20  in  a  short  space  if  ye  drive  such  bar- 
he   was   and   mad   with    rage.     At   length      gains !  ' 

the   lord   himself   came   up,   and   saw   the  Then  they  set  up  the  tables  on  trestles, 

beast  at  bay,  and  the  men  standing  aloof.  and  covered  them  with  fair  cloths,  and 
Then  quickly  he  sprang  to  the  ground  and  lit  waxen  tapers  on  the  walls.  The 
drew  out  a  bright  blade,  and  waded  25  knights  sat  and  were  served  in  the  hall, 
through  the  stream  to  the  boar.  and  much  game  and  glee  was  there  round 

When  the  beast  was  aware  of  the  the  hearth,  with  many  songs,  both  at 
knight  with  weapon  in  hand,  he  set  up  supper  and  after;  song  of  Christmas,  and 
his  bristles  and  snorted  loudly,  and  many  new  carols,  with  all  the  mirth  one  may 
feared  for  their  lord  lest  he  should  be  30  think  of.  And  ever  that  lovely  lady  sat 
slain.  Then  the  boar  leapt  upon  the  by  the  knight,  and  with  still  stolen  looks 
knight  so  that  beast  and  man  were  one  made  such  feint  of  pleasing  him,  that 
atop  of  the  other  in  the  water;  but  the  Gawain  marveled  much,  and  was  wroth 
boar  had  the  worst  of  it,  for  the  man  had  with  himself,  but  he  could  not  for  his 
marked,  even  as  he  sprang,  and  set  the  35  courtesy  return  her  fair  glances,  but 
point  of  his  brand  to  the  beast's  chest,  dealt  with  her  cunningly,  however  she 
and  drove  it  up  to  the  hilt,  so  that  the  might  strive  to  wrest  the  thing, 
heart   was    split    in   twain,    and   the    boar  When   they  had   tarried   in  the  hall  so 

fell  snarling,  and  was  swept  down  by  long  as  it  seemed  them  good,  they  turned 
the  water  to  where  a  hundred  hounds  40  to  the  inner  chamber  and  the  wide  hearth- 
seized  on  him,  and  the  men  drew  him  place,  and  there  they  drank  wine,  and  the 
to  shore  for  the  dogs  to  slay.  host  proffered  to  renew  the  covenant  for 

Then  was  there  loud  blowing  of  horns  New  Year's  Eve ;  but  the  knight  craved 
and  baying  of  hounds,  the  huntsmen  leave  to  depart  on  the  morrow,  for  it  was 
smote  off  the  boar's  head,  and  hung  the  45  nigh  to  the  term  when  must  fulfil  his 
carcass  by  the  four  feet  to  a  stout  pole,  pledge.  But  the  lord  would  withhold  him 
and  so  went  on  their  way  homewards.  from  so  doing,  and  prayed  him  to  tarry. 
The  head  they  bore  before  the  lord  him-      and  said, 

self,  who  had  slain  the  beast  at  the  ford  '  As   I   am   a   true   knight   I   swear   my 

by  force  of  his  strong  hand.  50  troth    that    ye    shall    come    to    the    Green 

It  seemed  him  o'er  long  ere  he  saw  Sir  Chapel  to  achieve  your  task  on  New 
Gawain  in  the  hall,  and  he  called,  and  Year's  morn,  long  before  prime.  There- 
the  guest  came  to  take  that  which  fell  to  fore  abide  ye  in  your  bed,  and  I  will  hunt 
his  share.  And  when  he  saw  Gawain  the  in  this  wood,  and  hold  ye  to  the  cove- 
lord  laughed  aloud,  and  bade  them  call  S5  nant  to  exchange  with  me  against  all  the 
the  ladies  and  the  household  together,  spoil  I  may  bring  hither.  For  twice  have 
and  he  showed  them   the  game,   and  told      I    tried   ye,   and    found   ye    true,    and   the 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1015 

morrow  shall  be  the  third  time  and  the  of  twenty  together.  Thus  she  came  into 
best.  Make  we  merry  now  while  we  the  chamber,  closed  the  door  after  her. 
may,  and  think  on  joy,  for  misfortune  and  set  open  a  window,  and  called  to  him 
may  take  a   man   whensoever   it  wills.'  gaily,    'Sir   Knight,    how   may   ye    sleep? 

Then  Gawain  granted  his  request,  and    5  The  morning  is  so  fair.' 
they   brought    them    drink,    and   they    gat  Sir  Gawain  was  deep  in  slumber,  and 

them  with  lights  to  bed.  in    his    dream    he    vexed    him    much    for 

Sir  Gawain  lay  and  slept  softly,  but  the  the  destiny  that  should  befall  him  on  the 
lord,  who  was  keen  on  woodcraft,  was  morrow,  when  he  should  meet  the  knight 
afoot  early.  After  Mass  he  and  his  men  10  at  the  Green  Chapel,  and  abide  his  blow; 
ate  a  morsel,  and  he  asked  for  his  but  when  the  lady  spake  he  heard  her, 
steed;  all  the  knights  who  should  ride  and  came  to  himself,  and  roused  from  his 
with  him  were  already  mounted  before  dream  and  answered  swiftly.  The  lady 
the  hall  gates.  came    laughing,    and    kissed    him    courte- 

'T  was  a  fair  frosty  morning,  for  the  15  ously,  and  he  welcomed  her  fittingly  with 
sun  rose  red  in  ruddy  vapor,  and  the  a  cheerful  countenance.  He  saw  her  so 
welkin  was  clear  of  clouds.  The  hunters  glorious  and  gaily  dressed,  so  faultless 
scattered  them  by  a  forest  side,  and  the  of  features  and  complexion,  that  it 
rocks  rang  again  with  the  blast  of  their  warmed  his  heart  to  look  upon  her. 
horns.  Some  came  on  the  scent  of  a  fox,  20  They  spake  to  each  other  smiling,  and 
and  a  hound  gave  tongue ;  the  huntsmen  all  was  bliss  and  good  cheer  between 
shouted,  and  the  pack  followed  in  a  crowd  them.  They  exchanged  fair  words,  and 
on  the  trail.  The  fox  ran  before  them,  much  happiness  was  therein,  yet  was 
and  when  they  saw  him  they  pursued  him  there  a  gulf  between  them,  and  she  might 
with  noise  and  much  shouting,  and  he  2,  win  no  more  of  her  knight,  for  that  gal- 
wound  and  turned  through  many  a  thick  lant  prince  watched  well  his  w^ords  — 
grove,  often  cowering  and  hearkening  in  he  would  neither  take  her  love,  nor 
a  hedge.  At  last  by  a  little  ditch  he  frankly  refuse  it.  He  cared  for  his 
leapt  out  of  a  spinney,  stole  away  slily  courtesy,  lest  he  be  deemed  churlish,  and 
by  a  copse  path,  and  so  out  of  the  wood  3°  yet  more  for  his  honor  lest  he  be  traitor 
and  away  from  the  hounds.  But  he  went,  to  his  host.  '  God  forbid,'  quoth  he  to 
ere  he  wist,  to  a  chosen  tryst,  and  three  himself,  '  that  it  should  so  befall.'  Thus 
started  forth  on  him  at  once,  so  he  must  with  courteous  words  did  he  set  aside  all 
needs  double  back,  and  betake  him  to  the  the  special  speeches  that  came  from  her 
wood  again.  35  lips. 

Then  was  it  joyful  to  hearken  to  the  Then  spake  the  lady  to  the  knight,  '  Ye 

hounds;  when  all  the  pack  had  met  to-  deserve  blame  if  ye  hold  not  that  lady 
gether  and  had  sight  of  their  game  they  who  sits  beside  ye  above  all  else  in  the 
made  as  loud  a  din  as  if  all  the  lofty  world,  if  ye  have  not  already  a  love 
cliffs  had  fallen  clattering  together.  The  40  whom  ye  hold  dearer,  and  like  better,  and 
huntsmen  shouted  and  threatened,  and  have  sworn  such  firm  faith  to  that  lady 
followed  close  upon  him  so  that  he  might  that  ye  care  not  to  loose  it  —  and  that 
scarce  escape,  but  Reynard  was  wily,  and  am  I  now  fain  to  believe.  And  now  I 
he  turned  and  doubled  upon  them,  and  pray  ye  straitly  that  ye  tell  me  that  in 
led  the  lord  and  his  men  over  the  hills,  45  truth,  and  hide  it  not.' 
now    on    the    slopes,    now    in    the    vales,  And    the    knight    answered,    '  By    Saint 

while  the  knight  at  home  slept  through  John'  (and  he  smiled  as  he  spake)  'no 
the  cold  morning  beneath  his  costly  cur-  such  love  have  I,  nor  do  I  think  to  have 
tains.  yet   awhile.' 

But  the  fair  lady  of  the  castle  rose  50  '  That  is  the  worst  word  I  may  hear,' 
betimes,  and  clad  herself  in  a  rich  mantle  quoth  the  lady,  '  but  in  sooth  I  have  mine 
that  reached  even  to  the  ground,  left  her  answer;  kiss  me  now  courteously,  and  I 
throat  and  her  fair  neck  bare,  and  was  will  go  hence ;  I  can  but  mourn  as  a 
bordered  and  lined  with  costly  furs.  On  maiden  that  loves  much.' 
her  head  she  wore  no  golden  circlet,  but  a  55  Sighing,  she  stooped  down  and  kissed 
network  of  precious  stones,  that  gleamed  him,  and  then  she  rose  up  and  spake  as 
and  shone  through  her  tresses  in  clusters      she  stood,  '  Now,  dear,  at  our  parting  do 


ioi6  APPENDIX 


me  this  grace:  give  me  some  gift,  if  it  tue  that  is  knit  therein  he  would,  per- 
were  but  thy  glove,  that  I  may  bethink  adventure,  value  it  more  highly.  For 
mc  of  my  knight,  and  lessen  my  mourn-  whatever  knight  is  girded  with  this  green 
ing.'  lace,  while  he  bears  it  knotted  about  him 

'  Now,  1  wis,'  quoth  the  knight,  '  I  5  there  is  no  man  under  heaven  can  over- 
would  that  I  had  here  the  most  precious  come  him,  for  he  may  not  be  slain  for 
thing  that  I  possess  on  earth  that  I  might      any  magic  on  earth.' 

leave  ye  as  love-token,  great  or  small,  for  Then    Gawain    bethought    him,    and    it 

ye  have  deserved  forsooth  more  reward  came  into  his  heart  that  this  were  a  jewel 
than  I  might  give  ye.  But  it  is  not  to  10  for  the  jeopardy  that  awaited  him  when 
your  honor  to  have  at  this  time  a  glove  he  came  to  the  Green  Chapel  to  seek  the 
for  reward  as  gift  from  Gawain,  and  I  return  blow  —  could  he  so  order  it  that 
am  here  on  a  strange  errand,  and  have  no  he  should  escape  unslain,  't  were  a  craft 
man  with  me,  nor  mails  with  goodly  worth  trying.  Then  he  bare  with  her 
things  —  that  mislikes  me  much,  lady,  at  15  chiding,  and  let  her  say  her  say,  and  she 
this  time ;  but  each  man  must  fare  as  he  pressed  the  girdle  on  him  and  prayed 
is  taken,  if  for  sorrow  and  ill.'  him  to  take  it,  and  he  granted  her  prayer, 

'  Nay,  knight  highly  honored,'  quoth  and  she  gave  it  him  with  good  will,  and 
that  lovesome  lady,  '  though  I  have  besought  him  for  her  sake  never  to  re- 
naught  of  yours,  yet  shall  ye  have  some-  20  ^al  it  but  to  hide  it  loyally  from  her 
what  of  mine.'  With  that  she  reached  lord ;  and  the  knight  agreed  that  never 
him  a  ring  of  red  gold  with  a  sparkling  should  any  man  know  it,  save  they  two 
stone  therein,  that  shone  even  as  the  sun  alone.  He  thanked  her  often  and  heart- 
(wit  ye  well,  it  was  worth  many  marks)  ;  ily,  and  she  kissed  him  for  the  third 
but  the  knight  refused  it,  and  spake  25  time, 
readily,  Then  she  took  her  leave  of  him,  and 

'  I  will  take  no  gift,  lady,  at  this  time.  when  she  was  gone  Sir  Gawain  rose, 
I  have  none  to  give,  and  none  will  I  and  clad  him  in  rich  attire,  and  took  the 
take.'  girdle,    and    knotted    it    round    him,    and 

She  prayed  him  to  take  it,  but  he  re-  30  hid  it  beneath  his  robes.  Then  he  took 
fused  her  prayer,  and  sware  in  sooth  that  his  way  to  the  chapel,  and  sought  out  a 
he  would  not  have  it.  priest    privily    and    prayed    him    to    teach 

The  lady  was  sorely  vexed,  and  said,  him  better  how  his  soul  might  be  saved 
'If  ye  refuse  my  ring  as  too  costly,  that  when  he  should  go  hence;  and  there  he 
ye  will  not  be  so  highly  beholden  to  me,  35  shrived  him,  and  showed  his  misdeeds, 
I  will  give  you  my  girdle  as  a  lesser  gift.'  both  great  and  small,  and  besought  mercy 
With  that  she  loosened  a  lace  that  was  and  craved  absolution;  and  the  priest  as- 
fastened  at  her  side,  knit  upon  her  kirtle  soiled  him,  and  set  him  as  clean  as  if 
under  her  mantle.  It  was  wrought  of  doomsday  had  been  on  the  morrow.  And 
green  silk,  and  gold,  only  braided  by  the  40  afterwards  Sir  Gawain  made  him  merry 
fingers,  and  that  she  offered  to  the  knight,  with  the  ladies,  with  carols,  and  all  kinds 
and  besought  him  though  it  were  of  little  of  joy,  as  never  he  did  but  that  one  day, 
worth  that  he  would  take  it,  and  he  said  even  to  nightfall;  and  all  the  men  mar- 
nay,  he  would  touch  neither  gold  nor  gear  veled  at  him,  and  said  that  never  since 
ere  God  give  him  grace  to  achieve  the  45  he  came  thither  had  he  been  so  merry, 
adventure  for  which  he  had  come  hither.  Meanwhile   the   lord  of  the   castle   was 

'And  therefore,  I  pray  ye,  displease  ye  abroad  chasing  the  fox;  awhile  he  lost 
not,  and  ask  me  no  longer,  for  I  may  not  him,  and  as  he  rode  through  a  spinney  he 
grant  it.  I  am  dearly  beholden  to  ye  for  heard  the  hounds  near  at  hand,  and  Rey- 
the  favor  ye  have  shown  me,  and  ever,  in  S°  nard  came  creeping  through  a  thick 
heat  and  cold,  will  I  be  your  true  serv-  grove,  with  all  the  pack  at  his  heels, 
ant.'  Then  the  lord  drew  out  his  shining  brand, 

'Now,'  said  the  lady,  'ye  refuse  this  and  cast  it  at  the  beast,  and  the  fox 
silk,  for  it  is  simple  in  itself,  and  so  it  swerved  aside  for  the  sharp  edge,  and 
seems,  indeed;  lo,  it  is  small  to  look  upon  55  would  have  doubled  back,  but  a  hound 
and  less  in  cost,  but  whoso  knew  the  vir-      was  on  him  ere  he  might  turn,  and  right 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT 1017 

before   the   horse's   feet   they   all   fell   on      took  his   leave  of  the  lord,  and  thanked 

him,    and    worried   him   fiercely,    snarling      him  fairly. 

the  while.  '  For  the  fair  sojourn  that  I  have  had 

Then  the  lord  leapt  from  his  saddle,  here  at  this  high  feast  may  the  High  King 
and  caught  the  fox  from  the  jaws,  and  5  give  ye  honor.  I  give  ye  myself,  as  one 
held  it  aloft  over  his  head,  and  hallooed  of  your  servants,  if  ye  so  like;  for  I  must 
loudly,  and  many  brave  hounds  bayed  as  needs,  as  you  know,  go  hence  with  the 
they  beheld  it;  and  the  hunters  hied  them  morn,  and  ye  will  give  me,  as  ye  prom- 
thither,  blowing  their  horns;  all  that  bare  ised,  a  guide  to  show  me  the  way  to  the 
bugles  blew  them  at  once,  and  all  the  10  Green  Chapel,  an  God  will  suffer  me  on 
others  shouted.  'T  was  the  merriest  New  Year's  Day  to  deal  the  doom  of 
meeting  that  ever  men  heard,  the  clamor      my  weird.' 

that  was  raised  at  the  death  of  the  fox.  '  By    my    faith,'    quoth    the    host,    '  all 

They  rewarded  the  hounds,  stroking  them  that  ever  I  promised,  that  shall  I  keep 
and  rubbing  their  heads,  and  took  Key- 15  with  good  will.'  Then  he  gave  him  a 
nard  and  stripped  him  of  his  coat ;  then  servant  to  set  him  in  the  way,  and  lead 
blowing  their  horns,  they  turned  them  him  by  the  downs,  that  he  should  have  no 
homewards,  for  it  was  nigh  nightfall.  need  to  ford  the  stream,  and  should  fare 

The  lord  was  gladsome  at  his  return,  by  the  shortest  road  through  the  groves; 
and  found  a  bright  fire  on  the  hearth,  20  and  Gawain  thanked  the  lord  for  the 
and  the  knight  beside  it,  the  good  Sir  honor  done  him.  Then  he  would  take 
Gawain,  who  was  in  joyous  mood  for  the  leave  of  the  ladies,  and  courteously  he 
pleasure  he  had  had  with  the  ladies.  He  kissed  them,  and  spake,  praying  them  to  re- 
wore  a  robe  of  blue,  that  reached  even  to  ceive  his  thanks,  and  they  made  like  reply ; 
the  ground,  and  a  surcoat  richly  furred,  25  then  with  many  sighs  they  commended 
that  became  him  well.  A  hood  like  to  him  to  Christ,  and  he  departed  courte- 
the  surcoat  fell  on  his  shoulders,  and  all  ously  from  that  fold.  Each  man  that  he 
alike  were  done  about  with  fur.  He  met  met  he  thanked  him  for  his  service  and 
the  host  in  the  midst  of  the  floor,  and  his  solace,  and  the  pains  he  had  been  at 
jesting,  he  greeted  him,  and  said,  '  Now  30  to  do  his  will ;  and  each  found  it  as  hard 
shall  I  be  first  to  fulfil  our  covenant  which  to  part  from  the  knight  as  if  he  had  ever 
we  made  together  when  there  was  no  lack      dwelt  with  him. 

of  wine.'     Then  he  embraced  the  knight.  Then  they  led  him  with  torches  to  his 

and  kissed  him  thrice,  as  solemnly  as  he  chamber,  and  brought  him  to  his  bed  to 
might.  35  rest.     That   he   slept   soundly   I   may   not 

*  Of  a  sooth,'  quoth  the  other,  *  ye  say,  for  the  morrow  gave  him  much  to 
have  good  luck  in  the  matter  of  this  think  on.  Let  him  rest  awhile,  for  he 
covenant,  if  ye  made  a  good  exchange  !  '      was  near  that  which  he  sought,  and  if  ye 

'  Yet,    it    matters    naught    of    the    ex-      will  but  listen  to  me  I  will  tell  ye  how  it 
change,'    quoth    Gawain,    '  since    what    I  40  fared  with   him  thereafter. 
owe  is  swiftly  paid.' 

*  Marry,'     said     the     other,     '  mine     is  ^^ 

behind,  for  I  have  hunted  all  this  day,  Now  the  New  Year  drew  nigh,  and  the 
and  naught  have  I  got  but  this  foul  fox-  night  passed,  and  the  day  chased  the 
skm,  and  that  is  but  poor  payment  for 45  darkness,  as  is  God's  will;  but  wild 
three  such  kisses  as  ye  have  here  given  weather  wakened  therewith.  The  clouds 
"i^-'  cast  the  cold  to  the  earth,   with  enough 

'  Enough,  quoth  Sir  Gawain,  '  I  thank  of  the  north  to  slay  them  that  lacked 
ye,   by   the   Rood.'  clothing.     The   snow   drave   smartly,   and 

Then  the  lord  told  them  of  his  hunting,  50  the  whistling  wind  blew  from  the  heights, 
and  how  the  fox  had  been  slain.  and    made    great    drifts    in    the    valleys. 

With  mirth  and  minstrelsy,  and  dainties      The  knight,  lying  in  his  bed,  listened,  for 
at  their  will,  they  made  them  as  merry  as      though  his  eyes  were  shut,  he  might  sleep 
a  folk  well  might  till  't  was  time  for  them     but  Httle,  and  hearkened  every  cock  that 
to  sever,   for  at  last  they  must  needs  be-  55  crew, 
take  them  to  their  beds.     Then  the  knight         He  arose  ere  the  day  broke,  by  the  light 


ioi8  APPENDIX 


of  a  lamp  that  burned  in  his  chamber,  may  he  give  it  ever  good  fortune.'  Then 
and  called  to  his  chamberlain,  bidding  the  drawbridge  was  let  down,  and  the 
him  bring  his  armor  and  saddle  his  steed.  broad  gates  unbarred  and  oi)ened  on  both 
The  other  gat  him  up,  and  fetched  his  sides;  the  knight  crossed  himself,  and 
garments,  and  robed  Sir  Gawain.  5  passed  through  the  gateway,  and  praised 

First  he  clad  him  in  his  clothes  to  keep  the  porter,  who  knelt  before  the  prince, 
off  the  cold,  and  then  in  his  harness,  and  gave  him  good-day,  and  commended 
which  was  well  and  fairly  kept.  Both  him  to  God.  Thus  the  knight  went  on 
hauberk  and  plates  were  well  burnished,  his  way  with  the  one  man  who  should 
the  rings  of  the  rich  byrnie  freed  from  lo  guide  him  to  that  dread  place  where  he 
rust,  and  all  as  fresh  as  at  first,  so  that  should  receive  rueful  payment, 
the  knight  was  fain  to  thank  them.     Then  The    two    went    by    hedges    where    the 

he  did  on  each  piece,  and  bade  them  bring  boughs  were  bare,  and  climbed  the  cliffs 
his  steed,  while  he  put  the  fairest  raiment  where  the  cold  clings.  Naught  fell  from 
on  himself;  his  coat  with  its  fair  cogni- 15  the  heavens,  but  'twas  ill  beneath  them; 
zance,  adorned  with  precious  stones  upon  mist  brooded  over  the  moor  and  hung  on 
velvet,  with  broidered  seams,  and  all  fur-  the  mountains;  each  hill  had  a  cap,  a 
red  within  with  costly  skins.  And  he  left  great  cloak,  of  mist.  The  streams  foamed 
not  the  lace,  the  lady's  gift,  that  Gawain  and  bubbled  between  their  banks,  dashing 
forgot  not,  for  his  own  good.  When  he  20  sparkling  on  the  shores  where  they 
had  girded  on  his  sword  he  wrapped  the  shelved  downwards.  Rugged  and  dan- 
gift  twice  about  him,  swathed  around  his  gerous  was  the  way  through  the  woods, 
waist.  The  girdle  of  green  silk  set  gaily  till  it  was  time  for  the  sun-rising.  Then 
and  well  upon  the  royal  red  cloth,  rich  were  they  on  a  high  hill;  the  snow  lay 
to  behold,  but  the  knight  ware  it  not  for  25  white  beside  them,  and  the  man  who  rode 
pride  of  the  pendants,  polished  though  with  Gawain  drew  rein  by  his  master, 
they   were   with    fair   gold   that   gleamed  *  Sir,'    he    said,    '  I    have    brought    ye 

brightly  on  the  ends,  but  to  save  himself  hither,  and  now  ye  are  not  far  from  the 
from  sword  and  knife,  when  it  behooved  place  that  ye  have  sought  so  specially, 
him  to  abide  his  hurt  without  question.  30  But  I  will  tell  ye  for  sooth,  since  I  know 
With  that  the  hero  went  forth,  and  ye  well,  and  ye  are  such  a  knight  as  I 
thanked   that  kindly   folk   full   often.  well  love,  would  ye  follow  my  counsel  ye 

Then  was  Gringalet  ready,  that  was  would  fare  the  better.  The  place  whither 
great  and  strong,  and  had  been  well  cared  ye  go  is  accounted  full  perilous,  for  he 
for  and  tended  in  every  wise ;  in  fair  con-  35  who  liveth  in  that  waste  is  the  worst  on 
dition  was  that  proud  steed,  and  fit  for  a  earth,  for  he  is  strong  and  fierce;  and 
journey.  Then  Gawain  went  to  him,  and  loveth  to  deal  mighty  blows;  taller  he  is 
looked  on  his  coat,  and  said  by  his  sooth,  than  any  man  on  earth,  and  greater  of 
'  There  is  a  folk  in  this  place  that  think-  frame  than  any  four  in  Arthur's  court, 
eth  on  honor;  much  joy  may  they  have,  40  or  in  any  other.  And  this  is  his  custom 
and  the  lord  who  maintains  them,  and  at  the  Green  Chapel ;  there  may  no  man 
may  all  good  betide  that  lovely  lady  all  pass  by  that  place,  however  proud  his 
her  life  long.  Since  they  for  charity  arms,  but  he  does  him  to  death  by  force 
cherish  a  guest,  and  hold  honor  in  their  of  his  hand,  for  he  is  a  discourteous 
hands,  may  he  who  holds  the  heaven  on  45  knight,  and  shows  no  mercy.  Be  he 
high  requite  them,  and  also  ye  all.  And  churl  or  chaplain  who  rides  by  that 
if  I  might  live  any  while  on  earth,  I  would  chapel,  monk  or  mass-priest,  or  any  man 
give  ye  full  reward,  readily,  if  so  I  else,  he  thinks  it  as  pleasant  to  slay  them 
might.'  Then  he  set  foot  in  the  stirrup  as  to  pass  alive  himself.  Therefore,  I 
and  bestrode  his  steed,  and  his  squire  50  tell  ye,  as  sooth  as  ye  sit  in  saddle,  if 
gave  him  his  shield,  which  he  laid  on  his  ye  come  there  and  that  knight  know  it, 
shoulder.  Then  he  smote  Gringalet  with  ye  shall  be  slain,  though  ye  had  twenty 
his  golden  spurs,  and  the  steed  pranced  lives;  trow  me  that  truly!  He  has 
on  the  stones  and  would  stand  no  longer,      dwelt   here    full    long   and    seen    many   a 

By  that  his  man  was  mounted,  who  55  combat ;  ye  may  not  defend  ye  against 
bare  his  spear  and  lance,  and  Gawain  his  blows.  Therefore,  good  Sir  Gawain, 
quoth,  '  I   commend  this  castle  to  Christ,      let   the   man   be,   and   get   ye   away   some 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1019 

other  road;  for  God's  sake  seek  ye  an-  of  land  by  a  bank  beside  the  stream 
other  land,  and  there  may  Christ  speed  where  it  ran  swiftly;  the  water  bubbled 
ye !  And  I  will  hie  me  home  again,  and  within  as  if  boiling.  The  knight  turned 
I  promise  ye  further  that  I  will  swear  by  his  steed  to  the  mound,  and  lighted  down 
God  and  the  saints,  or  any  other  oath  ye  5  and  tied  the  rein  to  the  branch  of  a  lin- 
please,  that  I  will  keep  counsel  faithfully,  den ;  and  he  turned  to  the  mound  and 
and  never  let  any  wit  the  tale  that  ye  walked  round  it,  questioning  with  him- 
fied  for  fear  of  any  man.'  self  what  it  might  be.     It  had  a  hole  at 

'  Gramercy,'  quoth  Gawain,  but  ill-  the  end  and  at  either  side,  and  was  over- 
pleased.  '  Good  fortune  be  his  who  10  grown  with  clumps  of  grass,  and  it  was 
wishes  me  good,  and  that  thou  wouldst  hollow  within  as  an  old  cave  or  the  crev- 
keep  faith  with  me  I  will  believe;  but  ice  of  a  crag;  he  knew  not  what  it  might 
didst   thou   keep   it   never   so   truly,    an   I      be. 

passed  here  and  fled  for  fear  as  thou  say-  '  Ah,'  quoth  Gawain,  '  can  this  be  the 

est,  then  were  I  a  coward  knight,  and  is  Green  Chapel  ?  Here  might  the  devil 
might  not  be  held  guiltless.  So  I  will  to  say  his  matins  at  midnight!  Now  I  wis 
the  chapel  let  chance  what  may,  and  talk  there  is  wizardry  here.  'T  is  an  ugly 
with  that  man,  even  as  I  may  list,  oratory,  all  overgrown  with  grass,  and 
whether  for  weal  or  for  woe  as  fate  may  't  would  well  beseem  that  fellow  in  green 
have  it.  Fierce  though  he  may  be  in  20  to  say  his  devotions  on  devil's  wise, 
fight,  yet  God  knoweth  well  how  to  save  Now  feel  I  in  five  wits,  'tis  the  foul 
his  servants.'  fiend  himself  who  hath  set  me  this  tryst, 

'  Well,'  quoth  the  other,  '  now  that  ye      to  destroy  me  here  !     This  is  a  chapel  of 
have  said  so  much  that  ye  will  take  your      mischance :     ill-luck     betide     it,     't  is    the 
own  harm  on  yourself,  and  ye  be  pleased  25  cursedest  kirk  that  ever  I  came  in ! ' 
to  lose  your  life,   I  will   neither  let  nor  Helmet  on  head  and  lance  in  hand,  he 

keep  ye.  Have  here  your  helm  and  the  came  up  to  the  rough  dwelling,  when  he 
spear  in  your  hand,  and  ride  down  this  heard  over  the  high  hill  beyond  the  brook, 
same  road  beside  the  rock  till  ye  come  as  it  were  in  a  bank,  a  wondrous  fierce 
to  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  and  there  30  noise,  that  rang  in  the  cliff  as  if  it  would 
look  a  little  to  the  left  hand,  and  ye  shall  cleave  asunder.  'T  was  as  if  one  ground 
see  in  that  vale  the  chapel,  and  the  grim  a  scythe  on  a  grindstone,  it  whirred  and 
man  who  keeps  it.  Now  fare  ye  well,  whetted  like  water  on  a  mill-wheel  and 
noble  Gawain;  for  all  the  gold  on  earth  rushed  and  rang,  terrible  to  hear. 
I  would  not  go  with  ye  nor  bear  ye  35  '  By  God,'  quoth  Gawain,  '  I  trow 
fellowship  one  step  further.'  With  that  that  gear  is  preparing  for  the  knight  who 
the  man  turned  his  bridle  into  the  wood,  will  meet  me  here.  Alas!  naught  may 
smote  the  horse  with  his  spurs  as  hard  help  me,  yet  should  my  life  be  forfeit,  I 
as  he  could,  and  galloped  off,  leaving  the  fear  not  a  jot ! '  With  that  he  called 
knight  alone.  40  aloud.     'Who    waiteth    in    this    place  "to 

Quoth  Gawain,  'I  will  neither  greet  give  me  tryst.  Now  is  Gawain  come 
nor  moan,  but  commend  myself  to  God,  hither:  if  any  man  will  aught  of  him  let 
and  yield  me  to  his  will.'  him  hasten  hither  now  or  never.' 

Then  the  knight  spurred  Gringalet,  and  '  Stay,'   quoth   one   on   the   bank   above 

rode  adown  the  path  close  in  by  a  bank  45  his  head,  '  and  ye  shall  speedily  have  that 
beside  a  grove.  So  he  rode  through  the  which  I  promised  ye.'  Yet  for  a  while 
rough  thicket,  right  into  the  dale,  and  the  noise  of  whetting  went  on  ere  he 
there  he  halted,  for  it  seemed  him  wild  appeared,  and  then  he  came  forth  from  a 
enough.  No  sign  of  a  chapel  could  he  cave  in  the  crag  with  a  fell  weapon,  a 
see,  but  high  and  burnt  banks  on  either  50  Danish  axe  newly  dight,  wherewith  to 
side  and  rough  rugged  crags  with  great  deal  the  blow.  An  evil  head  it  had,  four 
stones  above.  An  ill-looking  place  he  feet  large,  no  less,  sharply  ground,  and 
thought  it.  bound    to    the    handle    by    the    lace    that 

Then  he  drew  in  his  horse  and  looked  gleamed  brightly.  And  the  knight  him- 
round  to  seek  the  chapel,  but  he  saw  55  self  was  all  green  as  before,  face  and 
none  and  thought  it  strange.  Then  he  foot,  locks  and  beard,  but  now  he  was 
saw  as  it  were  a  mound  on  a  level  space      afoot.     When   he   came   to  the   water   he 


APPENDIX 


would  not  wade  it,  but  spran<^  over  with  do  it  out  of  hand,  for  I  will  stand  thee 
the  pole  of  his  axe,  ami  strode  boldly  over  a  stroke  and  move  no  more  till  thine  axe 
the  bent  that  was  white  with  snow.  have    hit   me  —  my    truth    on    it.' 

Sir  Gawain  went   to  meet  him,  but  he  '  Have   at  thee,  then,'  quoth  the  other, 

made  no  low  bow.     The  other  said,  '  Now,    5  and  heaved  aloft  the  axe  with  fierce  mien, 
fair  sir,  one  may  trust  thee  to  keep  tryst.      as    if   he   were   mad.     He    struck   at   him 
Thou  art  welcome,  Gawain,  to  my  place.      fiercely  but  wounded  him  not,  withholding 
Thou  hast  timed  thy   coming  as  befits   a      his  hand  ere  it  might  strike  him. 
true    man.     Thou    knowest    the    covenant  Gawain  abode  the  stroke,   and  flinched 

set  between  us:  at  this  time  twelve  lo  in  no  limb,  but  stood  still  as  a  stone  or 
months  agone  thou  didst  take  that  which  the  stump  of  a  tree  that  is  fast  rooted 
fell  to  thee,  and  I  at  this  New  Year  will  in  the  rocky  ground  with  a  hundred  roots, 
readily  requite  thee.     We  are  in  this  val-  Then    spake    gaily    the    man    in    green, 

ley,  verily  alone,  here  are  no  knights  to      '  So  now  thou  hast  thine  heart  whole   it 
sever  us.  do  what  we  will.     Have  off  thy  15  behooves    me    to    smite.     Hold    aside    thy 
helm  from  thine  head,  and  have  here  thy      hood  that  Arthur  gave  thee,  and  keep  thy 
pay;   make   me   no   more   talking  than    I      neck  thus  bent  lest  it  cover  it  again.' 
did  then   when   thou  didst   strike   ofi   my  Then   Gawain   said  angrily,   '  Why  talk 

head  with  one  blow.'  on    thus?     Thou   dost   threaten   too   long. 

'  Nay,'    quoth    Gawain,    '  by    God    that  20 1   hope  thy  heart  misgives  thee.' 
gave  me  life,  I  shall  make  no  moan  what-  '  For     sooth,'     quoth     the     other,     '  so 

ever  befall  me,  but  make  thou  ready  for  fiercely  thou  speakest  I  will  no  longer  let 
the  blow  and  I  shall  stand  still  and  say  thine  errand  wait  its  reward.'  Then  he 
never  a  word  to  thee,  do  as  thou  wilt.'  braced   himself   to   strike,    frowning   with 

With  that  he  bent  his  head  and  showed  25  lips  and  brow,  't  was  no  marvel  that  it 
his  neck  all  bare,  and  made  as  if  he  had  pleased  but  ill  him  who  hoped  for  no 
no  fear,  for  he  would  not  be  thought  a-  rescue.  He  lifted  the  axe  lightly  and  let 
dread.  it  fall  with  the  edge  of  the  blade  on  the 

Then  the  Green  Knight  made  him  bare  neck.  Though  he  struck  swiftly,  it 
ready,  and  grasped  his  grim  weapon  to  30  hurt  him  no  more  than  on  the  one  side 
smite  Gawain.  With  all  his  force  he  where  it  severed  the  skin.  The  sharp 
bore  it  aloft  with  a  mighty  feint  of  slay-  blade  cut  into  the  flesh  so  that  the  blood 
ing  him:  had  it  fallen  as  straight  as  he  ran  over  his  shoulder  to  the  ground, 
aimed  he  who  was  ever  doughty  of  deed  And  when  the  knight  saw  the  blood  stain- 
had  been  slain  by  the  blow.  But  Ga-  3s  ing  the  snow,  he  sprang  forth,  swift- 
wain  swerved  aside  as  the  axe  came  glid-  foot,  more  than  a  spear's  length,  seized 
ing  down  to  slay  him  as  he  stood,  and  his  helmet  and  set  it  on  his  head,  cast  his 
shrank  a  little  with  the  shoulders,  for  shield  over  his  shoulder,  drew  out  his 
the  sharp  iron.  The  other  heaved  up  the  bright  sword,  and  spake  boldly  (never 
blade  and  rebuked  the  prince  with  many  40  since  he  was  born  was  he  half  so  blithe), 
proud  words:  '  Stop,  Sir  Knight,  bid  me  no  more  blows. 

'  Thou  art  not  Gawain,'  he  said,  '  who  I  have  stood  a  stroke  here  without  flinch- 
is  held  so  valiant,  that  never  feared  he  ing,  and  if  thou  give  me  another,  I  shall 
man  by  hill  or  vale,  but  thou  shrinkest  requite  thee,  and  give  thee  as  good  again, 
for  fear  ere  thou  feelest  hurt.  Such  45  By  the  covenant  made  betwixt  us  in 
cowardice  did  I  never  hear  of  Gawain !  Arthur's  hall  but  one  blow  falls  to  me 
Neither  did  /  flinch  from  thy  blow,  or  here.  Halt,  therefore.' 
make   strife   in   King  Arthur's   hall.     My  Then  the  Green  Knight  drew  off  from 

head  fell  to  my  feet,  and  yet  I  fled  not;  him  and  leaned  on  his  axe,  setting  the 
but  thou  didst  wax  faint  of  heart  ere  50  shaft  on  the  ground,  and  looked  on  Ga- 
any  harm  befell.  Wherefore  must  I  be  wain  as  he  stood  all  armed  and  faced 
deemed  the  braver  knight.'  him   fearlessly  —  at   heart   it   pleased   him 

Quoth  Gawain,  *  I  shrank  once,  but  so  well.  Then  he  spake  merrily  in  a  loud 
wilT  I  no  more ;  though  an  my  head  fall  voice,  and  said  to  the  knight,  '  Bold  sir, 
on  the  stones  I  cannot  replace  it.  But  55  be  not  so  fierce ;  no  man  here  hath  done 
haste,  Sir  Knight,  by  thy  faith,  and  bring  thee  wrong,  nor  will  do,  save  by  cove- 
me  to  the  point,  deal  me  my  destiny,  and      nant,   as   we   made   at   Arthur's   court.     I 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT  1021 

promised  thee  a  blow  and  thou  hast  it —  thou  wast  born.  And  this  girdle  that  is 
hold  thyself  well  paid  !  I  release  thee  of  wrought  with  gold  and  green,  like  my  rai- 
all  other  claims.  If  I  had  been  so  minded  ment,  do  I  give  thee,  Sir  Gawain,  that 
I  might  perchance  have  given  thee  a  thou  mayest  think  upon  this  chance  when 
rougher  buffet.  First  I  menaced  thee  5  thou  goest  forth  among  princes  of  re- 
with  a  feigned  one,  and  hurt  thee  not  for  nown,  and  keep  this  for  a  token  of  the 
the  covenant  that  we  made  in  the  first  adventure  of  the  Green  Chapel,  as  it 
night,  and  which  thou  didst  hold  truly.  chanced  between  chivalrous  knights. 
All  the  gain  didst  thou  give  me  as  a  true  And  thou  shalt  come  again  with  me  to  my 
man  should.  The  other  feint  I  proffered  10  dwelling  and  pass  the  rest  of  this  feast  in 
thee  for  the  morrow:  my  fair  wife  kissed  gladness.'  Then  the  lord  laid  hold  of  him, 
thee,   and   thou  didst  give   me   her  kisses      and  said,  '  I  wot  we  shall  soon  make  peace 

—  for  both  those  days  I  gave  thee  two  with  my  wife,  who  was  thy  bitter  enemy.' 
blows  without  scathe  —  true  man,  true  *  Nay,  forsooth,'  said  Sir  Gawain,  and 
return.  But  the  third  time  thou  didst  15  seized  his  helmet  and  took  it  off  swiftly, 
fail,  and  therefore  hadst  thou  that  blow.  and  thanked  the  knight :  '  I  have  fared  ill, 
For  't  is  my  weed  thou  wearest,  that  same  may  bliss  betide  thee,  and  may  he  who 
woven  girdle,  my  own  wife  wrought  it,  rules  all  things  reward  thee  swiftly. 
that  do  I  wot  for  sooth.  Now  know  I  Commend  me  to  that  courteous  lady,  thy 
well  thy  kisses,  and  thy  conversation,  and  20  fair  wife,  and  to  the  other  my  honored  la- 
the wooing  of  my  wife,  for  't  was  mine  dies,  who  have  beguiled  their  knight  with 
own  doing.  I  sent  her  to  try  thee,  and  in  skilful  craft.  But  't  is  no  marvel  if  one  be 
sooth  I  think  thou  art  the  most  faultless  made  a  fool  and  brought  to  sorrow  by 
knight  that  ever  trod  earth.  As  a  pearl  women's  wiles,  for  so  was  Adam  beguiled 
among  white  peas  is  of  more  worth  than  25  by  one,  and  Solomon  by  many,  and  Sam- 
they,  so  is  Gawain,  i'  faith,  by  other  son  all  too  soon,  for  Delilah  dealt  him  his 
knights.  But  thou  didst  lack  a  little.  Sir  doom;  and  David  thereafter  was  wedded 
Knight,  and  wast  wanting  in  loyalty,  yet  with  Bathsheba,  which  brought  him  much 
that  was  for  no  evil  work,  nor  for  wooing  sorrow  —  if  one  might  love  a  woman  and 
neither,  but  because  thou  lovedst  thy  life  30  believe  her  not,  't  were  great  gain  !     And 

—  therefore  I  blame  thee  the  less.'  since   all  they  were  beguiled  by  women. 
Then    the    other    stood    a    great    while,      methinks  't  is  the  less  blame  to  me  that  I 

still  sorely  angered  and  vexed  within  was  misled !  But  as  for  thy  girdle,  that 
himself;  all  the  blood  flew  to  his  face,  will  I  take  with  good  will,  not  for  gain  of 
and  he  shrank  for  shame  as  the  Green  35  the  gold,  nor  for  samite,  nor  silk,  nor  the 
Knight  spake;  and  the  first  words  he  costly  pendants,  neither  for  weal  nor  for 
said  were,  '  Cursed  be  ye,  cowardice  and  worship,  but  in  sign  of  my  frailty.  I 
covetousness,  for  in  ye  is  the  destruction  shall  look  upon  it  when  I  ride  in  renown 
of  virtue.'  Then  he  loosed  the  girdle,  and  remind  myself  of  the  fault  and  faint- 
and  gave  it  to  the  knight.  '  Lo,  take  40  ness  of  the  flesh;  and  so  when  pride  up- 
thcre  the  falsity,  may  foul  befall  it !  For  lifts  me  for  prowess  of  arms,  the  sight  of 
fear  of  thy  blow  cowardice  bade  me  make  this  lace  shall  humble  my  heart.  But  one 
friends  with  covetousness  and  forsake  the  thing  would  I  pray,  if  it  displease  thee 
customs  of  largess  and  loyalty,  which  not :  since  thou  art  lord  of  yonder  land 
befit  all  knights.  Now  am  I  faulty  and  wherein  I  have  dwelt,  tell  me  what  thy 
false  and  have  been  afeared :  from  45  rightful  name  may  be,  and  I  will  ask  no 
treachery  and  untruth  come  sorrow   and      more." 

care.     I  avow  to  thee,  Sir  Knight,  that  I  '  That   will    I   truly,'   quoth   the   other, 

have  ill  done;  do  then  thy  will.  I  shall  '  Bernlak  de  Hautdesert  am  I  called  in  this 
be  more  wary  hereafter.'  50  land.     Morgain  le   Fay  dwelleth  in  mine 

Then  the  other  laughed  and  said  gaily,  house,  and  through  knowledge  of  clerkly 
'  I  wot  I  am  whole  of  the  hurt  I  had,  and  craft  hath  she  taken  many.  For  long 
thou  hast  made  such  free  confession  of  time  was  she  the  mistress  of  Merlin,  who 
thy  misdeeds,  and  hast  so  borne  the  pen-  knew  well  all  you  knights  of  the  court, 
ance  of  mine  axe  edge,  that  I  hold  thee  55  Morgain  the  goddess  is  she  called  there- 
absolved  from  that  sin,  and  purged  as  fore,  and  there  is  none  so  haughty  but  she 
clean  as  if  thou  hadst  never  sinned  since      can  bring  him  low.     She  sent  me  in  this 


I022  APPENDIX 


jjuise  to  yon  fair  hall  to  test  the  truth  of  sought  to  embrace  him.  They  asked  him 
the  renown  that  is  spread  abroad  of  the  how  he  had  fared,  and  he  told  them  all 
valor  of  the  Round  Table.  She  taught  that  had  chanced  to  him  —  the  adventure 
me  this  marvel  to  betray  your  wits,  to  vex  of  the  chapel,  the  fashion  of  the  knight, 
Guinevere  and  fright  her  to  death  by  the  5  the  love  of  the  lady  —  at  last  of  the  lace, 
man  who  spake  with  his  head  in  his  hand  He  showed  them  the  wound  in  the  neck 
at  the  high  table.  That  is  she  who  is  at  which  he  won  for  his  disloyalty  at  the 
home,  that  ancient  lady,  she  is  even  thine  hand  of  the  knight;  the  blood  flew  to  his 
aunt,'  Arthur's  half-sister,  the  daughter  face  for  shame  as  he  told  the  tale, 
of  the  Duchess  of  Tintagel,  who  after-  lo  '  Lo,  lady,'  he  quoth,  and  handled  the 
ward  married  King  Uther.  Therefore  I  lace,  '  this  is  the  bond  of  the  blame  that  I 
bid  thee,  knight,  come  to  thine  aunt,  and  bear  in  my  neck,  this  is  the  harm  and  the 
make  merry  in  thine  house ;  my  folk  love  loss  I  have  suffered,  the  cowardice  and 
thee,  and  I  wish  thee  as  well  as  any  man  covetousness  in  which  I  was  caught,  the 
on  earth,  by  my  faith,  for  thy  true  deal-  i5  token  of  my  covenant  in  which  I  was 
ing.'        '  taken.     And  I  must  needs  wear  it  so  long 

But  Sir  Gawain  said  nay,  he  would  in  as  I  live,  for  none  may  hide  his  harm, 
no  wise  do  so;  so  they  embraced  and  but  undone  it  may  not  be,  for  if  it  hath 
kissed,  and  commended  each  other  to  the  clung  to  thee  once,  it  may  never  be  sev- 
Prince  of  Paradise,  and  parted  right  there,  20  ered.' 

on  the  cold  ground.     Gawain  on  his  steed  Then    the    king   comforted    the    knight, 

rode  swiftly  to  the  king's  hall,  and  the  and  the  court  laughed  loudly  at  the  tale, 
Green  Knight  got  him  whithersoever  he  and  all  made  accord  that  the  lords  and  the 
■would.  ladies  who  belonged  to  the  Round  Table, 

Sir  Gawain,  who  had  thus  won  grace  25  each  hero  among  them,  should  wear 
of  his  life,  rode  through  wild  ways  on  bound  about  him  a  baldric  of  bright  green 
Gringalet;  oft  he  lodged  in  a  house,  and  for  the  sake  of  Sir  Gawain.  And  to  this 
oft  without,  and  many  adventures  did  he  was  agreed  all  the  honor  of  the  Round 
have  and  came  off  victor  full  often,  as  at  Table,  and  he  who  ware  it  was  honored 
this  time  I  cannot  relate  in  tale.  The  30  the  more  thereafter,  as  it  is  testified  in  the 
hurt  that  he  had  in  his  neck  was  healed,  book  of  romance.  That  in  Arthur's  days 
he  bare  the  shining  girdle  as  a  baldric  this  adventure  befell,  the  book  of  Brutus 
bound  by  his  side,  and  made  fast  with  a  bears  witness.  For  since  that  bold  knight 
knot  'neath  his  left  arm,  in  token  that  he  came  hither  first,  and  the  siege  and  the 
was  taken  in  a  fault  —  and  thus  he  came  35  assault  were  ceased  at  Troy,  I  wis 
in  safety  again  to  the  court. 

Then    joy    awakened    in    that    dwelling  Many  a  venture  herebefore 

when   the   king  knew   that   the   good    Sir  Hath  fallen  such  as  this: 

Gawain  was  come,  for  he  deemed  it  gain.  May  He  that  bare  the  crown  of  thorn 

King  Arthur  kissed   the   knight,   and  the  40  Brmg  us  unto  His  bhss.  ^^^^^^ 

queen    also,    and    many    valiant    knights 


NOTES 


CHAUCER:  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 

THE   PROLOGUE 

The  following  are  a  few  practical  suggestions  as 
to  pronunciation,  comparison  being  made  to  sounds 
in     modern    words: 


VOWELS 

(I  —  as  in   father. 

e  long    (often   written   ec")  —  as   the   a   in   hate. 

e  short  —  as  in  g(7t. 

i   (often  y)   long  —  as  the  vowel   in    fet't. 

i    (often   y)    short  —  as    in    f/n. 

o    (often    oo)    long  —  as    in    hope. 

o   short  —  as  in  not. 

M  (sometimes  ezv)  long^ — -as  in  French  nature, 
German   griiii. 

u  short  —  as  in  f  «1I.  Note  the  absence  of  our 
modern  so-called  '  short  u,'  as  in  modern  Eng- 
lish  but. 


DIPHTHONGS 
ai,    ay,   ei,   ey  —  as   in   stri7ight. 
au,    aw  —  as    oiv   in    now. 
ou,   ozv  —  as  in   thryi(gh. 

CONSONANTS 
ch  —  as   tch    in    'Uch. 
h     (not    initial),     gh  —  guttural     as    ch    in    German 

Nacht. 


2.   I.  shourcs  soote,  sweet  showers. 

2.  droghtc,    dryness. 

3.  swich  licour,  such  liquor    (sap). 

4.  vertu,   power. 

5.  Zephirus,   the   west   wind,     eek,  also. 

6.  holt,  wood,  grove,  heeth,  heath,  open  coun- 
try. 

7.  cro[>pes,  shoots.  yonge  sonne,  young  sun, — • 
young  because  it  had  recently  entered  upon  its  an- 
nual  course  through   the   signs   of  the  zodiac. 

8.  Hath  .  .  .  y-ronne.  Ram,  one  of  the  signs 
of  the  zodiac,  Aries.  '  Hath  run  his  half-course 
in  the  Ram  '  means  that  it  was  past  the  eleventh  of 
April. 

9.  fo'wlcs,   birds  in  general, 

10.  y'c,  eye. 

11.  So  .  .  .  corages,  so  nature  excites  them 
in   their   hearts    (feelings). 

13.  palmers,  jjilgrims  to  foreign  parts.  Orig- 
inally,  a   palmer   was   one   who  made  a   pilgrimage  to 


the  Holy  Land  and  brought  home  a  palm-branch  as 
a    token.     stroiiJcs,   shores. 

14.  feme  hulzves  cuuthe,  distant  shrines  known. 

16.  wende,  go. 

17.  blisful,  blessed,  martir,  Thomas  a  Becket. 
sike,  seek. 

18.  That  .  .  .  scke,  'who  hath  helped  them 
when  they  were  sick.'  Notice  the  riming, —  seke 
.  .  .  seke, —  of  identical  forms  that  have  differ- 
ent  meanings. 

19.  bifel,   it  befell. 

20.  Southwerk,  Southwark,  on  the  south  bank  of 
the  Thames,  across  from  London.  Tabard,  an  inn, 
of  which  the  sign  was  a  tabard,  or  sleeveless 
jacket. 

22.  corage,    heart. 
24.  wel,   full,  quite. 

25—26.  by  aventure  .  ,  .  felawsliipe,  hy  chance 
fallen  into  association. 

27.  wolden  ryde,  wished  to  ride. 

28.  wyde,   spacious. 

29.  esed  atte  beste,  accommodated  in  the  best 
manner. 

30.  to  reste,  gone  to  rest,  set. 

31.  everichon,  every   one. 

32.  of  hir  felazvshipe  anon,  of  their  company  im- 
mediately. 

33.  forward,  agreement. 

34.  ther  .  .  .  devyse,  to  that  place  that  I  tell 
you  of. 

35.  natheles,  nevertheless. 

37.  Me  .  .  .  resotin,  it  seems  to  me  reason- 
able. 

38.  condicioun,   standing. 

39—40.  Of  ,  .  .  degree.  Of  each  of  them,  as 
it  appeared  to  me,  and  of  what  sort  they  were,  and 
of  what  social  class. 

41.  eek,  also,     array,  dress. 

43.  worthy,  honorable. 

45.  chivalrye,   knighthood. 

46.  fredom,  liberality. 

47.  werre,    war. 

48.  therto,  besides  that,     ferre,   farther. 

49.  hethenesse,  heathen  lands. 
51.  Alisaundre,   Alexandria. 

52-53.  Ful  .  .  ,  Pruce,  Very  many  times,  in 
Prussia,  he  had  been  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  above  the  knights  of  all  other  nations. 

54.  Lettow,  Lithuania,  reysed,  made  a  military 
expedition.     Ruce,   Russia. 

55.  degree,    rank. 

56.  Gernade,   Granada. 

57.  Algezir,  modern  Algeciras.  Belmarye,  a 
Moorish   kingdom   in   Africa. 


1023 


1024 


NOTES 


58.  Lycys,  in  Armenia.  -Sd/ii/v.-,  on  tlie  south 
coast   of   Asia   Minor. 

59.  Crete   See,   the   Mediterranean. 

60.  ai.V'c,    landing    of    troops. 

62.  Tianiisseiie.  a   Moorish  kingdom   in    Africa. 

63.  ]n  .  .  .  ioo,  In  the  lists  (field  of  combat 
at  a  tournament)  tlirice,  and  always  slain  his  an- 
tagonist. 

64.  like,   same. 

65.  So;nt\mc,  at  one  time.  Palatye,  in  Asiatic 
Turkey. 

66.  At/eyn,  against. 

67.  sovereyn  prys,  great  renown. 

68.  wys,  wise. 

69.  port,   bearing. 

70.  vileinye,   low   speech. 

71.  un-to  no   matier  whjlit,  to  no  kind   of  man. 

72.  verray  parfil  <jciitit  kniijht,  very  perfect  gen- 
tle  knight. 

73.  array,   dress,   costume. 

74.  hors,   horses,     gay,   gaudily   dressed. 

75.  fustian,  stout,  coarse  cloth,  ivered,  wore. 
gipoiin,  a  short  coat   worn   under  the  armor. 

76.  bismotered,  spotted,  habcrgeoun,  coat  of 
mail. 

77.  late  y-come  from  his  viage,  lately  come  from 
his  journey. 

79.  Sqiiyer,   esquire,    one    who    attended    a    kniglit. 

80.  lovyer,  lover,  lusty,  joyful,  gay.  bachclcr, 
a  young  candidate   for  knighthood. 

81.  lokkes   crulte,   locks   curled. 

83.  evene   lengthe,   good   stature. 

84.  delivere,   active. 

85.  chivachye,  military  expedition. 

89.  Flaundrcs,  Flanders,  an  ancient  country  of 
Europe,  extending  along  the  North  Sea  from  the 
Strait  of  Dover  to  the  mouth  of  the  Scheldt. 
Artoys,  Picardye,  Artois,  Picardy,  ancient  province, 
of  northern   France. 

87.  space,  length   of   time. 

88.  lady,  genitive  singular,   without  's. 

89.  embroudcd,   embroidered,     mede,   mead. 
91.  floy tinge,   playing  the   flute. 

95.  coude,   knew   how.     endyte,   relate,   compose. 

96.  juste,   joust,     purtreye,  draw,   paint. 

97.  nightertate,  night-time. 

98.  sleep,   slept. 

99.  lowly,  modest,     scrvisahle,   helpful. 

100.  carf,  carved. 

101.  yeman,  yeoman:  a  servant  of  the  next  de- 
gree above   a   groom,     naino,   no    more. 

102.  him  liste  ryde,  it  pleased  him  to  ride. 

104.  A  sheef  of  pecok  arwcs,  a  slieaf  of  arrows 
fitted   with  peacocks'  feathers. 

106.  takel,  implements;    here   arrows. 
109.  not-heed,   hair   closely   cut. 

111.  bracer,  a  guard  for  the  coat-sleeve,  used  by 
archers  to  avoid  the  friction  of  the  string  against 
the  cloth. 

112.  bokeler,  buckler;   a  small   shield. 

114.  harneiscd,  equipped. 

115.  Cristofre,  'a  figure  of  St.  Christopher,  used 
as  a  brooch   (Wright).' 

1:6.  bawdrik,  baldric,   belt. 
117.  forster,  forester. 
119.  coy,  quiet,  modest, 


120.  si'ynt   l.oy.   Saint    Eligius. 

121.  cleped,   called. 

124.  fetisly,   neatly,  excellently. 

125.  After  .  .  .  Bowe,  after  the  niannti  of 
Stratford-le-I!ow.  This  was  a  monastery  near  I  on- 
don.  The  French  of  the  prioress  was  dialectical, 
not   Parisian. 

132.  lest,   pleasure. 

134.  fcrthing,  a   fourth   part;   hence  a   small    bit. 

136.  raughte,   reached. 

137.  sikerly,  certainly,  of  great  disport,  readily 
amused. 

138.  port,  carriage. 

139— 14I-  '''^"d  peyned  .  .  .  reverence,  and 
took  pains  to  imitate  courtly  behavior,  and  to  be 
stately  in  her  deportment,  and  to  he  esteemed 
worthy   of  reverence. 

142.  conscience,   feeling,  tenderness. 

143.  pitous.    compassionate. 

147.  zvastel  breed,  bread  made  of  fine  flour. 

148.  weep,    wept. 

149.  yerde,   rod. 

150.  conscience,   tenderness. 

151.  wimpel,  a  covering  for  the  neck,  pinched, 
closely   pleated. 

152.  tretys,  long  and   well-proportioned. 

153.  ther-to,   besides. 

156.  hardily,  certainly,  undcrgrowe,  undergrown, 
stunted. 

157.  fetis,  neat,  well-made. 

159.  peire,  set.  gaudcd  al  with  grenc,  provided 
with  green  gawdies.  Gawdies  were  the  larger  beads 
in   the   set. 

160.  heng,   hung,     shene,   bright. 

162.  Amor  vincil  omnia,  love  conquers  all  things 
(Virgil,  Eclog.,  X,  69). 

164.  chapeleyne.  The  prioress  has  a  female  chap- 
lain. 

165.  a  fair  for  the  maistrye,  a  fair  one  for  su- 
periority. 

166.  out-rydere,  outrider,  the  monastic  officer  who 
visited  the  outlying  manors  belonging  to  the  house. 
vcnerye,   hunting. 

172.  Ther  as,  where,  keper,  head,  ccllc,  cell:  a 
small  monastery  or  nunnery  dependent  on  a  larger 
one. 

173.  seint  Maurc,  St.  Maur  (d.  584).  seint 
Beneit,  St.  Benedict  (d.  543).  St.  Benedict  founded 
the  Benedictine  order,  and  St.  Maur  was  his  disci- 
ple. 

174.  sum-del   streit,   somewhat   narrow,   strict. 

175.  ilke,   same. 

176.  space,  course. 

177.  yaf,  gave,     pulli-d,   plucked. 
182.  thilke,  that. 

184.  What,  why.     ivood,  mad. 

185.  poure,  pore. 

186.  swinken,   work. 

187.  Austin,  St.  Augustine  (d.  604),  after  whom 
the   Augustinian   Canons   were   named. 

187.  bit,  contracted  from  3d.  person  singular  pres 
ent,    biddetli. 

188.  swink,  toil. 

189.  pricasour,  a  hard  rider. 
191.  priking,  riding. 

1 93.  seigh,  saw.     purfiled.  fringed. 


NOTES 


1025 


I94-  d'i's,   costly   grey    fur. 

199.  anoint,  anointed. 

200.  in  good  point,  in  good  condition.  Cf. 
French  en  bon  point. 

201.  stepe,   prominent. 

202.  stemed,  shone.     Lecd,  caUlron. 

203.  hates  souple,  boots   soft. 

205.  for-pyned   goost,   tormented   ghost. 

207.  palfrey,   riding-horse. 

208.  frcre,   friar,     wantoivn,  brisk,   lively. 

209.  limitour,  a  begging  friar  to  whom  was  as- 
signed a  certain  district,  within  which  he  might  so- 
licit alms,     fill  solenipne,  very   important. 

210  ordres  foure.  The  four  orders  of  mendicant 
friars  were:  (i)  the  Dominicans,  or  Black  Friars; 
(2)  the  Franciscans,  or  Grey  Friars;  (3)  the  Car- 
melites, or  White  Friars;  (4)  the  Augustin,  or 
Austin  Friars.  These  orders  arose  in  the  early  part 
of  the  thirteenth  century,     can,  knows. 

211.  daliaunce  and  fair  language,  gossip  and  flat- 
tery. 

216.  frankeleyns,  wealthy  farmers,  over-al,  every- 
where. 

219.  curat,  parish  priest. 

220.  liccntiat,  provided  with  a  licence  from  the 
Pope  to  hear  confession  in  all  places. 

223.  yeve,  give. 

224.  Ther  .  .  .  pitaunce,  where  he  knew  he 
was  sure  to  have  good  things  to  eat. 

225.  povre,  poor,     yive,  give. 

226.  y-shrive,  confessed,   shriven. 

227.  yaf,  gave,  dorstc  make  avaunt,  dared  make 
boast,   dared   assert   confidently. 

228.  wiste,  knew. 

230.  He  .  .  .  sincrtc.  He  cannot  weep,  al- 
though it  may  pain  him  sorely. 

232.  Men  moot  yeve,  one  ought  to  give. 
233-  tipci,  hood,     farsed,  stuffed. 

236.  rote,  a  kind  of  violin. 

237.  yeddinges,   songs,     prys,    prize. 

238.  flour-de-lys,   lily. 

239.  champioun,  athlete. 

241.  hostiler,  inn-keeper,  tappesteie,  female  tap- 
ster. 

242.  Bet  .  .  .  beggcstcre,  better  than  a  leper 
or  a   female  beggar. 

244.  as  by  his  facultee,  considering  his  ability. 

246.  honest,    becoming,     avaunce,    profit. 

247.  poraille,  poor  people,   rabble. 

248.  riche,  rich  people,     vitaille,  victuals. 

249—250.  And  over-al  .  .  .  servyse.  And  every- 
where where  profit  was  likely  to  arise,  he  was  po- 
lite,  and   humble  in   offering   his   services. 

251.  vertuous,  efficient. 

253.  she,  shoe. 

254.  In  principio.  In  the  beginning, —  the  opening 
words  of  the  Gospel  according  to  St.  John. 

256.  purchas,  proceeds  from  begging,  rente,  reg- 
ular income. 

257.  foge,  romp,  as  .  .  whelpe,  exactly  as  if 
he  were  a  puppy. 

258.  love-daycs,  days  fixed  for  settling  differences 
by  umpire,  without  having  recourse  to  law  or  vio- 
lence,    mochel,  greatly. 

260.  cope,  an  outer  vestment   for  a  cleric. 
262.  semi-cope,  short  cope. 


263.  pressc,  mold. 

264.  lipsed,    lisped. 

271.   mottelee,    motley    costume,     hye,    high. 
273-  fetisly,  see  1.  124. 

274.  resons,   opinions. 

275.  Sowninge  .  .  .  winning,  tending  always 
to  the  increase   of  his   |)rofit. 

276.  kept,  guarded. 

277.  Middelburgh,  a  port  on  an  island  off  the 
coast  of  the  Netherlands.  Orcivelle,  an  English 
port,  across  the  North  Sea  from  Middelburgh,  at  the 
mouth   of  the  Orwell    River. 

278.  Wei  .  .  .  sclle,  well  knew  how  to  sell 
crowns  in  exchange.  Shceldes,  or  crowns,  were 
valued   at   3   shillings   4   pence. 

-'79.   bisetle,   used. 

j8o.  wiste,  knew. 

2S1-282.  So  eslatly  .  .  .  c/i^T'ij-aioice,  So  cere- 
moniously did  he  order  his  bargains  and  agreements 
for  borrowing  money. 

283.  sothe,  truly. 

284.  noot,  know  not. 

285.  Clerk,  scholar. 

286.  y-go,  gone. 

288.  nas,  was  not. 

289.  hokve,   hollow,     soberly,   adj.    sad,   solemn. 

290.  overest  courtepy,  uppermost  short  cloak. 
29:.  benefice,    a    church    office    endowed    with    a 

revenue. 

292.  office,  secular  office. 

293.  him  .  .  .  have,  it  was  dearer  to  him  to 
have. 

295.  Aristotle,    Greek    philosopher,    384-322    B.    C. 

296.  fithele,  fiddle,  sautrye,  psaltery;  an  instru- 
ment like  a  zither,  having  a  sounding-box  under  the 
strings. 

297-8.  philosophre,  used  in  the  double  sense  of 
philosopher  and  alchemist.  It  was  commonly  be- 
lieved   that    alchemists   could    produce   gold. 

299.  hente,  seize,  get. 

302.  Of  hem  .  .  .  scolcye,  of  those  who  gave 
him    (money)    with   which   to  go   to   school. 

303.  cure,    care. 

304.  O,  one. 

305.  in  .  .  .  reverence,  in  due  form  and  dig- 
nity. 

306.  hy  sentence,  lofty  meaning. 

307.  sozvninge  in,  conducive  to. 

309.  Sergeant  of  the  Latite,  a  law  officer  of  the 
crown,     war,  cautious. 

310.  parvys,  church-porch.  It  was  customary  for 
lawyers  to  meet  for  consultation  at  the  portico  of 
St.   Paul's,  London. 

312.  reverence,  dignity. 

313.  swich,  such. 

314.  assysc,  session  of  a  court. 

315.  By  patente  .  .  .  commissioun,  by  letter 
patent  (definite  legal  authorization)  or  by  full  (un- 
limited)   authorization. 

318.  piirchasour,  conveyancer. 

319.  fee  simple,  held  in  absolute  possession. 

320.  purchasing,    conveyancing,     infect,    invalid. 
323.  In    termes     .     .     .     alle,    he    had    (in    mind) 

exactly  all  the  cases  and  decisions. 

325.   Therto,       moreover,     endyte,       write,     make, 


I026 


NOTES 


326.  pinche  at,  find  fault  with. 

327.  coude     ,     .     .     rote,    knew    he    fully   by    role, 
3.>8.   medlee  cote,  a  coat  of  mixed  stuff  or  color. 

329.  ceint,  girdle,  banes,  ornaments,  or  studs, 
of  a  girdle. 

330.  array,  costume. 

331.  Frankeleyn,  a  wealthy   farmer. 

332.  herd,  beard,     daycsye,  daisy. 

333.  '  The  old  school  of  medicine,  following  (ja 
len,  supposed  that  there  were  four  "  humours,"  viz. 
hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  and  four  complexions  o 
temperaments  of  men,  viz.  the  sanguine,  the  chol 
eric,  the  phlegmatic,  and  the  melancholy.  The  niai 
of  sanguine  complexion  abounded  in  hot  and  moist 
humours   (Skeat).'     See  note  to  line  421. 

334.  by  the  morwe,  in  the  morning,  a  sop  in 
wyn,  wine  with  pieces  of  cake  in  it. 

335.  delyt,  pleasure,     wane,  custom. 

336.  Epicurus  (d.  270  B.  C),  a  Greek  philosoplier 
who  assumed  pleasure  to  be  the  highest  good. 

i3.7-  pleyn,   full. 

340.  Seynt  lulian;  '  St.  Julian  was  eminent  for 
providing  his  votaries  with  good  lodgings  and  ac- 
commodations of  all  sorts    (Chambers).' 

341.  alwey   after   oon,   always   up   to   the   standard. 

342.  envyned,  stored  with  wine. 

343.  bake  mete,  meat  pie. 

344.  plentevous,   plenteous. 

345.  snewed,   snowed. 

347.  after,  according  to. 

348.  soper,  supper. 

349.  mewe,  coop. 

350.  breem,  bream,  a  fresh  water  fish,  luce,  pike. 
stewe,    fishpond. 

351.  but-if,  unless. 

352.  gere,  utensils. 

353.  table  dormant,  a  table  fixed  to  the  floor,  irre- 
movable.    The  Franklin  kept  open  house. 

355.  sessiouns,  meetings  of  the  justices  of  the 
peace. 

357.  anlas,  a  knife  or  dagger,     gipser,  pouch. 

358.  heng,  hung,     morne,  morning. 

359.  shirreve,  'governor  of  a  county  (Skeat)'; 
our   modern    word   sheriff,     countour,   accountant. 

360.  vavasour,  a  sub-vassal  of  a  king's  vassal. 

362.  Webbe.   weaver.     Tapicer,   upholsterer. 

363.  in  o  liveree,  in  one  livery. 

364.  solempne,  dignified,     fraternitee,  gild. 

365.  hir  gere  apyked,  their  apparel   trimmed. 

366.  y-chaped,  provided  with  chapes,  caps  of 
metal  at  the  end  of  the  sheath. 

368.  ever  yd  eel,   every   part. 

369.  burgeys,   burgess,   citizen. 

370.  To  .  .  ,  deys,  to  sit  on  a  dais  in  a  gild- 
hall. 

371.  Everich,  each,     can,  knows. 

372.  shaply,  adapted,  fit. 

373.  catel,  property,  ynogh,  enough,  rente,  in- 
come. 

376.  y-clept,  called. 

377.  vigily'es.  '  It  was  the  manner  in  times  past, 
upon  festival  evens,  called  vigiliae,  for  parishioners 
to  meet  in  their  church-houses  or  church-yards,  and 
there  to  have  a  drinking-fit  for  the  time  (Speght).' 
al  bifore,  before  all  the  others. 


378.  roialliche  y-bore,  royally  borne. 

379.  for  the  nones,  for  the  occasion. 

380.  mary-bones,   marrow-bones. 

381.  poudre-marchant,  a  sharp  flavoring  powder. 
yaliuyale,   root   of   sweet   cyperus. 

384.  viortrcii.r,  a  kind  of  soup. 

385.  thoughtc   me,   seemed   to   me. 

386.  niormal,  cancer,  open  sore. 

387.  blankmangcr,  '  a  compound  made  of  capon 
minced,  with  rice,  milk,  sugar,  and  almonds 
(Skeat).' 

388.  zvoning  .  .  .  weste,  dwelling  far  west- 
waril. 

389.  tvoot,  know.  Dertemouthe,  Dartmouth,  an 
important  sea-port  on  the  southwest  coast  of  Eng- 
land. 

390.  rouncy,   nag.     couthe,  knew   how. 

391.  folding,   coarse   cloth. 

392.  laas,  cord,   lace. 

396-7.  Ful  .  .  .  sleep,  Very  many  a  draught 
of  wine  had  he  drawn  (stolen!)  from  Bordeaux-way, 
while  the  merchant  slept. 

398.  Of  nyce  .  .  .  keeji.  He  had  no  regard 
for  a   fussy   conscience. 

400.  By  water  .  .  .  lond,  i.e.,  he  made  them 
'  walk  the  plank.' 

402.  stremcs,   currents,     him   bisydes,    near    him. 

403.  herberwe,  harbor,  monc,  moon,  lodemen- 
age,  pilotage. 

404.  Hulle,  Hull.     Cartage,  Carthage. 

405.  undertake,  assume   responsibility. 

408.  Gootlond,  Gottland,  an  island  in  the  Baltic 
sea.  Finistere,  Cape  Finisterre,  on  the  northern 
coast   of    Spain. 

409.  cryke,  creek,   inlet. 

414.  astronomye,  astrology. 

415.  kepte,   watched. 

416.  houres,  astrological  hours.  'A  great  portion 
of  the  medical  science  of  the  middle  ages  depended 
upon  astrological  and  other  superstitious  observ- 
ances   (Wright).' 

417.  fortunen,  predict,  ascendent,  the  point  of 
the  zodiacal  circle  which  happens  to  be  ascending 
above  the  horizon  at  a  given  moment. 

418.  images.  '  It  was  believed  that  images  of  men 
and  animals  could  be  made  of  certain  substances  and 
at  certain  times,  and  could  be  so  treated  as  to  cause 
good  or  evil  to  a  patient,  by  means  of  magical  and 
planetary    influences    (Skeat).' 

421.  humour.  The  four  elementary  qualities,  or 
humours,  were  hot,  cold,  dry,  and  moist.  The  ex- 
cess of  some  one  humor  was  thought  to  cause  dis- 
ease. The  mixture  of  humors  in  a  man  determined 
his  complexion,  or  temperament.  The  sanguine 
complexion  was  thought  to  be  hot  and  moist;  the 
phlegmatic,  cold  and  moist;  the  choleric,  hot  and 
dry;  the  melancholy,  cold  and  dry. 

422.  parfit   practisour,  perfect   practitioner. 
424.   bote,  remedy. 

426.   drogges,  drugs,     letuaries,  electuaries,  syrups. 

428.  Hir,  their. 

429.  Esculapius,  ^sculapius,   god   of  medicine. 

430.  Deiscorides,  Dioscorides,  a  Greek  physician 
of  the  2d  century.  Rufus,  a  Greek  physician  of  the 
I  St  century. 


NOTES 


1027 


431.  Ypocras,  Hippocrates,  a  Greek  physician 
(460-c.  377  B.  C).  Galien,  Galen,  a  Greek  physi 
cian  of  the  2d  century. 

431-3.  Haly,  Serapion,  Rliazis,  Avicenna,  Aver 
roes,  and  John  Damascene  were  Arabian  medicai 
authorities. 

433-4-  Constantinus  .'\fer,  Bernardus  Gordonius, 
John  Gatisden,  and  Gilbertus  Anglicus  were  Euro 
pcan  medical  authorities  of  the  later  middle  ages. 

435.   measurable,   moderate. 

439.  sangwin,   red.     pers,  blue. 

440.  taffata,  seiidal,  two  kindt  of  thin  silk. 

441.  esy  of  dispence,  moderate  in   expenditure. 
443.  For,  since,  because. 

445.  of  bisyde  Batlie,  from   (a  place)   near  Bath. 

446.  som-del   somewhat,     scathe,    misfortune. 

447.  haunt,  practice,   use. 

448.  passed,  surpassed.  Yprcs,  Gaunt,  Ypres, 
Ghent,  cities  in  Flanders. 

450.  to  the  offring.  The  people  themselves  of- 
fered  bread  and  wine  for  consecration  at   mass. 

453.  coverchiefs,  coverings  for  the  head,  ground, 
texture. 

454.  zveyeden,  weighed. 

456.  hosen,  leggings. 

457.  streite  y-tcyd,    tightly   fastened,     moiste,   soft. 

460.  at  chirchc-dore.  The  marriage  ceremony 
took   place  at   the   church-porch. 

461.  withoutcn,  besides. 

462.  as  nouthe,  now,  at  present. 

465.  Boloigne,   Boulogne. 

466.  In  Galice  at  seint  lame,  the  shrine  of  St. 
James  at  Compostella  in  Galicia.  Coloigne,  Cologne. 
The  Wife  of  Bath  had  had  wide  experience  in 
making  pilgrimages. 

467.  coude,  knew. 

468.  Gat-tothed,   goat-toothed,   lascivious, 

469.  amblere,   ambling   horse. 

470.  Y-ivimpled,  provided   with  a  wimple, 

471.  targe,   target,    shield. 

472.  foot-mantel,  an  outer  skirt. 

474.  carpe,  prate. 

475.  remedies  of  love,  allusion  to  title  and  con- 
tent of  Ovid's  Remedia  Amoris. 

476.  the  olde  daunce,  the  old  game. 
478.  Persoun,   parish   priest. 

482.  parisshens,   parishioners. 

485.  y-preved  ofte  sythes,  proved   oftentimes. 

486.  cursen  for  his  iythcs,  excommunicate  for  not 
paying  the  tithes  that   were  due   him. 

487.  yeven,  out  of  doute,  give,  without  doubt. 

489.  offring,  voluntary  gifts  of  his  parishioners. 
substaunce,  regular  income  derived  from  his 
benefice. 

490.  suffisaunce,  a   sufficiency. 

492.  ne  lafte  not,  left  not,  ceased  not. 

493.  meschief,   mishap. 

494.  ferreste,  farthest,  moche  and  lyte,  great 
and  small. 

496.  ensample,   example,     yaf,   gave. 

497.  wroghte,   wrought,  worked. 

498.  Out  of  the  gospel,  see  Matthew  V.,  19.  tho, 
the. 

502.   levied,   ignorant. 

507.  He  did  not  leave  his  parish  duties  to  be  per- 
formed by  a  stranger. 


508.  Icet,  left. 

509.  scynt  Poules,  St.  Paul's. 

510.  chaunterie,  chantry;  'an  endowment  for  the 
I)aynient  of  a  priest  to  sing  mass,  agreeably  to  the 
ai)pointment  of  the  founder   (Skeat).' 

511.  bretherhed,  brotherhood,  withholde,  sup- 
ported. 

516.  despitous,  contemptuous. 

517-  daungerous,  unapproachable,  digne,  full  of 
dignity,    repellent. 

519.  fairncssc,  a   fair   life. 
523.  snibben,  reprimand. 

525.  wayted  after,  looked  for. 

526.  spyced,  fussy. 

530.  y-lad,   led,   carried,     father,   load. 

531.  su'inkcre,   worker. 

534.  thogh  .  .  .  smerte,  though  it  pleased  him 
or   hurt  him. 

535.  thanne,    then. 

536.  dyke,  make  ditches,     delve,  dig. 

540.  his  propre  swink,  his  own  labor,  catel, 
projierty. 

541.  tabard,  sleeveless  jacket,  mere,  mare.  Ter- 
sons  of  quality   did   not   ride  mares. 

542.  Reve,  steward  or  bailiff  of  a  manor. 

543-  Somnour,  summoner  for  an  ecclesiastical 
court.  Pardoner,  one  who  had  the  Pope's  licence 
to  sell  pardons  and  indulgences. 

544.  Maunciplc,  manciple,  a  caterer  or  steward 
for  a   college   or   inn   of  court. 

545.  carl,   fellow. 

546.  braun,  muscle. 

547.  over-al  ther  he  cam,  everywhere  where  he 
came. 

548.  ram.  A  ram  was  the  usual  prize  at  a  wrest- 
ling-match. 

549.  a  thikke  knarre,  a   thick  knotted  fellow. 

550.  nolde  here  of  harre,  would  not  heave  off  its 
hinge. 

551.  renning,  running. 
554.  cop,  top. 

557.   nose-thirles,  nostrils. 

560.  langlere,  loud  talker,  goliardeys,  a  teller  of 
ribald   stories. 

561.  harlotryes,  scurrility. 

562.  tollen  thryes,  a  part  of  the  corn  ground  was 
legally  taken  by  a  miller  in  payment  for  grinding. 
Our  miller  took  thrice  the  legal  allowance. 

563.  a  thombe  of  gold,  a  common  expression  to 
describe  the  value  of  a  miller's  skill  in  testing  meal 
or  flour  between  the  thumb  and  finger,  pardee,  a 
common  and  mild  oath. 

564.  wered,  wore. 

565.  soivne,  sound. 

567.  temple,  an  inn   of  court. 

568.  which,    whom,     achatours,    purchasers. 

570.  took  by   taille,  took  by  tally,  took  on  credit. 

571.  Algate  .  .  .  achat,  Always  he  watched 
so  in  his  buying. 

572.  ay   biforn,  always  before. 

574.  swich  a  lewed,  such  an  unlearned. 
577.  curious,  careful. 

581.  his  propre  good,  his  own   income. 

582.  dettelees,  without  debt,  but  he  were  wood, 
unless  he  were  mad. 


1028 


NOTES 


583.  Or     .     .     .     dcsiic,    Or    live    as    ccouoniically 
as  it  pleased  him  to  desire. 

584.  al  a,  a  whole. 

586.  sette     .     .     .     ifl/'/H-,    cheated   them   all. 

587.  colerik,   see    note    to    1.4-M. 

588.  >i3',  nigh,  close. 

59J.    Y-lyk,   like,     y-sciic,  visible. 

593.  gcnicr,   garner. 

595.  wiste,    knew,     droghtc,    drought,     ic.vii,    rain. 

597.  neet,   cattle,     dayerye,   dairy. 

598.  hors,   horses,     stoor,   farm   stock. 

599.  Iioolly,  wholly. 

600.  covenauiit,   contract,     yaf,  gave. 

602.  Titer     ,     .     .     arrcrage,   No   one   could   prove 
ftim  to  be   in  arrears. 

603.  licrde,    herdsman.     Jtyitc,    hind,    farm-laborer. 

604.  sleightc,   trickery,     covyne,   deceit. 
60s.  adrad,  afraid,     the  deeth,   pestilence. 
606.  waning,   dwelling. 

609.  astored,   provided   with   stores. 
611.  lenc,  lend. 

613.  mister,   trade,   craft. 

614.  wcl,   very,     wrightc,   wright,   workman. 

615.  stot,  stallion. 

616.  pomely    grey,    gray     dappled     with    apple-like 
spots. 

617.  surcote,   upper   coat,     pcis,  blue. 
619.   Northfolk,    Norfolk. 

621.  Tukkcd   he  ivas,   his   long   coat   tucked   up   by 
means  of  a  girdle. 

622.  hindreste,   hindmost. 

623.  Somnour;   see   note   to   1.    543- 

624.  chcrubinnes,  cherub's. 

625.  sawceflcm,      afflicted      with      pimples,     navive, 
small. 

627.  scallcd,    scabby,     blake,    black,     piled,    scanty, 
thin. 

629.  litarge,  litharge,  white   lead. 

630.  boras,   borax,     ccruce,   ceruse,   cosmetic    made 
from  white  lead,     oille  of  tarire,  cream  of  tartar. 

632.  whelkes,  pimples. 

633.  knobbes,  large  pimples. 
636.   Thanne,  then,     wood,   mad. 
644.  grope,   test. 

646.  Questio  quid  iuris,  The  question  is,  what  law 
(is   there)  ? 

647.  harlot,  a   fellow  of  low   conduct. 
651.  attc  fulle,   fully. 

653.  owher,   somewhere. 

655.  erchedeknes     curs,     archdeacon's     curse,     ex- 
communication. 

656.  But-if,  unless. 

661.  wol  slee,   will   slay,     assoilling,  absolution. 

662.  significavit.     A    writ   of    excommunication    us- 
ually  began   with  this   word. 

663.  In    daunger,     within     his    jurisdiction,     gyse, 
manner. 

664.  girles,  young   people   of  both   sexes. 

665.  hir   reed,    their   adviser. 

666.  gerland,  garland. 

667.  ale-stake,    a    support    for    a    garland    in    front 
of  an  ale-house. 

669.  Pardoner;   see   note   to    1.    543. 

670.  Rouncivale,    a    hospital    near    Charing    Cross, 
London. 


673.  bar  .  .  .  burdoun,  sang  bass  to  his 
treble. 

675.  hcer,   hair,     ivex,   wax. 

676.  heng,    hung,     strike   of   fiex,    hank   of   flax. 

677.  ounces,  thin   clusters. 

679.  colpons,    portions. 

680.  for  lolilee,   for   smartness,     wered,   wore. 

681.  trussed   up,    packed   up. 

682.  Him  thoughte,  it  seemed  to  him.  let,  fash- 
ion. 

685.  vcrniclc,  'a  diminutive  of  Veronike  (Ver- 
onica), a  copy  in  miniature  of  the  picture  of  Christ 
which  is  supposed  to  have  been  miraculously  im- 
printed upon  a  handkerchief  preserved  in  the  church 
of   St.    Peter  at   Rome    (Tyrwhitt).' 

687.  Bret-ful,    brimful. 

692.  Bcriuik,  Berwick,  on  north  east  coast  of 
England.      Ware,    in    Hertfordshire. 

694.  male,   bag.     pihve-bear,   pillow-case. 

695.  lady,   genitive   singular. 

696.  gobet,  a  small  piece. 

697.  rvcnte,   walked. 

698.  hente,  caught  hold  of. 

699.  latoun,- a.  mixed  metal,     ful  of,  set  with. 

702.  person,   parson,     up-on   loud,  in   the  country. 

703.  a,  one. 

704.  tweye,  two. 

705.  lapes,  tricks. 

706.  apes,  dupes. 

710.   alderbest,  best  of  all. 

712,  affyle,  make  smooth. 

716.  Thestat,  the  estate,  tharray,  the  array,  ap- 
pearance. 

719.  highle,  was  called.  Belle,  probably  another 
tavern. 

721.   baren   us,   conducted   ourselves. 

723.  viage,  journey. 

726.  That  .  .  .  vileinye.  That  you  ascribe  it 
not  to  my  ill-breeding. 

728.  chere,  appearance. 

729.  hir   wordes  proprcly,   their    words   exactly. 

731.  shal  telle,  has  to  tell,     after,  according  to. 

732.  moot,   must. 

733.  Everich  a,  every  single,  charge,  undertak- 
ing. 

734.  Al,  although.  rudcliche,  rudely.  large, 
freely. 

736.  feyne,   feign,    distort. 

739.  brode,  broadly. 

740.  wool,    know,     vileinye,    ill-breeding. 
744.  Al,  although. 

747.  everichon,  every   one. 
750.  us  lestc,  it  pleased  us. 

752.  marshal.  The  '  marshal  of  the  hall  '  assigned 
guests  to  their  seats  at  public  festivals  according  to 
their  rank. 

753.  stepe,   bright. 

754.  burgeys,  burgess,  citizen.  Chepe,  Cheapside 
in   London. 

757.  Eek   therto,   also   besides. 
760.   our  rekeninges,   our  bills. 

765.  hcrberwe,    inn. 

766.  wiste,   knew. 

768.   To  doon  yozv  esc,  to  give  you   pleasure. 
770.  The    blisful     .     .     .     mede,    May   the    blessed 
martyr   give   you   your   reward. 


NOTES 


1029 


talc 


tell   tales. 


if   it   is    pleasing   to 
deed,   dead. 


772.  shapen   yozv,  intend. 

775.  disport,   sport. 

776.  erst,  first. 

777.  And     .     ,     .     alle.   And 
you  all. 

781.  fader,   genitive  singular. 

782.  But,  unless,     heed,  head. 

784.  seche,  seek. 

785.  Us  .  ,  ,  xvys.  It  seemed  to  us  not  worth 
while  to  make  it  a  matter  of  deliberation. 

786.  avys,   consideration. 

787.  as  him  teste,  as  it  pleased  him. 

788.  herkneth,  listen,   2d   pers.   plur.   imperative. 

791.  shorte,   make   short. 

792.  viage,   journey,     tweye,  two. 

795.  avcnturcs,  occurrences,  zvliylom,  formerly. 
hau,   have. 

798.  sentence,     meaning,     content,     solas,     amuse- 

799.  our  allcr  cost,  the  cost  of  us  all, 
805.  withseye,   oppose. 

807.  vouchc-sauf,  grant. 

809.  shape  me  therfore,  prepare  myself  for  it. 

810.  otiies  swore,  oaths  sworn. 
816.  dez'ys,  direction. 

819.  fet,  fetched. 

820.  echoon,  each  one. 

823.  our  alter  cok,  cock   of  us  all. 

824.  gadrede,  gathered. 

825.  riden,  rode,     pas,  foot-pace. 

826.  St.  Thomas  a  Watering  was 
Southwark. 

828.  herkneth;   see   note  to   1.    78! 
if  it   pleases  you. 

829.  woot,  know,  forward,  agreement,  yow  re- 
cordc,  call   to  your  mind. 

830.  If  ,  .  .  acorde,  If  evensong  (vesjiers) 
and  matins  agree;  i.e.,  if  you  are  minded  this 
morning   as   you   were   last   night. 

832.  As  .  ,  ,  ale.  As  surely  as  I  ever  hope 
to  be  able  to  drink  wine  or  ale. 

835.  draweth,  draw,  2d  pers.  plur.  imperative. 
fcrrcr   twinne,   farther   depart. 

83S.  acord,  agreement. 

839.  neer,  nearer. 

842.  wight,  person. 

844.  sort,   lot,  destiny. 

845-  A  fell. 

847.  resoun,    reasonable. 

848.  forxvard,   agreement,     composicioun,   compact. 
850.  saugli,   saw. 

854,  a,   in. 

855.  riden,  rode. 

THE   nun's   priest's   TALE 

1.  'vidwc,   widow,     stope,   advanced. 

2.  whylom,    formerly,     narwe,    narrow,   small. 

5.  thitke,   that. 

6.  ladde,  led. 

7.  catel,   property,     rente,  income. 

8.  housbondrye,   economy. 

9.  fond,    found,    supported,     doghtren,    daughters. 

1 1.  highte,   was  called. 

12.  hour,   bower,   inner   room. 

13.  sclendre  meel,  slender  meal. 


miles   fror 


if   you    teste. 


14.  Of  .  .  .  deel.  Of  poignant  sauce  she  had 
not   the   slightest   need. 

15.  tliicrgli,  through. 

17.  Repleccioun,   overeating. 

19.   Iicrtes   suffisaunce,    heart's    satisfaction. 

JO.  lette  liir  no-thing,   prevented   her  not   at  all. 

J  I.  poplexye  shcnte,  apoplexy    hurt. 

25.  Seynd,   singed,     ey   or  tweye,  egg  or  two. 

26.  deye,   dairy-woman. 
28.   dich,   ditch. 

30.  tias,   was   not. 

31.  merier,  pleasanter,  sweeter. 

32.  messe-dayes,   mass-days. 

33.  silierer,    more    certain,     logge,    lodging-place. 

34.  orlogge,   clock. 

35-8.  The  cock  crew  every  hour,  for  fifteen  de- 
grees of  the  equinoctial  make  an  hour.  Tlianne, 
then. 

39.  fyn,   fine. 

40.  batailcd,   indented   like  a  battlement. 

41.  bile,   bill.     Icct,  jet. 

42.  toon,   toes. 

47.  paramours,  lovers. 

48.  as  of,  as  to. 

50.  cleped,  called. 

51.  debonaire,   gracious. 

52.  compaignable,   companionable. 

53.  tltilke,  that  same. 

54.  in   Iiotd,   in   possession. 

55.  tolieti  in  every  lith,  locked  in  every  limb. 

59.  '  my  lief  .  .  .  tonde,'  '  my  beloved  has 
gone  away.'  Probably  the  refrain  of  a  popular 
song. 

61.  briddes,  birds. 

62.  bifcl,   happened. 
67.   drccchcd,   troubled. 

70.  eylcth,  ails. 

71.  verray,  true. 

73.  agricf.   amiss. 

74.  me   mette,    I    dreamed,     mescliief,   mishap. 

76.  my  .  .  .  aright,  interpret  my  dream  fa- 
vorablj'. 

78.  me  mette,   I   dreamed. 

79.  saugh,  saw. 
81.  deed,  dead. 

85.  tweye,  two. 

86.  deye,   die. 

88.  Avoy,  fie.     hertetes,  coward. 

94.  free,   generous. 

95.  secrcc,    secret,    discreet. 

96.  tool,   weapon. 

97.  avauntour,  boaster. 
99.   afcrd,   afraid. 

101.  swevenis,  dreams. 

103.  replecciouns,   gluttony. 

104.  fume,  vapor  arising  from  gluttony,  com- 
plccciouns;  see  note  to  Prologue,  1.  421. 

106.  met,   dreamed. 

108.  rede  colera,  '  red  cholera  caused  by  too  much 
bile  and  blood  (Skeat).' 
1 10.  lemes,  gleams. 

1 12.  contclt,  strife. 

113.  humour  of  malencolye,  i.e.,  black  choler. 
115.  boles  blake,  bulls  black. 

120.  Catoun,    Cato's    Distichs.     This    collection    of 


[030 


NOTES 


sayings,    of    uncertain    anlhursliip.    was    well    known 
as  early  as  the  4th  century. 

121.  do  no  fois,  pay   no  heed  to. 

122.  flee,   fly.     hemes,  beams,  perches. 
124.   Up,  upon. 

130.  prow,  profit. 

131.  tho,  the. 

132.  kynde,   nature, 

133.  hinethe,  beneath. 

133.  colerik  of  compleccioun;  see  note  to  1.   104. 

136.  Ware,  beware. 

137.  humours  hole;  see  note  to  Prologue,  1.  421. 

138.  groie,  groat. 

139.  fevcre   terciane,   tertian   fever,   a   fever   occur- 
ring every   second  day. 

143.  lauriol,   laurel,     centaure,   the   herb   centaury. 
fumctere,   the    herb    fumitory. 

144.  ellcbor,   hellebore. 

145.  catapHce,    the     herb    spurge,     gaylres    beryls, 
dogwood  berries. 

146.  yve,    ivy.     mcry,    pleasant.     The    herbs    men- 
tioned are  disagreeable  to  the  taste! 

148.  fader  kyn,  father's  kinsmen. 

149.  Dredeth,  2d  pers.  plur.  imperative. 

150.  graunt  mercy,  great  thanks. 

151.  daun,  dan,  Lord,  a  title  given  to  monks,  and 
to  many  other  sorts  of  persons. 

156.  so   moot  I  thee,   as   I   may   prosper.     An   ex- 
pletive phrase. 

157.  sentence,  sense. 

163.  verray  preve,  true   proof. 

164.  Oon     .     .     .     auctours,  refers  to  Cicero's  De 
Dlvlnatlone. 

165.  why  lorn,   formerly. 

169.  strelt     of     herbergage,     cramped     of    lodging, 
lacking  in  quarters. 

170.  o,  one. 

173.  depart  en,  separate. 

17s.  as     .     .     .     falle,  as  it  chanced. 

177.  Fer,   far. 

179.  aventure,   chance. 

180.  That     .     .     .     commune.     That     governs     us 
all   alike. 

182.  metle,  dreamed. 
185.  ther,   where. 
188.  abrayde,   started    suddenly. 
:9o.  took     ,     .     .     keep,  paid  no  heed  to  this. 
191.  Him   thought e,   it   seemed   to   him.     nas,   was 
not. 

194.  slawe,  slain. 

196.  morwe-tyde,   morning-time. 

198.   donge,   dung. 

200.  Do     .     .     .     arresten,  have  that  cart  stopped. 

201.  sooth  to  sayn,  to  say  the  truth. 
2o6.  in,  inn. 

210.  agon,  gone. 

213.  mette,  dreamed. 

214.  lette,   delay. 

2i6.  to  donge,  to  put  dung  upon. 

222.  upright,  lying  flat   on   his  back. 

223.  minlstres,   officers   of  justice. 

224.  kepe   and   rculen,   guard   and   rule. 

225.  Harrow,  a  cry   of  distress,     lyth,  lies. 

226.  IVhat,   why. 

227.  out-sterte,  started  out. 

23  r.   biivreyest,   makest   known. 


233.   zvlatsom,  loathsome. 

235.   it  helcd  be,  it  to  be  concealed. 

238.   mlnistres,    officers    of   justice. 


39.  han    hent,    have   seized. 

40.  engyned,   tortured. 

41.  biknewe,   confessed. 

46.  gabbe,  lie,  jest. 

47.  han,  have. 

48.  fer,   far. 

51.  mery,  pleasant. 

52.  agayn,  toward. 


pyned,   punished. 


253.  as  hem  teste,  as  they  desired. 

254.  lollf,   cheerful,     hir,    their. 

255.  casten    hem,   plan. 

256.  00,  one. 

258.  mette,  dreamed,     agayn,  toward. 

259.  Him  thoughte,  it  seemed  to  him. 

260.  abyde,  wait. 

261.  wendc,  go  away. 

262.  dreynt,  drowned. 

263.  ivook,  woke,     mette,  dreamed. 

264.  And  .  .  .  lette,  And  urged  him  to  aban. 
don  his  journey. 

265.  abyde,   stay. 

268.  agaste,  terrify. 

269.  lette  .  .  .  thinges,  give  up  doing  my 
business. 

271.  swevenes,    dreams.     lapes,    deceptions. 

273.  mase,  maze. 

274.  shal,  shall  be. 

276.  for-sleuthen,  lose   through   sloth,     tyde,   time. 

277.  God  .  .  .  me,  God  knows  it  causes  me 
sorrow. 

279.  y-seyled,  sailed. 

280.  eyled,  ailed. 

281.  botme  rente,  bottom  burst. 

286.  ensamples,  examples,  maistow  lere,  mayest 
thou  learn. 

287.  recchelees,  careless. 

290.  seinl  Kenelm.  '  Kenelm  succeeded  his  fa- 
ther Kenulph  on  the  throne  of  the  Mercians  in 
821  at  the  age  of  seven  years,  and  was  murdered 
by  order  of  his  aunt,  Quenedreda.  He  was  subse- 
quently made  a  saint   (Wright).' 

292.  Mercenrike,    Mercia.     mette,   dreamed. 

293.  A   lyte  er,  a  little  while  before. 

294.  avisioun,  vision,     say,  saw. 

295.  norice,   nurse,     del,   part,  bit. 

296.  kepe,  guard. 

297.  For  traisoun,  for  fear  of  treason,  nas,  was 
not. 

298.  litel     .     .     .     told,   little    heed   hath   he   paid. 

300.  levere,   rather. 

301.  legende,  life  of  a  saint. 

302.  yow,  to  you. 

303—4.  Macrobeus.  Macrobius  (early  sth  cen. 
tury)  wrote  a  commentary  on  Cicero's  Somnium 
Scipionis. 

305.  Affermeth,  confirms. 

307.  loketh,  look,  2d   pers.   plur.   imperative. 

308.  Daniel.      See   Daniel,   ii. 

310—315.  Joseph.     See   Genesis,   xxxix— xli. 

311.  IVhcr,   whether,   or   where. 

312.  falle,  occur. 

316.  actcs,   history,     remcs,   realms,  kingdoms. 
318.   Cresus,   Crcesus.     Lyde,    Lydia. 


NOTES 


1031 


319.  Mette,  dreamed. 

321.  heer,  here.  Andromacho-  The  dream  of 
Andromache,  wife  of  Hector,  is  recorded  not  in 
Homer  but  in  the  De  Excidio  Troiae  of  Dares 
Phrygius,  a  popular  mediaeval  authority  on  the 
Trojan    war. 

324.  lorn,  lost. 

325.  thilke,  the  same. 

327.  natheles,  nevertheless. 

330.  ny,  nigh. 

331.  as  for  conclusion,  in  conclusion. 

334.  That  .  .  .  store.  That  I  have  no  confi- 
dence in  laxatives. 

335.  woot,   know. 

336.  defye,   renounce,     del,  bit. 

337.  stinte,  cease. 
339.  o,  one. 

343.  siker,  certain.  In  principio.  In  the  begin- 
ning,—  the  opening  words  of  the  Gospel  according 
to  John  in  the  Vulgate. 

344.  Mulier  .  .  .  confusio.  Woman  is  the 
tindoing  of  man. 

345.  sentence,  meaning. 
350.  solas,  mirth,  pleasure. 

355.  lay,   that   lay. 

356.  aferd,  afraid. 
359.  leoun,  lion. 

365.  aventure,   chance,  misfortune. 

367.  month  .  .  .  bigan.  According  to  medi- 
aeval chronology,  the  world  began  at  the  vernal 
equinox. 

368.  highte,  was  called. 

370.  Sin  March  bigan,  used  parenthetically  here. 
What  we  are  really  told  is  that  all  of  March  and 
32  days  more  were  gone, —  an  indirect  way  of  indi- 
cating that  it  was  May   3. 

371.  Bifel,  it  befell. 

374.  Taurus,    the    Bull,    one    of    the    signs    of    the 
zodiac,     y-ronne,   run. 
376.  kynde,  nature. 
3"7>  pryme,   prime,  9  o'clock,     stcvcne,  voice. 

383.  solas,   pleasure,   mirth. 

384.  him  fil,   befell  him.     cas,  occurrence,  chance. 

386.  woot,   knows,     ago,  gone. 

387.  rethor,   rhetorician,     endyte,   write,    relate. 

388.  chronique,   chronicle,     saufly,   safely. 

389.  a  sovereyn  notabilitce,  a  particularly  worthy 
saying. 

391.  undertake,  affirm. 

392.  book  of  Launcclot  de  Lake.  The  famous 
romance  of  Lancelot  was  full  of  incredible  adven- 
tures. 

394.  sentence,  meaning,  thread  of  the  story. 

395.  col-fox,  a  black-tipped   fox. 

396.  waned,  dwelt. 

397.  heigh  imaginacioun,   lofty   calculation 

398.  hegges,  hedges. 

399.  ther,  where. 

401.  wortes,  herbs. 

402.  undern,  here,  about   1 1   o'clock  A.  m. 

407.  Scariot,  Judas  Iscariot.  Genilon,  Ganelon, 
the  traitor  who  betrayed  Roland.  See  The  Song  of 
Roland. 

408.  dissimilour,  deceiver.  Sinon.  the  spy  who 
persuaded  the  Trojans  to  take  the  wooden  horse 
into   Troy. 


409.  al   outrely,   utterly. 

410.  morwe,   morning. 

411.  flough,    flew. 

414.  forwot,    foreknows,     mot,   must. 
416.   fVitnesse     .     .     .     14,    Bring    to    witness   any 
one  who  is  a  perfect  scholar. 
418.  disputisoun,   dispute. 

420.  bultc  it  to  the  brcn,  bolt  it  to  the  bran,  i.e., 
sift  the  matter. 

421.  Augustyn.  St.  Augustine  (d.  430),  a  great 
theologian. 

422.  Boece,  Boethius  (d.  525),  wrote  On  the  Con- 
sclation  of  Philosophy,  in  which,  among  other 
things,  he  discusses  God's  foreknowledge  and  man's 
free  will.  Bradwardyn,  Thomas  Bradwardine,  an 
Oxford  theologian  of  the  early  14th  century,  wrote 
On  the  Cause  of  God,  in  wliich  he  discusses  the 
problem  of  free  will  and  predestination. 

423.  forwiting,   foreknowledge. 

424.  streyneth  me  nedcly,  constrains  me  neces- 
sarily. 

428.  forwot,  foreknew. 

429.  Or  .  .  .  del.  Or  if  his  knowledge  forces 
not  at  all. 

430.  necessitee  condicionel,  conditional  necessity, 
I.e.,  mere  foresight,  on  God's  part,  or  what  man  is 
going  to  do  voluntarily. 

431.  han,   have,     swich,   such. 
433.  zvith  sorwe,   sorrow  take  her  I 
436.  colde,  baneful. 

440.  noot,  know  not. 

442.  in  my  game,  jokingly. 

447.  sond,   sand. 

448.  Lyth,  lyeth. 

449.  Agayn,   against,   in. 

451.  Phisiologus.  A  book,  in  Latin  verse,  de- 
scribing the  nature  of  certain  animals,  written  by 
one  Theobaldus,   of  uncertain  date. 

456.  no-thing  .  .  .  crowe,  Then  it  did  not  at 
all  please  him  to  crow. 

457.  stcrte,  started. 

458.  affrayed,  frightened. 
461.  erst,  first. 

467.  vileinye,   rudeness. 
471.  stevene,  voice. 

474.  Boece.  See  note  to  I.  422.  Boethius  wrote 
a  treatise  De  Musica. 

477.  ese,  pleasure. 

478.  ccrtes,  certainly,     fayn,  gladly. 

480.  So  mote  I  brouke,  so  may  I  have  the  use  of. 

485.  pcyne   him,  take  pains. 

486.  U'inkc,  close. 

492.  daun  Burncl  the  Assc,  a  satirical  poem, 
Biirnctlus  seu  Speculum  Stultorum,  written  by  Nigel 
Wireker  in  the  late    12th  century. 

493.  vers,  verses. 

494.  yaf,  gave. 

495.  nyce,   foolish. 
497.  nis,  is  not. 

500.  seinte,  holy. 

501.  countrefcte,  imitate,  equal. 
;o2.  bete,  beat. 

505.  flatour,  flatterer. 

506.  losengcour,   liar. 

508.  soothfastnesse.  truth. 

509.  Ecclcsiaste,  Ecclesiasticus.  in  the  Apocrypha; 


I032 


NOTES 


not  Ecclesiastes.     See  Ecclesiasticiis,  xii,   lo,   ii,   i6. 

513.  for  the  nones,  for  the  occasion, 

514.  sterte,   started. 

515.  gargat,  throat,     hcntc,  seized. 

516.  wode,   wood,     beer,   bore. 

517.  sewed,   followed. 

518.  eschewed,   avoided,   escaped. 

519.  jleigh,   flew. 

520.  roghte  not  of,  paid  no   heed  to. 
S22.   O   I'eiius.     Friday  was  Venus'   day. 

522.  plesauiice,    pleasure. 

523.  servant,   Venus's  servant,   i.e.,  a  lover. 

527.  Gaufred.  Geoffrey  de  Vinsauf  wrote,  about 
the  year  1200,  an  art  of  poetry,  Nova  Poclna, 
which  contains  an  inflated  hmient  against  Friday, 
the  day  when   Richard  I   was  shot. 

530.  sentence,  judgment. 

533.  pleyne,  complain. 

534.  drede,   fright. 

537.  Pirrus,  Pyrrhus.     streite,  drawn. 

538.  hent,   seized. 

539.  Eneydos;   see   Aencid,   II,    550-553- 
542.  shrighte,   shrieked. 

543-5-  Hasdrubales  .  .  .  wyf,  Hasdrubal  was 
king  of  Carthage  when  the  Romans  captured  it, 
146  B.  C. 

545.  brend,  burned. 

547.  sterte,  started,   rushed. 

548.  brende   hir-selven,   burned   herself. 
555.  scly,  simple,  poor. 

358.  sycn.  see.     goon,  go. 
566.  fercd,   frightened. 

568.  hem  .  .  .  brckc,  it  seemed  to  them  their 
heart  would  break. 

570.  as  men,  as  if  men.     quelle,  kill. 

573.  benedicite,  an  expletive.  Pronounce  in  three 
syllables:  ben-si-ta. 

574-6.  lakke  Straw.  It  is  recorded  that  in  1381 
Jack  Straw  led  an  uprising  of  peasants  in  an  at- 
tack upon  the  Flemish  weavers  in   England. 

574.  meynee,  company,  crowd. 

578.  bemes,  horns,     bo.x,  boxwood. 

579.  boon,  bone. 

588.  as  zvis  Cod  hclpe  me,  as  surely  as  God  may 
help  me. 

589.  Turneth,  turn,  2d  per.  plur.  imperative. 
cherles,   churls. 

592.  Maugree,   in    spite   of;    French   malgre. 

596.  brak,   broke,     deliverly,   quickly. 

597.  hcighe,  high,     jleigh,  flew. 

598.  sough,  saw. 

601.  aferd,  afraid. 

602.  hente,   seized. 

603.  wikke  entente,  wicked  intention. 
606.  shrewe,  curse. 

610.  Do,  make,     zvinke  with,  close. 
612.  wilfully,  willingly,     tliee,  prosper. 

614.  undiscreet  of  governaunce,  indiscreet  of  con- 
duct. 

615.  iangleth,  babbles. 

616.  recchelees,   reckless. 

620.  Takcth,   take,  2d  pers.  plur.  imperative. 

621.  seint  Paul  seith;  see  2  Timothy,   iii,    16. 

622.  doetryne,  teaching,  y-write,  written,  y-wis, 
certainly. 


625.  jny  lord,  the  archbishoj)  of  Canterbury. 
William   Courtenay,   archbishop    1381-1396. 

626.  heighe,   high. 

CHAUCERS  WORDS  UNTO  ADAM  HIS  OWNE 
SCRIVEYN 

Written,  probably,  not  long  after   1583. 

1.  scriveyn,  scrivener,  scribe,  thee  bifalle,  hap- 
pens to   thee. 

2.  Boece,  Chaucer's  prose  translation  of  the  De 
Consolatione  Philosophiae  of  Boethius  (died  c.  524). 
Troilus,  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Criscydc,  written 
about    1383. 

3.  lokkes,   locks,     senile,   scab. 

4.  But  .  .  .  making,  unless  according  to  my 
composition. 

5.  mot,   must. 
7.  rape,  haste. 

LAK  OF  STEDFASTNESSE 

Addressed  to  King  Richard  II  some  time  between 
the  years  1393  and   1399- 

I.  Som  tyme,  once,  formerly. 

3.  deceivable,  full  of  deceit. 

5.  lyk,  alike,  up  so  doun,  modern  English  '  up- 
side down.' 

6.  mede,   meed,   bribe. 

9.  lust,  pleasure. 

10.  unable,  wanting  in  ability. 
12.  don,  do. 

17.  mcrciable,  merciful. 

18.  covetyse,  covetousness.     blent,  blinded. 

19.  permutacioun,   change. 

22.  Lenvoy,   the  envoy.     An  envoy  is  a  postscript 
to  a  composition,   to   enforce  or   recommend  it. 
26.   don,  to  be  done. 
2y,  castigacioun,  punishment. 

THE    COMPLEINT   OF   CHAUCER   TO   HIS 
EMPTY  PURSE 

This  pleasant  begging  poem  must  have  been  ad- 
dressed to  Henry  IV  immediately  after  he  became 
king,  Sept.  30,  1399,  for  Chaucer  received  an  an- 
swer in  the  form  of  an  annual  grant  of  forty 
irarks,  on   Oct.  3   of  the  same  year. 

I.  wight,   creature,    person. 

4.  chere,  countenance. 

7.  mot,  must. 

8.  voucheth  sauf,   grant    (imperative),     or,   before. 

9.  soun,  sound. 
12.  stere,   rudder. 

19.  The  line  means,  '  I  am  as  bare  of  money  as 
a   friar's  tonsure  is  of  hair.' 

22.  Lenvoy  de,  see  preceding  poem,   1.  22,  note. 

2$.  conquerour,  Henry  IV.  Brutes  Albioun, 
Albion  is  the  old  name  of  England,  or  Britain. 
According  to  legend,  Brutus,  a  descendant  of 
..-Eneas,    was  the   first   ruler   of   Britain. 

25.  verray,  true. 

26.  mowen,   can. 

MALORY:     LE  MORTE  D'ARTHl.'S 

19.     a     (col.     i).    7.   ensamplci,     exampks.     doctrine, 
teaching. 

11.  do     .     .     .     enprii  t,    fiail   r^de   and   printed. 


NOTES 


1033 


12.  Saiigreal,   Holy  Grail. 
16.   to-fore,    before. 

20.  paynims,  pagans. 

24.  Hector,  son  of  Priam,  and  champion  of  the 
Trojans. 

26.  Alexander  the  Great  (356-323  B.  C),  the  fa- 
mous   king   of    Macedon. 

b    (col.  2).    I.  Julius  Casar   (100-44   B.C.),   the 
famous    Roman    general,    statesman,    and    writer. 

6.  Joshua,  the  successor  of  Moses  as  leader  of 
the    Israelites.      See    the    Book   of   Joshua. 

7.  behest,    promise. 

8.  David,  the  second  king  of  Israel,  1055-1015 
B.C. 

9.  Judas  Maccabccus  (d.  160  B.C.),  a  famous 
Jewish   patriot  and  warrior. 

13.  stalled,   installed,   placed. 

x8.  Charlemagne,  king  of  the  Franks  and  em- 
peror of  the   Romans.     Crowned  emperor,   800   A.  D. 

21.  Godfrey  of  Boloine,  Godefroy  de  Bouillon 
(1061-1100),   a  leader  of  the  first  Crusade. 

24.  King  Edward  the  Fourth,  king  of  England 
1461-83. 

25.  instantly,    insistently,    earnestly. 

20.  a.   21.  aretted,   reckoned. 

25.  Glastonbury,  a  town  in  Somerset,  England, 
seat   of   an    abbey. 

26.  Polichronicon.  Ranulf  Higden  (died  c.  1363), 
a  monk  of  Chester,  wrote  Polychronicon,  a  general 
history,    in    Latin. 

29.  translated,    removed. 

31.  Bochas,  Boccacacio  (13 13— 1375),  a  celebrated 
Italian  novelist  and  poet.  De  Casu  Principum  [On 
the  Fall  of  Princes]  recounts  the  misfortunes  of  fa- 
mous men. 

33.  Galfridus,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  (c.  iioo- 
1152?),  whose  fabulous  Latin  History  of  the  Kings 
of  Britain  purported  to  be  based  largely  upon  a 
'  British  book.' 

40-1.  Patricius  .  .  .  Impcrator,  '  Noble  Ar- 
thur, Emperor  of  Britain,  Gaul,  Germany  and  Da- 
cia.' 

b.    I.  Camelot,     a    legendary     spot    in     England 
where  Arthur  was  said  to   have   had   his  court. 

23.  conning,   knowledge,    skill. 

25.  etnprised,  undertaken. 

21.  a.  28.  gat,    begot. 

36.  assotted,   infatuated,   besotted. 
b.  43.  did  do  make,  had  made. 

47.  made  a  parliament,  called  a  council. 

57.  prefixed,  set,  decided  upon. 

22.  a.   6.   longed,  belonged. 

12.  garnished,  furnished,  supplied. 

14.  ivist,  heard,  learned. 
21.  prevail,   avail. 

29.  sithen,  afterward. 

37.  book  and  bell  and  candle,  a  reference  to  for- 
mal ecclesiastical   curses. 

49.  orgulist,  most  arrogant,  insolent. 

b.   1.  sonds,  messages. 
12.  made  write,  had   written. 
18.  depraved,  calumniated,   vilified. 

34.  term,   length    of   time. 
46.  newfaugle,    fickle. 

58.  carracks,   large,  round-built  vessels. 

23.  a.   I.  let,  prevent. 


12.   maugre,  in  spite  of.     power,  army. 
31.  affiance,  trust,   confidence. 

44.  cankered,  inveterate. 

45.  danger,   subjection,   control. 
51.  cedle,  scliedule,  note. 

56.  French     book.     As     Caxton     explains     in     his 
preface,   Malory's   sources  are   chiefly   French. 
b.  27.  straitly   bestead,    hard    pressed. 
29.   let     .     .     .     king,   had   him   crowned   king. 

24.  a.  2.  pight  a  nezv  field,  prepared  for  another 
battle.  Barham  Down,  a  short  distance  south  of 
Canterbury. 

31.    Trinity  Sunday,  the   eighth   Sunday  after   Eas- 
ter. 

45.  chaflct.   platform. 

b.    9.   ivccncd,   thought. 
23.  an,   if. 
27.  parties,   sides. 
33.  as  to-morn,  to-morrow. 
34-5.  proffer  you   largely,  make  liberal  offers. 

38.  worshipfully,   honorably,   respectfully. 
44.  wight ly,   swiftly,    strongly. 

46.  avision,  vision. 

25.  a.    16.  evcrych,   each,  every  one. 
43.  beams,   horns. 

51.  foining,    thrusting. 

b.    I.  devoir,   duty,   service. 
3.  stinted,  ceased. 
7.  ivood,  mad. 
41.   Tide,   befall. 
54.  foin,  thrust. 

58.  bur,  an  iron  ring,  to  prevent  the  hand  from 
slipping. 

26.  a.    17.  wit,  know. 
20.  yede,  went. 

22.  pillcrs,   pillagers. 

31.  rede,   advice. 
53.  brast,  burst. 

b.    19.   lightly,   quickly. 
46.  wap,   ripple,     wan,  grow   wan. 

27.  a.  39.  Avilion,  or  Avalon,  the  Land  of  the 
Blessed  in  Celtic  mythology. 

48.  holt,  a   hill   with  a  grove  on  it. 

b.   3.  graven,   dug. 
6.  flemed,  put  to  flight. 
10.  deeming,   judging. 

15.  besant,  a  gold  coin,  first  coined  at  Byzantium. 
20.  still,   always. 

39.  read,  tell. 

28.  a.   55.  let,   prevent. 

b,    10.  hard  bestead,  hard  pressed. 
2  1.  unliap,   misfortune. 
35.  will  my  worship,  wish  my   honor. 
43.  spered,  asked,   inquired. 

29.  a.  4.  dole,  alms, 

14.  Requiem,    the    mass    for    the    dead,    the    iir.-i 
words  of  the  Introit  being  Requiem  aeternam   duna 

19.  dured,  lasted. 
29.  sithen,  since. 

32.  disease,  trouble. 

50.  still,  always,  constantly. 
53.   boot,   use,   advantage. 
b.   30.   wrack,    ruin. 

30.  a.   4.  perfection,   the   religious   or   monastic    life. 


I034 


NOTl'.S 


21-2.  gray  or  u'ltitc,  rcferriiiR  to  the  habit,  or 
costume. 

$2.  assoil,   absolve. 

b.    10-11.  ovcrthwart    and    cndlomj,    across    and 
up  and  down. 

28.  still,    continually. 
30.  lust,  desire. 

43.  took  no  force,  paid   no  heed. 

50,  by   then,  when. 

S3,  purvey,   provide. 

53.  horse  bier,  bier  drawn  by  horses. 

31.  a.   12.  yede,  went. 

35.  Dirige.  An  antiphon  in  the  office  for  the 
dead   begins   with   the   word   Dirige    ('direct'). 

37.  brcnning,  burning. 

53.  cercd  cloth  of  Raines,  waxed  cloth  of  Raines 
(in   Brittany). 

b.   13.  careful,  troubled. 

15.  orgulity,    arrogance,    pride. 

32.  dwined,  dwindled. 

48.  Steven,    voice. 

49.  longeth,  belong. 

50.  need  you,  be  necessary  to  you. 
55-6.  will  into,  wills  to   go   into. 
58.   houseled,   given   the   Eucharist. 

32.  a.   1.  anealed,  anointed. 

30.  dretching    of  swevens,   tormenting   of  dreams. 

S3,  quire,   choir. 

58.  worship,   honor,   dignity. 

b.  45.  rest,    a    loop    or    hook    attached    to    the 
armor,  to  steady  the  spear  in  a  charge. 

33.  a.    18.  favor  of  makers,   fabrication   of   poets. 
22.  quick,  alive. 

b.  32.  Caxton     .     .     .     fecit,      '  Caxton      caused 
me  to  be  made.' 

THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  this  poem  is  a  dialogue 
in  stanzas,  between  a  lover  and  his  lass.  The  man 
speaks  the  first  stanza. 

34.  3.  dele,    bit.     agayne,    in    return. 
II.  mone,  moan. 

20.  use,  practice. 
27.  ton,  one. 

29.  red,   advice,   course,     can,   know. 

33.  departe,   separate. 
37.  distrayne,   distress. 

35.  45.  leve,   stay,   remain. 
47.  anoon,  at  once. 

49.  rede,   advise. 

58.  parte,  share. 

59.  thoo,  those. 

64.  lyeve,   live. 

65.  than,  then. 
71.  ony,   any. 

75.  rescous,  rescue. 

82.  greeve,  grieve,  hurt,  wound. 

88.  rove,    roof. 

89.  than,  then. 
91.  Syth,  since. 
93.  00,  one. 

36.  94.  perde,    French    par    dieu,    less    strong    than 
*  by   God.' 

97.  lust,  desire,  wish. 

103.  dere,  animals. 

104.  vitayle,   victuals,    food. 


106.  hcle,   health. 

I  10.  here,   hair,     ere,  ear. 

127.  bee,  by,  concerning. 

131.  dey,  die. 

13S-  power,  poor,     ycde,  should  go. 

136.  be,   by. 

137.  red,  advice,     can,  know. 

146.  purveid   me,   provided   myself. 

37.  153.  curtcis,    courteous,     our,    hour. 

165.  on    the    splene.     The    meaning    of    this    ex- 
pression is  uncertain. 

172.  be,  by. 

179.  echeon,  each  one. 

ENGLISH   AND    SCOTTISH   POPULAR 

BALLADS 

ROBIN    HOOD  AND  GUY   OF  GISBORNE 

Although     tradition     has     peristently     maintained 

that  Robin  Hood  was  actually  a  historical  character 

of     the     early     14th     century,     the     early     historians 

seem    to    have    had    no    information    concerning    him 

except    what   they   found   in   the   ballads   themselves. 

In  any   case,  whatever  his   origin,  Robin   Hood  was 

the   hero    of   ballads   of   outlawry   as   early   as    1377. 

His     generosity,     fair-dealing,     tenderness,     and     wil 

subsequently  established  him  as  a  true  English  hero. 

38.  I.  shawes,   groves,    sheene,   beautifuL    shradds, 
coppices. 

5.  woodweele,  woodlark. 

6.  a  lyne,  of  linden. 

7.  wight,  stout. 
10.  froe,  from. 

12.  wrocken,  avenged,     towe,   two. 

13.  Sweavens,  dreams. 

17.  Buske,   dress,   prepare,     boivne,   prepare. 

39.  29.  capull-hyde,   horse-hide. 
36.  ffarley,   strange. 

39.  ken,  know. 

40.  And,  if. 
43.  bale,  evil. 
50.  slade,  valley. 

52.  stockes,   wooden   blocks,  stutnps. 

56,  Crist   his,   Christ's,     mayne,  strength. 

58.  ffaine,  glad. 

59.  veizve,  yew. 

60.  ffetteled,   prepared. 

63.  Woe  worth  thee,  woe  be  to  thee. 
66.  boote,  help. 
•jj.  tone,  taken. 
88.  lyne,  linden. 

95.  wilfull,  astray. 

96.  tydc,  time. 

103.  tow,   two.     whether,   which   of  the   two. 

40.  107.  masterycs,   trials   of   skill, 
no.  Steven,  hour. 

III.  shroggs,   wands. 

113.  in  twinn,  apart. 

114.  prickes,   targets,  bull's  eyes. 
122.  cold,  could. 

124.  garlande,    '  the    ring   within    which    the   prick 
(or  bull's  eye)   was  set.' 

126.  prickcwande.    pole,    stick. 

150.  ffcttled,  made  ready. 

151.  rcacheles,  careless. 
156.  may,  maiden. 


NOTES                                                           1035 

i6i.  awkuiarde,   back  handed. 

86.  ivynne,    joy. 

177.  capull-hyde,    horse-hide. 

91.   brede,   broad. 

41.   186.  lowe,  hill. 

9-^  haylle,   hale,  strong. 

192.  tyde,  time. 

96.  garre,  make,  cause. 

208.  Steven,  voice. 

98.  and     .     .     .     lesse,  if  it   were   a   lie. 

209.  loset,  loosed. 

100.  peysse,  peace. 

212.  belive,  quickly. 

loi.  yerlc    of   Mentaye,    Earl    of    Menteith.     erne. 

222.   boote,   help. 

uncle. 

224.   rawstye,   rusty. 

102.  forwarde,   van. 

234.  in  twinn,  in  twain. 

103.  cau'te  and  kene,  wary  and  bold. 
105.  Botvghan,   Buchan. 

ROBIN   hood's   death   AND  BURIAL 

no.  boxven,  ready. 

3.  broom,  a  kind  of  shrub. 

44.   115.  can,   gan,   did. 

12.  win,   go. 

116.  hyght,    promised. 

42.  48.  dree,  endure,  hold  out. 

121.  agayne,   back. 

S3,  boon,  favor. 

122.  upon   hye,  in  a  loud  voice. 
128.  schoote,   sent. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  OTTERBURN 

130.  ryall,   royal,     rowght,   rout,  company. 

During    the    reign    of     Richard     II     (1377 

-1399), 

132.  rowyndc,  round. 

the  Scots  frequently  harried  in  the  northern 

part  of 

138.  layne,  lie. 

England.     In    1388  an  army  of  Scots,  under 

James, 

140.  agayne,  against. 

Earl     of     Douglas,     besieged     Newcastle     for 

three 

155.   ll'ende,  go. 

days.     At     this    time     Douglas     met    Harry 

Percy. 

156.  yec,   eye. 

'  Hotspur,'  in   single  combat,   captured  his  lance   aiil 

161.  weynde    .     .     .    growende,     go     from     this 

banner,  and  boasted  that  he  would  raise  the 

banner 

ground. 

on   the   Scottish   castle   at    Dalkeith.     Percy   collected 

162.  onfowghten,  not  fought,  without  fight. 

a    force,    pursued    the    Scots,   and   attacked    t 

lem    at 

165.  rynde,   flayed. 

night   in   a   hand   to   hand    fight,   at   Otterburn,    near 

166.  mykkel  maye,   powerful   maid. 

the  frontier.     Although  Douglas  was  killed,  the  Eng- 

168.  Wyth,   by. 

lish  were  defeated  and  Percy  was  taken  prisoner. 

171.  ivaryson,  reward. 

I.  Lamasse,  Lammas,  August  ist. 

174.  'And  cross  himself  in  the  name  of  the  Trin- 

2. Wynnes,  dry. 

ity.' 

3.  bowynd,  prepared. 

181.  perte,  part,  side. 

4.  praye,   prey. 

183.  hiccttes,   pikes    (fish). 

5.  yerlle  of  Fyffe.     The  Earl  of  Fife,  son 

of   the 

199.  swapped,   smote,     whyll   that   the,   until    they. 

Scottish    king,    was    ravaging    in    the    northwest    of 

200.  collayne,  Cologne  steel. 

England,   about   Carlisle.     He   passed  over  the    Sol- 

45.  201.  bassonnettes,   steel   caps,   helmets. 

way   Firth. 

202.  roke,  reek,  steam. 

7.  wolde,  would. 

210.  rede,   guessed. 

8.  raysse,  raid. 

215.  thee,  they,     beette,  beat. 

9-1 1.  The  places  mentioned  are  in  old  Northum- 

218. stoundc,  hour,  time. 

berland. 

225.  eke  a,  every. 

12.  Styrande,  stirring. 

229.  freke,   man. 

13.  brente,  burned. 

230.  stowre,   battle. 

16.  bowyn,   prepared. 

231.  drye,   endure. 

17.  berne,  man.     bent,  field. 

238.   Grysely,   fearfully. 

43.  31.  march-man,   warrior   of  the  border. 

263.  Seyng,   seeing. 

32.  kepte  Barwyke    guarded  Berwick  upon 

Tweed. 

268.  makes,  mates,  husband,     fette,  fetched. 

34.  on  hyght,  aloud. 

276.  boro'wed,   ransomed. 

35.  and  thow  byste,  if  thou  art. 

39.  syne,  since,     logeyng,  lodging. 

CAPTAIN    CAR   OR   EDOM    0    GORDON 

46.  envye,  injury. 

Adam    Gordon    was    deputy,    in    1571,    for    Queen 

48.  tone,  one. 

Mary    in    the    north    of    Scotland,    where    he    encoun- 

52. logced,  lodged. 

tered    the    hostility   of  the   Forbeses,   who   supported 

53.  roo,   roe.     rinnes,   runs. 

the  king's  party.     On   one  occasion  he  sent  his  sol- 

59. the  tyll,  to  thee. 

diers    to    take    the    castle    of    Towie    in    the    queen's 

65.  pype,   pipe,   a   measure   for    wine, —  i2t 

wine- 

name.     After  the  lady  of  the  house  had  refused,  the 

gallons. 

eager    soldiers    were    commanded    by    their    leader, 

73-  Pygf^t.  fixed. 

Captain     Ker,    to    set    fire    to    the    castle.     Tradition 

74.  gettyng,   booty. 

has  it  that   the   lady   and   twenty-seven   others   were 

75.  syne,   afterwards. 

burned  to  death. 

76.  gresse,    grass. 

I.  Martynmas,   Nov.    nth. 

77.  hoved,    tarried,     bent,    field. 

4.  hotde,  castle. 

78.  wache,   watch,  sentinel. 

46.  5.  Syck,    sike,    sick,     to-towe,    too-too. 

79.  ware  on,  aware  of. 

9.  wether,  whither. 

81.  pry  eked,  rode. 

17.  lend,  leaned. 

1036 


NOTES 


34.   bande,   bond,  agreement. 

36.  ere,   possess. 

38.  wliitt   and  redda,    white  and   red. 

45.  pestilelt,   pistol. 
50.  pellettes,   bullets. 

54.  lowne,  servant,  worthless  person. 

60.  eare,  heir. 

64.  waraii,   protection,   surety. 

70.   k)iet,  knotted. 

80.  smoldereth,  smothers. 

82.  ffee,    property. 

86.  the,  thee. 

47.  loi.  busk,   prepare,     bowne,   make   ready. 
104.  or,  before. 

108.  dele,  deal,  bit. 
121.  ought,  had. 

THE  WIFE  OF  USHER's   WELL 

7.  carline  wife,  old  woman,  or  perhaps,  wealthy 
woman,   low-born   woman. 

8.  gaiie,    gone. 

14.  fashes,  troubles. 

17.  Martinmass,   Nov.    nth. 

20.  birk,  birch. 

21.  syke,   ditch,   trench. 

22.  sheugh,   ditch,   furrow. 
27.  a',  all. 

41.  daw,   dawn. 

42.  channerin,   fretting. 

43.  Gin,  if. 

44.  sair,  sore,     maun,  must. 

46.  byre,  cow-house. 

KEMP  OWYNE 

Kemp  Owyne  is  Owain,  one  of  King  Arthur's 
knights.  The  adventure  here  ascribed  to  him  is  that 
of  disenchantment   through  kisses. 

6.  dee,   do. 

48.  12.   borrow,   set   free,   ransom. 
34.   wi,   with. 

THE   D^MON   LOVER 
20.  kend,  knew. 

30.  baith,   both. 

31.  ain,  own. 

49.  35.   taffetie,   fine  silk. 

41.  drumlie,   gloomy,   frightened,     ee,   eye. 
S3,  win,   arrive. 
58.  strack,   struck. 


LORD  RANDALL 


vald,  would. 
broo,     water 


which    something    has    been 


boiled. 


SIR   PATRICK   SPENS 
3.  guid,   good. 
9.  braid,  broad. 
14.  lauch,  laugh. 
^)0.  29.  laith,  loth. 

31.  owre  a',  ere  all. 

32.  aboone,   above. 

38.  kerns,  combs. 

39.  ain,    own. 
41.   oivre,   over. 


THOMAS  RVMEK 
There  is  considerable  evidence  that  Thomas  the 
Rimer  was  one  Thomas  of  Krceldoune,  who  lived 
in  southern  Scotland  in  the  13th  century.  Tradi- 
tion has  it  that  he  was  a  proi)het,  as  well  as  a  poet, 
and  that   he  was  frequently  visited  by  fairies. 

4.  fernic    brae,    ferny    hill. 

7.  ilka  tett,  every  lock. 
10.   till,  to. 

17.  maun,   must. 

20.  wae,  woe. 

44.  fairlies,  wonders. 

49.  braid,   broad. 

50.  lillie  leven,  pleasant   lawn. 
56.  gae,  go. 

59.  gin   ae,   if   one. 
61.   even,  smooth. 

BONNY   BARBARA   ALLAN 

51.  I.  Martinmass,    Nov.    nth. 

8.  Gin,  if. 

9.  hooly,  slowly. 

17.  dinna,   do   not. 
19.  gae,   go. 

28.  reft,  deprived. 

31.  jow,  stroke,     gcid,  gave. 

THE  TWA   SISTERS 

I.  bowr,  bower. 

10.  brotch,   brooch. 
1 2.  sair,   sore. 

15.   brast,   burst. 
22.  stane,  stone. 
25.  jaw,  wave,  current. 
27.  Ise,  I   shall,     mack,   make, 
land. 

29.  goud,  gold. 

32.  fa,   fall,     han,   hand. 

33.  '  It  separated  me  and  my  world's  mate.' 
35.  Gars,  makes,     gae,   go. 

52.  46.  sma,  small. 

47.  braw,  fine,  handsome. 
49.  sae  gryte,  so  great. 
58.  nexiin,  next,     syne,  afterwards. 

THE   CRUEL  BROTHER 
I.  ba,  ball. 

5.  baith,  both. 

18.  maun,  must,     frae  a',   from   all. 
31.  doss,  court-yard. 
46.  pall,  cloak. 

48.  gowden,  golden, 

53.  57.  sair,   sore. 
58.  rive,  tear. 

EDWARD 
1.  dais,  does,     brand,   sword,  knife. 


my  Ian,  all  my 


4- 

gang. 

go. 

7. 

gtiid. 

good. 

8. 

mair. 

more. 

13 

reid 

roan   steid. 

red-roan 

steed. 

16 

frie. 

good. 

20 

dule 

ye  drie,  sorrow 

ye 

suffer 

25 

drie 

suffer. 

35 

ha, 

lall. 

NOTES 


[037 


37-  I'd,  till,     /u,   fall. 

45.   tlirae,   through. 

53.  sail,  shall,     beir,  bear. 

WYATT:     A  RENOUNCING  OF  LOVE 
65.  3.  Scncc,     Lucius     Annseus     Seneca     (4     B.  C- 
65   A.  D.),   a   lamous   Roman    Stoic    philosopher   and 
wiiter   of  tragedies.     Plato    (429   or   427-347   B.  C), 
a  famous  Greek   philosopher. 
8.  lever,  dearer. 

AN  EARNEST  SUIT 
4.  grame,  sorrow. 

THE  LOVER  COMPLAINETH 
7.  grave,  make  an   impression   upon,   engrave. 

56.  24.  playn,  to  complain. 

OF  THE  MEAN  AND  SURE  ESTATE 
John    Pains    (died    1558),    an    intimate    friend    of 
Wyatt,  lived  chiefly  at  the  English  court. 
6.  souse,  drench. 
10.  dight,   put   in   order. 

14.  store,   supply,    abundance,     stroycd,   destroyed. 
26.  cater,  caterer. 
28.  charge,  care,  burden. 
31.  jape,  jest. 
53.  steaming,  gleaming. 
61.  tho,  then. 

57.  88.  hay,  snare,     conies,  rabbits. 
105.  dome,  judgment. 


HENRY    HOWARD:     DESCRIPTION    OF 
SPRING 

58.  1.  soote,   sweet. 

2.  eke,  also. 

4.  turtle,  turtle-dove,     make,  mate. 

5.  spray,  branch,  stem,     springs,  sprouts. 
8.  fiete,   float. 

II.   mings,   mixes. 

DESCRIPTION    AND   PRAISE   OF    HIS    LOVE 
GERALDINE 

I.  Tuscan,    Tuscany. 
J.   her,   their. 

3.  Western  isle.     See  line  5. 

4.  Camber's  cliffs,  the  cliffs  of  Wales. 

59.  9.  Hunsdon.    in    Hertfordshire,    some    30    miles 
north  of   London. 

II.  Hampton,  Hampton  Court,  a  royal  palace  near 
London. 

12.  Windsor,   Windsor   Castle. 

13.  kind,  nature. 

COMPLAINT   OF  THE   LOVER   DISDAINED 
I.  Cyprus.     The   island   of   Cyprus    was   the   espe- 
cial   home   of   Venus. 

COMPLAINT   OF   THE   ABSENCE   OF   HER 
LOVER 

4.  eke,   also. 

5.  wonted,  was  accustomed. 

14.  avail,  profit,  advantage. 

60.  33.  drencheth,  drowns. 
38.  doubtful,  full  of  fear. 


A  PRAISE  OF  HIS  LO\E 

4.  sayn,  say. 

7.  troth,  fidelity. 

8.  Penelope,  the  proverbially  faithful  wife  of 
Odysseus. 

II.  mo,    more. 
21.   kind,  nature. 
25.  sith,  since. 

DESCRIPTIO.N'  OF  THE  RESTLESS  STATE  OF 
A  LOVER 

19.   list,    please. 
24.   use,   practice. 

31.  plain,  complain. 

61.  44.  agaccd,  wrapt,  amazed. 
51.  teen,   sorrow. 

THE  MEANS  TO  ATTAIN  HAPPY  LIFE 
I.  Martial    (43-104   A.  D.),  a   Latin    poet.     Wrote 
chiefly   epigrams. 

5.  egalt,  equal. 

9.  mean,   moderate. 

13.  debate,  dispute,  quarrel. 

OF  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 
7.  stithe,  anvil. 

14.  reft,  bereft. 

17.  served  in  foreign  realms.     See  p.  54  above. 
21.  none  affect,   no  aff'ection. 

VIRGIL'S  ^NEID 

I.  whist ed,  became  silent. 

6.  Phrygian,  of  Phrygia,  that  country  or  divi- 
sion of  Asia  Minor  in  which  Troy  was  situated. 
wailful,   lamentable. 

10.  Myrmidon.  The  Myrmidons  were  led  to  the 
Trojan  War  by  Achilles.  Dolopes.  The  Dolopes 
came  from  Thessaly  to  fight  on  the  Greek  side  be- 
fore   Troy. 

62.  17.  plaint  eschews,  avoids  complaint. 
3S.  fet,   fetched,   reached. 

40.  Pyrrhus,  a  famous  Greek  hero  of  the  Trojan 
War.     pight,   campecf. 

42.  scathful,   harmful. 

43.  Bchight,  promised. 

SACKVILLE:     THE  INDUCTION 

63.  2.  treen,  trees. 

3.  Saturnus,  Saturn,  one  of  the  planets,  of  un- 
propitious  influence. 

7.  tapets,  tapestries,  figuratively  used  for  foliage. 
bloom,  flower. 

10.  soote,  sweet. 

II.  Boreas,   the   north   wind. 
21.   whereas,   where. 

24.  Venus,  goddess  of  love.  Hermes,  Mercury, 
messenger  of  Jupiter. 

25.  Mars,  god   of   war.     -ti7/,    desire,   urge. 

27.  yirgo,  the  Virgin,  one  of  the  constellations, 
and  a  sign   of  the  zodiac. 

28.  Thetis,  goddess  of  the  sea. 

2y.  Scorpio,     Sagittarius,     Scorpion     and     Archer, 
signs  of  the  zodiac. 
30.  prest.  ready. 

32.  Bear,  a  constellation. 


1 038 


NOTES 


26.  Phaeton,   son   of  the   sungod. 
38.  prest,    ready. 
40.  stent,  end. 

42.  Titan,  the  sun  personified. 

43.  Cynthca,  the  mocn. 

64.  48.   chare,  car,  chariot. 
51.   lusty,   pleasant. 

53.  fade,   faded. 

57.  learns,  flames,  rays. 

60.  Phahus,  the  sun-god. 

68.  peers,  noblemen  of  especial  dignity. 

69.  descrive,  describe. 

74.  wight,  creature,  person,  forewaste,  com- 
pletely wasted. 

75.  brast,  burst. 

76.  fold,   folded. 

77.  ruth,  pity. 

80.  welkcd,   withered,   pale,     besprent,   sprinkled. 

90.  doom,  judgment. 

93.  distrained,   pained,   torn. 

96.  apart,   set   aside. 

97.  deu'le,   lamentation,   sorrow. 
100.  stint,  cease,     spill,  destroy,  kill. 

102.  dure,   last,   endure,     attaint,   tainted,   afflicted. 

103.  forefaint,  very   faint. 
106.  distrained,   distressed. 

109.  Furies,  the  Eumenides:  Alecto,  Megsra, 
and   Tisiphone. 

111.  Lethe,   the   river   of   oblivion,   in   Hades. 

112.  reave,  take  away. 

65.  119.  dure,  last,   endure. 
120.  brayed,  started. 

122.  shright,  shrieked. 

123.  to-dashcd,  dashed  to   pieces. 
125.  eft,  again. 

131.  avale,  abate. 

134.  sith,  since. 

141,  stike,  stich,  verse,  stanza. 

143.  JEblus,  god  of  the  winds. 

145.  bedrent,   drenched. 

161.  won,  dwelling. 

166.  silly,  simple,  innocent, 

175.  shright,  shrieked. 

176.  grisly,   dreadful. 

179.  whilom,  formerly,  once,  bare  swing,  bore 
sway. 

191.  unmeet,  unseemly,   unusual. 

66.  202.  Astoined,  astounded. 
208.  yeding,  going. 

210.  cleped,  called.  Azcrn,  a  small  lake  near 
modern  Naples,  anciently  believed  to  be  the  en- 
trance to  the  infernal  regions. 

212.  swelth,   overflow. 

219.  besprent,  sprinkled. 

221.  stent,  cease. 

223.  thoughtful,   sorrowful. 

233.  proffered,  put  forth. 

236.  staring   of  his  hair,  hair  standing  on  end. 

237.  'Stained,  astounded. 

243.  far  forth,  extremely,  excessively. 

250.  fet,  fetched. 

253.  somedeal,  somewhat. 

257.  clouts,  tatters,  rags. 

258.  scrip,   wallet. 
260.  for   most,  chiefly. 


262.  wot,   knows. 

67.  268.  ruth,  pity. 
271.  breres,  briars, 
284.  keep,  heed. 

291.  Reaver,  robber,  one  who  deprives. 

292,  tide,   happen, 

294.  Cra:sus,  the  fabulously  wealthy  king  of 
Lydia,  who  came  to  the  throne  in  560  B.  C.  Irus, 
in    Homeric   legend,   a   beggar    of   gigantic   stature. 

297.  cheer,  countenance,     still,   ever,   always. 

299.  the  sisters,  the  fates:  Clotho,  Lachesis,  and 
Atropos. 

306.  forewaste,   wasted  away. 

308.  beseech,  beseech. 

309.  But  and,  although, 
313,  eld,  old  age. 

328.  fain,   eagerly. 

333.  pilled,  bare,  with  eld  forlore,  wasted  with 
age. 

68.  336.  For  brief,  in  brief. 

340.  brook,  use,  endure,  enjoy. 

342.  recure,   recovery. 

346.  grisly,  terrible. 

361.  maw,  stomach. 

371.  Enthrilling,  forcing  in.     reave,  deprive. 

374.  daunts,   subdues    (by   fear). 

376.  peers,   noblemen. 

381.  eftsoons,    forthwith,   immediately. 

382.  affraycd,    frightened. 

383.  dight,  provided,     parde,  French  par  Dieu. 
389.  imbrued,  covered. 

393.  whilom,   formerly,   once. 

398.  forehewed,   hewed  to  pieces. 

399.  targe,   shield, 

401.  Debate,  dispute,  contest,  war. 

402.  fillet,   a   band   for  tying   about   the   hair. 
405.  Darius,  king  of  Persia  521-486  B.  C,     power, 

army. 

407.  Macedo,  Alexander  the  great  (356-323 
B.  C),  king  of  Macedonia. 

69.  409.  daunted,   subdued. 

410-418.  Ha;niiba/  (247-183  B.C.),  a  famous 
Carthaginian  general,  among  whose  victories  against 
the  Romans  are  those  of  the  Trebia,  of  Lake  Trasi- 
mene,  and  of  Cannx.  At  Cannae  the  Roman  con- 
sul Paulus  was  killed.  Hannibal  was  finally  de- 
feated by  Scipio  Africanus  Major,  at  Zama,  in  202 
B.C. 

419.  CcEsar  ,  .  ,  Pompey.  The  civil  war  be- 
tween Julius  Csesar  and  Pompey  was  ended  by  the 
total  defeat  of  Pompey  at  Pharsalia  in  48  B.  C. 

423.  Sulla  and  Marius.  The  civil  war  between 
the  Romans   Marius  and   Sulla  began   in  88   B.  C. 

425.  Cyrus,  the  Great  (d.  529  B.C.),  founded  the 
Persian  empire. 

428.  Xerxes   (c.  519—464  B.C.),  king  of  Persia. 

432.  Thebes,  a  city  in  Boeotia,  Greece,  destroyed 
by  Alexander  the  Great. 

433-  Tyrus,  Tyre,  despoiled  by  Alexander  the 
Great. 

440.  Priam,  king  of  Troy. 

441.  lin,   restrain  myself. 

442.  sith,  since. 
445.   quail,   fall. 

449.  Hector,  son  of  Priam. 


NOTES 


[039 


451.  boot,  reward,  outcome. 

452.  hugy  horse,  the  wooden  horse  by  means  of 
which    the    Greeks   gained    entrance   into    Troy. 

463.  Cassandra,  a  prophetess,  daughter  of  Priam. 
By  command  of  Apollo,  her  prophecies,  though  true, 
were  always  discredited. 

464.  Pallas'  house,  temple  of  Pallas,  spercled, 
disheveled. 

465.  rout,  mob.     empaled,  pierced. 

469.  Pyrrhus,  the  Greek  who  slew  Priam. 
468.  baign,   bath. 

475.  Ilium,    the    citadel    of    Troy,     gledes,    flames. 

476.  Neptunus,  god  of  the  sea. 
480.  Acheron,  a  river  in  Hades. 

70.  482.  grisly,  terrible.  Charon,  the  ferryman 
who  transported  the  souls  of  the  dead  over  the 
rivers    of    the   underworld. 

486.  rout,  crowd. 
491.  fraughted,   freighted,  laden. 
494.  hoise,  hoist. 

499.  Cerberus,  the  three-headed  watch-dog  at  the 
entrance  to   the  infernal   regions. 

501.  Foredinning,  filling  with  a  din. 

504.  peased,  held  his  peace,  became  silent. 

512.  puled,  whined. 

517.  yfear,  together. 

527.  whilom,  formerly,  once. 

530.  erewhile,  a   while  ago. 

532.  kesar,   emperor,     peer,   nobleman. 

ROGER  ASCHAM:  THE  SCHOOLMASTER 

71.  a.  6.  Circe's  Court.  In  Greek  mythology 
Circe  was  an  enchantress  who,  attended  by  four 
nymphs,  feasted  all  persons  who  approached  her 
dwelling.  Anyone,  however,  who  tasted  the  con- 
tents of  her  magic  cup  was  turned   into  a  beast. 

32.  Inglese     .     .     .     incarnato,     '  An     Englishman 
Italianate  is  a  devil  incarnate.' 
b,   19.  policy,  cunning. 

24.  discoursing,   reasoning,   argumentative. 
32.  fond,   foolish. 

35.  honest,  virtuous. 

72.  a.  2.  charge,  duty,  office. 

S.  Paul's  Cross,  a  cross  situated  near  the  north- 
east angle  of  old  St.  Paul's,  in  the  churchyard. 
From  it  great  public  assemblies  were  addressed  and 
sermons  preached.  The  '  Paul's  Cross  Sermons  '  are 
still  preached  on   Sunday  morning. 

13.  Louvain,  a  city  in  the  province  of  Brabant, 
Belgium.     Religious  books  were  often  printed   here. 

14.  wink,  close  the  eyes. 

25.  St.  Paul  saith,  Galatians,  v.   i9ff, 

57.  canons,  ecclesiastics  retained  for  the  perform- 
ance of  divine  service  in  a  cathedral  or  collegiate 
church.  Morte  Arthur,  a  compilation  of  prose  ro- 
mances on  the  life  and  death  of  King  Arthur  and 
the  knights  of  the  Round  Table,  translated  largely 
from  French  romances  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory  and 
printed  by   Caxton   in    1485.     See  p.    19. 

b.  6.  shifts,  tricks.  Sir  Launcelot,  '  Launcelot 
of  the  Lake,'  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the 
knights  of  the  Round  Table,  who  guiltily  loved 
Arthur's  queen,   Guinevere. 

6-7.     IVife  of  King  Arthur,  Guinevere. 

7.  5iV     Tristram,     of     Lyonesse,     another     famous 


Knight  of  the  Round  Table.  His  love  for  Isolde, 
wife  of  King  Mark  of  Cornwall,  forms  the  subject 
of   many    romances. 

.9.  Sir  Lamerock,  a  knight  of  the  Round  Table. 
wife  of  King  Lot.  King  Lot  in  Malory's  Morte 
d'Arthur  was  a  King  of  Orkney  who  married 
Margawse,  sister  of  Arthur. 

23.  fond,  foolish. 

73.  a.  6.  lewd,  unlearned,  vulgar. 

16.  Plato  (429  or  427-547  B.C.),  a  famous  Greek 
philosopher,  disciple  of  Socrates  and  teacher  of 
Aristotle. 

18.  abominabiles  .  .  .  suis,  'made  destestable 
in  their  studies.' 

20.  Dixit  insipiens  in  corde  suo  no  est  Deus, 
'  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart  there  is  no  God,' 
Psalm,  xiv,   i. 

29.  Triumphs  of  Petrarch,  an  allegorical  work  by 
the  celebrated   Italian   poet  Petrarch    (1304-1374). 

31.  Tully's  Offices.  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  (106- 
43  B.  C.)  was  a  famous  Roman  orator,  statesman, 
and  philosopher.  The  work  here  referred  to  is  his 
iJc  Officiis  (On  Duties). 

32.  Boccaccio  (1313-1375),  eminent  Italian 
writer,  author  of  The  Decameron,  a  collection  of 
100  tales. 

45.   Whether,  which. 

50.  general  councils,  composed  of  bishops  and 
theologians  from  different  nations,  convened  to 
consider  questions  of  church  doctrine,  discipline, 
and  the  like. 

53.  Luther,  Martin  Luther  (1483-1546),  leader 
of  the  Protestant  Reformation  in   Germany. 

b.  2.  epicures,  those  who  held  the  opinions  of 
the  Greek  philosopher  Epicurus  (342-270  B.  C), 
who  taught  that  pleasure  is  the  only  possible  end 
of  rational  action  and  that  ultimate  pleasure  is 
freedom. 

22.  list,  like,  choose. 

23.  Mysteries  of  Moses,  the  rites  of  the  Jewish 
religion  instituted  by  Moses.  See  the  Book  of 
Leviticus.  Law  and  ceremonies.  See  Deuteron- 
omy. 

29.  Horace,  Roman  poet  (65-8  B.  C).  Quotation 
from  Satires,  i,  5,  100. 

51.  Pygius,  Pighius  (1490-1542),  a  theologian 
whose  writings  were  opposed  by  Calvin.  Machi- 
avelli  (1469-1527),  celebrated  Italian  statesman 
and  author.  He  was  imprisoned  and  put  to  the 
torture  on  suspicion  of  conspiring  against  Giovanni 
de  Medici,  but  was  released  and  after  retiring  to 
his  country  estate  wrote  The  Prince.  His  name  is 
synonymous  with  all  that  is  cunning  and  un- 
scrupulous  in   diplomacy. 

74.  a.  3-6.  where  Christ's  doctrine  .  .  .  special 
regard,   Germany. 

16.  lust,   desire. 

17.  pantocle,  a  slipper. 

34.  bent  enemy,  cf.   '  bent  on  mischief.' 

50.  Bridewell,  a  celebrated  London  prison  or 
house  of  detention.  The  name  has  become  a  ge- 
neric  term    for   a    house   of   correction    or   lock-up. 

55.  present  Pope,   Pius   V    (i 566-1 572). 

57.  meed,  a  reward,  gift. 
b.  57.   lust,   desire. 


1 040 


NOTES 


75.  a.  2.  Guelph,  Ihe  papal  and  popular  party  in 
Italy  during  the  struggle  between  the  pajiacy  and  the 
Empire  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Ghibelin,  the  imperial 
and  aristocratic  party  in  the  same  struggle. 

10.  let,  hindrance;  archaic  except  in  the  com- 
mon phrase  '  without  let  or   hindrance.' 

JOHN  LYLY:     EUPHUES  AND  HIS  ENGLAND 

76.  a.  4.  This  queen.  Mary  was  queen  from  1553 
to    i5£8. 

5.  age  of  twenty-two  years.  At  her  accession  to 
the  throne,  in  1558,  Elizabeth  (born  1533)  was  actu- 
ally twenty-five  years  of  age. 

8.  a  prisoner.  Queen  Mary  had  imprisoned  Eliz- 
abeth in  the  Tower  of  London.  Prince,  used  prop- 
erly, by  extension  of  meaning,  to  designate  a  royal 
personage   of   either   sex. 

28.  Zeuo,  a  philosopher  of  Elea  (born  c.  488 
B.  C),  was  mentioned  in  classical  times  as  an  ex- 
ample  of  patience. 

29.  Eretricus,   apparently  Lyly's  own   invention. 

30.  Lycurgus,  either  the  Spartan  legislator  (9th 
century  B.  C),  or  the  Athenian  orator  (c.  396-c. 
323  B.C.). 

b.  9.  spill,  destroy. 

10.  proffer,  offer. 

14.  Aristides  (d.  468  B.C.?),  an  Athenian  gen- 
eral and  politician,  was  exiled  through  the  influ- 
ence of  his  great  rival,  Themistocles. 

16.  Alexander.     Lyly's   reference  is  uncertain. 

21.  bills,  requests. 

23.  resembling  Julius  Casar.  There  is  no  author- 
ity for  this  comparison. 

33.  government,  reign. 
35.  racking,  stretching. 

77.  a.  2.  Antoninus  (emperor  of  Rome  1 38-1 61 
A.  D.),  surnamed  'Pius.' 

12-13.  gun  that  was  shot  off.  This  was,  for 
Lyly,  a  recent  occurrence,  of  the  summer  of  1579. 

24.  close,   secret. 

29.  in  the  whale's  belly.  An  allusion  to  the  story 
of  Jonah.     See  Jonah  i-ii. 

31.  in  the  hot  oven.  An  allusion  to  the  story  of 
Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego.     See  Daniel  iii. 

40.   list,    please. 

43.  Theodosius,  an  allusion,  perhaps,  to  the  re- 
pentance of  Theodosius  I  (c.  346-395).  Emperor 
of  the  East,  after  his  massacre  of  the  rebels  of 
Thessalonica   in   390. 

45-8.  Augustus  .  .  .  write.  This  anecdote  is 
recounted  not  of  Augustus,  but  of  Nero,  emperor 
of   Rome   54-68. 

47.  we,   royal   use  of   plural   for   singular. 
b.   18.  Praxitiles,   born  at   Athens  near   the   end 
of  the   5th   century   B.  C.     A   famous   sculptor.     His 
statues  of  Venus  and  Cupid  are  known,  but  not  his 
paintings. 

19.  her  son,   Cupid. 

28.  Zeuxis,  a  famous  Greek  painter  who  flour- 
ished at  the  end  of  the   5th  century   B.  C. 

36.   table,   probably   a   slab,   or   tablet. 

39.  Apelles,  a  famous  Greek  painter  who  flour- 
ished in  the  early  part  of  the  4tU  century  B.  C. 

54.  narrowly,    closely. 
78.  a.  6.   mold,   pattern,   model. 


16.  forty   years,   actually    forty-seven   yearsl 

-■6.   tickle,   uncertain. 

27.  twist,   thread. 

36.  the  bird  Ibis.  There  is  a  slender  tradition 
that  this  bird  was  distinguished  for  sweetness  of 
odor. 

52-3.  Nicaulia  the  queen  of  Saba.  A  Nicaulis 
is  mentioned  in  Josephus'  Antiquities  of  the  Jews, 
V,k.  viii,  Ch.  6. 

54.  Nicostrata,  a  legendary  or  mythological 
(ueek   prophetess. 

58.  Amatasunta,  ruled  at  Ravenna  as  queen  of 
the  Ostrogoths  5J2-530  A.  D.  Tradition  ascribes 
to  her  numerous  literary  accomplishments. 
58.  b.  I.  Aspasia  ...  Pericles.  Aspasia  was 
an  accomplished  woman  to  whom  the  famous  Athe- 
nian statesman,  Pericles  (c.  495-429  B.  C),  was 
notoriously  attached. 

2.  Thcmistoclea  .  .  .  Pythagoras.  Pythagoras 
(c.  582-c.  500  B.  C),  a  famous  Greek  philosopher 
and  mathematician,  is  said  to  have  received  instruc- 
tion   from   one   Aristocleia,   a   priestess. 

7.  escapes,   mistakes. 

23.  twice  .  .  .  universities.  Queen  Elizabeth 
visited  Cambridge  for  a  few  days  in  1564,  and  Ox- 
ford for  a  few  days  in  1566.  In  both  places  she 
attended  disputations,  and  made  speeches  in  Greek 
and   Latin. 

39.  Sybarites,  inhabitants  of  Sybaris  in  southern 
Italy,   who  were  noted   for  luxurious  living. 

49.  withal,   with. 
58.  whenas,  since. 

79.  a.  4.  gallery  of  Olympia.  Reference  to  a  fa- 
mous echoing  gallery   at   Olympia,   in   Greece. 

34.  curses  of  the  Pope.  Pope  Pius  V  directed  a 
bull  of  excommunication  and  deposition  against 
Elizabeth    in    1570. 

b.  17.  Alexander,  'the  Great'  (356-323  B.C.), 
king  of  Macedon.  Galba  (3  B.  C.-69  A.  D.),  a 
Roman  emperor. 

20.  queen  of  Navarre,  Margaret  d'  Angouleme 
(1492-1549),  queen  of  Henry  II  of  Navarre. 
Elizabeth,  while  princess,  translated  a  small  book 
of  religious  meditations  from  the  French  of  Mar- 
garet. 

25-6.  bound  ,  .  .  palm  tree,  i.e.,  was  vic- 
torious in  Egypt. 

42.  silly,   innocent. 

46.  whist,    silent. 

47.  bird  Attagen.  The  habits  of  this  bird  here 
recounted  are  vouched  for  by  Pliny  (23-79  '"^'  D.), 
the  celebrated  Roman  naturalist. 

50.  wade,  go. 

80.  a.  21.  weams,   blemishes,   scars. 

SONG  (FROM  GALLATHEA) 
1.  O    yes,    O    yes!     A    development    from    French 
oie~,   '  hear   ye,'   a   summons   to   court. 

SIDNEY:     AN  APOLOGY  FOR  POETRY 

81.  a.  3.  so  long  a  career.  Up  to  this  point,  Sid- 
ney has  considered  at  length  the  nature  and  value 
of  poetry,  its  superiority  to  history,  and  the  kinds 
of   poetry. 

15.  Musa     .     .     .     laeso,   Virgil,   Aen,  i.   8. 


NOTES 


1 041 


22.  David.     See,  for  example,  2  Samuel  xxii. 

23.  Adrian,  the  emperor  Hadrian  (117-13S 
A.  D.),  who  wrote  both  prose  and  verse.  Sofyhoclcs, 
the  Greek  tragic  poet  (495?-4o6  B.C.).  German- 
icus  ds  B.  C.-19  A.  D.),  nephew  of  the  Emperor 
Tiberius,  took  his  name  from  Germany  (Germania), 
where  he  distinguished  himself  in  military  service. 
He  wrote  prose  and  poetry. 

26.  Robert,  King  of  Sicily,  king  of  Naples,  1309- 
1343.     He   wrote   prose   and    poetry. 

27.  King  Francis,  Francis  I  (15 15-1547).  a  gen- 
erous  patron   of  letters. 

b.  I.  King  James  of  Scotland,  James  I  of  Scot- 
land (1405-1436).  His  King's  Quair  is  a  pleasant 
poem  in  the  Chaucerian  style. 

;.  Beinbus,  Pietro  Bembo  (1470-1547),  a  cardinal 
and  papal  secretary,  wrote  poetry  and  prose  in  both 
Latin  and  Italian.  Bibiena,  Bernardo  da  Bibbiena 
(1470—1520),  one  of  the  tutors  of  Pope  Leo  X. 

3.  Beca,  Theodore  Beza  (1519-1605),  a  French 
("alvinistic  controversialist,  composed  numerous 
Latin   poems. 

4.  Mclanchthon,  Philip  Melanchthon  (i 497-1 560), 
a  German  supporter  of  Luther,  and  a  Latin  poet. 

5.  Fracastorius,  Hieronymus  Fracastorius  (1483— 
1553),    an    Italian    poet,    philosopher,    and    scientist. 

Scaliger,  Julius  Caesar  Scaliger  (1484— 1558)  was  an 
Italian  literary  critic.  Sidney  appears  to  have 
studied    diligently    his    treatise    on    poetry. 

6.  Pontanus,  Johannes  Jovius  Pontanus  (1420— 
1503),  an  Italian,  wrote  both  prose  and  distinguished 
poetry  in  Latin.  Muretus,  Marc  Antoine  Muret 
(1526— 1585),    a    French    orator,    jurist,    and    poet. 

7.  George  Buchanan  (i 506-1 582),  a  distinguished 
Scotch    Latinist. 

9.  Hosl'itai  of  France,  Michael  de  I'Hospital 
(1505— 1573),  a  distinguished  French  lawyer  and 
statesman,   wrote   numerous  Latin   poems. 

22.  ■when  .  .  .  loudest.  Chaucer,  for  exam- 
ple, served  in  the  English  army  under  Edward  III 
(13-^7-1377). 

24.  over-faint  quietness.  Under  Queen  Elizabeth 
England  had  been  at  peace  for  some  25   years. 

25.  strezv  the  house,  a  figure  derived  from  the 
practice  of  strewing  rushes  on  the  floor. 

2y.  mountebanks  at  Venice,  peddlers  of  quack 
medicines,  notorious  at  Venice. 

82.  a.  3.  troubled  .  .  .  Mars.  Vulcan,  jealous 
over  his  wife,  forged  a  net  for  her. 

6.   a  piece  of  a  reason,  a  considerable  reason. 

12.  Epaminondas  (418-362  B.C.),  a  Theban  gen- 
I  ral  and  statesman,  who  began  his  career  modestly 
l)ut  effectively  as  a  sort  of  commissioner  of  sew- 
ers. . 

22.  Helicon,  a  mountain  in  Boeotia  haunted  by 
the   Muses. 

27.  Quels     .     .     .     Titan,  Juvenal,  Sat.  xiv.  36. 

40.  Pallas,  Minerva,  goddess  of  wisdom  and  war. 
b.  9.  Dccdalus,   invented    wings   for    himself  and 
for  his  son   Icarus. 

15.  withal,  with. 

27.  Ovid's  verse.     Ct.  Ovid,  Tristia,  iv.   10.  26. 

36.   Troilus  and   Criseyde.     See   p.   4. 

43.  Mirror  for  Magistrates.     See   p.   63. 

44.  Earl   of  Surrey's   lyrics.     See   p.    58. 

66 


47.  Shepherd's    Calendar.     See    p.    104. 

48.  eclogues,  pastoral   poems. 

52.  Theocritus,  a  Greek  idyllic  poet  of  the  3d  cen- 
tury   n.  C. 

53.  Sannazaro  (1458-1530),  a  famous  Italian 
poet. 

83.  a.  II.  Gorboduc,  or  Ferrex  and  Porrcx,  a  trag- 
edy by  Thomas  Sackville  (see  p.  63)  and  Thomas 
Norton,  was  first  acted  in    1561. 

15.  Seneca's  style.  Lucius  Annseus  Seneca  (c.  4 
B.  C.-65  A.  D.),  a  Koman  philosopher  and  writer 
of  tragedies. 

22.  faulty  both  in  place  and  time,  i.e.,  a  violation 
of  the  '  unity  of  place,'  which  required  that  all  the 
action  of  a  play  occur  in  one  place,  and  of  the 
'  unity  of  time,'  which  required  that  the  time  rep- 
resented by  the  action  should  not  exceed  one  revo- 
lution of  the  sun. 

27.  Aristotle's  precept.  Aristotle  (384-322  B.  C.) 
was  the  most  influential  of  Greek  philosophers. 
The  principles  of  dramatic  writing  are  discussed  in 
his  Poetics. 

53.   traverses,  difficulties. 
b.  5.  Eunuch    in    Terence.     Terence    (c.    185-c. 
159    B.  C),    a    Roman    comic    poet.     The    Eunuchus 
is    not    the   only    play    of   Terence   that   violates   the 
'  unity    of   time.' 

10.  Plautiis  .  .  .  amiss.  Plautus  (died  184 
B.  C),  a  Roman  writer  of  comedies.  We  cannot 
be  certain  as  to  the  particular  play  here  referred  to. 

26.  Calicut,  the  capital   of   Malabar,   India. 

27.  Pacolct's  horse,  the  magic  horse  of  Pacolet, 
a  dwarf  in  the  French  romance,  I'alentine  et  Orson. 
By  turning  a  pin  in  the  horse's  head,  the  rider  could 
convey  himself  instantly  to  any  part  of  the  world. 

29.  Nuntius.  In  Greek  and  Roman  tragedy  the 
catastrophe  was  not  usually  presented  on  the  stage, 
but  was  reported  by  a  messenger. 

33.  Horace,  a  Roman  poet  (65-8  B.  C),  wrote 
a  work  called.   The  Art  of  Poetry. 

34.  Ab   ovo  means,   '  from  the  remotest   origin.' 
38-53.  Polydorus     .     .     .     Euripides.        Polydorus 

was  the  youngest  son  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy.  The 
story  is  told  in  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides,  a  Greek 
tragic  poet   (480-406  B.  C). 

45.  Hecuba,  second  wife  of  Priam,  and  mother  of 
Polydorus. 

46.  sleight,  trick. 

84.  a.  10.  Apuleius  (born  c.  125  A.  D.),  a  Roman 
philosopher  and  rhetorician,  best  known  for  his 
romance  The  Golden  Ass.  The  exact  significance 
of   Sidney's   reference  is  not  clear. 

15.  Amphitrud.  This  is  pure  comedy,  except  for 
the  introduction  of  gods  and  heroes. 

17.   daintily,   with  discrimination 

25.  tract,   course. 

38.  convenieucy,    suitability. 

55.  <7o  .  .  .  bias,  take  an  unexpected  turn. 
The  figure  is  taken  from  the  game  of  bowls.  Bias 
means  '  slope.' 

b.  8-9.  Spinning  ,  .  .  commandment.  Her- 
cules, in  his  infatuation  for  Omphale,  queen  of 
Lydia,  allowed  himself  to  be  dressed  as  a  female 
slave,  and  spun  wool. 

20.  forbidden  plainly   by   Aristotle,   in   his   Poetics. 


I042 


NOTES 


31.  Nil  .  .  .  facit,  Juvenal,  Sat.  iii.  152-3- 
The   tianslation   is   that   of    Samuel    Johnson. 

37.  Thraso,  a  bragging,  swaggering  captain.  See 
the  Eunuchus  of  Terence,  referred  to  above. 

38-39.  a  wry-transformed  traveler,  a  traveler  who 
unwisely  affects   foreign  manners. 

43.  Buchanan.     See  81.  b.  7,  note. 

S4-S.  lyrical  .  .  .  sonnets,  a  reference  to 
such  miscellanies  as  Tottel's  Miscellany.     See  p.   54. 

85.  a.  33.  coursing  of  a  letter,  such  devices  as  the 
acrostic,  in  which  the  first  letters  of  the  several 
lines  spell  a   word. 

35-6.  with  figures  and  flowers,  the  printing  of  the 
lines  in  such  a  way  as  to  form  geometrical  figures, 
flowers,   and   the    like. 

45.  Tully,  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  (106—43  B.  C), 
the  Roman  orator,  philosopher,  and  statesman. 
Demosthenes  (384?-322  B.C.),  the  greatest  of  the 
Greek   orators. 

47.  Nizolian  paper-hooks,  note-books  containing 
collections  of  phrases,  such  as  the  Ciceronian 
Thesaurus  of  Marius  Nizolius,  an  Italian  professor 
(born    1498). 

58.  Catiline,  the  Roman  conspirator  against  whom 
Cicero  directed  certain  of  his  most  famous  orations. 
b.  3.  Vivit  .  .  .  venit,  from  Cicero's  first 
oration  against  Catiline. 

9.  choler,  anger. 

14.  '  similiter  cadences,'  '  endings  of  similar 
sound  or  arrangement,'  such  as  rime  in  poetry,  or 
repetition. 

17.  daintiness,  discrimination. 

19.  sophist cr,  a  university  term  for  students  qual- 
ified for  disputations. 

29.  stories  .  .  .  fishes.  Notice  the  use  of 
curious  illustrations  from  natural  history  in  Lyly's 
Euphues  on  p.  79,  col.  2. 

43.  Antonius  and  Crassus.  Marcus  Antonius 
(145-87  B.C.),  grandfather  of  the  famous  Antony 
of  the  Triumvirate,  was  a  distinguished  Roman  or- 
ator, and  was  so  honored  by  Cicero.  Publius  Li- 
cinius  Crassus  (175—131  B.C.)  was  a  celebrated 
orator  and  lawyer. 

45.  As  Cicero  testifieth,  in  his  dialogue  On  Ora- 
tory. 

47.  not  to  set  by  it,  not  to  value  it. 

53.  knacks,  tricks,  ornaments. 

86.  a.   13.  pounded,  put  in  a  '  pound,'  or  enclosure. 
23.  awry,  out  of  a   straight  line,   wrong. 

38.  Tower  of  Babylon.     See  Genesis,  Chap.  xi. 
45.  compositions    .    .    .    together,  compound  words. 
56.  Whether,  which. 

b.  25.  Now  for  rime.     Rime  is  here  used  in  the 
sense  of  rhythm. 

38.  sdrucciola,  means  '  slippery,'  '  sliding.*  This 
is  the  regular  Italian  term  for  trisyllabic  rime. 

87.  a.  2.  toy,  trifle. 

10.  Bembus.     See  81.  b.  2,  note. 
12.  Scaliger.     See  81.   b.  5,  note. 

15—16.  Clauserus  .  .  .  Cornutus.  Lucius  An- 
naeus  Cornutus  (fl.  1st  century  A.  D.)  wrote  a 
treatise  in  Greek  On  the  Nature  of  the  Gods,  which 
was  translated  into  Latin  by  one  Clauserus  and 
published  about  the  middle  of  the  i6th  century. 
Sidney  is  drawing  from  the  preface  of  this  work. 


17.  llcsiod,  a  Greek  poet  assigned  to  the  8th  cen- 
tury   B.  C. 

25.  Landin,  Cristofero  Landino  (1424— 1504),  an 
Italian  poet  and  critic,  is  here  referred  to  for  the 
critical  precepts  of  his  Disputations. 

36.  Libertino  patre  natus,  Horace,  Satires,  i.  6.  45. 

37-8.  Herciilca  proles,  descendant  of  Hercules, 
i.e.,  royal,  noble. 

40.  Si     .     .     .     possunt,  Virgil,  Aeneid,  ix.   446. 

44.  with  Dante's  Beatrice,  or  Virgil's  Anchises, 
that  is,  in  heaven,  or  in  the  Elysian  fields. 

46.  dull-making,  deafening.  Nilus,  the  River 
Nile. 

47.  planet-like  music,  the  music  of  the  spheres 
produced  by  the  rotation  of  the  planets. 

52.  Mome,  stupid  person.  Momus,  the  son  of 
Night,  used  as  a  personification  of  the  critical  spirit. 

54.  Midas,  king  of  Phrygia.  Having  been  chosen 
to  judge  between  the  musical  abilities  of  Apollo  and 
Marsyas,  he  awarded  the  prize  to  Marsyas.  Apollo 
changed   his  ears  into  those  of  an  ass. 

55.  Bubonax.  The  story  goes  that  Hipponax,  an 
Ephesian  poet  (c.  500  B.  C.)  so  savagely  satirized 
the  sculptor  Bupalus  that  he  hanged  himself.  The 
spelling  Bubona.x  is  the  error  either  of  Sidney  or 
of  his  printer. 

57.  done  in  Ireland.  It  is  said  that  the  Irish 
peasants  had  a   superstitious  fear  of  the  bards. 

ASTROPHEL  AND  STELLA 

88.  a.  XV,  2.  Parnassus,  a  mountain-ridge  in  Greece 
near  ancient  Delphi,  frequented  by  Apollo,  the 
muses,  and  the  nymphs,  and  hence  the  seat  of  music 
and   poetry. 

7.  Petrarch's  long-deceased  woes.  The  celebrated 
Italian  poet  Petrarch  (1304—1374)  wrote  sonnets  to 
his  Laura  which  later  set  the  fashion  for  Eliza- 
bethan sonneteers. 

8.  denisened,  made  a  citizen,  naturalized,  adopted. 

9.  far-fet,    far-fetched. 

10.  bewray,    reveal. 
14.  endite,  compose. 

XXI,  I.  caustics,  medical  substances  which  burn 
animal  tissue. 

2.  windlass,  bewilder. 

5.  Plato,  Athenian  philosopher  (429?— 347  B.C.). 
but-if,   unless. 

89.  a.  LXiv,  9.  Aristotle's  wit.  Aristotle  (384-322 
B.  C),  the  most  famous  of  Greek  philosophers. 

10.  Casar's  bleeding  fame.  Julius  Ca;sar  102-44 
B.  C),  assassinated  by  Brutus,  Cassius,  and  others 
in  the  senate-house  at  Rome. 

ELEVENTH  SONG 

90.  a.  42.  Argus'  eyes.  In  Greek  legend,  Argus  is 
famed  to  have  had    100   eyes. 

SONG:     THE  NIGHTINGALE 

8.  Tereus.  Tereus  abandoned  his  wife  Procne  in 
order  to  dishonor  her  sister  Philomela. 

9.  Philomela.  After  having  been  dishonored  by 
Tereus,  Philomela  was  metamorphosed  into  a 
nightingale. 

LOVE  IS  DEAD 

8.  francie,  frenzy. 


NOTES 


1043 


DORUS  TO  PAMELA 


3.  sterve,   die. 
6.  weeds,   clothes. 


HAKLUYT'S  VOYAGES 
DEDICATORY  EPISTLE 
Francis  Walsingham  (i  536-1 590)  was  a  noted 
English  statesman  and  patron  of  learning.  He 
served  his  government  as  member  of  parliament,  as 
ambassador  to  France,  as  secretary  of  state,  and  as 
special  ambassador  to   several   Continental   courts. 

91.  a.  8.  Westminster,  Westminster  School,  estab- 
lished in  Westminster  Abbey  by  Henry  VIII,  and 
reestablished  by  Elizabeth. 

II.  Middle  Temple,  one  of  the  legal  societies  in 
London  which  provide  instruction  and  examinations 
for  admitting  candidates  to  the  bar. 

25.  commodities,  articles  of  merchandise. 

b.   15.  Christ    Church,    one    of    the    largest    and 
most  fashionable  of  the  Oxford  colleges. 

92.  a.  3-4.  Sir  Edward  Stafford  (i3S2?-i6o5),  a  dis- 
tinguished English  diplomatist,  much  in  favor  with 
Queen   Elizabeth. 

S.  Ligier    (spelled    also    lieger,    leger,    ledger),    an 
ordinary  or  resident  ambassador. 
7.  chargeable,  weighty,   onerous. 
b.  22.  Aleppo,  in  Asiatic  Turkey. 

23.  Balsara,  Balsar,  or  Bulsar,  a  town  of  British 
India,  on  the  Gulf  of  Cambray. 

24.  Goa,  on  the  western  coast  of  India. 

26.  river  of  Plate,  the  Rio  de  la  Plata,  between 
Uruguay  and  the  Argentine  Republic. 

30.  Nova  Hispania,  Mexico. 

32.  South  Sea,  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

33.  Lusones,  islands  in  the  Malay  Archipelago  in 
the  South  Pacific. 

THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  THE  REVENGE 
51.  armada,  a  fleet  of  war-vessels. 

53.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618),  an  English 
courtier,  soldier,  colonizer,  and  writer.  After  a 
short  residence  at  Oxford,  he  took  up  military  serv- 
ice. He  became  a  favorite  of  Elizabeth.  In  1584 
he  began  his  efforts  towards  colonizing  Virginia. 
In  1588  he  took  an  active  part  against  the  Armada. 
In  1595  he  explored  the  Orinoco.  In  1596  and 
1597  he  took  part  in  the  naval  expeditions  against 
the  Spanish.  Charged  with  plotting  to  put  Arabella 
Stuart  on  the  throne,  Raleigh  was  imprisoned  in 
1603.  In  1616  he  was  released  to  command  an  ex- 
pedition to  Guiana  and  the  Orinoco.  The  expedi- 
tion failed,  and  on  his  return  he  was  condemned 
and  executed. 

54.  Lord  Thomas  Howard  (1561—1626),  a  distin- 
guished naval  officer  and  statesman. 

57.  pinnaces,   large   ship's  boats. 

93.  a.  17.  pestered,  crowded,  rummaging,  making 
a  disturbance. 

29.  recovered,  regained,  returned  to. 

43.  shrouded,   covered,  concealed. 

48.  Sir  Richard  Grenville  (c.  1541-1591),  a  Brit- 
ish naval  hero,  cousin  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  In 
1585  he  commanded  a  fleet  of  seven  vessels  which 
shared   in   the   colonization   of   Virginia.     In    1591    he 


served  as  vice-admiral  in  the  fleet  of  16  vessels  un- 
der Lord  Thomas  Howard  which  sailed  to  Azores  to 
intercept  the  Spanish  treasure-ships.  He  died  a 
few  days  after  the  battle  recounted  in  the  present 
text. 

36.  Bona  Speranza,  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

37-  St.  Helena,  an  island  off  the  west  coast  of 
Africa. 

b.  9-10.  sprang  their  luff,   sailed   nearer   to   the 
wind. 

22.  charged.  The  sense  of  this  word  is  unknown. 
It  may  mean   '  timbered.' 

28.  admiral,  the  ship  that  carries  the  commander- 
in-chief.  Biscayans,  inhabitants  of  Biscay,  a  prov- 
ince of  northern   Spain. 

33.  right  out  of  her  chase,  directly  3head  from 
her  bow. 

94.  a.  16.  galleons,  large  unwieldy  ships,  usually 
having  three  or  four  decks. 

24.  Lima,  a  city  of  Peru,  in  South  America. 

47.  armadas,  single  war-vessels. 

95.  a.  36.  galley,  i.e.,  service  as  prisoner  on  a  gal- 
ley. 

LINSCHOTEN'S  TESTIMONY 
Jean-Hugues   van   Linschoten    (i  563-161 1),   was  a 
Dutch  voyager  who  cruised   widely  in  the  Pacific,  in 
the  Indian  Ocean,  and  in  the  northern  seas. 
50.   Corvo,  the  most  northerly  of  the  Azores. 
57.  Lord  Thomas  Howard,  see  92.  b.  2,  note. 
b.  4.  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  see  93.  a.  48,  note. 

THE  LOSS  OF  SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  (c.  1535^-1583)  was  an 
English  navigator  and  soldier,  a  stepbrother  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh.  After  military  services  in  Ireland 
and  the  Netherlands,  he  began  (1578)  his  voyages 
of  exploration  and  discovery.  On  June  11,  1583, 
he  set  out  for  North  America,  and  on  Aug.  5 
landed  at  St.  John's,  where  he  established  the  first 
English  colony  in  North  America.  On  the  return 
voyage  his  vessel,  the  Squirrel,  foundered  in  a 
storm. 

96.  a.  52.  large,  fair,  favorable. 

57.  Cape  Race,  the  southeastern  extremity  of 
Newfoundland. 

97.  a.  7.  St.  John's,  a  town  on  the  island  of 
Newfoundland. 

b.  2.  fights,   screens  designed  for  the   protection 
of  men  during  a  battle. 

48.  Castor  and  Pollux,  a  name  given  to  the  elec- 
tiic  phenomenon  known  as  St.  Elmo's  Fire.  The 
phenomenon  consists  of  the  appearance,  especially 
in  southern  climates,  during  thunder  storms,  of  a 
brush   or  star  of  light. 

98.  <J.  26.  flaw,  a  sudden  gust  of  wind. 

A   REPORT  OF  VIRGINIA 
38.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  see  92.  b.  53,  note. 
54.   humors,  bodily  fluids. 

RALEIGH'S   DISCOVERY   OF   GUIANA 
Guiana   signified   a   region   extending   inland    from 
the  northeast  coast  of  South   .America. 
b.  39.   this   river,   the   Carcni    River. 


I044 


NOTES 


43.  CaroH,  the  Caroni  liiver,  flowing  northward 
and  emptying  into  the   Orinoco. 

51.  shot,  persons   wlio  bear  firearms. 

57.  casique,  or  cacique,  a  native  chief  of  the 
aborigines  in  the  West  Indies  and  adjacent  parts  of 
America. 

99.  a.  32.  footman,   pedestrian. 

b.   16.  marquesitc,    niarcasite,    crystallized    forms 
of  iron   pyrites. 

22.  Caracas.  A  tribe  of  Indians,  called  Caracas, 
formerly  occupied  the  valleys  about  the  present  city, 
Caracas,  the  capital  of  modern  Venezuela. 

29.  Itica,  the  Inca  Empire,  ruled  by  the  Incas, 
the  reigning  order  in  ancient  Peru. 

100.  a.    19.   ['vovant,   provender. 

25.  Cortvc,  Fernando  Cortez  (1485-1547),  the  fa- 
mous Spanish  soldier  who  conquered  Mexico,  the 
City  of  Mexico  falling  in  1521.  Pizarro,  Francisco 
Pizarro  (c.  1471-1541),  the  Spanish  soldier  who 
conquered  Peru.  Pizarro  extorted  from  the  Inca 
Atahualpa  a  sum  estimated  at  $15,000,000  of  mod- 
em money. 

39.  cama,   or  anta,  names  of  the  common   tapir. 
55.   tortugas,      tortoises,     lagartos,      alligators,      or 

crocodiles. 

b.  2.  calentura,   fever. 

SIR  FRANCIS   DRAKE  AT   SAN   DOMINGO 

100.  b.   12.  Sir   Francis   Drake,   see    p.    217. 

101.  b.    II.   provost     martial,     an     army    officer    who 
acts  as  head  of  police  of  a  district,  town,  or  camp. 

DRAKE  IN    CALIFORNIA 

40.  Sir  Francis  Drake,  see  p.  217. 
54.  the  Line,  the   equator. 

102.  a.   15.  cauls,  nets  for  confining  the  hair. 
b.  33.   coney,  rabbit. 

103.  b.  25.  want,  a  mole. 

SPENSER:    THE  SHEPHEARDES  CALENDAR 
FEBRUARIE 

104.  2.  tasswage,  to  subside. 

4.  gryde,  pierce. 

5.  rentes,  young  bullocks, 

6.  doen,  do. 

7.  wont,  are  accustomed,     wrigle,   wriggling. 

8.  Perke,    pert,   brisk,     avales,    subsides,    droops. 

9.  Lewdly,    foolishly. 

10.  wracke,  violence. 

105.  16.  lusty  prime,   pleasant  spring-time. 
22.  that,  that  which. 

24.  mought,  might. 

26.  cheare,  countenance. 

27.  nie,  nigh. 

28.  wrye,  awry,  crooked. 

30.  Good  Fryday,  Friday  before  Easter. 
32.   unwont,    unaccustomed. 

35.  heardgroomes,   herdsmen. 

36.  broomes,   a   kind   of   shrub. 

38.  deemen,   deem,  judge. 

39.  fond,   foolish. 

42.  eft,  afterwards. 

43.  brcmc,   rough,     chamfrcd,   wrinkled,   furrowed. 
46.  cruddlcs,  curdles. 


47.  corage  accoicd,  heart  daunted. 
49.  surquedrie,  arrogance,  pride. 
52.  spil,   mar,   ruin. 

54.  elde,  old  age. 

55.  sicker,  certainly,     toilie,  tottering. 

56.  corbc,  crooked.  * 

57.  lopp,  branch. 

58.  Als,  also,     cropp,  cut  off. 
62.   hery,   praise. 

65-  Oclt,  gold. 

66.  buegle,  bead-work. 

67.  faine,  glad. 

69.  fon,  a  foolish  fellow. 
71.   brag,  ostentatious. 
y2.  smirke,  smart. 

74.  deivelap,   throat-wattle,     lythe,   pliant. 

75.  ventctit,  snuffs. 

77.  can,  knows. 

78.  lustlesse,  listless,   feeble. 
80.  flocks  father,  ram. 

82.  crags,   necks. 

83.  rather  lambcs,  lambs  born  early  in  the  year. 
86.   headlesschood,   heedlessness. 

89.  ynnc,  inn,  abode. 

90.  stoopegallaunt    age,    age    which    subdues    gal 
lantry. 

92.  cond,  learned.     Tityrus,  Chaucer.     The  '  tale  ' 
that   follows  is,   of  course,  not   from   Chaucer. 

95.  novells,    news,    or    tales,     devise,    telling. 

96.  thezvcd,  founded  in  morality. 

97.  bespoke,   spoke   of. 

98.  meete,  fitting. 
104.  largely,   widely. 

106.  pight,  fixed,  planted. 

107.  throughly,   thoroughly. 
106.  108.   Whilome,   formerly. 

109.  mochell    mast,    many    acorns,     husband,    mas- 
ter  of  the  house. 

110.  larded,  fattened. 

111.  rine,  rind,  bark. 

114.  honor,  i.e.,  foliage. 

115.  Br  ere,  briar. 
117.  threat,  threaten. 
119.  wonncd,  were  wont. 

121.  peinct,  paint,  decorate. 

122.  shroivde,  take  shelter. 

124.  were,  wax,  grow. 

125.  cast  him,  planned. 

126.  snebbe,   snub,    reprove,     for,  because. 
131.  engrained,   dyed,     lusty,   pleasant. 

133.  wast,  waste. 

134.  dirks,  darkens. 

135.  accloieth,  encumbers. 

140.  againe,  back. 

141.  adawed,   subdued. 

145.  survezve,   oversee,   survey. 

146.  trees  of  state,  stately  trees. 

151.  Pleaseth,   2d   pers.    plur.   imperative,     ponder, 
weigh,   consider. 

154.  recure,  cure,  heal. 

155.  doole,  grief. 
157.  aghast,  amazed. 
160.  painted,   false. 

162.   colowred,   colored,    disguised. 
167.  prime,  spring-time. 


NOTES 


1045 


169.  falls,    happens.      , 

55.   Romish    J  ityrus,    Virgil. 

178.   coronall,    garland. 

56.  Mcccenas,   Macenas,  patron  of  Virgil. 

182.  defast,   defaced,  destroyed. 

59.  eft,  afterwards. 

184.  goodliliead,  goodness. 

62.  Augustus,  the  Roman  emperor. 

185.  ranckorous,  sharp. 

63.  liggen,  lie. 

187.  sufferance,  patience. 

65.   derring   doe,  daring  deeds. 

189.  cast   him,   prepared. 

66.  hem,   them. 

190.  couth,  knew. 

68.  brought     .     .     .     ease,    brought    to    a    bed    of 

192.   noulde,   would   not. 

ease. 

195.  hent,  seized. 

69.  found     .     .     .     preace,    found    nothing    worth 

200.  enaunter,  lest,     mought,  might,  should. 

putting  forth  for  competition. 

202.  -^ast,  waste. 

72.  pend,  penned. 

J03.  againe,  back. 

75.  mote,  must,     faync,  feign. 

206.  eld,  old  age. 

76.   rybaudryc,  ribaldry. 

209.  crcwe,  cruet,  cruise,  vessel. 

78.   Tom  Piper,   the   piper   who   accompanied   Mor- 

107. 211.  sike,  such. 

ris-dancers. 

213.  quitten,  free. 

87.  peeced,  patched,  imperfect. 

223.  pleasaunce,  pleasure. 

88.   Colin,   i.e.,    Spenser,     scanne,   mount. 

225.   eftsoncs,   forthwith. 

89.   bedight,  dressed. 

226.  Boreas,   north-wind. 

90.  soothe,  sweetly. 

242.  graffcd,  grafted. 

91.  fon,  foolish  fellow. 

-43-  froine,   frozen. 

95.  caytive  corage,  base  mind. 

244.  galage,  wooden  shoe. 

98.   tyranne  fell,  baneful   tyrant. 

245.  ease,  pleasure,     lewd,  foolish,  rude. 

101.  wont,  are  accustomed. 

248-9.  '  God,   since   he  is   old,   makes   his   own   in 

103.  '  Whoever  thinks  to  accomplish  great  things.' 

his   own    likeness.' 

105.   '  Let   him    pour   down   plentiful    draughts   and 

251--'.  '  No  old  man  fears  God.' 

nourishing   food.' 

106.  Bacchus      fruite,      wine.     Phcebus,      god      of 

OCTOBER 

poetry. 

3.  lingring  Phcebus  race,  lingering  daylight. 

109.   113.  buskin,   tlie   liigh-heeled  boot  worn  by  ac- 

4.  IVhilome  thou  wont,  formerly  thou   used. 

tors  in  tragedy. 

S.  bydding  base,  the  game  of  prisoners'-base. 

114.  queint,  elegant.     Bellona,  goddess  of  war. 

II.  pleasaunce,  pleasure. 

115.  corage,  mind,   heart. 

12-  ligge  so  layd,  lie  so  subdued. 

116.  Forthy,  therefore. 

^3.  wont,    used    to. 

117.  han  us  assay de,  have  attacked   us. 

14.  fry,   children,    youth. 

118.  charme,  temper. 

15.  what     .     .     .     fortliy,    how    am    I    the    better 

119.  gates,  goats. 

Cor  that? 

122.  'With  his  urging  we  become  inflamed,  etc' 

23.  I'leasaunce  of  iiiy  raine,  pleasure  of  thy  vein. 

24.  '  To   whatever   it   pleases   thee   to   entice   their 

THE  FAERIE  QUEENE.     BOOK  I 

allured    wills.' 

I.  whylome,   formerly,     maske,   go   disguised. 

26.  routes,  crowds. 

2.  shephards  weeds,  a  graceful  reference  to  Spen- 

28. shepheard,    i.e.,    Ojj.'heus.     dame,    i.e.,    Eury- 

ser's  own  earlier  Shepherd's  Calendar. 

dice. 

7.  areeds,   counsels. 

29.  Plutoes    balefuU    bozo/e,    i.e..    Hades. 

10.  holy   virgin,   refers   to   Clio,   the   muse   of   his- 

32. Argus    biasing    ^ye.     The    spots    in    the    pea- 

tory. 

cock's  tail  are  said  to  be  Argus'  hundred  eyes. 

12.  scryne,  chest  for  papers. 

33.  forthy,   for   that. 

14.   Tanaquill,     a     British     princess,     daughter     of 

35.  sike,  such,     sheddeth,  disperses. 

Oberon,   king   of    fairyland.     In    the   allegory    Tana- 

108. 37.  clowne,  lout,  low  fel.ow. 

quill  is  probably  Queen  Elizabeth. 

.59.  giusts,  jousts. 

15.  Briton  Prince,  Prince  Arthur,  representing  in 

41.  doubted,  dreaded. 

the  allegory,  probably,  the  Earl  of  Leicester. 

4J.  'we.vcn,  wax,  grow. 

17.  rue,  pity. 

45.   IVhither  thou  list,  whellhei'  thou  choose.    Elisa, 

19.  dreaded  impe,  Cupid,  god  of  love. 

Queen    Elizabeth. 

21.  rove,   shoot   an   arrow   with   an   elevation,    not 

47.  the  worthy,  the  hero,  t,,;.,  the  Earl  of  Leices- 

point  blank. 

ter. 

2Z.  heben,  ebony. 

48.  white     beare.     Leicdster'o    cognizance    was    a 

25.  Mart,  Mars. 

bear  and  a   ragged   statf. 

28.  Goddesse,  Queen  Elizabeth. 

49.  stounds,   efforts. 

31.  Phofbus,  Apollo,  the  sungod. 

50.  slackt   the  tenor  of,   lowered  the   pitch  of. 

32.  eyne,   eyes. 

51.  lustihcad,  pleasure,     rho.  then. 

32.  type,  of   thine,   Una,   who   represents   truth   in 

52.   the  myllers,  a  kind   of  dauv.e. 

the  allegory. 

53.  .-ill,  although,     thilkc.  that. 

35.  afflicted,  east  down. 

S4-  mought,  might. 

36.  dearest   dread,   dearest   object   of   reverence. 

1046 


NOTES 


CANTO   I 
I.  knight,    the    Redcross    Knight,    representing    the 
English   church   militant,     pricking,   riding. 
6.  chide,  chafe,  grind. 

110.  9.  giusts,  jousts. 

14.  scor'd,  traced. 

15.  For  soveraine  hope,  as  a  sign  of  supreme 
hope. 

17.  cheere,  countenance. 

18.  ydrad,   dreaded,   feared, 

20.   Gloriana,    Queen    Elizabeth. 
22.  worshippe,  honor. 

24.  earne,  yearn. 

25.  puissance,    power,   prowess. 

27.  dragon,  '  the  great  dragon  .  .  .  called  the 
devil.'     Revelation,   xii,   g. 

28.  ladie,  Una. 

31.  wimpled,  pleated. 

36.  in  a  line,  by  a  cord,  lambe,  symbolizing  in- 
nocence. 

44.  Forwasted,  utterly   wasted. 

45.  compeld,    summoned. 

46.  dwarfe,  symbolizing  prudence,  or  common 
sense. 

5 J.  Ictnans,   sweet-heart's. 

53.  u'ight,  person,  creature,     shrowd,  take  shelter. 

54.  fain,  glad. 

55.  covert,   hiding-place. 

56.  shadie  grove,  the  wood  of  Error. 
60.  Not  perceable  with,  impervious  to. 

63.  '  A  fair  shelter  it  seems  to  them  when  they 
have  entered.' 

69.  sayling  pine,  pine  used  for  building  ships. 

70.  poplar  never  dry,  never  dry  because  it  grows 
especially   well   in   moist   soil. 

71.  builder  oake,   oak  used  for  building. 

72.  cypresse  funerall,  the  cypress,  emblematic  of 
death. 

73.  meed,  reward. 

74.  weepeth  still,  weeps  always.  The  fir  exudes 
a  resinous  substance. 

75.  paramours,  lovers. 

76.  eugh,  yew. 

111.  77.  sallow,  a  kind  of  willow. 

78.  The  mirrhe.  The  Arabian  myrtle  exudes  a 
bitter  but  fragrant  gum.  The  allusion  is  to  the 
wounding  of  Myrrha  by  her  father  and  her  meta- 
morphosis into  a  tree. 

79.  warlike  beech.  Lances  and  other  arms  were 
made  of  beech,  ash  for  nothing  ill.  The  ash 
served  many  purposes. 

80.  platane,  plane-tree. 

81.  carver  holme.  The  evergreen  oak  was  good 
for  carving. 

84.  weening,  thinking. 
88.  d»ubt,   fear. 

94.  about,   out   of. 

95.  by  tract,  by  trace. 
98.  Eftsoones,   forthwith. 
103.  doubts,   fears. 

106-7.  shame  .  .  .  shade,  '  it  were  shameful 
to  check  forward  steps  for  fear  of  an  unseen  dan- 
ger.' 

108.  wade,  walk,  go,  pass. 

no.  wot,  know. 


114.  wandring  wood,  woocV  that  causes  men  to  go 
astray. 

118.  greedy  hardiment,  eager  boldness. 

\22.  glooming,   gloaming,  twilight. 

126.  full  .  .  .  disdain,  full  of  vileness  that 
breeds  disgust  in  the  beholder. 

129.  boughtes,   folds,    coils. 

130.  bred,  were  born. 

133.  i^l  favored,  of  ugly  appearance. 

134.  uncouth,   unknown,   strange. 

136.  upstart,   started   up.     effraide,   frightened. 
139.   entraile,  fold,  coil. 

112.  141.  Armed   to   point,   completely   armed. 
143.  Ay  wont,  ever  accustomed. 

145.  Elfe,  so  called  because  he  was  reputed  to  be 
the  son   of  an   elf  or   fairy. 

147.   trcnchand,  sharp,   cutting.  ' 

152.  enhaunst,   raised. 

154.  dint,  stroke. 

158.   Tho,   then,     wrethed,   twisted. 

161.   That,   so   that. 

163.   constraint,  distress. 

168.  '  His  anger  was  aroused  because  of  pain  and 
great  disgust.'     grate,  chafe. 

170.  gorge,  throat. 

172.  maw,  stomach. 

174.  gobbets,  lumps,  pieces. 

175.  vildly,  vilely. 

177.  bookes  and  papers,  allegorically  the  scur- 
rilous Catholic  pamphlets  that  had  been  launched 
against  Elizabeth  and  the  reformed  Church  of  Eng- 
land. 

180.  parbreake,  vomit. 

183.  outwell,  pour  out. 

185.  ovale,   subside. 

189.  reed,    perceive. 

194.  sinke,   hoard,    deposit. 

200.  welke,   fade,   grow   dim. 

113.  206.  cloivnish,   rough,  rude. 
208.  bestedd,   situated. 

212.  lin,  cease. 

213.  manly,   human. 

215.  raft,  struck  away. 

216.  corse,   body. 
225.  eke,  also. 

227.  unkindly,  unnatural. 

233.  needeth  him,  needs  he. 

234.  should  contend,  should  have  had  to  contend. 
239.  armory,  armor. 

243.  like  succeed  it  may,  similar  successful  ad- 
ventures may   follow. 

248.  still,  ever,  always. 

250.  to  frend,  as  friend. 

254.  aged  sire,  Archimago,  the  false  enchanter. 
In  general  he  represents  hypocrisy  and  the  Church 
of  Rome. 

259.  shew,   appearance. 

262.  touting,  bowing. 

263.  him  quited,   paid  him  back,  responded. 

267.  silly,   simple,   innocent. 

268.  Bidding  his  beades,  praying  his  prayers. 

270.  sits  not,  is  not  fitting.     Mell,  mingle,  meddle. 

114.  277.  weare,  spend. 

279.  space,  time. 

280.  wastefull,  barren. 


NOTES 


1047 


282.  thorough,  through. 

285.  forwearied,   greatly    wearied. 

288.  baite,  feed,  refresh. 

295.  take  up  your  in,  take  lodging. 

301.  a  little  wyde,  a  little  way  off. 

302.  edifyde,  built. 

303.  wont,  was  wont. 

315.  Ave-Mary,  Hail  Mary,  a  prayer  to  the  \'ir- 
gin. 

317.  Sad  humor,   heavy  moisture. 

318.  Morpheus,  god  of  sleep. 

319.  deaiv,   dew. 

320.  riddes,   removes. 
322.  amiddes,  amid. 

328.  Plutoes  griesly  dame,  Proserpine. 

332.  Great  Gorgon,  Demogorgoii,  whose  name  was 
not  to  be  uttered,  and  who  had  magical  power  over 
the   spirits   of  the  lower   world. 

333-  Cocytus,  the  river  of  wailing.  Styx,  the  river 
of  hate.     Both  rivers  were  in  Hades. 

115.  338.  fray,   frighten. 
343.  spersed,   dispersed. 
348.  Tethys,  the  ocean. 
348.   Cynthia,  the  moon. 
360.  takes  keepe,  pays  heed. 
367.  still,  always. 

372.   mought,  might. 

373-  paine,  effort. 

376.  dryer  braine,  too  dry  brain.  It  was  sup- 
posed that  a  dry  brain  was  slow  in  physiological 
processes. 

378.  all,  entirely. 

381.  Hecate,  queen  of  demons  in  Hades,  and  ruler 
of  witches  on  earth. 

382.  lompish,  dull. 
387.  sent,   sense. 

389.  diverse,  perverse, 

391.  carke,  care,  anxiety. 

392.  Starke,   stiff. 
396.  afore,  before. 

116.  405.  like,  likely,     seeme  for,  represent. 

409.  fantasy,   fancy. 

410.  'In  the  way  in  which  he  schooled  him  se- 
cretly.' 

4:1.  without  her  dew,  in  an  unnatural  manner. 
429.  leman,  lover. 

431.  Hymen  id  Hymen,  refrain  of  a  Roman  nup- 
tial song.     Hymen  was  god  of  marriage. 

432.  Flora,  goddess  of  flowers. 

443.  guise,  appearance. 

444.  despight,  indignation. 

445.  sufferance,  patience. 

447.  '  To  test  his  perception  and  prove  her 
feigned  truth.' 

449.  Tho  can,  then  did.     ruth,  pity. 

454.   blind  god,  Cupid,     amate,  dismay,  disliearten. 

462.  bereave,  take  away. 

468.  frayes,   frightens. 

469.  dcare   constraint,   grievous  distress. 

117.  473.   redoubted,   terrible. 

476.  sheud,  revile,  reproach,     rcw,  pity,  regret. 

483.  appease,  cease   from. 

484.  beguiled  of,  disappointed  in. 

491,  irksome,  troubled,     spright,   spirit. 


CANTO  II 

1.  northerne  wagoner,  constellation  of  Bootes,  sit- 
uated behind  the  Great  Bear. 

2.  sevenfold  teme,  seven  stars  of  Ursa  Major,  the 
Great  Bear,     stedfast  ,starre,  the  pole-star. 

6.  Chaunticlere,  the  cock. 

7.  Phoebus  fiery  carre,  the  sun. 
13.  bootclesse,  useless. 

16.  Prosperine,  queen  of  the  infernal  regions. 
19.  Eftsoones,  presently. 

22.  squire,  an  attendant  on  a  knight,  lustyhed. 
pleasure. 

26.  misdeeming,  misleading. 
30.  repast,  rest,   refreshment. 
34.  wex,  wax,  grow. 

118.  37.  start,  started. 
40.  mcnt,  mingled. 
43.  yblcnt,    blinded.' 

49.  wast,   waste,     despight,  anger. 

50.  Yrkcsoyne,  weary. 

51.  Hesperus,   the   evening  star. 

56.  aged  Tithoncs.  Tithonus  is  '  aged  '  because 
Aurora  gave  him  immortality,  but  not  eternal  youth 

58.  Titan,    the    sun-god. 

59.  drousyhcd,  drowsiness. 

62.  wont  to  wait,   was  accustomed  to   watch. 

63.  stowre,  distress. 

84.  in  seeming  wise,  in  the  way  of  appearance. 

85.  Proteus,  a  sea-god. 
87.  felt,  destructive. 
97.  jolly,   handsome. 

99.  Saint  George,  patron  saint  of  England. 

100.  semblaunt,  semblance. 

119.  104.  him   chaunst,   he   happened. 

105.  Sarasin,  used  for  pagans  in  general,  armdc 
to  point,  completely  armed. 

107.  Sans  foy,  faithless. 

108.  a  point,  a  speck,  a  bit. 

109.  faire  companion,  Duessa,  or  Falsehood,  who 
calls  herself  Fidessa.  She  probably  represents  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  and  the  Church  of  Rome. 

III.  Pur  fled,  embroidered  on  the  edge,  assay, 
quality,  value. 

113.  owches,  jewels. 

115.  palfrey,  lady's   riding-horse. 

117.  bosses,  ornamental  studs  or  knobs. 

118.  disport,  play. 

128.  dispiteous,   cruel. 

129.  couch,   level,  adjust. 

130.  fell,   destructive. 
135.  rebutte,  recoil. 

144.  broken   r cliques,  shivered  lances. 

145.  buffe,  blow. 

147.  quyleth,  pays. 

148.  '  Each  vies  with  the  equal  power  of  the 
other.' 

150.  repining,  indignant,     courage,  heart. 

155.  bitter  fitt,  death  agony. 

156.  wote,   know. 

157.  forwarned,   warded  off. 

158.  assured  sitt,  sit  firm. 

159.  hide  thy  head,  i.e.,  behind  thy  shield  for  pro- 
tection. 

160.  rigor  so  outrageous,  force  so  violent. 


1048 


NOTl<:S 


i6j,  from     .     .     .     blest,      fairly      preserved      him 
from  harm. 

164.   cftsooiies.   fortlivvith. 
166.  rive,  split. 

120.  171.  Whether,  whither. 
174.  funerall,  death. 

176.  scowre,  run  fast. 
181.  ruefull,  sad. 
183.  silly,  innocent. 
188.  rueth,  touches  with  pity. 
196.  emperour,  the  Pope. 
198.   Tibcris,  River  Til)er. 

joo.   onely  haire,  only  heir,  the  dauphin  of  France, 
the  first  husband  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 
J03.   dcbonaire,  giacious,  courteous. 
206.  fone,  foes. 

212.  assaid,  tried. 

213.  corse,  body. 

224.  Sansjoy,  without  happiness. 

225.  Sansloy,   without   law. 
233.   rew,  pity. 

121.  239.  chear,  countenance. 
241.  gainsaid,  denied,   opposed. 

243.   dainty     .     .     .     dcrth,  coyness,  they  say,  cre- 
ates desire. 

250.  fearefull,  timid. 

251.  ne  wont,  nor  was  accustomed  to. 
258.   abide,  endure,  tolerate. 

261.  tide,  time. 

262.  seemely  plcasaunce,  pleasant  courtesies. 

269.  rifte,   fissure. 

270.  gory  bloud,  clotted  blood. 

■273.  rynd,  bark,     embard,  imprisoned. 
278.  Astond,  astonished.     Iiove,  rise. 
280.  dreadfull  passion,  passion  of  fear. 
284.  Limbo  lake,  abode  of  the  damned. 

287.  rare,  thin,   faint. 

288.  ruefull,   piteous. 

291.  Fradubio,   '  Brother  Doubtful.' 
295.  Boreas,  the  north-wind. 

122.  316.  take  in  hand,  maintain. 

328.  Whether,  which  of  the  two. 

329.  meede,  reward. 
332.  mote,   might. 
336.  cast,   planned. 

342.  in  place,  in  that  place. 

348.  Eftsoones,  forthwith. 

351.  treen  mould,   form  of  a  tree. 

353.  unweeting,   not  knowing. 

355.  prime,  springtime. 

358.   origane,   wild   marjoram. 

360.  rezv,   regret. 

370.   chcare,  countenance. 

123.  374.   bereaved,    taken   away,     quight,    quite. 
376.  pight,  placed,  fixed. 

378.  wights,   men. 

382.  living  well,  a  flowing  well. 

385.  wonted  well,  accustomed  well-being. 

386.  sufflsed,  satisfied,     kynd,  nature. 
391.  drerimcnt,  sorrow. 

398.  umveeting,  unaware. 

404.  all  passed  feare,  all  fear  having  passed. 

AMORETTI 
1,  6.  lamping,  shining. 
7.  spright,    spirit. 


10.  Helicon,  a  mountain  in  Boeotia,  Greece,  famous 
ill  mythology  as  the  haunt  of  the  muses. 

124.  XXIV,  8.  Pandora,  according  to  Greek  mythol- 
ogy, the  first  woman,  created  by  command  of  Zeus 
in  revenge  for  the  theft  of  fire  from  heaven  by 
Prometheus.  The  gods  endowed  her  with  such  at- 
tributes as  should  bring  misfortune  to  man. 

XXXIV,   10.  Helice,  the  Great  Bear. 
Lxx,  2.  cote-armour,   a   herald's   tabard. 
12.  amearst,  punished. 

EPITHALAMION 

125.  I.  learned  sisters,  the  muses. 
8.   wreck,   violence. 

11.  drcriment,  sorrow. 
22.  lustyhed,  vigor. 

25.  Hymen,  god  of  marriage. 

27.  lead,  torch,     flake,  flash. 

28.  bachelor,  one  in  the  first  stage  of  knighthood. 
30.  dight,  dress. 

35.  solace,  pleasure. 

40.   ivcl  beseene,  very  comely. 

44.  riband,   ribbon. 

45.  poses,  powers. 

51.  diapred,   variegated,     discolored,   many-colored. 
56.  Mulla,  island  off  the  coast  of  Scotland. 

126.  75.   Tithoncs,  Tithonus,   consort   of  Aurora. 
77.  Phoebus,  the   sun-god. 

80.  mattins,  morning  service. 

81.  mavis,  song-thrush,  descant,  an  accompanying 
melody. 

82.  ouzell,    blackbird,     ruddock,   redbreast 

83.  consent,  harmony. 

86.  meeter,  more  fitting. 

87.  make,   mate. 

95.  Hesperus,  the  evening  star,  and  also  the  morn- 
ing  star. 

98—99.  Houres,  Horae,  goddesses  who  presided 
over  the  changes  of  the  seasons,  and  of  day  and 
night. 

102.  still,  always,  ever. 

103.  three  handmayds  of  the  Cyprian  Qiicrnc,  the 
Graces,   who   were   especially   associated   with    Venus. 

104.  106.  still,  ever,  always. 

108.  'And    as    you    are    accustomed    to    sing    to 
Venus,  sing  to  her  (my  bride).' 
113.  stray t,  presently,  soon. 
121.  Phabus,  Apollo. 

123.  mote,  may. 

124.  boone,  boon,  prayer,  favor. 
131.  tabor,   drum,     croud,  fiddle. 

140.  Hymen,   Id  Hymen,  the   refrain   of   a    Roman 
nuptial  song.     Hymen  is  god  of  marriage. 
148.  portly,   dignified. 

127.  151.  seemes,  befits. 
152.  wecne,  think. 

165.  nathlessc,   nevertheless,     still,  ever,  always. 
175.  uncrudded,   uncurdled. 
186.  spright,  spirit. 

189.  red,  saw. 

190.  Medusacs  maccful  hcd.  Medusa  was  a  beau- 
tiful maiden  whose  hair  was  transformed  into  ser- 
pents,    mazcful,   confounding. 

228.   dydc  in   grayne,  dyed   in   dye. 
234.  sad,  grave,     still,  ever. 


NOTES 


1049 


128.  239.   band,  tie. 

257.  Graces,  the  three  daughters  of  Zeus, —  Eu- 
phrosyne,  Aglaia,  and  Thalia, —  who  personified 
grace  and  beauty. 

J65.  ff.  This  day.  June  iilli,  St.  Barnabas'  day, 
was,  according  to  Spenser's  calendar,  the  day  of  the 
summer  solstice. 

269.   Crab,  one  of  the  signs  of  the  zodiac. 

272.  wcare,    were. 

282.  fayrcst  planet,  the  sun. 

285.  glooine,   become   twilight. 

299.   bonrcs,   bowers. 

304.  Arras,  a  town  in  northern  France  formerly 
noted   for  its   manufacture   of   tapestries. 

307.  Maia,  mother   of  Hermes  by  Zeus. 

308.  Tempe,  a  beautiful  valley  in  the  north  of 
Thessaly. 

310.  Acidalian  brookc,  the  fountain  Acidalius,  in 
Boeotia,   Greece. 

129.  316.  defray,   pay    for. 

328.  Alcmena,  mother  of  Hercules  by  Zeus. 

329.  Tirynthian  groome.  Hercules  is  said  to  have 
lived  for  many  years  at  the  city  of  Tiryns.  in 
Greece. 

331.  Majesty.  By  ancient  poets.  Night  was  called 
the  mother  of  all  things,  and  she  was  worshipped 
with  great  solemnity. 

327.  dotit,   fear. 

340.  helplesse,  irremediable. 

341.  Pouke,   Puck,  or   Robin   Goodfellow. 
346.  still,  ever,  continually. 

348.  griesly,  horrible. 

374.  Cynthia,  the  moon. 

376.  envy,  begrudge. 

380.  Latmion  shcpard,  Endymion,  loved  by  Cin- 
thia. 

388.   hap,  fortune,  lot. 

390.  Juno,  sister  and  wife  of  Jove,  and  protectress 
of  marriage. 

130.  398.  Genius,  a  higher  power  that  maintains  life 
and  assists  at  the  begetting  and  birth  of  each  indi- 
vidual. 

405.  Hebe,   cup-bearer   to   the   gods. 
414.  fayne,  imagine. 
421.  guerdon,  reward. 

429.  Hasty  accidents,  accidents  due  to  haste. 

430.  expect,  await. 
433.  for,   instead   of. 

PROTHAL.XMION 

Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage,  on  the 
same  day,  of  the  two  daughters  of  the  Karl  of 
Worcester  to  Henry  Guilford  and  William   Peter. 

2.  Zcphyrus,  the  west  wind. 

4.   Titans  beames,  the  sun.     glystcr,  glitter,   shine. 

8.  still,  always. 

11.  Themmcs,  Thames. 

12.  rutty,  rooty. 

16.  paramours,  lovers. 

25.  entraylcd,  intertwined. 

26.  flasket,  a  long,  shallow  basket. 

27.  crept,  cut,   clipped,     fcatcously,  neatly. 
33.  vermeil,  vermilion. 

38.  lee,  stream. 


40.  Pindus,  a  range  of  monnlaiiis  in  northern 
(ireece. 

43.  Leda.  Leda  was  amorously  appioached  by 
Zeus  in  the  form  of  a  swan. 

131.  55.  Eftsoones,  forthwith. 

63.   Venus  silver  leeme,  team  of  swans,  according 
to  Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  x.   708. 
67.  Somers-heat,  Somerset. 

78.  Peneus,  a  river  in  Thessaly  that  traverses  the 
Vale  of  Tempe. 

79.  Tempos  shore.  Tempe  is  a  valley  in  Thessaly 
celebrated  for  its  beauty. 

100.  assoile,  absolve. 

1 10.  undersong,  burden,  refrain,   chorus. 

1 19.  foulc,  fowl. 

132.  121.   Cynthia,  the  moon,     slicnd,  shame. 

128.  kyndly  nurse.     Spenser  was  born  in   London. 

132.  whereas,   where. 

132-S.  bricky  tozvres  .  .  .  Tcmpler  Knights. 
A  reference  to  the  Temple.  After  the  order  of 
the  Knights  Templar  had  been  suppressed  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  II  (1307-1327),  their  property  on 
the  bank  of  the  Thames  passed  eventually  into  the 
hands  of  the  students  of  the  common  law. 

137-140.  a  stately  place  .  .  .  that  great  lord. 
The  reference  is  to  Leicester  House,  where  Spen- 
ser's patron,  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  dwelt  for  some 
years.     See  the  life  of  Spenser,  above,  p.    104. 

145.  o  noble  peer,  the  Earl  of  Essex.  After  the 
death  of  Leicester,  in  1588,  the  Earl  of  Essex  oc- 
cupied his  house  and  gave  it  the  name,  Essex 
House. 

147.  through  all  Spaine  did  thunder.  A  reference 
to  the  capture  of  Cadiz  in  1596.  Essex  commanded 
the  land   forces. 

148.  Hercules  two  pillors,  tiie  rocks  on  either  side 
of  the  strait  of  Gibraltar. 

153-4-  Probably  a  pun  on  Essex's  family  name, 
Dcvereux,  as  if  it  were  connected  with  the  French 
hcurcux,   '  happy.' 

157.  Elisaes  glorious  name.  Queen   Elizabeth. 

164.  Hesper,  the  evening,  and  also  the  morning, 
star. 

173.  tzvins  of  Jove.  Castor  and  Pollux,  who  be- 
came the  constellation  Gemini. 

ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 
gascoigne:     a  str.\nge  passion 

133.  I.   bale,  suffering. 

15.  eschew,  avoid. 

16.  grutch,  ill-will. 

134.  25.  Philomcnc,  the  nightingale. 

28.  wray,  reveal. 

29.  bewray,  reveal. 

dyer:    my  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 

4.   kind,  nature. 
35.  fawn,  cringe  to. 

RALEIGH  .       HIS   PILGRIMAGE 
I.  scallop-shell,   shell    of   a    kind    of   mollusk.     The 
scallop-shell   was  the  badge  of  a  pilgrim. 
3.  scrip,  wallet. 


1050 


NOTb:S 


135.  25.  suckcts,  a  dried  sweetmeat,  or  a  delicacy 
of  any  kind. 

57.  palmer,  a  pilgrim.  Specifically ,  a  pilgrim  to 
Jerusalem  who  brought  back  a  palm-branch  as  a 
token. 

A   VISION   UPON   THIS   CONCEIT   OF   THE   FAERY 
QUEEN 
T.   Laura,  celebrated  in  Petrarch's  sonnets. 
J.   vcsial  flame.     Vesta   was  goddess  of  the  hearth. 
The    sacred    fire,    which    was    her    symbol,    was    kept 
burning  in   her  temple  at  home  by  six   stainless  vir- 
gins, called  vestals. 

7.  Petrarch  (i  304-1 374) »  a  celebrated  Italian 
poet. 

13.  sprite,  spirit. 

GREENE:      THE    SHEPHERD'S    WIFE's    SONG 

137.  18.  curds,  the  thickened  part  of  milk,  eaten  as 
food. 

36.  spill,  destroy. 

37.  snort,  snore. 

138.  42.   tide  or  sithe,  time  or  occasion. 
44.  broils,  disturbances. 

DANIEL:      SONNETS   FROM    DELIA 
XIX,  2.   Cythcrea's  son,   Cupid. 

8.  Thetis,  chief  of  the  sea-nymphs. 

10.  Hermonius'  spheres,  an  allusion  to  the  music 
supposed  to  be  made  by  the  planets  in  their  revolu- 
tions. Perhaps  this  line  should  read:  And  thy 
sweet  voice  give  back  unto  the  spheres. 

12.  Hyrcan,  pertaining  to  Hyrcania,  a  region  in 
Asia  bordering  on  the  Caspian  Sea. 

139.  xxxviii,  3.  Laura  .  .  .  Petrarch.  Petrarch's 
sonnets  were  inspired  by  his  Laura. 

13.  limned,    described. 

L,  I.  Paladins,    the   knights    of    Charlemagne,    and 
hence,  heroic  champions  in  general. 
2.  untimely,  archaic,  obsolete. 

9.  arcs,  arches. 

DRAYTON:      SONNETS   FROM   IDEA 

140.  IX,  9.  Bedlam,  the  hospital  of  St.  Mary  of 
Bethlehem  in  London,  originally  a  priory,  but  after- 
ward used  as  an  asylum  for  lunatics. 

xLiv,  6.  Medea-like,  Medea  was  granted  the 
power   of  conferring  immortality   upon  her   children. 

ODE  XI.      TO   THE  VIRGINIA   VOYAGE 

141.  16.  Eolus,  god  of  the  winds. 

37.  Golden    Age,    a    fabled    period    of    simplicity, 
plenty,  and  eternal  spring. 
49.  kenning,  recognition. 
52.  frolic,  merry. 
68.  Industrious  Hakluyt.     See  above,  p.   91. 

ODE    XII.      TO    THE   CAMBRO-BRITONS 

The  Cambro-Uritons   were  the  Welsh. 

The  battle  of  Agincourt  was  fought  near  the 
northern  coast  of  France  on  Oct.  25,  141 5.  Henry 
V,  with  about  15,000  men,  defeated  50,000  or  more 
French  soldiers  under  the  Constable  d'Albret. 

5.   main,  sea. 

8.  King  Harry,  Henry  V. 


16.  power,  army. 

142.  41.  Poitiers  and  Cressy,  famous  victories  of 
the  English  in  France,  during  the  Hundred  Years* 
War.  The  battle  of  Crocy  was  fought  on  Aug.  26, 
1346;  the  battle  of  Poitiers,  on  Sept.    19,   1356. 

45.  our  Grandsire.  The  grandfather  of  Henry  V 
was  John  of  Gaunt,  son  of  Edward   IIL 

49.  Duke  of  York,  Edward,  Duke  of  York,  who 
fell  at  Agincourt. 

50.  vanward,  advance-guard. 

53.  Exeter,  the  Duke  of  Exeter,  uncle  of  Henry  V. 

66.  Erpingham,  Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  steward 
of  the  king's  household. 

82.   bilboes,  swords. 

91.  ding,  strike. 

94.   besprent,  sprinkled. 

97-112.  Gloucester  .  .  .  Clarence  .  .  .  War- 
u'ick  .  .  .  Oxford  .  .  .  Suffolk  .  .  .  Beau- 
mont .  .  .  Willoughby  .  .  .  Ferrers  .  .  . 
Fanhope,  English  noblemen  and  gentlemen  who 
fought  in   the  battle   of   Agincourt. 

III.   doughtily,   mightily,    forcibly. 

113.  Saint   Crispin's  Day,  Oct.  25. 

MARLOWE:       HERO  AND   LEANDER 
THE   FIRST   SESTIAD 

Leander,  a  youth  of  Abydos,  in  love  with  Hero, 
a  priestess  of  Aphrodite  at  Sestos,  swam  the  Helles- 
pont tvery  night  to  visit  her,  until  he  perished  one 
night  in  a  storm.  When  his  body  was  cast  up  on 
the  shore  of  Sestos  next  morning.  Hero  threw  her- 
self into  the  sea. 

Sestiad  is  really  a  Latin  adjective  meaning  '  be- 
longing to  Sestos.' 

I.  Hellespont,  the   Strait  of  Dardanelles. 

143.  14.  Adonis,  a  youth  of  model  beauty  loved  by 
Venus. 

15.  kirtlc,  close-fitting  gown. 

31.  buskins,  shoes  laced  to  a  point  above  the  an- 
kle. 

49.   wrack,  destruction. 

52.  Musocus,  a  Greek  author  of  the  5th  century 
B.  C,  author  of  a  celebrated  poem  on  Hero  and 
Leander,   upon  which   Marlowe's  poem   is  based. 

56.  Colchos,  Colchis  was  the  region  in  Asia  to 
which  the  Argonautic  expedition  was  directed  in 
quest  of  the  golden  ileece. 

59.   Cynthia,  the  moon. 

61.  Circe's  wand.  Circe  was  an  enchantress  who, 
with  her   wand,   could   transform   men   into   beasts. 

65.  Pelops.  According  to  a  tradition,  one  of 
Pelops'  shoulders  was  made  of  ivory. 

77.  Hippolytus,  son  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 

144.  98.  glistered,  glistened. 

101.  Phaeton,  son  of  the  sun-god,  obtained  per- 
mission of  his  father  to  drive  his  chariot  across  the 
heavens;  but,  being  unable  to  check  the  horses,  he 
nearly   set  the   earth  on   fire. 

107.  that     .     ,     .     star,   the   moon. 

108.  thirling,   quivering. 

109.  LatiHus'  mount,  a  mountain  in  Asia  Minor, 
the  scene  of  the  story  of  Cynthia's  love  for  Endy- 
mion. 

114.  Lvion's  shaggy-footed  race,  the  Centaurs. 
137.  Proteus,  a  sea  god. 


NOTES 


105 1 


146.  I'ulcan  and  his  Cyclo/^s.  Vulcan,  the  god  of 
lire  and  of  the  working  of  metals,  had  the  giant 
Cyclops  for   his   workmen. 

148.  Silvanus,  god  of  the  fields  and  forests. 

152.   turtles,   turtle-doves. 

133.   Vailed,  bowed. 

shakspere:     venus  and  adonis 

Adonis  was  a  beautiful  youth  beloved  by  Venus. 
In  spite  of  her  favor,  he  died  from  a  wound  re- 
ceived from  a  boar  in  the  chase.  The  flower 
anemone  sprang  from  his  blood.  Moved  by  the 
grief  of  Venus,  the  gods  of  the  lower  world  allowed 
Adonis  to  spend  six  months  of  the  year  with  her  on 
earth,  and  the   remaining  six  among  the  shades. 

145.  18.  coast eth,   proceeds,  goes. 
43.  ecstasy,  excitement. 

54.  rate,  scold,  upbraid. 

55.  spleens,  passionate  impulses. 
57.  mated,  bewildered. 

59.  respects,  considerations,  thoughts 

60.  In  hand  zvith,  undertaking. 
62.  caitiff,  wretch. 

146.  78.  exclaims  on,  cries  out  against. 
81.  zvorm,    serpent. 

94.  crop,   pick. 

104.  vailed,  lowered. 

112.  still,  ever,  always. 

147.  141.   all  to  naught,  good  for  nothing. 

143.  clepes,  calls. 

144.  Imperious,  imperial. 
148.  still,   ever. 

152.  ivrcaked,  revenged. 
158.  suspect,  suspicion. 

160.  With  .  .  ,  insinuate,  try  to  ingratiate 
oneself  with. 

169.  fond,   foolish. 

175.  lure,  a  call  or  decoy,  used  to  attract  a  falcon. 

200.  trenched,  gashed. 

148.  207.  passions,  grieves. 
-3'.  234.  fair,  beauty. 
242,  fear,  frighten. 

246.  silly,  innocent,  helpless. 

253.  urchin-snouted,  with  snout  like  that  of  a 
hedgehog. 

263.   nuzzling,  thrusting  his  nose  in. 

149.  305.  toward,  fitting. 
311.  Sith,  since. 

316.  A  purple  flower,  the  anemone. 
323.  crops,  plucks,  breaks  off. 

150.  341.  Paphos,  a  town  in  Cyprus,  the  chief  seat 
of  the  worship  of  Venus. 

SONNETS 
XII,  2.  brave,  beautiful. 

9.  question  make,  consider. 
XV,  9.  conceit,  conception. 
II.  debafeth,  combats. 
XVIII,   7.  fair,   beauty. 

151.  XXX,  6.  dateless,  endless. 

8.   moan   the  expense,  lament  the  loss. 

10.  tell,  count. 

xxxin,  6.  rack,  mass  of  floating  clouds. 
Liv,  5.  canker-blooms,  dog-roses. 


8.  discloses,  uncloses. 

9.  for,   because. 

10.  unrespccted,  unregarded. 

Lv,  3.  in   these   contents,   in   the   contents   of  these 
verses. 

i.x,   7.   Crooked,   malignant. 

8.  confound,   destroy. 

9.  flourish,   decoration. 

10.  delves  the  parallels,  digs  the  furrows. 
13.  times  in  hope,  future  times. 

152.  LXV,  4.  action,   perhaps   in    the   sense    of   '  legal 
action.' 

i.xvi,   II.  simplicity,   folly. 

153.  Lxxvi,  5.  still,  always, 
xcvii,   7.   prime,    spring. 

JO.   hope   of  orphans,  such   hope  as  orphans   bring, 
xcviii,  2.  proud-pied,  gaily   variegated. 
4.   That,   so   that.      Saturn,   a   planet   of   melancholy 
influence. 

6.  different   flowers   in,    flowers   different    in. 
xcix,  6.  for   thy   hand,   for   stealing   the    whiteness 

of  thy   hand. 

13.   canker,   canker-worm. 

civ,   10.  Steal   from    his    figure,    creep    away    from 
the  figure   on   the  dial. 

cvi,  8.  master,  control,  possess. 

154.  evil,    10.  subscribes,  yields,  submits. 
12.  insults  o'er,  exults  over. 

cix,  2.   qualify,  temper,  moderate. 

7.  Just     ,     .     .     time,     punctual,     exchanged,     al- 
tered. 

ex,  2.  motley,  fool. 

6.  strangely,   distantly,   distrustfully. 

7.  blenches,  startings-aside. 
10.  grind,  whet. 

CXI,   10.  eiscl,  vinegar, 
cxix,  2.  limbecks,  alembics. 

155.  cxxviii,   5.  jacks,    here    used    in    the    sense    of 
'  keys  '   of  the  virginal   or  the  harpsichord. 

cxxx,   5.   damasked,  variegated. 
cxLvi,   10.  aggravate,  increase. 

SONG  FROM   love's   LABOR  's   LOST 

8.  keel,  skim. 

England's  helicon  :     phyllida  and  corydon 

157.  21.  silly,  innocent,   simple. 

AS   IT   FELL   UPON    A   DAY 
23.  King  Pandion,  father  of  Philomela  (the  night- 
ingale). 

HAPPY    SHEPHERDS 

158.  3.  wight,  creature. 

31.  Circe's  zvand.     Circe  was  an  enchantress,  able 
to  transform  men  into  beasts. 

THE   shepherd's   COMMENDATION 
19.   Cynthia's  silver  light,  moonlight. 
26.   damask-rose,  a  species  of  pink  rose 

31.  Phabus,  god  of  the  sun. 

32.  Thetis,  goddess  of  the  sea. 

159.  40.  Dea,  an  early   Roman   goddess. 


[052 


NOTES 


SKVRNTKKNTII  CKNTL'KY  LYKICS 
CAMPION  :      CHANCE   AND   CHANGE 
160.  9.   toys,  trifles. 

I  J.  point  to  tlw  world,  ch.l  in  cuniparisoii  uilli  tlie 
universe. 

A   RENUNCIATION 
•3.  mere,  absolute,  pure. 
JONSON  :      AN    EPITAPH    ON    SALATHIEL    PAVY 

162.  II.   three  filled  zodiacs,  three  full  years. 

I.'.  The  stnye's  jewel.  Salathiel  Pavy  was  a  child 
of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Chapel,  and,  apparently,  a  buy 
actor  of  great  talent. 

15.  Parcce,  the  Fates. 

TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    MY    BELOVED    MASTER 

WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 
20.  Beaumont.     Francis     Beaumont      (1584-1616), 
an   English   dramatist  and  lyrist. 

163.  29.  Lyly.     John  Lyly   (i554?-i6o6),  an  English 
dramatist   and   lyrist. 

30.  Kyd.  Thomas  Kyd  ( i557?-i  595  ?).  an  Eng- 
lish dramatist  who  wrote  '  tragedies  of  blood.'  Mar- 
lowe's mighty  line.  Christopher  Marlowe  (1564?- 
1593),  an  English  poet  and  dramatist.  Marlowe's 
plays  are  written  in  sonorous  blank  verse. 

33.  JEschylus,  Euripides,  and  Sophocles,  the 
great  Greek  writers  of  tragedy,  of  the  5th  century 
B.C. 

35.  Pacuvius,  a  Roman  tragic  poet  (c.  220-c.  129 
B.C.).  Accius,  a  Roman  tragic  poet  (born  c.  170 
B.  C).  him  of  Cordova,  Seneca  (c.  4  B.  C.-65 
A.  D.),  a  Roman  Stoic  philosopher  and  writer  of 
tiagedy. 

36.  buskin,  the  cothurnus,  or  high  boot,  anciently 
worn  by  actors  in  tragedy. 

37.  socks.  The  sock  (Latin  soccus)  was  a  light 
shoe  worn  by   the  ancient  actors  of  comedy. 

45.  Apollo.  Apollo,  the  god  of  light,  was  also 
patron   of  music   and    poetry. 

46.  Mercury,  the  messenger  of  the  gods,  noted  fur 
his  versatility  and  power  of  fascination. 

51.  Aristophanes,  greatest  of  the  Greek  comic 
poets   (c.  448-c.  380  B.  C). 

52.  Terence,  a  celebrated  Roman  writer  of  com- 
edy (c.  185-c.  159  B.  C).  Plautus,  a  Roman  writer 
of  comedy   (died   184  B.  C). 

71.  Swan  of  Avon,  a  reference  to  Shakspere's 
birthplace,    Stratford-upon-Avon. 

74.  Eliza,   Queen   Elizabeth.     James,  James  I. 

A   PINDARIC   ODE 

Pindar  (c.  522-433  B.C.).  the  greatest  of  the 
Greek  lyric  poets,  was  especially  famous  for  his 
odes.  Sir  Lucius  Cary  (c.  1610-1643)  was  a  poli- 
tician and  a  man  of  letters.  He  married  the  sister 
of  Sir  Henry  Morison. 

I.  infant  of  Saguntum.  Saguntum  was  a  town  in 
Spain  besieged  and  taken  by  the  great  Carthaginian 
general,  Hannibal,  in  219  B.C.  The  story  here  re 
counted  by  Jonson  was  actually  recorded  by  Pliny, 
the   Roman   historian. 

9.   summed.   Complete. 


164.  43.  Morison  felt  young.  Morison  died  before 
the   marriage   of   Cary    in    1630. 

89.  asterism,  cluster   of  stars. 

93.  Dioscuri,  the  sons  of  Zeus,  Castor  and  Pollux. 
Even  after  their  burial  they  were  kept  alive,  living 
;ind   tlying  on  alternate  days. 

DONNE:      SONG 

165.  2.  mandrake  root.  The  root  of  the  mandrake 
somewiiat  resembles  the  human  body  in  shape.  It 
was  used  in  amorous  incantations,  and  was  the  focus 
of  numerous  superstitions. 

THE  CANONIZATION 

166.  23.  The  phoenix  riddle.  It  was  said  that  the 
I)lucnix,  after  living  500  (or  1,000)  years,  made  a 
licst  of  spices,  burned  itself  to  ashes,  and  came  forth 
with  renewed  life  for  another  similar  period. 

FORGET 

167.  II.  Lethean  flood.  I-ethe  was  one  of  the 
streams  of  Hades,  tlie  waters  of  which  caused  those 
who    drank    of    them    to    forget    their    previous    exist- 


FLETCHER:      SONG  TO  BACCHUS 
168.    1.  Lycrus,  a  surname  of  Bacchus. 

3.  lusty,  pleasant,  healthy. 

5.  mazer's  brim,  A  mazer  is  a  bowl  or  large 
drinking  cup. 

BROWNE:      BRITANNIA'S- PASTORALS,    BOOK    II, 
SONG  I 

170.  8.  Willy.  In  this  song  Browne  is  paying  a 
tribute  to  William  Ferrar,  son  of  an  eminent  Lon- 
don merchant.     The  boy  died  young  at  sea. 

171.  9.  Thetis'  train.  Thetis  was  the  mythical 
queen  of  the  nereids,   or  sea-nymphs. 

25.  Arion-like.  Arion,  a  Greek  poet  of  Lesbos, 
flourished  probably  about  700  B.  C.  The  story  runs 
that  while  he  was  returning  from  a  musical  contest 
in  Sicily,  he  was  thrown  into  the  sea  by  the  sailors, 
but  was  saved  and  carried  to  shore  by  dolphins  that 
had  gathered  about  the  ship  to  listen  to   his  lyre. 

BOOK   II,   SONG  V 
12.  Mona's     .     .     .     isle,    the   island   of    Anglesea 
off  the  northwest  coast  of  Wales. 

26.  Teneriffe,  a  peak  upon  the  largest  of  the  Ca- 
nary Islands. 

27.  hernshaw,  heron. 

32.  Nestor's  years.  Nestor  was  famous  as  the 
oldest  councilor  of  the  Greeks  while  they  were  be- 
sieging Troy. 

44.  brave,  handsome.  Latmus,  a  mountain  in 
Caria,  in  Asia  Minor,  the  scene  of  the  story  of 
Selene    (the   moon)    and  Endymion. 

52.  Tellus'  hair.  Tellus  was  a  goddess  personify- 
ing the  earth. 

ON    THE   COUNTESS    DOWAGER    OF    PEMBROKE 
Mary  Sidney,  Countess  of  Pembroke  (1 557-1621), 
was  a  sister  of  Sir  Philip   Sidney.     To  her  he  dedi- 
cated his  .-hcadia. 

172.  10.   Niobe.     Too      proud      of      her      numerous 


NOTES 


1053 


progeny,  Niobe  provoked  the  anger  of  Apollo  and 
Artemis,  who  slew  her  children  with  arrows.  Zeus 
metamorphosed   Niobe   into   stone. 

herrick:     corinna 's  going  a-maying 

10.  matins,   the   first   of   the   ecclesiastical    services 
for  the  day. 

17.  Flora,  goddess  of  the  spring  and  of  flowers. 
25.   Titan,  the  sun  personified. 
28.   beads,  prayers. 

173.  66.  shade,  ghost. 

AN   ODE   FOR   BEN   JONSON 

174.  5-6.  Sun,  Doij,   Tiif'le   Tun,   names  of   taverns. 
7.  clusters,   gatherings   of  persons. 

A   THANKSGIVING  TO  GOD 

12.  stale,    show,    formality. 

22.  unjlcad,   not  strijjped. 

28.  pulse,  seeds  of  leguminous  plants. 

31.  worts,     plants,    greens,     fiirslain,    purslane,    a 

plant  often  used  in  salads. 

39.  u'assail  botvls,  bowls  for  drinking  healths. 

GRACE   FOR   A   CHILD 
3.   l^aJdocks.  toads. 
5.   bcnison,   blessing. 

HERBERT  :      THE  COLLAR 

175.  5.  store,   abundance. 


14.  bays,   garlands   or   cr 


bestowed   as    prizes. 


CAREW  :      SONG 

176.  3.   orient,   bright   and   clear. 

18.  Pha-nix.  See  note  to  Donne:  The  Canoniza- 
tion, p.   166,  1.  23. 

SONG 

177.  6.  orbs,  spheres.  An  allusion  to  the  music 
made  by  the  revolving  of  the  spheres. 

THE   PROTESTATION 
II.  Lethe,  one  of  the  streams  of  Hades,  tlie  waters 
of    which    caused    those    who    drank    to    forget    their 
previous   existence. 

waller:      THE  STORY  OF  PHCEBUS  AND  DAPHNE 

178.  3.  Phwbus,    Apollo,    god    of    light,   poetry,    and 

music. 

4.   Dateline,  a  nymjjh. 
JO.   bays,  garlands. 

SUCKLING:      A    DOUBT   OF    MARTYRDOM 

179.  5.    Whether,    which,     chaptets,    wreaths. 

19.  Elysium,   the  abode  of  the  souls  of  the  good. 
23.  Sophonisba.    a    Carthaginian    woman     (died    c. 

J04  B.  C.)  who  was  betrothed  to  a  Numidian  prince 
Masinissa,  afterwards  married  Syphax,  and  later 
married  Masinissa,  after  he  had  conquered  lier  hus- 
band. 

j6-8.  Philoclca  .  .  .  Piracies  .  .  .  Aniphialus. 
characters  in  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  pastoral  romance 
Arcadia,    See  p.  81. 


CRASHAVV  :       IN    THE    HOLY    NATIVITY    OF    OUR 
LORD   GOD 

180.  15-16.  Tityrns     .     .     .     Thyrsis,     conventional 
names    for   shepherds. 

46.   plurnix.     See   166.  23,  note. 

181.  98.   Maia,  an   old   Italian  goddess   of   spring. 


ibove. 


168. 


(6,s-8 
poet. 


DENHAM:      on    MR.   ABRAHAM   COWLEY's   HEATH 
For   selections    from    Cowley,    see   p.    1S3. 

182.  7.  Aurora,     the     dawn.     Spenser.     See 
pp.    104   ff. 

10.  Pha-bus,  Ajiollo,  god  of  poetry  and   mus 

11.  Jonson.      See  p.    161.     Fletcher.     See   p. 
16.   bays,   wreaths. 
35.  Horace,      Quintus      Iloratius      Flaccus 

li.  C),    a    famous    Roman    lyric    and    satirica 
slate,   stateliness. 

40.  Jason.  Jason  with  other  Argonauts  made  an 
expedition   to   Colchis,  in  Asia,   to   obtain   the   Colden 

43.  Flaccus,   the   Roman    poet   Horace. 

44.  The  Thcban  Swan,  Pindar  (c.  5JJ-443  B.  C), 
the  greatest  of  the  Greek  lyric  poets. 

LOVELACE:      THE   ROSE 

183.  5.  Flora,  goddess  of  spring  and  flowers. 
6.  Aurora,   the   dawn. 

II.  coverlcd,  coverlet. 

14.  Silenus,  the  foster-father  of  Bacchus,  and 
leader  of  the  satyrs. 

COWLEY  :      THE   SWALLOW 
4-S.   Tereus     .     .     .     Philomel.      Tereus,  after  dis- 
honoring   his    sister-in-law    Philomela,    deprived    her 
of   her   tongue.     Philomela   was  afterward   metamor- 
phosed into  a  nightingale. 

marvel:      THE  GARDEN 

184.  2.  bays,  wreaths,  often  of  laurel. 
5.   narrow-verged,   of  narrow  margin. 

_'9-  Apollo  .  .  .  Daphne.  Daphne,  daughter 
of  the  river-god  Peneus,  was  pursued  by  Apollo, 
v\  ho  had  been  charmed  by  her  beauty.  She  prayed 
for  aid,  and  was  metamorphosed   into  a  laurel-tree. 

31.  Pati  .  .  .  Syrinx.  Syrinx,  an  Arcadian 
maid,  when  pursued  by  Pan  was,  as  the  result  of 
her  own  prayer,  metamorphosed  into  a  reed. 

TO    HIS   COY    MISTRESS 

185.  5.   Ganges,   the   sacred    river    of   India, 
an    estuary    on    t 


7.  Humbc 
England. 

40.  slow-chapt,  slowly  cracked, 
devouring. 


eastern    coast    of 
,  perhaps,  slowly 


BACON:     ESSAYS 

I. —  OF    TRUTH 
7.   a.   3.   jesting   Pilate.     See   John     xviii,    38. 
7.   in    giddiness,   in   quick   change    of   opinion. 

b.  2.  at  a  stand,  at  a  loss. 
;.   masques,  mummeries,  triumphs.       Evening  shows 
entertainments. 


1054 


NOTES 


188.  a.  3.  One  of  the  fathers.  Both  Jerome  and 
Augustine  have  a  similar  saying;  neither  uses  ex- 
actly these  words. 

29.  The  poet,  Lucretius  (ist  century  B.C.)  in 
the  Latin   poem   On   the  Nature  of  Things. 

30.  the  sect,  of  the  Epicureans. 

$2.  round,  straightforward,  or  as  we  should  say, 
square. 

b.  4.  Montaigne.     Essays    ii,    18. 
17.  it  being  foretold.     Luke    xviii,  8. 

V. —  OF   ADVERSITY 

24.  Seneca.  The  Roman  philosopher  and  tutor 
of  Nero  (4  B.  C.-65  A.  D.).  Both  the  passages 
quoted  are  from  his  Epistles. 

39.  transcendencies,   hyperboles,    exaggerations. 

53.  in  a  mean,  in  a  moderate  or  prosaic  style. 

54.  temperance,  moderation. 

VII. —  OF  PARENTS   AND  CHILDREN 

189.  a.   53.  Solomon    saith.     Proverbs     x,    i. 
b.  7.  shifts,    subterfuges. 

37.  the  precept.  Ascribed  by  Plutarch  to  the 
Pythagoreans.  Plutarch  (ist  century  A.  D.)  wrote 
in  Greek,  but  Bacon  doubtless  read  him  in  a  Latin 
translation. 

VTII. —  OF   MARRIAGE  AND   SINGLE  LIFE 
51.  impediments,    hindrances,     in     the     sense    that 
they  may  deter  a  man  from  taking  big  risks. 

190.  a.  20.   humorous,   subject  to  humors,  or  moods. 
29.  churchmen,   clergymen. 

36.  hortatives,  exhortations. 

44.  exhaust,  exhausted.  The  form  Bacon  uses  is 
taken  directly  from  the  Latin  past  participle. 

50.  Ulysses  refused  to  share  immortality  with  the 
goddess  Calypso,  and  returned  home  to  his  wife 
Penelope. 

b.  4.  a   quarrel,  a  pretext  or  excuse, 

5.  one  of  the  wise  men.  The  saying  quoted  is 
ascribed  by  Plutarch  and  Montaigne  to  the  Greek 
philosopher,  Thales, 

X. —  OF  LOVE 

35.  Marcus  Antonius  (83-30  B.C.),  the  lover  of 
Cleopatra. 

37.  Appius  Claudius,  the  Roman  decemvir  who 
became  enamored  of  Virginia  449  B.  C.  See  Ma- 
caulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome. 

45.  saying  of  Epicurus.  Quoted  by  Seneca,  Epis- 
tle   vii. 

56.  braves,   exaggerates. 

191.  a.  2.  it  hath  been  well  said.     By  Plutarch. 

9.  it  was  well  said.  The  reference  may  be  to 
Publius   Syrus,   or   to   Plutarch. 

:6.  the  reciproque,  mutual   affection. 

22.  he  that  preferred  Helena.  Paris,  who 
awarded  the  apple  to  Venus  in  return  for  the  gift 
of  Helen,  rejecting  the  offers  of  Juno  (the  sov- 
ereignty of  Asia)   and  Pallas   (renown  in  war). 

34.  keep  quarter,  keep  within  bounds. 

36.  check,   interfere. 

XII. —  OF  BOLDNESS 
191.  b.   I.  Demosthenes.     The    story     of    the     great 
Greek  orator   (385-322  B.  C.)   is  told  by  Cicero  and 
by  Plutarch. 


29.   popular,    democratic. 

34.   mountebanks,   quacks   who  sell   their   medicines 
fioni   public  stages. 

39.  grounds,   principles. 

54.  slight  it  over,  make  nothing  of  it. 
192.  a.    II.  stale     at     chess,     a     drawn     game     which 
neither  party   wins. 

XVII. —  OF   SUPERSTITION 
54.  Augustus  Cfcsar,   Emperor  of   Rome   31    B.  C- 
14  A.  D.     nil/,  peaceful. 

56.  primum    mobile,    the    origin    or    cause    of    mo- 
tion,  according   to   the  old   astronomy. 

b.   5.   Council    of    Trent,    a    great    ecclesiastical 
council    of   the    Roman    Catholic    Church    held    1545- 
1563. 
6.  schoolmen.     Mediaeval   philosophers. 


SO, 
fact. 

52 

58 
193. 

13 
live 


XXIII. —  OF  WISDOM  FOR  A  MAN  S  SELF 
shrewd,   harmful.     Bacon   is   wrong   as   to   the 

,  waste,  injure. 

,  right  earth,  exactly  like  the  earth. 
a.   12.   crooked,  distorts,  perverts. 
,   essentric  to,   having  a   different  center   or   mo- 
from. 

,   accessory,   secondary. 

.   bias,   a    weight   inserted   in   a   bowl    to   make   it 
in    a   curve. 
,  and,  if. 
.  respect,  consideration. 


XXV. —  OF  DISPATCH 

b.   10.  Affected,   excessively   desired. 
24.  false   periods,   apparent   conclusions,    which   do 
not  really  end  the  matter. 

31.  a  wise  man.     Sir  Amyas  Paulet. 

32.  byword,   proverb. 

55.  moderator,   presiding  officer. 

56.  actor,  speaker. 

194.  a.  4.  curious,    elaborate,    highly    wrought. 
6.  passages,   transitions. 

10.  bravery,     extravagance     of     dress,     meant     for 
show,  not  use. 

11.  being    too    material,    keeping   too   close   to    the 
point, 

XXVI. —  OF   SEEMING   WISE 
46.  the  Apostle.     Paul,   2   Timothy    iii,    5. 
51.   magna    conatu    nugas.     Quoted    from    Terence, 
the  Roman  writer  of  comedies. 
55.  prospectives,   stereoscopes. 

b.    14.  bear  it,  carry  their  point. 

16.  by  admittance,   for  granted. 

17.  make  good,  prove. 
20.   curious,  trifling. 

22.  difference,   distinction. 

24.  blanch    the    matter,    gloss    over    or    shirk    the 
issue. 

46.  opinion,   credit. 

48.  you  were  better,  it  would  be  better  for  you. 

XXVIII. —  OF  EXPENSE 
58.  7Vorth,   importance. 

195.  a.  2.  kingdom    of    heaven.     See    Matthew     xix. 


NOTES 


1055 


10.   of  even  hand.      His  outgo  equal  to  his  income. 
18.   broken,  bankrupt. 
20.  searching,   probing. 

23.  new.     Servants. 

26.  certainties,   fixed   amounts. 

38.  disadvantagcable ,   disadvantageous. 

XXXII. —  OF  DISCOURSE 
b.  s.  want,   lack. 

18.  jade,   spur,   overdrive. 

28.  would  be   bridled,   ought   to   be   restrained. 
30.  Parce  —  loris.     Ovid,   Metamorphoses  ii,    127. 
35.  soilness,   wit. 

47.  poser,   an   examiner   putting  questions. 

53.  galliard,  a   lively    dance. 

196.  a.  8.  himself  prctcndcth,  he  himself  lays  claim. 

9.  of  touch,   reflecting  upon  or  wounding. 

10.  as  a  field,  open,  general. 

17.  flout  or  dry  blozv,  an  insulting  jest  or  hard 
knock. 

XXXIV. —  OF  RICHES 

so.  conceit,  fancy,  imagination,  saith  Solomon. 
Ecclesiastes  v,   11. 

56.  dole  and  donative,   gifts  small  and  large. 
b.   I.  feigned,  fictitious. 

7.  Solomon   saith.     Proverbs    xviii,   11. 
12.  sold,  betrayed. 

25.  Solomon.     Proverbs     xxviii,    20. 

29.  poets.  The  saying  quoted  is  found  in  the 
Greek  prose  writer  Lucian  (2nd  century  A.  D.). 

43.  enrich,  become  rich. 
52.  husbandry,  industry. 

54.  audits,  accounts. 

57.  collier,  owner  of  coal  mines. 

197.  a.  4.  observed  by  one.     In  Plutarch. 

8.  expect  the  prime,  wait  for  the  most  favorable 
condition. 

9.  overcome,   take  advantage  of. 
12.  mainly,  greatly. 

19.  broke,  do  business,  negotiate. 

22.  chapmen,  buyers. 

24.  chopping  of  bargains,  speculation  by  middle- 
men. 

52.  co-emption,  the  modern  trust. 

58.  service,  to  a  monarch  or   nobleman. 
b.  25.  glorious,   ostentatious. 

29.  advancements,   gifts. 

XLII. —  OF   YOUTH   AND  AGE 

53.  Septimius  Severn's,  Roman  Emperor  193-211 
A.  D. 

54.  it    is   said.     By    Spartianus. 

198.  a.  3.  Cosmos,  usually  called  Cosimo  de'  Medici, 
made  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,   1570. 

Gaston  De  Foix,  a  celebrated  French  general, 
made  Duke  of  Nemours  in   1505. 

6.  composition,  disposition,  temperament.  Young 
men,  &c.  Suggested  by  an  observation  of  Plu- 
tarch. 

12.  them,  old  men    (implied  in  age). 

13.  abuseth,  deceives. 

17.  manage,  management. 

23.  absurdly   qualifies   pursue,     care,   hesitate. 
32.  period,   conclusion. 

40.  extern,   external. 


45.  A  certain  rabbin.  Isaac  Abrabanel  (1437— 
1508). 

b.  2.  Hermogenes,  a  famous  rhetorician  of  the 
second  century   B.  C. 

9.  Tully.  Cicero.  Ilortensius  was  his  great  rival 
at  the  Roman  bar. 

16.  Scipio  Africanus.  Roman  general  (234-183 
B.  C). 

16.  Livy.     Roman   historian    (59-17    B.  C). 

17.  Ultima  primis.  Quoted  from  Ovid.  What 
Livy  says  is  that  Scipio  in  his  later  life  had  no 
opportunity  for  the  military  exploits  for  which  he 
was  naturally   fitted. 

XLVII.— OF   NEGOTIATING 
33.   lender,   delicate   or   difficult. 
43.  success,   result. 
48.  affect,  are  inclined  to. 
50.  quickeneth,   spurs  on,   encourages. 

199.  a.  2.  prescription,  prestige,  reputation  pre- 
viously won. 

7.  in   appetite,   eager   for  advancement. 

10.  upon  conditions.  A.  agrees  to  do  something 
if  B.  will  do  something.  Who  is  to  do  his  part 
first?  A.  must  unless  (i)  B.'s  part  necessarily 
comes  first;  or  (2)  A.  will  still  need  B.  for  some 
other  part  of  the  scheme;  or  (3)  A.  is  known  to  be 
more   trustworthy   and   B.    can   therefore  depend   on 

18.  practice,  negotiation,  discover,  to  ascertain  a 
man's  plans  or  character,  work,  to  induce  a  man 
to   do   something. 

24.  know.  This  verb  governs  nature,  fashions, 
ends,  iveakness,  disadvantages,  those. 

L. —  OF   STUDIES 

46.  expert,    practised,   experienced. 

54.   humor,    fanciful    peculiarity,    foible. 

b.   17.  curiously,    with    elaborate   care. 
21.  would,  should. 

25.  flashy,   tasteless. 
29.  confer,  converse. 

35.  moral     grave,     studies     in     moral     philosophy 

make  men  serious  and   dignified. 

38.  stand,  drawback,  hindrance. 

42.  stone  and  reins,  bladder  and  kidneys. 

52.  beat  over  matters,  take  a  broad  general  view 
of  many   things. 

56.  receipt,   prescribed   remedy. 

BROWNE:     RELIGIO  MEDICI 

200.  a.  6.  general  scandal  of  my  profession.  Ac- 
cording to  the  old  saying,  '  Where  there  are  three 
physicians,  there  are  two  atheists.' 

b.    12.   nothing   but    the    name.     'Protestant,    as 
carrying   with   it   an    insinuation    of   enmity    and   dis- 
cord, inconsistent  with  the  peace  and  harmony  pre- 
scribed by  the  gospel.' 
25.  the  person.     Luther. 

201.  a.  3.  shaken   hands  with,  parted  from. 

4.  desperate  resolutions.  These  words,  with  the 
dependent  relative  clauses  up  to  what  they  have 
been,  refer  to  the  Roman  Catholics. 

6.  bottom,  ship. 


1056 


NOTES 


8.   nil    (doctrines). 

)i.   1)1    diameter,   in   diametrical    opposition. 

13.  improt'cratiuns,    taunts,    reproaches. 

15.  difference,  show  the  difference  of. 

20.  am   not  scrupulous,  do  not  hesitate. 

22.  in  defect   of  ours,   where  ours  do   not  exist. 

44.  morosity,   moroseness. 

49.  violate,  injure. 

b.   12.  consorts,  companions. 
15.  questionless,   unquestionably. 

34.  mediocrity,  moderation. 

46.  difference  myself,  distinguish  my  opinions. 

202.  a.  7.  humor,  mood. 

10.  disproving,  disapproving. 

11.  disavoHched,  disavowed. 

12.  Council  of  Trent.     See  192.   b.  5,  note. 

13.  Dort.  In  the  Netherlands,  where  a  great 
Protestant   Synod   was  held  in    1618-19. 

18.  Geneva.  The  center  of  Protestantism  on  the 
European  Continent. 

20.  scandal,  objection. 

rS.  the  state  of  Venice  had  a  dispute  with  Pope 
Paul  V  in  1606. 

41.  reaction,    recrimination. 

b.  28.  CEdipus  solved  the  riddle  of  the  Spliinx. 

203.  a.  TO.  Diogenes,  the  Cynic,  a  Greek  philos- 
oplier  (412-323  B.  C).  Timcn,  of  Athens,  a  fa- 
mous misanthrope,  contemporary  with   Socrates. 

22.  pia  mater,  a  membrane  enveloping  the  brain. 

23.  impossibilities,  apparent  impossibilities,  diffi- 
culties calling  for  the  exercise  of  faith. 

29.  O  altitude.  A  height  beyond  human  compre- 
hension. 

35.  Teriullian  of  Carthage,  one  of  the  fathers  of 
the  Church   (2nd  and  3rd  centuries). 

b.   18.  expanscd,   spread   out. 
23.  admire,  wonder  at. 

27.  the  other   (people),  i.e.,  the  Israelites. 

204.  a.  37.  the  chaos,  i.e.,  before  the  Creation. 
b.  24.  azvay  ivith,  put  up   with. 

51.  temper,  constitution. 

52.  crozvs  and  daws,  proverbially   long-lived   birds. 

205.  a.  I.  revolution  of  Saturn.  The  year  of 
Saturn   is    10,759   days. 

10.  canicular  days,  dog  days.  Latin,  dies  cani- 
culares,  the  hottest  days  of  summer,  ascribed  in 
ancient  astrology  to  the  malignant  influence  of  the 
dog  star. 

13.  pantalones  and  antics,  pantaloons  and  clowns. 

28.  Methuselah  lived  969  years.  See  Genesis  v, 
27. 

29.  rectify,    straighten,   improve. 

30.  incurvate,   deteriorate. 

53.  Cicero  says  in  his  treatise  On  Old  Age:  I 
am  not  sorry  to  have  lived:  since  I  have  so  lived 
that  I  do  not  think  I  was  born  in  vain. 

b.  10.  ^son,  an  old  man  in  classical  mythol- 
ogy whom  Medea  restored  to  youth  by  a  magical 
bath. 

13.  providence,    fores  ght. 

15.  able  temper,  sound   constitution. 

16.  radical  humor,  vital  juice. 

24.  glome  or  bottom,  a  ball  of  thread. 
206.  a.  32.  climate,  a  space  measured  on  the  eartli's 
surface;    England   was  in   the  eighth. 


55.   Hydra,     a     many-headed      monster      slain     by 
Hercules. 

58.  Solomon.     See   I'roverbs    i,   7,   22,  &c. 

b.   15.  Doradoes,  rich  men;   literally  gold-fishes. 

18.  politicians,  statesmen. 
54.  as  the  -world   (is  one). 

207.  a.  2.  buffet,    box. 

3.  at  sharp,   with   pointed    weapons. 

S.  Lepanto,    a    battle    between    the    Italians    and 
Turks,    1 57 1. 

10.  dastards,   intimidates. 

28.  epidemical,  common   to  all   people. 

b.  1.  the  world,  tlie  macrocosm  whicii  man, 
the  microcosm,   resembles. 

21.  grammarian,  student   of  Latin  grammar. 

23.  construction,  construing. 

30.  Babel.     See  Genesis  xi,    1-9. 

35.  chorographx,    description    of   countries. 
46.  pointers,  the  Dipper. 

S3,  simpled,    collected    simples,    or    herbs.     Cheap- 
side,  a  famous   London  herb  market. 

208.  a.  9.  Euripus,  a  strait  dividing  Attica  from 
Euboea,  where  the  tide,  according  to  classical  tra- 
dition, ebbed  and  flowed  seven  times  a  day.  The 
story  that  Aristotle  drowned  himself  there  because 
he  could  not  discover  the  cause  of  the  phenomenon 
is  discussed  by  Browne,  along  with  the  fable  as  to 
the  death  of  Homer  because  he  could  not  guess  the 
fisherman's  riddle,  in  Pseudodoxia  epidemica,  Bk. 
\n,  ch.    13. 

16.  Peripatetics,       Stoics,       Academics.       Classical 
schools  of   philosophy. 

19.  Janus,   facing  both  ways. 
33.   attending,   waiting. 

35.  'which    (knowledge). 

43.  glorification    (in  heaven). 

46.  disallow,   disapprove. 

b.  9.  music  of  the  spheres.  The  ancients  had 
a  fancy  that  the  rotation  of  the  planets  produced 
music;  this  kept  its  place  in  poetry  after  it  had 
been  denied  by  the  astronomers.  See  Merchant  of 
J'cnice,  V.  i,  60—62. 

24.  first   composer.     God. 

48.   ephemerides,   astrological    tables. 

HYUKKJTAPHI.V,    URN  BURIAL 

209.  b.  I.  ossuaries,  receptacles  for  bones.  In  this 
essay  Browne  discourses  about  some  urns  contain- 
ing bones,  dug  up  in  Norfolk  and  supposed  to  be 
of  Roman  origin. 

10.   tutelary    obscrvalors,    guardian    spirits    of    tlie 
place. 

15.  pyramidally,  by  means  of  a  tombstone. 

25.  Atropos,   the    Greek    Fate    who    cut    the    thread 
of   human   life. 

31.  meridian,   the   noon    of   the   world's   lifetime. 
39.   Charles  V   (1500-1558),  Emperor  of  Germany. 

47.  Janus,   facing   past   and    future. 

210.  a.  25.   Gruter,   Dutch    philologist    (1560-1627) 
35.  Cardan,  a  celebrated  Italian    (1501-1576). 

38.  Hippocrates,  famous  Greek  physician    (460-357 

1:.  C). 

42.  entclcchia,    actual    being,    a    term    in    the   phi- 

losojjhy   of  Aristotle. 


NOTES 


1057 


45.  Cauaanitish  zvoinan.  See  Matthew  x,  4. 
Mark    iii,   iS. 

46.  Herodias.     See    Matthew     xiv,    i-i^. 
48.  good   thief.      See   Luke   xxiii,    39-43- 

b.  I.  Herostratus  —  Diana.  At  PIphesus  356 
B.C. 

4.  Adrian    (76—138  A.  D.),   Emperor  of   Rome. 

8.  Thersitcs,  the  foul-mouthed  rogue  of  Homer's 
Iliad,  in   which  Agamemnon  is  one  of  the  heroes. 

23.  the  first  story.     See  Genesis    v. 

24.  one  living  century,  a  hundred  people  still  re- 
membered. 

31.  Lucina,  the  goddess  of  childbirth. 

211.  a.  23.  Cambyscs,  king  of  Persia  and  conqueror 
of  Egypt,   d.   s-M    B.C. 

25.  Mizraim,  the  brother  of  Cush,  is  the  Hebrew 
name  of  Egypt. 

26.  Pharaoh,  the  name  of  many  kings  of  ancient 
Egypt.  In  Browne's  time  Egyptian  mummies  were 
used   for  medical   prescriptions. 

36.  Nimrod,  the  founder  of  the  Babylonian  Em- 
pire. See  Genesis  x,  8—12.  In  Hebrew  astronomy 
he  corresponds  to   the   Greek   constellation   Orion. 

27.  Osiris,   an    Egyptian    deity. 
42.  perspectives,   telescopes. 

b.   12.  scape,  a  momentary  chance. 

23.  Sardanapalus,  the  last  Assyrian  king  of 
Nineveh,  unable  to  withstand  a  siege  there,  burnt 
himself  and  his  household  on  a  huge  funeral  pile 
876  B.  C. 

30.  Gordianus.  Emperor  of  Rome,  third  century. 
The  Man  of  God,  Moses.  See  Deuteronomy 
xxxiv,   1-6. 

34.  Enoch.     See  Genesis    v,  24. 

35.  Elias,  Elijah.     See  2  Kings    ii,   i-ii. 
48.  Losarus.     See  John  xi. 

50.  die  but  once.     See   Revelations  xxi,   8. 
53.  coverings    of    mountains.     See    Revelations    vi, 
15-17- 

WALTON:     THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER 

This  chapter  is  in  the  form  of  an  open-air  dia- 
logue between  the  Angler  (Piscator),  who  represents 
the  author,  and  the  Hunter,  who  is  his  pupil.  The 
Angler  continues  the  discourse  he  had  begun  in 
Chapter  III,  on  the  chub. 

212.  a.  12.  generous,  originally  high  born,  and 
hence  full  of  spirit,  rich  and  full  of  strength,  in- 
vigorating. 

16.  Gesner,  a  Swiss  physician  and  naturalist  who 
wrote  a  book  On  Animals   (1551— 8). 

17.  offspring,  origin;  there  is  little  doubt,  how- 
ever, that  the  word  trout  comes  through  the  Latin 
trutta  from  the  Greek  rpwKTi]$. 

41.  three  cubits,  4^  feet.  The  trout  of  the  Great 
American   Lakes  is  sometimes  even  larger. 

b.  2.  Mercator,  a  Flemish  scientist  who  died 
in   1594. 

25.  Fordidge  trout  are  salmon  trout  and  live  in 
the  ordinary  way:  so  do  grasshoppers.  Walton's 
aspersions  on  the  mother  raven  are  groundless. 

213.  a.  44.  Michaelmas,   September   jg. 

$1.  Albertus,     Magnus     (i  193-1280),     a     German 


Dominican  monk,  who  wrote  more  than  twenty  vol- 
umes on  natural  philosophy. 

215.  a.  2.  the  best.  Men  were  readier  at  sharing  a 
bed  in  those  days. 

4.  catch,  a  short  part-song  for  three  or  more 
voices. 

b.  34.  verjuice,  acid  of  the  crab-apple,  or  other 
fruits. 

53.   Troy   Town,  a  ballad  about   Dido  and  .Eneas. 

216.  b.  2.  Overbury  's  —  wish.  In  the  '  characters  ' 
subjoined  to   The   Wife   (1604). 

17.  Philomel,   the   nightingale. 

Walton  found  both  these  songs  in  England's  Heli- 
con (1600).  The  first  is  ascribed  with  some  cer- 
tainty to  Christopher  Marlowe,  the  second,  more 
doubtfully,   to    Sir   Walter   Raleigh. 

FULLER:     LIFE    OF    SIR    FRANCIS    DRAKE 

217.  a.  10.  Six  Articles  of  Faith,  which  Henry 
\TII   required  the  clergy   to  sign. 

218.  a'.  44.  chapmen,  merchants,  i.e.,  adventurers. 
55.  admire,  wonder. 

b.   12.  Cabo-verd,   Cape  Verde. 
57.  Portugals,   Portuguese. 

219.  a.  30.  caudle,  a  warm  drink,  consisting  of 
weak  gruel,  mixed  with  ale  or  wine,  sweetened  and 
spiced. 

47.  curious,  careful. 

b.  12.  half  moon,  the  power  of  Spain,  which 
was  broken  by  the  destruction  of  the  Armada  in 
1588, 

28.  caraval  of  adviso,  a  messenger-ship. 

37.  vent,   outlet,  i.e.,  publicity. 

220.  b.  49.  fresh  water  to  Plymouth.  It  is  indeed 
one  of  the  striking  instances  of  Drake's  public-spir- 
ited enterprise  that  in  the  intervals  of  adventure  he 
devised   a   municipal    water   supply. 

TAYLOR:     THE    PATIENCE    OF   THE    SAINTS 

221.  a.  26.  my  text.  '  For  the  time  is  come  that 
judgment  must  begin  at  the  house  of  God:  and  if 
it  first  begin  at  us,  what  shall  the  end  be  of  them 
that  obey  not  the  Gospel  of  God?  And  if  the 
righteous  scarcely  be  saved,  where  shall  the  un- 
godly and  the  sinner  appear?' — i   Peter    iv,   17,    18. 

b.  2.  Dives,  the  rich  man  of  Luke  xvi,  19- 
31. 

222.  a.  26.  renegadoes,  renegades,  those  who  have 
denied  the   true   fraith. 

b.  15.  rainbow  .  .  .  grace.  See  Genesis 
ix,    13-17. 

31.  consequent,  consequence. 

223.  b.  3.  green  tree  .  .  .  dry.  See  Luke, 
xxiii  31.  This  is  a  good  example  of  the  way  in 
which  Taylor's  whole  phraseology  is  colored  by 
reminiscences  of  Scripture. 

BUNYAN:     PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 

227.  b.  29.  going,    walking. 

228.  a.  43.  fact,   deed. 

231.  b.  51.  conversation,    manner   of   life. 

232.  a.  7.  tenderness  in,  sensitiveness  about,  scru- 
imlous  care  against. 


67 


I058 


NOTES 


MILTON:     ON   SHAKSPERE 
Printed     among     the     commendatory     verses     pre- 
fixed to   the   Shakspere   folio   of   1632. 

236.  4.  star-y pointing,  pointing  to  the  stars;  not  a 
correctly  formed  word,  y  being  properly  a  prefix  for 
the   past   participle   only. 

11.  un-.ahied,   invaluable. 

237.  ij.  Dcphic,  oracular.  The  oracle  of  Apollo 
was  at  Delphi. 

L'ALLEGRO 
Published  1645;  written  probably  at  Horton  about 

1634- 

J.  Cerberus,  the  three-headed  monstrous  dog 
which   guarded   the   classic   hell. 

3.  Stygian,  belonging  to  the  Styx,  i.e.,  infernal. 

5.  uncouth,  unknown,   hence   strange,  monstrous. 

8.  ebon,  black. 

10.  Cimmerian  desert,  according  to  Homer,  a  land 
of    perpetual   darkness   '  beyond   the   ocean-stream.' 

12.  yclept,  called.  Euphrosyne,  Mirth,  one  of 
the  three  Graces  of  classical  mythology. 

19.  Zephyr,   the   West   Wind.     Aurora,   the   Dawn. 

29.  Hebe,  goddess  of   Youth,  Jove's  cupbearer. 

62.  dight,  decked. 

&7.  tells  his  tale,  counts  his  sheep. 

80.  cynosure,  center  of  attraction;  in  Greek  the 
name  of  the  constellation  containing  the  pole-star. 

83.  Corydon,  Thyrsis,  Thestylis,  Phillis,  conven- 
tional names  in  pastoral  poetry. 

94.  rebecks,  fiddles. 

238.  102.  fairy  Mab.  See  Romeo  and  Juliet,  I,  iv, 
53-9S- 

103.  she  —  he,  members  of  the  group  of  story- 
tellers. 

104.  friar's  lantern,  will  o'   the   wisp. 

105.  drudging  goblin,  Robin  Goodfellow,  the  Puck 
of  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  a  mischievous  but 
helpful  fairy. 

no.  lubber,  clumsy,  awkward. 

120.  weeds,  garments. 

122.  rain  influence,  like  the  stars. 

125.  Hymen,  the  god  of  marriage. 

132.  sock,  Latin  soccus,  the  low-heeled  shoe  worn 
in  classical  comedy.  For  tragedy  the  buskin  was 
used. 

136.  Lydian,  the  softest  and  sweetest  kind  of 
Greek    music. 

139.   bout,  turn. 

145.  Orpheus  with  his  music  won  Pluto  to  re- 
lease his  wife  Eurydice  from  hell  on  condition  that 
he  did  not  look  back  to  see  if  she  were  following 
him  to  the  upper  world:  he  could  not  withstand  the 
temptation,  and   she  was  lost. 

147.  elysian,  heavenly. 

IL  PENSEROSO 

A  companion  poem  to  the  foregoing,  written  and 
printed   with  it. 

3.   bested,  avail,  profit. 

10.  Morpheus,  god  of  dreams. 

18.  Memnon,  a  handsome  Ethiopian  prince  who 
fought  in  the  Trojan  war. 


19.  starred  Ethiop  Queen,  Cassiope,  changed  into 
the  constellation  Cassiopoeia. 

23.  Vesta,    goddess    of    the    fireside. 

24.  Saturn,    father   of   Jupiter. 
29.   Ida,  a   mountain    near  Troy. 

39.  commercing,  having  commerce  or  intercourse 
with. 

S6.  Philomel,   the   nightingale. 
59.  Cynthia,  the  moon. 

239.  74.  curfew,   the   evening   bell. 

87.  Bear,  the  Great   Rear  which   never   sets  in   the  , 
latitude  of  Great   IJritain.     To   outwatch  the  Bear  is 
therefore  to  stay  awake  till  all  the  stars  have  faded            I 
in   the  light  of  day. 

88.  Hermes,   an    ancient    Egyptian    philosopher. 
95.   consent,   sympathy. 

99.   Thebes — Troy,    subjects    of    classical    tragedy. 
102.   buskined,  tragic.     See  238.    132,  note. 
109.   him     that     left     half     told,     Chaucer     in     the 
Squire's  Tale. 

113.  virtuous,  magical. 

124.  Attic    boy.     Cephalus,    beloved    of    Aurora. 

134.  Sylvan,  the  god  of  woods. 

148.  his,  of  sleep. 

154.  genius,  guardian  spirit. 

156.  pale,   enclosure. 

159.  storied,  adorned  with  stories  from  Scripture. 

1 70.  spell,   read   slowly. 

LYCIDAS 

The  purpose  of  the  poem  is  best  explained  in 
Milton's  own  words: — 'In  this  monody  the  au- 
thor bewails  a  learned  friend,  unfortunately  drowned 
in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish  seas,  1637, 
and  by  occasion  foretells  the  ruin  of  our  corrupted 
clergy,  then  in  their  height.'  Milton's  friend  was 
Edward  King,  of  Christ's  College,  Cambridge. 
Lycidas  was  written  in  1637  and  published  along 
with  other  elegies  in  a  memorial  volume  for  King 
in   1638. 

240.  8.  Lycidas,  a  name  used  in  the  Seventh  Idyll 
of  Theocritus,  the  founder  of  pastoral  poetry,  ere 
his  prime.     King  was  25. 

15.  sacred  well,  the  fountain  of  the  Muses  on 
Mount   Helicon. 

27.  drove    (our  flocks). 

29.  battening,  fattening. 

36.  Damatas,  a  conventional  name  in  pastoral 
poetry.  Possibly  Milton's  college  tutor  is  meant. 
Both   Milton  and    King   wrote   Latin   verse   of   merit. 

46.   weanling,   weaned. 

52-55.  The  Welsh  hills,  Mona  (Anglesea),  and 
the  liiver  Dee  bound  the  Irish  sea  on  the  east. 

59.  the  Muse,  Calliope,  mother  of  Orpheus;  he 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  Thracian  women,  and  his 
head  floated  down  the  river  Hebrus  to  Lesbos. 

64.  boots,    profits. 

68.  Amaryllis,  Nesra,  maidens  of  classical  pas- 
toral. 

75.  blind  Fury.  More  properly  the  Fate  Atropos, 
who    cuts   the   thread   of   human   life. 

77.  Phccbus.     Apollo,  the  god  of  poetry. 

79.  glistering  foil,  glittering  tinsel. 


NOTES 


1059 


241.  82.  Jove,   God. 

85.  Arethuse,  Mincius,  rivers  of  Greek  and  Latin 
pastoral  poetry. 

88.  oat,  oaten  pipe. 

91.  felon,   criminal,   cruel. 

95.  his,  of  Lycidas.  Hipfotades,  ^olus,  who 
controlled  the  winds. 

99.  Panope,  a  nymph,  one  of  the  fifty  daughters 
of  Nereus. 

100.  fatal,  fated  to  destruction,  perfidious,  treach- 
erous, unworthy  of  trust. 

1 01.  the  eclipse,  a  time  of  evil  omen. 

103.  Camus,  the  river  at  Cambridge  personified  is 
a  god.     footing  slow.     The  Cam  flows  gently. 

106.  sanguine  fiozver,  the  hyacinth  which  the  an- 
cients held  to  be  marked  '  Ai,  Ai,'  in  lamentation 
for   Hyacinthus. 

107.  reft,  bereaved  me  of. 

109.  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake,  St.  Peter. 

no.  keys.     See  Matthew  xvi,    19. 

112.  mitered.  St.  Peter  was  the  first  bishop  of 
Rome.  The  miter  is  the  official  headdress  of  a  Ro- 
man bishop. 

1 14.  Enozv,  enough. 

1 20.  sheep-hook.  Milton  has  now  turned  from  the 
shepherd  as  poet  to  the  shepherd  as  pastor. 

122.  recks,  concerns,     sped,  provided  for. 

123.  flashy.     See  199.  h.  25,  note. 

124.  scrannel,  screeching. 

130.  two-headed  engine,  the  axe. 

132.  Alphcus,  a  classical   river,  lover  of  Arethusa. 

133.  Sicilian  Muse,  Theocritus.  Milton  is  return- 
ing to  the  more  conventional  tone  of  pastoral  poetry. 

138.  swart  star,  the  dog-star,  which  was  supposed 
to  blast  vegetation. 

142.  rathe,  early,  forsaken,  unsought  for,  or  per- 
haps there  is  an  allusion  to  an  old  myth  of  the  woo- 
ing of  certain  flowers  by  the  sun.  See  Shakspere's 
Winter's  Talc,  IV,  iv,   122—5. 

144.  freaked,  freckled,  sprinkled. 

149.  amaranthus,  emblem  of  immortality. 

151.  laureate,  adorned  with  the  poet's  laurel. 
hearse,  a  platform  adorned  with  black  hangings  and 
containing  an  effigy  of  the  deceased. 

152.  so,  by  imagining  that  the  body  of  Lycidas 
has  been  recovered. 

242.  156.  Hebrides,  islands  to  the  far  north  of  Scot- 
land. 

160.  Bellerus.  Land's  End,  the  most  western 
point  of  England,  was  anciently  called  Bellerium. 
Near  it  is  St.  Michael's  Mount,  a  rocky  island  with 
a  fortress  on  top  and  a  craggy  seat  from  which  vis- 
ions of  St.  Michael  were  seen. 

162.  Namancos,  in  Spain,  near  Cape  Finisterre 
and  the  Castle  of  Bayona. 

163.  ruth,  pity. 

169.  anon,    immediately,     repairs,   refreshes. 

170.  tricks,  sets  in  order,  adorns,  ore,  brightness. 
173.  Through  —  waves.  See  Matthew  xiv,  22—3. 
176.  unexpressive,  inexpressible. 

183.  genius,   protecting  deity,  guardian  angel. 
186.  uncouth,   unknown,   uncultivated. 

188.  quills,  reeds. 

189.  Doric,  pastoral,  rude,  as  of  a  shepherd. 

193.  A  forecast  of  the  very  different  occupations 
of  the  poet  during  the  next  few  years. 


SONNETS 

WHEN   THE  ASSAULT   WAS   INTENDED   TO  THE 

CITY 
Written  Nov.,  1642;  pub.   1645. 
10.  Emathian     conqueror.     Alexander     of     Mace- 
don,    when    he   sacked   Thebes   in    333    B.  C,   spared 
the    house    of   the   poet   Pindar,    who   died   almost  a 
century   before. 

13.  Electro,  one  of  the  tragedies  of  Euripides,  the 
recital  of  whose  verses  are  said  to  have  saved  the 
walls  of  Athens  from  destruction  after  tlie  capture 
of  the  city  by  Lysander  the  Spartan  in  404  B.  C. 

TO  A  VIRTUOUS   YOUNG  LADY 
2.  tlie  broad  way.     See  Matthew  vii,   13. 

5.  Mary  .  .  .  Ruth.  See  Luke  x,  42;  Ruth 
i,   14-17- 

12.  the  Bridegroom,     See  Matthew  xxv,   1-13. 

ON    THE    DETRACTION    WHICH    FOLLOWED    UPON 
MY    WRITING   CERTAIN    TREATISES 

I.  Tetrachordon,  one  of  Milton's  pamphlets  in  fa- 
vor of  divorce,  the  full  title  being  Tetrachordon: 
Expositions  upon  the  four  chief  places  of  Scripture 
'vhich  treat   of  marriage. 

243.  7-8.  Mile-End    Green,    in    Milton's    time,    one 
of  the  London  suburbs. 

8-9.  Gordon  .  .  .  Galasp,  names  of  Scottish 
generals  during  the  war  of  1644-5,  soon  after  which 
apparently  this  sonnet  was  written.  This  and  the 
following  sonnet  were  not  included  in  the  edition  ol 
1645;  they  first  appeared  in   1673. 

10.  our  like,   like   ours. 

II.  Quintilian,  the  great  Latin  writer  on  literary 
style. 

12.  ^tV  John  Cheke  (1514-1557).  first  professor 
of  Greek  at  Cambridge  and  tutor  of  Edward  VI. 

ON   THE  SAME 

6.  Latona's  twin-born  progeny,  Apollo  and  Diana. 

TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROMWELL,  MAY  1652 
The  Puritan  Parliament  had  a  committee  for 
propagation  of  the  gospel,  to  which  proposals  were 
submitted  by  certain  ministers  that  the  Puritan 
preachers  should  be  maintained  at  the  public  ex- 
pense. Milton  was  a  strong  believer  in  the  volun- 
tary system,  and  objected  to  any  interference  of  the 
government  with  religious  matters. 

7.  Darwen  stream,  in  Lancashire,  the  scene  of 
Cromwell's  victory  over  the  Scots,  Aug.   17-19,  1648. 

8.  Dunbar  field,  another  victory,  Sept.  30,   1650. 

9.  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.  Cromwell  was  ac- 
customed to  speak  of  his  success  at  Worcester 
(Sept.  3,   1651)  as  the  'crowning  mercy'  of  God. 

11.  new  foes,  a  section  of  the  Independents  who 
proposed  to  accept  state  aid,  as  Milton's  old  foes, 
the  Anglicans  and  Presbyterians,  wished  to  do. 

12.  secular  chains,  government  control. 

14.  maiv,  stomach.  Compare  Lycidas,  11.  114— I25i 
p.  241. 

ON  THE  LATE   MASSACRE  IN   PIEDMONT 
The    Protestants   of   Piedmont   were    in    1655    sub- 
jected to  a  cruel  persecution  by  the  Court  of  Turin, 


io6o 


NOTES 


wliose  soldiery  evicted  them  from  their  homes  with 
extraordinary  ferocity.  'Die  English  government, 
through  Milton,  who  was  then  Latin  secretary,  sent 
a  solemn  protest  against  the  massacre  to  the  Uuke 
of  Savoy.  The  sonnet  expresses  Milton's  personal 
feeling. 

7-8.  The  English  agent  in  Piedmont  narrated  the 
following  incident:  'A  mother  was  hurled  down 
a  mighty  rock  with  a  little  infant  in  her  arms;  and 
three  days  after  was  found  dead  with  the  child 
alive,  but  fast  clasped  between  the  arms  of  the 
mother,  which  were  cold  and  stiff,  insomuch  that 
those  that  found  them  had  much  ado  to  get  the  child 
out.' 

12.  The  triple  Tyrant,  the  Pope,  from  his  wear- 
ing a   triple   tiara. 

14.  Babylonian  zvoe.  The  Puritans  identified 
Rome  with  the  Babylon  of  Revelation  and  of  i  Peter 
V,    13. 

ON    HIS   BLINDNESS 
Milton   became   completely  blind   about    1653:    this 
sonnet  was  probably  written  not  long  after. 

ON    HIS   DECEASED   WIFE 

244.  I.  late  espoused  saint.  Catherine  Woodcock, 
Milton's  second  wife,  died  in  childbirth,  in  Febru- 
ary,   1658,  fifteen  months  after   their  marriage. 

2.  like  Alcestis.  According  to  the  classical  myth, 
Alcestis,  who  gave  her  life  to  save  her  husband, 
was  rescued  from  death  by  Hercules. 

6.  the  old  laiv.     Leviticus    xii. 

10.  her  face  ivas  veiled.  Although  Milton  was  de- 
votedly attached  to  his  wife,  probably  he  had  never 
seen  her.     See  above  as  to  his  blindness. 

PARADISE  LOST,  BOOK  I 

2.  forbidden  tree.     See  Genesis    iii. 
4.  one  greater  Man.     The  Messiah.     See  Romans, 
V,    19. 

7.  Sinai,  the  lower  part  of  the  mountain  range 
of  Horeb,  where  God  appeared  to  Moses.  See  Ex- 
odus   iii  and  xix. 

8.  first    taught.     In    Genesis     i. 

12.  fast,  close,     oracle,  the  temple  at  Jerusalem. 

15.  Aonian  mount.  Helicon  in  Boeotia,  the  seat  of 
the  Greek  muses,  pursues,  treats  of  —  a  classical 
usage. 

19—22.   See  Genesis    i,  2. 

21.  Dove-like.     See    Luke    iii,    22. 

25.  assert,  vindicate. 

245.  29.  grand,  first. 

32.  For,  because  of;  or   (perhaps)   but  for. 

36.  what  time,  when;  a  Latin  construction. 

39.  peers,   equals.     Latin  pares. 

45-6.   See    Luke     x,    18. 

48.   See  2   Peter  ii,   4. 

58.   obdurate.     Accent    on    second    syllable. 

66-7.   Reminiscent   of    Euripides   and    Dante. 

73-4.  Milton's  ideas  of  cosmography  were  founded 
on  the  Ptolemaic  system,  and  are  illustrated  in  the 
accompanying  figures.  Fig.  i  represents  tl^e  Uni- 
verse before  the  fall,  and  Fig.  2  after  the  fall  of 
the  Angels.  Fig.  3  shows  the  stellar  world,  hang- 
ing   by    a    golden    chain    from    the    floor    of    heaven. 


At  the  center  of  this  is  the  earth,  and  around  it 
the  planets  revolve  in  their  several  spheres,  en- 
closed by  the  primum  mahilc.  The  distance  from 
heaven  to  hell  is  tlirce  times  the  radius  of  the  stellaf 
universe. 


Fig.   1  —  Before  the   fall   of  the   Angels 


Fig.  2  —  After  the   fall   of  the  Angels 


of  the   Philistines. 


Latin 


Fig-    3  ■ 


81.  Bcchcbub,   the   sii 

82.  Satan  '  tlie  adversary.' 
84.   See   Isaiah  xiv,    u. 

246.  114.   Doubted,    feared    for. 
120.  successful  hope,  hope  of  success. 
130.  conduct,   command. 
148.  suffice,   satisfy. 
167.  if  I  fail   not,   if   I   am   not   mistaken. 

construction. 

172.   laid   (to   rest). 

:78.  slip,  let  slip. 

187.  offend,  harm.     Latin  offendere. 

247.  193.  uplift,  uplifted. 
197.  'u'honi,  those   whom. 

197-200.  fables,  of  classical  mythology,  according 
to  which  the  Titans  rebelled  against  their  father 
Uranus,  as  the  Giants  did  later  against  Zeus  or 
Jove.  Briareos  was  a  Titan,  Typhon  a  Giant.  The 
latter  is  described  by  the  Greek  poets  living  in  a 
'  Cilician   den.'     Tarsus  is   the   capital   of   Cilicia. 

201.  Leviathan,  a  Hebrew  word  meaning  any  huge 
monster.  The  translators  of  the  Bible  identified  it 
with  the  whale,  as  Milton  does  here. 

204.  night-foundered,  overtaken  and  enveloped  by 
night. 

226.   incumbent  on,  lying  on,   supported  by. 


NOTES 


io6i 


232-3.  Pelonts,  N.  E.  jiromontory  of  Sicily  near 
xMt.  Etna. 

244.  change  for,   lake   in   exchange   for. 

257.  all  but,  only. 

266.  astonished,  astounded,  thunderstruck.  ()l>- 
livious,  making   forgetful. 

268.  mansion,  abiding  place. 

248.  281.   amased,    confounded. 

282.  pernicious,  destructive,  dreadful. 

288.  optic  glass,  the  telescope,  developed  by  the 
Florentine  astronomer  Galileo,  whom  Miitim  saw 
during   his  Italian   tour    (1638-9). 

289—290.  Fcsole,  Valdarno,  near  Florence. 

296.   marl,  soil. 

299.  Nathles,   nevertheless. 

303.  Vallombrosa,  eighteen  miles  from  Morcnce 
in  Tuscany,   anciently   named   Etruria. 

305.  Orion  armed.  The  rising  and  setting  of  the 
constellation  Orion  the  Hunter  were  traditionally 
attended  with  storms. 

306.  Red  Sea,  called  by  the  Hebrews  the  Sea  nf 
Sedge,  on  account  of  the  quantity   of  seaweed   in   it. 

307.  Busiris,  Pharaoh.  See  Exodus  xiv,  5-J9- 
Memphian,   Egyptian. 

309.   Goshen.     See    Genesis    xlvii,    27. 

313.    Under  amazement  of,  utterly   confounded   by. 

317.   //,  dependent  on  lost. 

320.  virtue,  valor.     Latin   virtus. 

335.  not  perceive,   failed   to   perceive. 

338-343.  See  Exodus  x,   12-15. 

339.  Amram's   son,   Aaron.     See   Exodus   vi,    20. 

341.  warping,  advancing  with  an  undulating  mo- 
tion. 

351—5.  The  northern  tribes  which  invaded  the 
Roman  empire  from  the  third  century  onwards 
crossed  from  Spain  into  Africa  and  captured 
Carthage  439  A.  D. 

355.   beneath,    south   of. 

249.  360.   erst,  formerly. 

363.  books.  Milton  probably  dictated  *  Book  '  anil 
was  misunderstood  by  his  amanuensis.  See  Revela- 
tions iii,   5. 

372.  religions,   religious   ceremonies. 

392.  Moloch.  See  i  Kings  xi,  7;  2  Kings  xxiii. 
10;  Psalm  cvi,  37,  38.  Sandys,  whose  book  of  trav- 
els in  Palestine  was  known  to  Milton,  describes  the 
idol  as  '  hollow  within,  filled  with  fire,'  the  children 
offered  for  sacrifice  being  placed  in  his  arms.  '  And 
lest  their  lamentable  shrieks  should  sadden  the 
hearts  of  their  parents,  the  priests  of  Moloch  did 
deafen  their  ears  with  the  continual  clang  of  trum- 
pets and   timbrels.' 

397.  Rabba,  capital  of  Ammon,  '  the  city  of 
waters.' 

398-9.  Argob,  Basan,  Arnon,  east  of  the  river 
Jordan. 

401.  Solomon.  See  i  Kings  .\i,  5-7;  2  Kings 
xxiii,    13. 

403.  opprobrious  hill.  The  Mount  of  Olives, 
where  Solomon  established  the  worship  of  Moloch, 
was  later  called  the  '  Mount  of  Corruption  '  and 
'  Mount  of  Offence.' 

404.  Hinnom,  south   of   Olivet. 

405.  Gehenna,  the  Greek  form  of  the  Hebrew 
Ce  Hinnom,  valley  of  Hinnom. 


406.  Chemos,  the  god  of  Moab,  the  neighbors  of 
.'\mmon. 

409.  Seon,  king  of  the  Amoriles.  .See  Numbers 
xxi,   26. 

410.  Sibma.     See  Isaiah  xvi,  8. 

411.  the  asphaitic  pool,  the  Dead  Sea. 
413.  Sittim.     See  Numbers  xxv. 
416.  scandal,   offence. 

418.  good  Josiah.     See   Kings  xxiii,    10. 

420.  the  brook,   Besor,   '  the   river   of   Egypt.' 

4-'j.  Baalim  and  /Ishtaroth,  the  collective  names 
of  the  various  manifestations  of  the  deities  of  the 
sun  and   moon   respectively. 

438.  Astorcth,  the  same  as  the  Assyrian  Istar, 
the  Greek  Aphrodite,  and   the  Latin   Venus. 

4^1.   Sidon   was  the   oldest  city   of  Phenicia. 
250.  444.   uxorious  king,  Solomon. 

446.  Thammus,  '  Sun  of  Life,'  the  Greek  .Adonis, 
god   of   the   solar   year. 

450.  Adonis,  the  name  of  a  river  flowing  from  the 
heights  of  Lebanon,  and  colored  in  spring  by  the 
red  mud  gathered  there. 

455.  Ecekiel.     See   Ezekiel  viii,   14. 

457.  came  one.  Dagon,  god  of  the  Philistines. 
See   I   Samuel  v,  4. 

460.  grunsel,  threshold. 

464-6.  Azotus  .  .  .  Gazar,  the  five  ctief 
cities   of   the   Philistines. 

467.   Rimmon,   god    of    Damascus. 

471.  leper,   Naaman.      See  2   Kings  v. 

472.  Ahaz.     See   2    Kings   xvi.     sottish,    foolish. 

478.  Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  Egyptian  deities,  wor- 
shipped under  the  shape  of  the  bull,  cow,  and  sun. 

479.  abused,   deceived. 

483.  borrowed,  from  the  Egyptians.  See  Exodus 
xii,   35-6. 

484.  calf  in  Oreb.  See  Exodus  xxxii.  rebel 
king,  Jeroboam,      i    Kings  xii,   20,  28,   29. 

487.   he,  Israel.     See  Exodus  xii. 

495.  Eli's  sons.     See    i    Samuel   ii,    12-17. 

498.   luxurious,    lustful. 

50J.  flown,  flushed. 

503-4.  Sodom,    Gibeah.     Genesis   xix.   Judges   xix. 

506.  prime,  leaders. 

508.  Ionian,  Greek.  Javan,  son  of  Japhet.  Gen- 
esis X,  2. 

509.  Heaven  and  Earth,  Uranus  and  Ge,  whose  12 
giant  children  were  Titans.  One  of  them,  Cronos 
(Saturn  in  Roman  mythology),  deposed  Uranus, 
and  was  in  turn  deposed  by  his  own  son  Zeus 
(Jove),   whose   mother   was   Rhea. 

515-6.  Ida  in  Crete  was  the  birthplace  of  Zeus, 
Olympus,  north  of  Thessaly,  his  abode,  according  to 
Greek  mythology. 

517.  Delphian  cliff,  Apollo's  oracle  on  Mt.  Par- 
nassus. 

518.  Dodona,  an  oracle  of  Zeus,  in  Epirus. 

519.  Doric,  Greek. 

520.  Adria,  the  Adriatic.  Hesperian,  western,  i.*., 
Italy. 

521.  Celtic,  France  and  Spain,  utmost  isles,  of 
Britain. 

523.  damp,  depressed. 

528.  recollecting,   recovering. 


io62 


NOTES 


251.  534.  Acaael.     Leviticus   xvi,    8. 
536.  advanced,   raised. 

538,  emblazed,  emblazoned. 

546.  orient,   bright. 

547.  helms,  helmets. 

548.  serried,  locked  together. 

550.  Dorian  mood,  the  kind  of  Greek  music 
adapted  to   military   exercises. 

551.  recorder,  a  kind  of  flute. 
556.  'suage,  assuage. 

563.  horrid,  bristling  with  spears.  Latin  hor- 
ridus. 

568.   traverse,   across. 

573.  since  created  man,  after  the  creation  of  man. 

574.  embodied,  assembled  in  a  body,  named, 
compared. 

575.  small  infantry,  the  Pygmies.  Homer's  Iliad 
"i,  S. 

577.  Phlegra,  in  Macedonia  where  the  Gods  tie- 
feated  the  Giants.     See  1.  509. 

578.  Thebes  and  Ilium,  the  chief  battle  grounds 
of   Greek   tradition. 

580.  fable,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's  History  of 
the   Britons,     romance,   Malory's  Morte  D'Arihur. 

581.  Armoric,   Breton. 

583-6.  The  references  are  to  scenes  famous  in 
medieval  romances. 

586.  peerage,  the  twelve  peers  of  the  Chanson  dc 
Roland. 

588.  observed,  obeyed. 

596—9.  Curiously  enough,  this  was  the  only 
passage  in  the  poem  objected  to  by  the  official  Li- 
censer for  the  Press  (chaplain  to  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury),  when  the  book  was  first  printed. 
Either  he  did  not  like  the  suggestion  of  a  '  change  ' 
of  government,  or  he  would  not  admit  that  Charles 
II  could  be  '  perplexed  '  even  by  an  eclipse. 

597.  disastrous,   threatening   disaster. 

603.  considerate,   thoughtful,    reflective. 

605.  remorse  and  passion,  pity  and  suffering. 

609.  amerced,  condemned  to  loss. 

613.  scathed,  injured. 

252.  615.  blasted,   withered. 
624.  event,  outcome. 

632.  exile.     Accent  on  second  syllable. 
646.  work,  accomplish. 
656.   eruption,   expedition,   sortie. 
662.  understood,  agreed  on  secretly. 
670.  grisly,  horrible. 
675.  brigade.     Pronounce  brigad. 
678.  Mammon,   riches    (Syriac).     See  Matthew   vi, 
24. 

686.  ransacked   the  center,   dug  into  the  earth. 
690.  ribs,  bars,     admire,  wonder. 

253.  694.  Babel.     See   Genesis   xi,    1-9.     Memphian, 
Egyptian,   i.e.,   the   Pyramids. 

703.  founded,   melted. 

704.  severing,  separating. 

713.  pilasters,  pillars  set  in  a  wall  and  lightly 
projecting  from  it.     overlaid,  surmounted. 

715.  architrave,  the  main  beam. 

716.  cornice,  frie::e,  adornments  of  the  architrave. 
bossy,  in  relief,  projecting. 

717.  fretted,    worked   in    designs. 


720.  Bchts,      the      Assyrian      god      Bel      or      Baal. 
Scrapis,  an   Egyptian   deity. 
728.  cresset,  an  iron  lantern. 

738.  his  name,   Hephaistos  or   X'ulcan. 

739.  Ausonian   land,   Italy. 

740.  Mulciber,   the   welder   of  metals. 

746.   Lemnos,  sacred   to   Hephaistos.     The  story   of 
his   fall    is   told   in   Homer's  Iliad  i,    591. 
750.  engines,   machines,   contrivances. 
756.  Pandemonium,   the    place    of   all    the    demons. 

764.  wont,   were   wont   to.     soldan,   sultan. 

765.  paynim,  pagan. 

769.  The  sun  is  in  Taurus  (one  of  the  signs  of 
the  zodiac)   April   19-May  20. 

254.  774.  expatiate,  walk  abroad.  Latin  use.  con- 
fer, discuss. 

780-1.  Pliny  placed  the  Pygmies  beyond  the 
source  of  the  Ganges. 

781-5.  Reminiscent  of  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  and  the  Alneid. 

785.  arbitress,  witness.  The  moon  was  supposed 
to  be  influenced  by  fairy  incantations. 

795.  recess,  retirement.  conclave,  the  name 
given  to  a  meeting  of  Cardinals  in  the  Roman 
Church. 

797.  frequent,    crowded.     Latin    use. 

798.  consult,  consultation. 

BOOK   II 
2.  Ormus,  Persia. 
9.  success,  result,  experience. 
16.  from  no  fall,  if  they  had  not  fallen. 
27.  whom,  him  whom. 
29.   Your  bulwark,  as  your  defense. 
50.  recked,  cared. 

255.  52.  unexpcrt,  inexperienced. 

59.  of,  imposed   by. 

60.  By,  in  consequence  of. 

63.  our  tortures,   what  tortures  us. 
69.   Tartarean,   infernal. 

73.  such,  those  who  think  so. 

74.  forgetful,  making  forgetful. 

75.  proper,   natural. 

77.  who  but  felt,  who  did  not  feel? 

82.  event,   outcome. 

83.  stronger,   superior   in   strength. 

89.  exercise,  harass,  torment.     Latin  usage. 

97.  essential,   substance. 

100.  at  worst,  as  badly  off  as  we  can  be  short  of 
annihilation. 

loi.  proof,  experience. 

104.  fatal,  established  by   fate. 

106.  denounced,  betokened,  threatened. 

113.  manna.     See  Exodus  xvi,  31. 

124.  fact,  deed. 

127.  scope,  mark,  aim,  its  original  meaning  in  the 
Greek. 

130.  watch,   watchmen;   hence  the   plural   verb. 

132.  obscure.     Accent   on   first   syllable. 

133.  Scout,  act  as  scouts,  reconnoiter. 

256.  139.  mold,  substance.  Milton  imagines  the 
angels  as  made  of  fire  (see  Psalm  civ,  4)  and  the 
argument  is  that  the  fiery  substance  of  the  angels 
would  expel  the  baser  fire  of  hell. 


•NOTES 


1063 


143.  flat,  absolute. 

156.  Belike,       probably.     Used       ironically,     impo- 
tence, lack  of  self-restraint.     Latin  use. 
165.  amain,  with  all  speed. 

175.  Her,  of  hell. 

176.  cataracts,    torrents,   floods. 
203.  fall,  befall,  happen. 

210.  supreme.     Accent  on  first  syllable. 
216.  inured,  accustomed  to  it. 

257.  224.  For  happy,  in  point  of  happiness. 
231—2.  then  —  when,  i.e.,  never. 

234.  former,  '  to   disenthrone.'     argues,  proves. 

235,  latter,   '  to    regain.' 

245.  Ambrosial,  divinely  excellent. 

249.  pursue,  seek  to   regain. 

251.  unacceptable.     Accent    on    second    syllable. 

263—5.   See   Psalms   xvii,    11,    13;   xcvii,   2. 

277,  needs,   of   necessity. 

278.  sensible,  sense;  adj.  for  noun. 
281.  Compose,  arrange,  adjust. 

288.  o'er  watched,  worn  out  with  watching. 

294.  Michael,  the  leading  archangel,  whose  dis- 
comfiture of  Satan  and  his  followers  is  described 
later:  vi,  320—327. 

258.  301.  aspect.     Accent  on  second  syllable. 
303.  public  care,  care  for  the  common  weal. 

305.  Majestic  qualifies  face. 

306.  Atlantean,  worthy  of  Atlas,  a  Titan  con- 
demned by  Zeus  to  bear  the  skies  on   his  shoulders. 

324.  first  and  last.     See   Revelation  i,    11. 
330.  determined,   made   an   end   of. 

336.  to,  to  the  extent  of. 

337.  Untamed  reluctance,  invincible  resistance. 
341.  want,  be  wanting. 

346.  fame,  report.     Latin  fama. 

367.  puny,   literally,   later   born;    hence,   weaker. 

375.  original,  origin,   or  perhaps   originator. 

376.  Advise,  consider. 

380.  By   Satan.     See   I,   650-654. 

259.  382.  confound,   utterly   destroy. 

387.  states,  authorities,  or  bodies  of  representa- 
tives, as  in  the  phrase,  '  the  three  estates  of  the 
realm,'  meaning  the  King,  Lords,  and  Commons  in 
Great   Britain. 

39:.  Synod,  assembly,  meeting. 

404.  tempt,  try, 

406.  obscure,  obscurity.     Adj.  for  noun. 

407.  uncouth,  unknown, 

409.  abrupt,  abyss,  i.e.,  between  hell  and  the 
world,     arrive,   reach. 

410.  isle,  the  World,  hung  like  a  globe  in  Chaos 
from   the   floor   of   Heaven. 

413.   had  need,  would  have  need  of. 
415.  Choice,    careful    selection. 
418.  suspense,   in   suspense.     Latin    form. 
423.  Astonished,  astounded. 
425.  hardy,  bold,  courageous. 

429.  unmoved.  Contrasted  with  Astonished,  1. 
424. 

431.  demur,  hesitation. 

434.  convex,  circle. 

441.  abortive,  monstrous. 

443.  remains,   awaits. 

452.  Refusing,  if  I  refuse. 

457.  intend,  consider,  devise. 

461.  deceive,  beguile.     Latin   use.     slack,  mitigate. 


462.   mansion,  abode. 

467.  prevented,   forestalled. 

468.  raised,  encouraged.     Refers  to  Others. 
260.  470.   erst,  before. 

471.   opinion,  reputation. 
478.  awful,  full  of  awe. 

485.  close,  concealed,  varnished  o'er,  speciously 
covered  with. 

490.  louring  element,  dark  and   threatening  sky. 

491.  Scozvls,  covers  the  face  of  nature  with  a 
dark  cloud  of  rain  or  sno.w. 

49J.  //  chance,  if  it  chances  that. 
503.  accord,  agreement. 

AREOPAGITICA 

In  November,  1644,  when  this  pamphlet  was  pub- 
lished, the  parliamentary  cause  was  triumphant  in 
the  field,  and  high  hopes  were  entertained  for  its  fu- 
ture success  in  the  promotion  of  '  real  and  sub- 
stantial liberty  —  whose  existence  depends  not  so 
much  on  the  terror  of  the  sword  as  on  sobriety  of 
conduct  and  integrity  of  life.'  But  Parliament  was 
already  showing  an  inclination  to  adopt  the  intoler- 
ant and  tyrannical  measures  which  it  had  condemned 
in  its  adversaries,  and  it  was  against  one  of  these  — 
an  order  that  books  should  not  be  printed  without 
license  —  that  Milton  was  here  directing  his  efforts. 
His  object  was  to  secure  the  free  publication  of 
thought, — '  that  the  power  of  determining  what  was 
true  and  what  was  false;  what  ought  to  be  pub- 
lished and  what  to  be  suppressed,  might  no  longer 
be  entrusted  to  a  few  illiterate  and  illiberal  indi- 
viduals, who  refused  their  sanction  to  any  work 
which  contained  views  or  sentiments  at  all  above 
the  level  of  the  vulgar  superstition.'  Beside  Mil- 
ton's general  devotion  to  the  cause  of  liberty,  he 
had  a  special  incentive  in  the  attempt  which  was 
being  made  by  the  Stationers  Company  to  suppress 
his  divorce  pamphlets,  which  had  aroused  a  good 
deal  of  hostile  feeling. 

260.  b.   15.  Julius  Agricola,  governor  of  Britain  78— 
8s   A.  D. 

16.  Ccesar,  a  general  name  for  the  Roman  Em- 
peror, preferred  —  French.  This  statement  is  made 
on  the  authority  of  Tacitus. 

22.  Hercynian,  a  name  given  by  the  Romans  to 
the  mountainous  and  wooded  region  in  the  south 
and  center  of  Germany;  the  country  beyond  it, 
7  ransylvania,  which  became  part  of  the  Austrian 
Empire  in  1689,  had  during  the  Commonwealth 
friendly   relations  with   England. 

28.  propcnding,   inclining. 

31.  aj  out  of  Sion.     See  Joel  ii,   i. 

36.  H'yclif,  the  English  ecclesiastical  reformer  of 
the   fourteenth   century. 

38.  Huss,  Jerome  (of  Prague),  Luther,  Calvin, 
leaders  of  the  Protestant  Reformation  on  the  Con- 
tinent. 

44.  demeaned,  conducted,   managed. 

46.  of  whom,  of  those  of  whom. 

261.  a.  2.  mansion    house,    abiding    place,    manorial 
seat. 

5.  plates,    armor,     instruments,    weapons. 

14.  trying,  testing. 

26.   white  already.     See  John  iv,  35. 


1004 


NOTES 


31.  fantastic,   fancied,  imaginary. 

38.  ill-deputed,  i.e.,  to  the  clergy. 

56.  Pyrrhus,  after  fighting  against  the  Romans  at 
Heraclea  (280  li.  C.)  is  said  to  have  exclaimed: 
'  How  easy  it  would  be  for  me  to  conciner  the  world 
if  I  had  Roman  soldiers.' 

b.   10.  schisms,    dissections,    literally,    cuttings. 

j8.  Moses.     See  Numbers  xii,  29. 

35.  Joshua.     See  Numbers  xii,  28. 

46.  maniple,  a  company  in  the  Roman  army,  con- 
sisting of  about  60  men  serving  under  the  same  en- 
sign. 

5  J.  vex,   worry. 

58.  besieged.  Two  years  before  the  publication 
of  Milton's  pamphlet  the  Royalists  had  advanced  al- 
most to  the  gates  of  London.  See  Milton's  first 
sonnet   printed   on   p.    242. 

262.  a.  4.  suburb  trenches.  The  suburbs  were  de- 
fended by  trenches  made  by  the  loyal  citizens,  even 
women  and  children  helping. 

10.  to  a  rarity,  to  an  extraordinary  extent  or  de- 
gree. 

12.  argues,  proves. 

16.  derives  itself  to,  develops  into. 

20.  nigh,  closely.  The  incident  here  referred  to 
is  recounted  by  Livy  xxvi,   11. 

28.  to,  as  to. 
30.  pertest,  sprightliest. 
34.  sprightly   up,  lively   and  excited. 
41.  old  and  wrinkled  skin.     Like  a   snake. 
48.  strong    man.     Samson.     See    Judges    xvi,     13, 
14. 

50.  mewing,  renewing;  originally  used  of  a  hawk 
molting. 

54.  noise,  noisy  crew. 

55.  flocking,   not  daring  to   act  independently. 

b.   I.  prognosticate,     foretell,     like     the     astrol- 
ogers and  almanac  makers. 

7.  engrossers,  merchants  who  dealt  in  large  quan- 
tities, and  often  made  a  corner  to  raise  prices. 
Milton  compares  to  these  the  Licensers  of  Printing, 
who  will  set  up  a  monopoly  in  knowledge. 

21.  purchased,  obtained. 

24.  influence,  mystic  power;  the  original  refer- 
ence is  to  astrology. 

43.  law.  The  Roman  law  gave  fathers  power  of 
life  and  death  over  children. 

44.  despatch,  slay. 

45.  stick  closest,  be  most  faithful.  See  Proverbs 
xviii,   24. 

47.  for  coat  —  dangelt,  merely  to  resist  illegal 
taxation,  the  former  part  of  the  phrase  referring 
to  the  clothing  and  conveyance  of  troops,  the  latter 
to  ship-money.  Milton  is  arguing  for  a  nobler  free- 
dom than  that  of  not  paying  unjust  taxes. 

51,  utter,  publish. 
55.  unequal,  unjust. 

263.  a.  13.  vote,  solemn  wish. 

18.  last  testament.     See  John  xiv,  27. 

27.  dis-conformity,   dissent. 

38.  controversal,  opposite.  The  temple  was  open 
in  war,  closed  in  peace. 

46.  Her  confuting,  confutation  by  her. 

51.  the  discipline  of  Geneva,  the  form  of  faith 
and  of  church  government  accepted  as  perfect  by 
the  Presbyterians. 


52.  fabricked,    fabricated,    manufactured. 
56.   casements,   windows,     collusion,   deception. 
58.  wise   man,    Solomon.     See   also   Matthew   xiii, 
44. 

b.  6.  equipage,  equipment. 
8.  battle,  army. 

22.  shifts,    sleights,   contrivance 
31.  Micaiah.     See    1    Kings  xxii,    1-2 

40.  nailed  to  the  cross.  See  Colossians  ii,  14. 
purchase,   boon,  achievement. 

42.  His  doctrine.     Romans  xiv,  5-9. 
50.  outward   conformity,    under   royal   and   episco- 
pal government. 

52.  linen  decency,  the  outward  conformity  of  a 
white  surplice  is  abolished,  but  the  spirit  remains. 

264.  a.  I.  care  not,  do  not  take  care,  trutl^  sep- 
arated from  truth,  i.e.,  essentials  from  nonessen- 
tials. 

8.  7vood,  and  hay,  and  stubble.     See  i  Corinthians 

II.  subdichotomies,    sub-divisions. 
16.  wheat  from  the  tares.     See  Matthew  xiii,  .24- 
43- 

17-  /O',  small  fish;  properly,  spawn. 
27.  extirpate,   extirpated. 
38.  unity   of  Spirit.     Ephesians  iv,  3. 
45.  bejesuited,  made  into  Jesuits. 

53.  unplausible,   unappreciated. 
56.  see  to,  look  upon, 

b.  30.   Convocation    House,    where    the    govern- 
ing body  of  the  Church  of  England  met. 

31.  Chapel.  The  Puritan  Assembly  of  Divine;> 
met  in  Henry  VII's  Chapel  at  Westminster  in 
1643,  and  drew  up  a  Confession  of  Faith  and  two 
Catechisms. 

33.  canonized,  embodied  in  canons  or  rules. 

34.  convincement,   argvmient   and   conviction. 

35.  supple,  cure. 

36.  edify,  build   up,   establish. 

41.  liege  tombs.  Henry  VII's  Chapel  contains 
several  royal  tombs  beside  his  own. 

47.  that  we  do  not  give,  from  giving.  Latin  con- 
struction. 

56.  manage,  handle. 

265.  a.  8.  Priests,   Pliarisees.     See   Matthew  v,   20. 

9.  precipitant,    precipitate. 

18.  the  beginning  of  this  Parliament.  Nov.  3, 
1640. 

20.  Imprimatur.  The  Licenser's  stamp  or  in- 
scription,  '  Let  it  be  printed.' 

27.  Moses.     See  Numbers  xi,  28—29. 

29.  young  John.     See   Luke  ix,   50. 

32.  elders,  the  leaders  of  the  Presbyterians. 
36.   let,  hindrance. 

40.  Inquisition.  One  of  the  duties  of  the  In- 
quisition was  the  prohibition  of  heretical  books. 
The  Dominican  Order  was  especially  active  in  the 
campaign'  against  heresy.  Both  the  Inquisition  and 
the  Dominicans  were  especially  unpopular  as  Ro- 
man Catholic  institutions  to  the  Puritan  readers  to 
whom  Milton  was  appealing. 

52.  next  before  this.  The  earlier  order  was 
passed  on  Jan.  29,  1642. 

57.  fire  —  executioner.  Seditious  books  were 
burnt  in   public  by   the   hangman. 


NOTES 


1065 


b.  3.  authentic,  genuine,  so-called  and  really 
so. 

7.  Star  Chamber,  abolished  by  the  Puritans  in 
1641  owing  to  its  unjust  exactions.  It  had  charge, 
among   other   things,   of  licensing. 

12.  Lucifer.     See  Isaiah  xiv,   12. 

17.  bind,  by  recognizances,  as  people  enter  into 
bonds  for  their  good  behavior  in  the  English  courts. 

19.  precedent,   of   Jan.    _'9,    1642. 

22.  doubted,    suspected. 

24.  tnoiiopolizers.  The  order  of  1643  recognized 
the  monopoly  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  who  ap- 
plied the  fees  for  licensing  in  part  to  the  '  relief 
and   maintenance    of   their   poor.' 

29.  divers  glossing  colors,  various  specious  mis- 
representations. 

32.  exercise  a  superiority,  exert  authority,  have 
an  advantage. 

33.  neighbors,  fellow  booksellers. 

34—5.  therefore  —  that,   to  the  end  that. 

36.  vassals,   subjects. 

40.  malignant,   seditious,    royalist. 

42.  sophisms  and  elenchs  of  merchandise,  trade 
sophistries  and   fallacies. 

43.  skill  not,  am  not  versed  in  or  concerned  about. 
45.  incident,   inevitable. 

49.  what  hath  been  erred,  the  mistakes  that  have 
been  made.     Latin  construction. 

50.  in,   for  those  in. 

51.  advertisement,  warning. 


DRYDEN:  HEROIC  STANZAS 

Cromwell  died  on  September  3,  1658,  and  was 
buried  on  November  23.  When  this  poem  was  pub- 
lished in  1659,  there  was  every  appearance  that 
Richard  Cromwell  was  firmly  established  as  his  fa- 
ther's successor.  Dryden's  family  was  Puritan,  and 
his  admiration  of  the  great  Protector  was  no  doubt 
sincere,  though  his  expression  of  it  is  conventional 
and  exaggerated. 

266.  1-4.  And  now  'tis  time.  At  the  end  of  a 
Roman  emperor's  funeral  ceremonials,  they  let  fly 
the  sacred  eagle  which  was  supposed  to  carry  his 
soul  to  heaven. 

8.  authentic,  authoritative,   beyond   dispute. 

15.  prevent,  anticipate. 

18.   circular,   perfectly   rounded. 

267.  25.  bays,  garlands. 

32.  Pompey,  who  acquired  the  title  of  '  Great  ' 
before  he  was  thirty,  and  brought  his  career  to  a 
culminating  point  on  his  forty-fifth  birthday  B.  C. 
6i  in  a  great  trimphal  procession,  after  that  de- 
clined before  the  growing  influence  of  Julius  Cssar. 
Cromwell  came  into  public  notice  at  45,  became 
Protector  at  54,  and  died  at  the  height  of  his  fame 
at  59  —  about  the  same  age  as  Pompey  when  he  was 
assassinated. 

41.  Our  former  chiefs,  the  parliamentary  gen- 
erals at  the  beginning  of  the  war  did  not  press  the 
campaign  against  the  king  with  vigor,  sticklers, 
umpires,  not  combatants. 

42.  poise,  balance. 

45.  consumption,   destruction. 

48.   breathing,    letting.     When     Dryden    became    a 


royalist  poet,  his  enemies  interpreted  this  line  as 
a   condonation  of  the  execution  of  Charles  I. 

49.  Kent,   became. 

51.  prevent,  anticipate. 

56.  the  vestal.  Tarpeia  was  crushed  to  death  by 
the  shields  of  the  Sabines  to  whom  she  betrayed  the 
citadel  of  Rome  on  the  promise  of  the  shields  as 
reward. 

58.  That  giant-prince.  Blake,  the  great  Puritan 
admiral,  died  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey  about   a   year   before    Cromwell. 

64.  halcyons,  kingfishers.  It  was  an  ancient  myth 
that  the  sea  was  calm  during  their  breeding  season 
sea,  correctly  rimed  with  obey,  according  to  the 
IMonunciation   of   the   time. 

ASTR.EA  REDUX 

Immediately  after  the  Restoration  Dryden  wel- 
comed that  event  as  a  return  of  the  golden  age  of 
Justice,  this  being  the  significance  of  the  title  of 
his  poem.  The  contrast  witli  the  political  senti- 
ments of  the  previous  poem  is  as  marked  as  it  was 
sudden. 

5.   the  zvhite    (cliffs  of  Dover). 

10.  ravish,   take  away. 

13-16.  Moses  —  name.     See     Exodus     xxxiii,     20; 
xxxiv,   6. 
268.  33.  Preventing,    running   before. 

36.  May.  Charles  II  entered  London  in  1660  on 
May  29,  his  birthday. 

39.  That  star,  Venus,  which  on  the  day  of  Charles 
II's   birth   shone   brightly   at   noon. 

43.  whiter,  more  fortunate.     A  Latinism. 

45.  morn,  youth. 

53.  Cronos  (later  identified  with  Chronos,  Time) 
in  Greek  mythology,  was  said  to  devour  his  own 
offspring. 

58.  Holland,  at  this  time  England's  great  rival  in 
the  eastern  trade.  Each  nation  accused  the  other 
of  misdoings  in  its  foreign  possessions,  and  denied 
the  accusation  when  leveled  against  itself. 

61.  France  had  reluctantly  been  Charles  II's  host 
during   part   of  his   exile. 

72.  Augustus,  the  first  Roman  emperor,  whose 
reign  was  marked  by  peace,  prosperity,  and  progress 
in    the   arts. 

ABSALOM  AND  ACHITOPHEL 

This  satirical  poem,  written,  it  is  said,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Charles  II,  was  directed  against 
Shaftesbury,  the  minister  whom  Charles  had  dis- 
missed, and  who  had  retaliated  by  arousing  public 
alarm  in  connection  with  the  Popish  Plot  and  by 
furthering  the  claims  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
the  king's  illegitimate  son,  to  the  throne,  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  lawful  heir,  Charles's  brother,  the  Duke 
of  York,  who  later  succeeded  as  James  II.  In 
November,  :68i,  when  the  poem  was  published, 
Shaftesbury  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower  on  a 
charge  of  high  treason,  and  Dryden's  attack  was 
no  doubt  meant  to  influence  public  feeling  (and  the 
jury)  against  him.  In  this  respect  it  failed,  for 
Shaftesbury  was  acquitted;  but  it  made  a  great 
sensation  and  remains  the  most  remarkable  exam- 
ple of  political  satire  in  the  English  language.   'The 


io66 


NOTES 


scriptural  allegory  is  not  closely  adhered  to  and 
serves  as  a  trans])arent  veil  for  personal  vitupera- 
tim. 

I.  Jci  usalem,  London. 

9.  David,  Charles  II. 

14.  heathen,   Roman  Catholic. 

_'o.  Jewish  rabbins,  leading  clergy  of  the  Church 
of    England. 

269.  24.  Plot,  the  Popish  Plot,  a  Jesuit  conspiracy, 
wliich  if  it  ever  existed,  was  greatly  exaggerated  for 
l)oliticaI    purposes. 

34.  Egyptian,   French. 

35—37.  This  blaspliemous  sneer  at  the  Roman 
Catholic  doctrine  of  transubstantiation  must  have 
been   regretted  by   Dryden  after  his  conversion. 

43.  court  and  stews.  The  king  was  (justly)  sus- 
pected of  being  a  Roman  Catholic;  his  mistresses 
were  known  to  be;  so  was  the  Duke  of  York,  his 
brother. 

44.  Hebrew  priests.  Church  of  England  clergy- 
men. 

46.  God's  anointed,  the  king.  One  of  the  re- 
ports circulated  about  the  Popish  Plot  was  that  the 
conspirators  had  planned  the  assassination  of 
Charles  II  and  the  placing  of  his  brother,  who  was 
a   Roman   Catholic,  on  the  throne. 

57.   threat,  threaten. 

66.  Achitophel,  Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,  Earl  of 
Shaftesbury,  formerly  Lord  Chancellor,  at  this  time 
the  leader  of  the  party  in  favor  of  making  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth  the  next  heir  to  the  throne  and 
excluding   the   Duke   of   York   as   a   Roman    Catholic. 

68.   close,  secret. 

73-  P'g>"y  body.  Shaftesbury  was  of  small  stature 
and  his  frame  was  enfeebled  by  disease. 

78.   boast  his  wit,  show  off  his  skill. 

86.  unfeathered  two-lcggcd  thing.  A  humorous 
description  of  man  ascribed  to  Plato.  Shaftes- 
bury's heir  was  a  man  of  '  no  ability  and  insig- 
nificant  character.' 

87.  huddled,  confused. 

91.  the  triple  bond,  the  Triple  Alliance  of  Eng- 
land, Holland,  and  Sweden  against  France,  made  in 
1668  and  exceedingly  popular  in  England.  It  was 
broken  in  1670  without  Shaftesbury's  knowledge  by 
Charles  II,  who  made  a  secret  treaty  with  the 
French  king. 

96-107.  Added  in  the  second  edition,  after 
Shaftesbury's  acquittal. 

104.  abbethdin,  president  of  the  Jewish  judica- 
ture.    Shaftesbury   was   Lord   Chancellor    1672—3. 

270.  III.  cockle,   weed. 

113.  wanted,  lacked.  Dryden's  compliment  to 
himself  as  David,  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel,  is 
shameless,  but  true.  His  poem  has  proved  '  im- 
mortal.' 

ijo.   manifest,  convicted.     A  Latinism. 

125.  more  he  makes.  The  charge  that  Shaftes- 
bury invented  the  Plot  is  absurd;  but  he  undoubt- 
edly used  it  for  political  purposes  by  fomenting  pub- 
lic agitation. 

129.  Jebusite.  One  of  the  stories  current  at  the 
time  was  that  the  king  himself  had  become  a  Ro- 
man Catholic.     It  is  now  known  that  it  was  true. 

135.  instinct.     Accent   on   second   syllable. 

137.  warlike    Absalom,    the    favorite    son    of    the 


Biblical  David,  here  signifying  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth, Charles  II's  favorite  son,  though  illegiti- 
mate. He  had  commanded  an  expedition  sent  to 
suppress    a    Scottish    rising. 

140.  title  not  allowed.  Monmouth's  claim  to  the 
succession    was   barred    by   his   illegitimacy. 

143.  democracy,  then  a  form  of  government  in 
disfavor.  Dryden  was  so  fond  of  this  line  that  he 
repeated  it  in  The  Hind  and  the  Panther  (p.  273, 
1.   211). 

THE  HIND  AND  THE  PANTHER 

In  this  religious  and  satirical  allegory,  which 
appeared  two  years  after  James  II's  accession  and 
about  a  year  after  Dryden's  conversion  to  Roman 
Catholicism,  the  '  milk-white  Hind  '  stands  for  the 
Church  of  Rome;  the  Panther,  fair  but  spotted,  for 
the  Church  of  England;  and  the  less  attractive 
beasts  for  the  Puritan  sects  which  were  most  bit- 
terly opposed  to  Romanism. 

6.  Scythians,   famous  archers   of  antiquity. 

8.  doomed,   sentenced,    condemned. 

II.  obnoxious,  liable  to  injury  from. 

13-16.  The  Roman  martyrs  in  Great  Britain  since 
the   Reformation. 

35.  Bear,  the  Independent,  or  modern  Congrega- 
tionalist. 

37.  Hare,  Quaker. 

39.  Ape,   Freethinker. 

41.  Lion,  King  of  England. 

271.  43.  Boar,  Anabaptist.  The  following  lines  re- 
fer to  the  excesses  committed  in  connection  with 
the  Anabaptist  rising  in  Germany  in  the  sixteenth 
century. 

53.  Reynard,  the  Arian.  Arius,  one  of  the  early 
heretics  of  the  Christian  Church,  held  that  God  the 
Son  was  not  co-existent  or  co-equal  with  God  the 
Father;  this  doctrine  was  combated  by  Athanasius 
and  condemned  at  the  Council  of  Nice. 

55.  Socinus,  an  Italian  nobleman  who  revived 
Arian   beliefs   in   the   sixteenth  century. 

70.  her,  the  Roman   Church. 

79.  Three  in   One,  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity. 

93.  host,  the  consecrated   wafer  of  the  Eucharist. 

95.  Impassible,  incapable   of  suffering. 

96-9.  See  John  xx,   19—26. 

104.  quarry,  game,  object  of  pursuit. 

121.  proponent,   proposing,    putting    forth. 

272.  128.  bilanders,  a  Dutch  word  for  small  coast- 
ing vessels. 

135.  A  reference  to  the  Roman  doctrine  of  tran- 
substantiation. 

139.  His  clearest  words.  'This  is  my  body.'  See 
Luke  xxii,    19. 

144.  compound,  compromise. 

152.  Polonian,  Polish.  The  Polish  Protestants 
adopted   Socinianism.     See  11.   54-55. 

153.  Wolf,   Presbyterian. 

165.  An  allusion  at  once  to  the  Presbyterian  doc- 
trine of  predestination  and  the  Puritan  habit  of 
cropping  the  hair  close,  which  made  the  ears  pro- 
ject. 

168.  ruled    a    while.     During    the    Commonwealth. 

171.  Cambria,  Wales.  The  wolf  was  exterminated 
in     Wales    by    the    exaction    of    wolves'    heads    as 


NOTES 


[067 


173.  Geneva  —  France.  Calvin,  originally  a 
Frenchman,  was  appointed  in  1536  Professor  of 
Divinity  at  Geneva,  where  he  drew  up  the  system 
of  faith  and  church  government  afterwards  adopted 
by   the   French   and   other   Protestants. 

176.  IVyclif,  the  English  reformer  of  the  four- 
teenth century. 

178.  Helvetian,  Swiss. 

179.  Leman,   Geneva. 

180.  Zwinglius,  a  Swiss  Reformer  a  little  earlier 
than    Calvin. 

183.  sanhedrim,   Parliament. 
185.  Corah.     See  Numbers  xvi. 
187.   ephod,   priestly   garment. 

189.  class,  a  term  in  the  Presbyterian  system  of 
church   government. 

190.  Fox,  Reynard,  the  Arian. 

205.  a  puddle  and  a  wall,  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and 
the  Alps. 

273.  211.  See    Absalom    and    Achitophel,    p.    270,    1. 
143- 

2j8.  teemless,   unproductive. 

232.  Colchos,    the    home    of   the   sorceress   Medea. 

234.  common-tvcal,   republic. 

236.  Adam  was  supposed  to  have  given  the  beasts 
their  names  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

247.  allay,  alloy. 

248.  shards,  dung,  which,  it  was  thought,  pro- 
duced beetles. 

262.  Lion,  the  King. 

267.  commits   (sin). 
27i.  297.  Levees   and  couchees,   early   and   late   en- 
tertainments at  court. 

312.  James  II's  Declaration  of  Indulgence  to  all 
dissenters  from  the  Church  of  England  was  issued 
just  before  the  poem  was  published.  The  royal 
favor  and  protection  for  Romanism  had,  of  course, 
been  shown  before. 

333.  It  was  a  classical  tradition  —  reversed  here 
by  Dryden  on  his  own  authority  —  that  the  wolf 
had  power  to  take  away  the  voice  of  a  man  it  saw 
first. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 

This  ode  was  written  for  a  London  musical  so- 
ciety, which  held  an  annual  festival  on  Nov.  22, 
the  day  of  St.  Cecilia,  reputed  the  inventor  of  the 
organ  and  the  patron  saint  of  music. 

1.  for  Persia  won,  for  the  winning  of  Persia. 

2.  By  Philip's  warlike  son,  Alexander,  son  of 
Philip  of  Macedon,  and  the  conqueror  of  Persia. 

9.  Thais,  a  famous  Athenian  courtesan  who  ac- 
companied Alexander  into  Asia,  and,  according  to 
the  tradition  which  Dryden  makes  use  of  in  this 
poem,   induced   him  to  fire   the   palace   of   Persepolis. 

17.  Timothcus,  Alexander's   favorite  musician. 

22.  from,  with. 

275.  64.  Darius,  the  Persian  king  whom  Alexander 
had  conquered. 

83.  Lydian,  soft,  sensuous. 

113—4.  >'^cf  —  hair.  Correctly  rimed  according  to 
the  pronunciation  of  the  time. 

276.  139.  vocal  frame,  organ. 

147.  The  tradition  was  that  Cecilia,  owing  to  her 
virtue  and   piety,   was  visited   by  an   angel. 


ESSAY  OF  DRAMATIC  POESY 

a.  I.  that   memorable   day,   June   3,    1665. 

b.  I.  conduct,  leadership. 

2.  /ii.f  royal  highness,  the  Duke  of  York,  after- 
wards James  IL 

16.  Eugenius,  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  who 
later  became  Earl  of  Dorset.  Crites,  Sir  Robert 
Howard,  Dryden's  brother-in-law.  Lisideius.  Sir 
Charles   Sedley.     Meander,   Dryden   himself. 

26.  the   bridge,    London   bridge. 

278.  2.  Sir   John   Suckling.     See   p.    179. 

4.  Mr.   Waller.     See  p.   178. 

5.  Sir  John  Denham.     See  p.    181. 
7.  Mr.  Cowley.     See  p.   183. 

57.  a  genere  et  fine,  a  definition  of  class  and  ob- 
ject. 

b.   16.  Thespis    (c.    540    B.  C),    the    somewhat 
fabulous  inventor  of   Greek  drama. 

■17.  Aristophanes  (448-c.  388  B.C.),  the  great 
Greek  comic  writer. 

30.  viituosi,   those  skilled  in  the  fine  arts. 

45.  pretend,  lay  claim. 

279.  a.  25.  want,  lack. 
37.  remember,  remind. 

b.   II.  fable,  plot. 

280.  a.  33.  Corneille    (1606-84),    the    great    French 
dramatist,   contemporary   with   Dryden. 

b.   7.  intended,  aimed  at. 

36.  wanted,  fell   short. 

281.  a.   I.  Macrobius,   c.   beginning   of  fifth   century 
A.  D. 

7.  Tully,    Marcus    Tullius    Cicero    (106-43    B.  C). 

282.  o.  25.  lively,  lifelike. 

283.  o.  35.  Scaliger    (Julius    C?esar),    1484-1558. 
b.  33.  inartificial,    inartistic. 

284.  a.   15.  shadow,  palliate. 

28.  sock  and  buskin,  the  stage  shoe  of  comedy  and 
tragedy  respectively. 

57.  the  author,  Ben  Jonson. 

b.  28.   clenches,   playing   upon   words. 
41.  Mr.    Hales    (1584-1656),    Greek    Professor    at 
Oxford  and  Fellow  of  Eton  College. 

58.  precedent,  predecessor,  model. 

285.  a.  4.  censure,  opinion. 

27.  apt,  inclined. 

b.  20.  taxed,  accused. 

37.  comply  with,  observe. 


DEFOE:  THE  TRUE  BORN  ENGLISHMAN 

This  poem  was  a  reply  to  an  attack  on  William 
111  and  the  Dutch  nation,  entitled  77!^  Foreigners. 
It  was  so  successful  in  turning  popular  opinion  in 
the  king's  favor  that  he  had  Defoe  sent  for  to  ex- 
press his  obligations  to  the  writer. 
286.   11-14.  See  Matthew  xxviii,  19. 

THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  THE  DIS- 
SENTERS 

The  succession  of  Queen  Anne  in  1702  disap- 
pointed Defoe  and  his  nonconformist  friends,  while 
it  correspondingly  encouraged  the  tory  and  high 
church  party.  The  latter  pressed  for  severe  meas- 
ures  against   the  dissenters,   who    had   been   tolerated 


io68 


NOTES 


under  William  III,  and  allowed  to  compromise  by 
'  occasional  conformity,'  i.e.,  by  going  to  church  on 
official  occasions  and  attending  their  own  place  of 
worship  at  other  times.  Defoe  in  his  pamphlet  en- 
deavored to  show  the  absurdity  of  the  high  church 
position  by  making  extravagant  claims  on  their  be- 
half, although  he  took  occasion  to  aim  a  blow  now 
and  then  at  the  inconsistency  of  his  own  side.  The 
result  was  that  he  offended  both  parties,  althougli 
for  a  while  the  high  church  clergy  were  so  deceived 
that,  according  to  Defoe,  one  of  them  wrote  to  him 
that  next  to  the  Holy  Bible  and  Sacred  Comments 
he  held  The  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters  '  as 
the  most  valuable  thing  I  can  have.  I  look  upon  it 
as  the  Only  Method!  and  I  pray  God  to  put  it  into 
the  heart  of  our  most  gracious  Queen,  to  put  what  is 
there  proposed  in  execution.' 

287.  b.  10.  Sir  Roger  L' Estrange,  a  prolific  pam- 
phleteer, the  founder  in  1665  of  the  Gasctte,  the  first 
English  newspaper  which  has  continued  to  appear 
regularly  ever  since.  It  is  the  official  organ  of  the 
British   Government. 

22.  some  people,  the  Nonconformists. 

33.  fourteen  years,  from  the  Revolution  of  1688  to 
1702. 

35.  church,  the   Church   of  England. 
Z7.  sort,  set,  lot. 

41.  reproach  of  the  wicked.  Writing  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  high  church  clergyman,  Defoe  imitates 
Scripture  phraseology. 

288.  a.  8.  Act  of  Toleration  (1689),  relieving  the 
nonconformists  from  penalties  for  not  attending  the 
services  of  the   Church   of   England. 

15.  abjurations.  The  clergy  were  required  to 
take  an  oath  of  fidelity  to  William  III  and  abjure 
their  allegiance  to  James.  Many  refused  and  were 
deprived  of  their  livings. 

28.  a  war.  William  engaged,  with  varying  suc- 
cess, in  a  prolonged  struggle  against  Louis  XIV  of 
France. 

34.  in  France.  After  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict 
of  Nantes  in  1685,  the  Huguenots  were  forced  to 
conform  or  leave  the  country. 

38—40.  one  king  —  another  ,  ,  .  a  third. 
Charles  I,  James  II,  William  III. 

42.  the  fourth,  Anne. 

b,  40.  a  sordid   impostor,   Oliver   Cromwell. 

289.  a.  23-4.  Just  such  measure  —  again.  See  Mat- 
thew vii,  2. 

41.  regicides,  the  judges  who  condemned 
Charles  I. 

52.  Rye  House  Plot  (1682-3),  a  conspiracy  to  as- 
sassinate Charles  II  and  his  brother  James. 

55.  unusual  favor.  James  was  in  favor  of  toler- 
ation to  both  Puritan  and  Roman  Catholic  dissent- 
eis;  but  the  Puritans,  suspecting  that  his  designs 
were  really  directed  to  Roman  Catholic  supremacy, 
joined   in   the  movement  against  him. 

b.  20.  a  king  of  their  own,  William  III. 

31.  Scotland.  The  Church  of  Scotland,  with  the 
consent  of  William  III,  abolished  episcopacy,  and 
has  ever  since  been  presbyterian  in  its  form  of  gov- 
ernment. 

290.  a.  32.  the  right  heir.  The  high  church  Tories 
who  had  remained  loyal  to  James  II  looked  forward 
to   putting   his   son   on   the   throne  at  the   death   of 


Anne.  The  Elector  of  Hanover,  who  became  George 
I>  was  not  in  the  direct  line  of  succession. 

34.  ridiculous  settlements.  The  act  of  Settlement, 
passed  by  Parliament  in  1701,  vested  the  succession 
in  the  House  of  Hanover. 

48.  French  king.  Louis  XIV  expelled  400,000 
Huguenots. 

h.  2.  some  animals,  rats. 

22.  the  common  enemy,  France. 

291.  a.  17.  Monmouth,  beheaded  after  the  rebellion 
of   1685. 

18.  Shaftesbury,  died  in  exile   1683.     Argyle,  head 
of  a  Scottish  rising  against  James;   executed   1685. 
28.  experimentally,  as  a   result  of  experience. 

56.  impossible    (if   the   dissenters   are   tolerated). 
b.   18-19.   What   will  —  spoken  fort     See   Song 

(if   Solomon   viii,  8. 

jj.  enthusiasm  was  associated  with  dissenters,  and 
generally  regarded  with  disfavor  in  the  eighteenth 
century. 

45.  sensitive,  of  the  senses,  physical,  these,  the 
dissenters. 

292.  a.  24.  Amalekitc  race.  The  enemies  of  Israel 
in  Canaan.     See  i   Samuel  xv. 

42.  Moses  —  Israelites.  See  Exodus  xxxii,  28 
The  number  given  there  is,  however,  three  thousand. 

57.  gallows  instead  of  the  counter,  hanging  in- 
stead of  imprisonment. 

58.  coJtntcr,  a  city  prison,  galleys,  enslavement  to 
the  oar  in  a  galley. 

b.  I.  conventicle,  a  gathering  of  dissenters  for 
worship. 

5  sheriffs  and  mayors.  It  was  the  custom  of  dis- 
senters to  go  to  Church  on  'their  appointment  to  of- 
ficial positions,  in  accordance  with  the  law. 

34.  hang  men  for  trifles.  Hanging  was  the  pun- 
ishment for  stealing  in  England  up  to  1823. 

293.  b.  53.  humor,  spirit,   influence. 

294.  a.  39.  religious  houses,  convents,  which  were 
at  this  time  illegal. 

40.   meeting  houses,  for  nonconformist  worship. 

PREFACE  TO  THE  REVIEW 

The  Review,  begun  on  Feb.  19,  1704,  and  pub- 
lished first  once,  then  twice  a  week,  for  nine  years 
gave  Defoe  scope  for  his  talents  as  a  journalist. 
The  original  title  was  A  Review  of  the  Affairs  of 
France  and  of  all  Europe,  as  influenced  by  that  Na- 
tion, France  being  at  that  time  the  center  of  Eu- 
ropean politics.  Defoe  discussed  not  only  politics 
but  trade  and  current  gossip;  he  invented  not  only 
editorial  comment,  which  was  before  unknown,  but 
personal  interviews,  scandalous  personalities,  answers 
to  correspondents,  and  many  other  features  of  the 
modern  newspaper.  The  numbers  of  the  Review 
were  issued  afterwards  in  annual  volumes,  and  in 
this  preface  to  Vol.  I  Defoe  sets  forth  his  motives 
and  aims  in  the  undertaking. 
29-1.   b.  42.   the  M'ise  Man,  Solomon. 

47.  first  design.  See  the  original  title,  as  given 
above. 

295.  a.  15.  Marlborough,  the  great  English  general 
who  defeated  the  French  at  Blenlieim,  Aug.  13,  1704. 
The   war   continued   for   several    years. 

b.  24.  negoce,  commerce. 


NOTES 


1069 


296.  b.  2.  its  birth.  The  design  of  the  Review  was 
conceived  by  Defoe  in  prison. 

297.  a.  10.  D.  F.  Daniel  Foe.  The  name  Defoe 
was  adopted  by  the  author  a  year  later. 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  WOMEN 
The  Essay  upon  Projects,  from  which  this  paper  is 
taken,  was  written  in   1692,  but  first  printed  in   1697. 

297.  a.  27.  convcrsibte,  fit   for  human  intercourse. 
b.   13.  zvit,    intellectual    ability. 

32.  more  tongues  than  one.  Milton  is  reported  to 
have  said  that  one  tongue  was  enough  for  any 
woman. 

43.  genius,   natural   ability. 

298.  a.  17.  female  government,  government  by 
women. 

SWIFT:     A  TALE  OF  A  TUB 

299.  A   Tale  of  a  Tub. 

'  Seamen  have  a  custom,  when  they  meet  a  whale, 
to  fling  him  out  an  empty  tub  by  way  of  amuse- 
ment, to  divert  him  from  laying  violent  hands  upon 
the  ship  .  .  .  the  whale  was  interpreted  to  be 
Hobbes's  Leviathan  ,  .  ,  whence'  the  wits  of  our 
age  are  said  to  borrow  their  weapons  .  .  .  and 
it  was  decreed,  that,  in  order  to  prevent  these 
Leviathans  from  tossing  and  sporting  with  the  Com- 
monwealth .  .  .  they  should  be  diverted  from 
that  game  by  a  Tale  of  a  Tub.'      (Swift's  Preface.) 

300.  a.  32.  d'Argent,  of  wealth,  de  Grands  Titrcs, 
of  distinguished   titles. 

33.  d'Orgueil,  of  pride. 

49.  Locket's,  a  famous  ordinary,  or  tavern,  at 
Charing  Cross.  Will's  coffee-house.  See  below, 
325.  a.  34,  note. 

b.  24.  grande  monde,   world  of   fashion. 

37.  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  From  his  temple  on  the 
Capitoline  Hill,  Rome. 

301.  a.  12.  They  held  the  universe  to  be  a  large 
suit  of  clothes,  etc.  Compare  Carlyle's  Sartor  Re- 
sartus. 

16.  primum  mobile.  In  the  Ptolemaic  cosmogony, 
the  outer  or  tenth  revolving  sphere. 

b.  21.  ex    traduce.     From    the    root;    from    the 
original  stock. 

302.  a.  32.  shoulder-knots.  This  fashion  had  been 
introduced  from  France  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 
See   Taller,  No.   82. 

35.  ruelles,  private  gatherings. 

303.  a.  38.  nuncupatory  and  scriptory,  verbal  and 
written. 

b.  23.  >«.v    lord    C —  and   Sir   J.    W.   have   not 
been   identified. 

305.  a.  41.  fonde,   fund,   stock,   capital. 
307.  a.   1-3.    Varias  inducere     .     .     .     piscem.     Hor- 
ace, Ars  Poetica,  11.   2   and  4. 

312.  b.  49.  Newgate.  The  London  prison  for  debt- 
ors and  malefactors. 

52.  Exchange  women.  Women  who  kept  shops  in 
the  piazzas  of  the  Royal  Exchange.  For  Steele's 
description,   see   p.    333. 

54.  the  mobile,  the  mob.     Latin,   mobile  vulgus. 
314.  a.   58.   The    philosopher's    stone    and    the     uni- 
versal    medicine.     Sought     by     medieval     alchemists 
and  mystics. 


315.  b.  I.  the  giant  Laurcalco.  Inaccurate  allusion 
to  the  passage  {Don  Quixote,  Bk.  I,  Chap.  XVIII) 
in  which  Don  Quixote  mistakes  a  flock  of  sheep  for 
an  army.  '  That  knight  —  is  the  valorous  Laur- 
calco,  Lord   of   the   Silver   Bridge.' 

b.  16—17.  ""  ancient  temple  .  .  .  upon  Salis- 
bury plain.     Probably   Stonehenge. 

316.  a.  4.  a  disease  .  .  .  the  stinging  of  the 
tarantula.  Taranlism,  or  dancing  mania,  was  sup- 
posed to  be  so  caused,  and  curable  only  by  music  or 
dancing. 

a.  9.  Westminster-hall,  etc.  Places  noteworthy 
for  their  noises;  Westminster  Hall  frequented  by 
lawyers;  Billingsgate  famous  for  the  bad  language 
of  its  fish-wives;  the  Royal  Exchange  a  center  for 
brokers  and   merchants  of  all   nations. 

b.  7.  janizary,  a  mercenary  soldier  in  the 
bodyguard  of  the  Sultan,  in  the  middle  ages. 

318.  b.  10.  a  spunging  house.  A  tavern  for  the 
temporary  detention  of  persons  arrested  for  debt. 

A  MEDITATION  UPON  A  BROOMSTICK 
Hon.  Robert  Boyle  (1627-1691).  A  celebrated 
scientist,  '  The  father  of  chemistry  and  brother  to 
the  Earl  of  Cork.'  One  of  the  original  members  of 
the  Royal  Society.  Swift's  essay  travesties  the 
platitudinous  moralizing  of  his  religious  meditations. 

A  MODEST  PROPOSAL 
321.   b.  25.  the        famous        Psalmanazar.        George 
Psalmanazar,  a   notorious   impostor,    pretended   to   be 
a   native   of  Formosa,   of  which   he  published  a  De- 
scription in   1705. 
323.  a.   16.   Topinamboo.     A    district    of    Brazil. 


STEELE:     THE  TATLER 

325.  a.  33.  White's  Chocolate-house.  In  St.  James's 
Street.     Famous    for   gambling. 

34.  Will's  Coffee-house.  No.  i,  Bow  Street, 
Covent  Garden.  Originally  kept  by  William  Ur- 
win.  Pepy's  Diary  mentions  it,  Feb.  3,  1663,  as  a 
resort  of  Dryden  and  notable  for  '  very  witty  and 
pleasant  discourse.' 

35.  Grecian.  Coffee-house  in  the  Strand,  orig- 
inally kept  by  a  Greek  named  Constantine,  had 
been  a  resort  of  Newton,  other  members  of  the 
Royal  Society,  and  Templars. 

36.  Saint  James's  Coffee-house.  Near  St.  James's 
Palace.  A  resort  of  Whig  statesmen,  military  men, 
and  men  of  fashion. 

45.  plain  Spanish.     A  simple  wine. 

48.  kidney,  temper,  humor.  A  pun  on  the  name 
of  one  of  the  waiters. 

b.   I.  casting   a   figure.     Determining  the    horo- 
scope. 

THE  SPECTATOR 

326.  a.  39.  Lord  Rochester.  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of 
Rochester  (1647-80),  a  fashionable  rake  and  poet 
of  the  Restoration  period.  Sir  George  Etherege 
(1639-94).  The  Restoration  dramatist.  Like 
Rochester,  a  courtly  rake. 

41.  Bully  Dawson,  d.  1699.  A  notorious  swag- 
gerer and  gamester. 


1 070 


NOTES 


b.   15.  Inner     Temple.     One     of     tlie     Inns     of 
Court. 

24.  Aristotle,  etc.     The  reference  is  to  his  Poetics. 

25.  Longinus.  Greek  Philosopher,  third  century 
A.  D.,  to  whom  the  essay.  On  Sublnnity,  is  doubt- 
fully  ascribed. 

26.  Littleton  or  Coke.  Sir  Thomas  Littleton 
(1402-1481)  and  Sir  Edward  Coke  (1552-1634) 
were  members  of  the  Inner  Temple  (above,  b.  15). 
A  work  of  the  first  with  commentary  by  the  second 
used  to  be  the  English  authority  on  the  law  of  real 
property. 

36.  Demosthenes.  The  greatest  Greek  Orator 
(384-322  B.  C).  Tully.  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero 
(106-43   B.C.),   Roman  orator  and   philosopher. 

5-8.  The  Rose.  A  tavern  adjoining  Drury  Lane 
Theater. 

327.  a.  6.  the  city  of  London.  The  central  or  busi- 
ness district  is  so  called.     Again  below,  334.  b.    11. 

328.  a.  10.  Duke  of  Monmouth.  The  Absolom  of 
Uryden's  Absolom  and  Achitophel.     See  above,  268 

329.  a.  43.  Sir  Richard  Blockmore  (c.  i6so-i7-'9). 
Physician  to  William  III,  and  a  poet  of  repute  in 
his  day. 

332.  a.  29.  Martial  (Bk.  I,  69),  Latin  poet,  first 
century    A.  D. 

b.  55.  Strand   Bridge.     A   landing    pier    at    the 
foot  of  Strand  Lane,  giving  access  to  the  Strand. 

333.  a.  19.  The  I'ainlovcs.  Vainlove  is  'a  ca- 
pricious lover '  in  Congreve's  comedy.  The  Old 
Bachelor, 

334.  b.  1.  Robin's.  A  coffee-house  in  Exchange  Al- 
ley,   frequented   by   brokers. 

II.  the  city.     See   327.  a.  6,  note. 

ADDISON:     THE  SPECTATOR 

336  b.  22  Child's.  Cofifee-house  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard. 

30.  the  Cocoa-tree.  A  chocolate-house  frequented 
by  tories  as  St.  James's  by  whigs.  The  Spectator 
pretends   to   patronize   both. 

31-2.  Drury  Lane  and  the  Haymarket.  The  two 
principal  theaters  of  London.  The  Theater  Royal 
in  Drury  Lane,  designed  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren, 
had  been  opened  in  1674.  The  Haymarket  Opera 
House,  designed  and  built  by  Sir  John  Van  Brugh, 
had  been   opened   in    1705. 

36.  Jonathan's.     Coffee-house    in    Cornhill.     '  The 
general  mart  for  stock-jobbers.'     {Tatler,  No.  38.) 
337.  b.  8.  Mr.     Buckley's.     Buckley    was    the    pub- 
lisher. 

9.  Little   Britain.     A  street  in   London. 

341.  a.  25.  Moll  White  The  witch  described  in 
Spectator,  No.    117 

342.  a.  II.  The  Committee  (1665).  Comedy  by  Sir 
Robert    Howard. 

15.  Distressed  Mother.  Adaptation,  by  Ambrose 
I'hilips,   of  Racine's  Andromaque.     Produced   171 2. 

24.   The    Mohocks.     Some     ruffianly     carousers    of 
the    upper    classes    assumed    this    name.     They    com- 
mitted a  series  of  outrages  in   1712. 
345.  b.  49.  Mr.      Cowley,      etc.  See      Cowley's 

Davideis   iii,    403—4. 

26.  Callus,  Caius  Cornelius  (c.  69-26).  Roman 
poet  and  general. 


Propertius,   Scxtus    (c.   50-16   B.C.),   poet. 

27.  Horace.  Ouinlus  Horatius  Flaccus  (65-8 
B.  C.).,    the    Roman    poet. 

I'arius.     Lucius    Varius    Rufus,    ist    century    B.C. 

Tucca,  Plotius  Tucta  and  Lucius  Varius  were 
Virgil's   literary   executors. 

Ovid.  Publius  Ovidius  Naso  (43  B.  C.-c.  17 
A.  D.). 

28.  Bavius  and  Maevius.  Inferior  Ronian  poets 
mentioned  by  Virgil  (Eel.  iii)  and  Horace  {Epode 
x). 

347.  a.  40.  Sir  John  Denham.     See  p.    181. 

56.  The  Art  of  Criticism.  Pope's  Essay  on 
Criticism.     See  p.  350. 

b.  18.  Boileau  (1636-1711).    French  critic  and 
poet. 

48.  Petronius  .irbitcr.  Roman  satirical  author. 
Died  c    66  A.  D. 

Quintilian.  Marcus  Fabius  Quintilianus  (c  35— 
c.  95  A.  D.),  Roman  rhetorician. 

49.  Longinus.     See   326.  b.  25,  note. 

348.  b.   1-2.  Essay  on  Translated  Verse.     By  Went- 
worth   Dillon,   Earl  of   Roscommon    (1634-85). 

2-3.  Essay  on  the  Art  of  Poetry.  By  John  Shef- 
field,  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire    (i 649-1 721). 

47.  The  path  of  an  arrow.'  Wisdom  of  Solomon, 
v,    12-13.     The   quotation    is   inaccurate. 

349.  a.  47.  Sir    Cloudesley    Shovel.     Commander    of 
the  British  fleets  from   1705.     Drowned   1707. 


POPE:     AN  ESSAY  ON  CRITICISM 

351.  34.  Mavius.     See   Addison's   comment,   p.   347. 

352.  129—30.  the     Mantuan     Muse     ,     .     .     young 
Maro.     Virgil.     See  783.    19,  note, 

138.  the  Stajirite.     Aristotle. 

353.  180.  Homer    nods.     Allusion    to    Horace,    Ars 
Poctica,  359. 

216.  the  Pierian   Spring.     Pieria  in  Thessaly   was 
the  reputed  birthplace  of  the  Muses. 
354    248.  E'en  thine,  O  Rome.     St.   Peter's. 

267.  La   Mancha's  Knight.     Don   Quixote. 

270.  Dennis  —  stage.  John  Dennis,  the  critic  and 
playwright,  made  sententious  references  to  the  dra- 
niatic  precepts  of  Aristotle.  This  allusion  and  an- 
other, lines  585-591,  initiated  Pope's  quarrel  with 
him. 

328.  Fungoso.  A  character  in  Ben  Jonson's 
Every  Man  Out  of  His  Humour,  who  tries,  with- 
out success,   to   keep  up  with  court   fashions. 

355.  356.  Alexandrine.     The    succeeding    line    is   an 
example. 

361.  Denham.     See   p.    181       Waller.     See  p.    178. 
372.  Camilla.     In  Virgil's  Aeneid  vii,  808—11. 
374-383-  Compare  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast,  p. 
274. 

376.  Son    of   Libyan   Jove.     Alexander   the   Great. 
391.  Approve,   test,   put  to  the   proof. 

356.  441.  Sentences.     The  Sententiae  of  Peter  Lom- 
bard,   12th    century. 

444.  Scotists  and  Thomists.  Followers  of  the 
thirteenth  century  schoolmen,  Duns  Scotus  and 
Thomas  Aquinas. 

463.  Blackmorcs.  See  329.  a.  43,  note.  B.  at- 
tacked Dryden   in     A   Satire  on   Wit.' 


NOTES 


1071 


Milbourns.  Luke  Milboiirn,  a  clergyman,  at- 
tacked Dryden's  translation  of  Virgil. 

465.  Zoilus.  Greek  critic  of  the  4th  century 
B.  C,  said  to  have  been  put  to  death  for  criticiz- 
ing Homer. 

357.  483.  Such  as  Cliaucer  is.     Pope  and  his  gener- 
ation regarded  Chaucer  as  obsolete. 

527.  Spleen,  anger,  ill-temper. 

556.  love  was  all  an  easy  Monarch's  care.  The 
reign  of  Charles  II  is  referred  to. 

544.  a  foreign  reign.     That  of  William  III. 

545.  Socinus,  Italian  unitarian  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK 


358.  3.  Caryl.  John  Caryl,  a  friend  and  corre- 
spondent  of    Pope. 

4.  Belinda.  Miss  Arabella  Fermor,  a  belle  of 
the  period  from  whom  the  lock  celebrated  in  the 
poem  was  stolen. 

8.  a  well-bred  lord.  Lord  Petre,  who  had  stolen 
the  curl. 

17.  the  slipper  knocked  the  ground.  Rapping  for 
the  servant. 

56.  ombre.     See  362.  27,  note. 

73.  Spark.    A  beau,  a  lady-killer. 

CANTO  II 

360.  25.  springes.     Snares,     of.   Hamlet,   I.   iii,    115. 

361.  113.  drops,  earrings. 

133,  Ixion.  For  an  offense  to  Zeus,  fastened  to 
an  eternally  revolving  wheel  in  Hades. 

CANTO  III 

3.  a  structure  of  majestic  frame.  Hampton  Court, 
one  of  the  royal  residences. 

27.  ombre.  A  game  of  cards,  of  Spanish  origin, 
usually  played  by  three  persons. 

362.  47.  Matadores.  The  three  highest  cards  at 
ombre. 

49.  Spadillio.     Ace  of  Spades. 

51.  Manillio.  The  two  of  a  black,  the  seven  of  a 
red,  trump. 

53.  Basto.     Ace   of  clubs. 

61.  Pam.  Knave  of  clubs,  the  highest  card  in 
the  game  of  loo. 

9^.  codille.     Failure   to   get   the    requisite    tricks. 

363.  122-24.  Scylla's  fate  .  .  .  Nisiis'  injured 
hair.     Pope's  note  refers  to  Ovid,  Meiam.  viii. 

151.  cut  the  sylph  in  twain.  Compare  Par.  Lost 
vi,  330. 

165.  Alalantis.  A  book  of  contemporary  scandal 
by  Mrs.  Manley,  The  New  Atalantis   (1709). 

CANTO  IV 

364.  16.  Spleen.     See  357.   5-'7.  note. 
24.  Megrim.     Tired   feeling,  the  blues. 
89.   Thalestris.     One  Mrs.   Morley. 

365.  118.  the  sound  of  Bow.  St.  Mary  Le  Bow, 
in  Cheapside,  the  heart  of  the  city,  was  famous  for 
its  peal  of  bells. 

121.  Sir   Plume.     Sir   George   Brown.     He   threat- 


ened   Pope    with    violence    for    this    delightfully    ma- 
licious caricature. 

156.  bohca.  \  kind  of  tea,  from  the  Chinese 
province    whence   it    was  first   imported   in    1666. 

CANTO   V 

366.  5.   The  Trojan.     /Eneas.     See  JEneid  iv,  296  ff. 
62.  Dappcrwit.     '  A     brisk,     conceited,     half-witted 

fellow    of   the    town  '    bears    this    name    in    Wycher- 
ley's  Love  in  a   Wood. 

367.  63.   Sir    Fopling.     Suggested,    perhaps,    by    Sir 
Fopling   Flutter  in   Etherege's   The   Man   of  Mode. 

65.  Meander.  A  river  of  Asia  Minor  frequently 
mentioned  in  classical  poetry.  Celebrated  for  its 
windings. 

125.  Rome's  great  founder.     Romulus. 

126.  Proculus.     The  legend   is  given  in   Livy  I,  6. 

136.  Rosamonda's  lake.  A  pond  in  St.  James's 
Park. 

137.  Partridge.  An  astrologer  and  almanac  maker 
ridiculed   by   Swift   in   his    Bickerstaff   papers. 

138.  Galileo's   eyes.     The    telescope. 

368.  140.  Louis.     Louis    XI\',    King    of    France. 
Rome.     The  Papacy. 

EPISTLE  TO  DR.  ARBUTHNOT 

Dr.  John  Arbuthnot  was  Pope's  friend  and  phy- 
sician, a  wit  and  a  man  of  letters. 

13.  gentle  Fanny's.  John,  Lord  Hervey,  a  friend 
of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  was  frequently 
lampooned   by   Pope,   under  this  name. 

15.  Gildon,  Charles  (1665-1724).  A  hack  writer. 
Pope  pretended  to  believe  that  Addison  had  paid 
Gildon  to  defame  him;   hence,   'venal.' 

20.  Bedlam.     Bethlehem    hospital    for    the    insane. 

the  Mint.  A  part  of  Southwark  London,  in  which 
criminals  and  debtors  could  take  refuge  from  ar- 
rest. 

29.  The  bard  .  .  .  renown.  Ambrose  Philips, 
whose  pastorals  had  excited  Pope's  jealousy. 

40.  Tate,  Nahum,  a  poetaster  of  the  Restoration 
period,  celebrated  for  his  atrocious  adaptations  of 
Shakspere's  plays. 

59.  Cato.     An  allusion  to  Addison's  drama. 


THOMSON:     SUMMER 

370.  50.  Stygian,  dark.     From  Styx,  one  of  the  riv- 
ers of  Hades. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE 

374.  32.  Philomel,  the  nightingale. 

375.  75.  the    rural    poets.     Those    who    treated    pas- 
toral  subjects. 

76.  Arcadian.     See   Life  of   Sidney,  p.  81. 
Sicilian.     Sicily  was  the  home  of  a  group  of  pas- 
toral  poets  of  whom   the  chief  was   Theocritus. 

98.  Lorraine.     Claude    Lorrain    (1600-82),    French 
landscape  painter. 

99.  Rosa,     Salvator     (c.     1615-1673).     Neapolitan 
painter   noted   for   his  battle   pieces. 

Poussin.     Doubtless      Nicholas       Poussin       (1594- 
1665).     French  landscape  and  historical  painter. 
131.  mell,  mingle,  mix. 


1072 


NOTES 


MINOR   POETS  — YOUNG   TO   CIIATTERTON 
JOHN  gay:    the  shepherd's  week 

379.  67.  Jack  Pudding.     A   popular  nickname   for  a 
clown  or  mountebank's  assistant. 

68.  Toffs,  doffs,  draws  off.  There  is  an  old  popu- 
lar amusement  called  '  draw  the  glove.'  See  Brand's 
Popular  Antiquities. 

69.  raree-shows,   peep-shows. 

71.  '  the  children  in  the  wood.'  This  famous  old 
ballad  is  in  Percy's  Reliques. 

74.  fauchion,    falchion.     See    404.  62,  note. 

79-80.  For  buxom  Joan  .  .  .  the  maid  a  wife. 
The  words  and  music  of  this  song  are  in  D'Urfrey's 
Pills  to  Purge  Melancholy,  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  220-221. 

82.  Chevy-Chace.     For   this  ballad,   see  p.   42. 

91.  He  sung  of  Taffy  Welch,  and  Satvney  Scot. 
Taffy  (Davy)  is  the  regular  nickname  for  a  Welsh- 
man, Saivney  (Sandy)  for  a  Scotchman.  The  refer- 
ence may  be  to  The  National  Quarrel,  D'Urfey's 
Pills  to  Purge  Melancholy,  Vol.  II,  p.   76. 

92.  Lilly-bullero.  A  political  ballad  which  was 
popular  during  the  Protestant  Revolution  of  1688. 
The    refrain   is   drawn    from   an    old    Irish    song. 

The  Irish  Trot.  Possibly  tlie  ribald  old  song, 
called  The  Irish  Jigg,  which  is  given  in  D'Urfey's 
collection,   v,    108. 

93.  Bateman.  The  reference  is  to  Bateman's 
Tragedy,  preserved  in  Ritson's  Ancient  Songs,  etc. 
(ed.   Hazlitt),  p.   231. 

Shore.  Jane  Shore,  the  mistress  of  King  Edward 
IV,  was  a  celebrated  character  in  ballad  and  drama. 
See  Percy,  Reliques,  and  D'Urfey's  Pills  to  Purge 
Melancholy,   iv,   273. 

94.  Wantley's  Dragon  .  .  .  Moore.  The  air 
and  words  are  in  D'Urfrey's  collection.  Vol.  Ill,  p. 
10. 

95.  the  bower  of  Rosamond.  Rosamond  Clifford, 
the  mistress  of  King  Henry  II,  was  the  subject  of 
many  popular  legends,  among  which  was  that  of  the 
subterranean  labyrinth  known  as  Rosamond's  bower. 
Fair  Rosamond  is  the  title  of  a  ballad  in  Percy's 
Reliques. 

Robin  Hood.  For  examples  of  the  Robin  Hood 
ballads,  see  pp.   38-42. 

96.  And  how  the  grass,  etc.  The  ballad  of  Troy 
town  is  in  Percy's  Reliques.  In  D'Urfrey's  Pills 
to  Purge  Melancholy,  iv,  266,  we  meet  with  a  ballad 
called  The  Wandering  Prince  of  Troy,  which  con- 
tains the  line,  '  And  corn  now  grows  where  Troy 
town  stood.' 


JOHN  dyer:    grongar  hill 

381.  23.  Towy's  flood.     The   river  Towy.  in  Wales, 
flows  south  into   Caermarthen   Bay. 

WILLIAM  shenstone:     the  schoolmistress 

383.  15.   Tway,   two. 

56.  Sternhold,  Thomas  (c.  1500-1549),  with  John 
Hopkins  wrote  a  metrical  version  of  the   Psalms. 

60—64.  How  Israel's  sons  .  .  .  sing.  Psalm 
137- 

'  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept,' 
etc. 

384.  73.  like    that    of    Scottish    stem.     A    stone    of 


supposed  miraculous  properties  formed  a  part  of  the 
Scottish  coronation  chair  at  Scone.  Edward  I  car- 
ried it  off  to  Westminster  in  token  of  the  subju- 
gation of  Scotland  in  1297.  It  has  since  been  a 
part  of  the  chair  in  which  all  English  sovereigns  are 
crowned. 

102.  Mulla's  silver  stream.  The  river  Mulla 
flowed  near  Kilcolman  Castle,  Spenser's  home  in 
Ireland.     See   Life   of   Spenser,   p.    104. 

108.  ermilin,  ermine. 

WILLIAM    COLLINS!      ODE    TO    SIMPLICITY 

387.  14.  Hybla's  thymy  shore.  Mount  llybia  in 
Sicily  is  celebrated  in  classical  poetry  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  its   honey. 

16-18.  By  her  .  .  .  Electro's  pocfs  car.  'The 
nightingale  for  which  Sophocles  seems  to  have  en- 
tertained a  peculiar   fondness.'      (Collins.) 

19.  Cephisus.     A   river  of  Attica. 

35.  One    distinguished    throne.     Augustus    Caesar. 
52.   reed.     The  symbol  of  pastoral   poetry. 

388.  75.   their   chaste-cy'd   queen.     Diana. 

86.  Tempe.  A  valley  adjacent  to  Olympus  in 
Thessaly.     See,   also,    636.    11,  note. 

389.  104.  Devote,   devoted. 

114.  Cecilia's  mingled  ivorld  of  sound.  Compare 
Dryden,   Alexander's  Feast,   276.    138. 

THOMAS    WARTON  :      THE   GRAVE  OF    KING 
ARTHUR 

4.  Cilgarran's  castle  hall.  There  are  ruins  of  a 
thirteenth  century  castle  at  Kilgerran,  in  Southern 
Wales. 

6.  Henry.  King  Henry  II,  on  his  expedition  for 
the  conquest  of  Wales  and  Ireland. 

8.  Shannon's  lakes.  Shannon,  the  principal  river 
of   Ireland,   flows  through  a   chain  of  lakes. 

12.   metheglin,  mead,  liquor.     A  Celtic  beverage. 

20.  Mono,  Anglesea,  an  island  and  county  of 
North  Wales. 

21.  Teivi,  the  river  Teifi,  which  flows  westward 
into   Cardigan   Bay. 

22.  Elvy's  vale.  Valley  of  the  river  Elwy,  in 
Northwestern    Wales. 

Coder's  crown.  Cader  Idris,  a  mountain  in 
Northwestern   Wales. 

24.  I  erne's  hoarse  abyss.     The  Irish  Sea. 

26.  Radnor's  .  .  .  mountains.  Radnor  is  a 
county  in  the  interior  of  Wales. 

33.  Tintagell.  A  village  on  the  coast  of  Corn- 
wall,  the   reputed  birthplace  of  King  Arthur. 

40.  Canilan's  crimson' d  banks.  According  to 
legend  Arthur  perished  in  the  battle  of  Camlan  (c. 
542). 

41.  Mordred.  See  Malory's  Morte  d'Arthur,  p. 
:9  ff. 

50.  Merlin's  agate-axled  car.  An  invention  of  the 
n)agician   Merlin. 

SONNETS:       DUGDALe's    MONASTICON 
A    huge    compilation    of    English    monastic    history 
by    Sir    William    Dugdale    (1605-1686)    is   ordinarily 
known   as   Dugdale's   Monasticon. 

390.  5.  Henry's  fiercer  rage.     Henry   VIII's  disrup 
tion   of   the   monasteries. 


NOTES 


1073 


WRITTEN    AT   STONEHENGE 
Warton     here     summarizes     the     various    legends 
known    to    him    concerning   the    origin    and    meaning 
of  the  celebrated  pre-historic  ruin  in  Salisbury  Plain, 
Wiltshire. 

2.  Scythia's  shore.  An  indefinite  term  fur  nurtli- 
east  Europe  and  adjacent  parts  of  Asia,  employed 
with  varying  meaning  by  the  ancients. 

3.  Amber.  Tlie  Islands  in  the  North  Sea  were 
vaguely  known  to  the  Greeks  as  the  Amber  Islamls. 

Pendragon,  Uther.     The  father  of  King  Arthur. 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON  :  BRISTOWE  TRAGEUIE 
This  poem  is  probably  based  on  the  story  of  Sir 
Baldwin  Fulford,  who  was  executed  at  Bristol  in 
1461.  With  many  others  who  fought  on  the  Lan- 
castrian side  he  was  a  victim  of  an  act  of  attainder 
which  followed  the  accession  of  Edward  IV. 
William  Canynge,  who  figures  in  this  and  other 
poems  of  Chatterton,  is  a  historical  personage,  and 
was  mayor  of  Bristol  at  the  time  of  Fulford's  exe- 
cution. 

13.  nappy,   sparkling. 

391.  58.  rewyn'd,  ruined. 
73.   reines,   reins,   kidneys. 

392.  141.  goddelyke  Henry.  King  Henvy  VI,  lived 
in  captivity  for  ten  years  after  the  accession  of 
Edward. 

183.  Richard's  sonnes.  Richard,  Duke  of  York, 
v/as  father  of  Edward  IV  and  Richard   III. 

393.  263.  enshone,  showed. 

271.  russet  weedes,  Homespun  clothes. 

272.  plyghte,   weave,   texture. 

276.  bataunt,  Chatterton's  invention;  no  such  in- 
strument is  known. 

288.  route,  troop,  company. 

394.  306.  mycle,  much. 

335.  Gloucester.     Afterward    King    Richard    III. 
347.  glysterr,  glisten. 

MYNSTRELLES   SONGE 
895.   3.   hallie,  holy. 

10.  Rodde,   red. 

11.  cale,  cold. 
15.  Swote,  sweet. 
25.  heie,  they. 

38.  Seyncte,   Saint. 

39.  celness,  coldness. 

43.  dente,  fasten. 

44.  gre,  grow. 

45.  Ouphante,  elfin. 

46.  bee,   bow. 

58.  leathalle,  lethal,  deadly. 


THOMAS    GRAY:     SONNET    ON    THE    DEATH 
OF  MR.  RICHARD  WEST 

Richard  West,  son  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ire- 
land, had  been  Gray's  most  intimate  friend  at  Eton 
and  his  constant  correspondent  while  they  were  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  respectively.  See  also  the 
sketch  of  Gray,  p.  396. 


AN  ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON 
COLLEGE 

396.  4.  Her  Henry's  holy  Shade.  Eton  College  was 
founded  by  King  Henry  VI  in  1440.  See,  also, 
392.  a.    141,  note. 

397.  6.  Windsor's  heights,  etc.  Windsor  Castle, 
overlooking   Eton,   is   one   of   the   royal    residences. 

HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY 

398.  35.  Gorgon,  the  terror-inspiring  image  on  the 
shield   of  Pallas  .\lliene,  goddess  of   wisdom. 

ELEGY   WRITTEN    IN    A   COUNTRY    CHURCH- 
YARD 

399.  57.  Hampden  (John  1594-1643).  One  of  the 
chief  heroes  of  the  Puritan  revolt.  Resisted  the 
collection  of  ship-money,  1637-38. 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  POESY 

400.  I.  JEolian  lyre.  The  lyre  of  Pindar  who  be- 
luuged  to  the  .-Eolian  division  of  the  Greek  race. 
See,  also,  p.    163,  A  Pindaric  Ode,  note. 

3.  Helicon.     See  244.    15.   note. 

9.  Ceres'  golden  reign.  Fields  ruled  by  Ceres, 
goddess  of  grain  and   harvest. 

17.  On  Thracia's  hills,  etc.  Thrace  was  thought 
to  be  a  favorite  haunt  of  Mars. 

21.  the  feathered  king.  Jove's  eagle,  symbolical 
of  the  thunderbolt. 

27.  Idalia.  An  ancient  town  in  Cyprus  conse- 
crated to  Venus. 

29.  Cytherea's  Day.  The  day  for  the  worship  of 
Venus. 

401.  53.  Hyperion's 
66.  Delphi's  steep. 

See  450.   517,  note. 

68.  llisstis.     A      small 
Athens. 

69.  Mceander.     The  river  Maeander  in  .As 
83—94.  Shakspere. 

95—102.   Milton. 

112.  what    daring   spirit,    etc.     Gray    himself. 

115.  the  Theban  Eagle.  '  Pindar  compares  him- 
self to  that  bird,  and  his  enemies  to  ravens  that 
croak  and  clamor  in  vain  below,  while  it  pursues  its 
flight,  regardless  of  their  noise.'     (Gray.) 

THE  BARD 

'  The  following  ode  is  founded  on  a  tradition 
current  in  Wales,  that  Edward  the  First,  when  In- 
completed the  conquest  of  that  country,  ordered  all 
the  bards  that  fell  into  his  hands  to  be  put  to  death.' 
(Gray.)  '  The  massacre  of  the  bards  is  a  mere 
fable.'     (J.  R.  Green.) 

402.  a.  5.  Hauberk's  twisted  mail.  A  close-titting 
shirt  of  steel   ringlets. 

8.   Cambria.     Wales. 

II.  Snowdon-.  The  highest  mountain  in  England 
or  Wales.  The  name  applies  also  to  the  mountain- 
ous tract  of  which  this  peak  is  a  part. 

13.  Closter.  'Gilbert  de  Clare,  surnamed  the 
Red,  Earl  of  Gloucester  and  Hertford,  son-in-law 
to    King    Edward.'     (Gray.) 

14.  Mortimer.  '  Edmond  de  Mortimer,  Lord  of 
Wigmore.     A   Lord  Marcher.'      (Gray.) 


larcli.     The    sunrise. 

The   seat   of  the  (ireek  oracle. 


stream      flowing      through 


Minor. 


I074 


NOTES 


28.  high-born  Hod.  Son  of  Prince  Owain 
Uwyneild     of    north     Wales.     A     warrior    and     poet. 

Llewellyn,  possibly  Llewellyn  ap  Jorwerth,  the 
Welsh   leader,  is  meant. 

29.  Ctnlwallo.      A    common    Welsh    bardic    name. 
31.    Uricn.      A     Welsh     warrior     and     bard     of    the 

sixth    century. 

33.  Modrcd.     No   bard    of   this    name    is   known. 

34.  Plinlimmon.  A  mountain  on  the  border  of 
Cardigan    and    Montgomery,    in    Wales. 

35.  Arvon's  shore.  The  shores  of  Caernarvon 
shire  opposite  Anglesey.     (Gray.) 

54-56.  When  Severn  ...  an  agonizing  King. 
Edward  II  was  murdered  in  Berkeley  castle  in  Sep- 
tember,   1327. 

57.  She-lVolf  of  France,  etc.  Isabel  of  France, 
Edward  the   Second's  adulterous  queen. 

59-66.   King  Edward  III. 

67.   the   sable    Warrior.     The    Rlack    Prince. 

71-82.  Reign  of  Richard  II. 

403.  85.  Long  years  of  havoc.  Wars  of  the  Roses. 
87.  Towers  of  Julius.  The  Tower  of  London,  ac- 
cording to  tradition,  built  by  Julius  Caesar.  See 
Shakspere's  Richard  HI,  iii,  i.  There  is  no  author- 
ity to  confirm  the  trad'tion.  (Wheatley  and  Cun- 
ningham:    London  Past   and  Present.) 

89.  his  Consort's  faith.     Margaret  of  Anjou. 

his  father's  fame.     The  military  glory  of  Henry  V. 

90.  the  meek  Usnrl^cr's  holy  head.  Henry  VI 
was  noted  for  his  piety. 

93.  The  bristled  Boar.  The  insignia  of  Richard 
III. 

infant  gore.     Of  the  murdered  princes. 

110.  ye  genuine  Kings.  The  Tudor  line,  begin- 
ning with  Henry  VII. 

Ill— 124.   The  reign  of  Queen   Elisabeth. 

121.  Taliessin.  Cymric  bard  of  the  sixth  cen- 
tury. 

125-27.   Spenser. 

128-30.    Shakspere. 

131-34.  Milton  and  succeeding  poets. 

THE  FATAL  SISTERS 
Written  in  1761.  The  text  of  the  poem  from 
which  Gray  derived  these  stanzas  may  be  found, 
with  a  prose  translation,  in  Corpus  Poeticuni 
Boreale,  Vol.  I,  pp.  281-83.  It  is  an  Icelandic 
poem  of  the  eleventh  century  celebrating  an  invasion 
of  Ireland  by  a  Norse  hero,  Sictrygg,  who  was  as- 
sisted by  Sigurd,  Earl  of  the  Orkneys.  Sigurd  and 
Brian,  the  Irish  king,  fall  in  the  battle.  The 
Valkries  are  imagined  weaving  the  web  of  battle. 
The  title  of  the  original  is  Darradar-Liod  [Lay  of 
Ihe  Darts]. 

404.  8.   Orkney's  woe.     The  woe  of   Sigurd,    Earl   of 
Orkney. 

Randver's  bane.  Direct  from  the  original.  Rand- 
ver's  destruction. 

17-31.  Mista  .  .  .  Sangrida  .  .  .  Hilda 
Gondula  .  .  .  Geira.  The  names  of 
the  Valkyries  in  the  original  are  Hilda,  Hiorthrimol, 
Sangrida,   and   Swipol. 

44.  Soon   a   King,   etc.     Brian,    King   of    Dublin. 

45.  Eirin.     Ireland. 

62.  falchion.  A  short  sword,  bellied  near  tlic 
tip. 


JOHNSON:     TIIK   LIFE  OF  ADDISON 

406.  (I.  25.  the  Cliarticux.  Originally  a  Carthusian 
monastery  iu  l.diid.in.  Endowed  in  1611  as  a  hos- 
pital and  boys'  school.  Usually  known  as  the  Char- 
terhouse. 

b.   36.  Boilcau.      See  347.   b.    18,  note. 
:i7.  says     Tickcll.     Thomas     Tickell      (]6S6-i74o). 
Addison's     friend     and     elegist,     contributed     a     bio- 
giai)hical    preface    to    the    collective   edition    of   Addi- 
son's   works    published    by    Jacob    Tonson    in    1721. 

411.  a.  44.  Cihber.  In  his  .-Ifologv  for  the  Life  of 
.Mr.    Collcy    Cibbcr    (1740). 

/'.   40.   '  heavily       in       clouds       .       .       .       day.' 
Ouoted   from  the  opening  lines  of   Cato. 

48.   The  Distressed  Mother.     See  342.   a.    16.  note. 

412.  a.  I.  Bolingbrokc.  Henry  St.  John,  N'iscount 
Bolingbroke,    the    Tory    leader. 

2.   Booth.     Barton   Booth    (1681-1733),   who  played 
Cato. 

13.   Mrs.  Porter.     An   excellent  actress  who  played 
the    [lart   of    Lucia. 

414.  a.  54.  Milton  against  King  Charles  IL  De- 
fense of  England  against  Satmasius,  Chap.  viii. 

b.    I.   Oldmixon,      John      (1653-1742),      has      a 
prominent   place   in    Pope's   Dunciad. 

417.  a.  38.  Chesterfield.  Philip  Stanhope,  Earl  of 
Chesterfield  (1694-1773).  For  Johnson's  relations 
with    him,   see   p.    420   and    note. 

b.   13.   Terence.     Publius    Terentius    Afer,    Ro- 
man comic  poet  of  the  second  century  B.  C. 

Catullus,    Caius    X'alerius.     Brilliant    Roman    poet, 
contemporary  with  Julius  Caesar. 

418.  b.  23.  Mandcville,  Bernard  (1670-1733),  au- 
thor of  Fable  of  the  Bees. 

419.  a.  35.  '  above  all  Greek  .  .  .  fame.'  Pope, 
To  .4ugustus,  26. 

44-5.   '  turned      many      to      righteousness.'      Dan. 
1.2,    3- 

b.  24.  Mitle     .     .     .     habet.      Tibullus 
14. 


LETTERS 


"( 


To  the  .  .  .  Earl  of  Chesterfield.  Of  the  oc- 
casion of  this  famous  letter  Johnson  said  to  Boswell: 
'  Sir,  after  making  great  professions,  he  had,  for 
many  years,  taken  no  notice  of  me;  but  when  my 
Dictionary  was  coming  out,  he  fell  a  scribbling  in 
The  World  about  it.  L'pon  which,  I  wrote  him  a 
letter  expressed  in  civil  terms,  but  such  as  might 
shew  him  that  I  did  not  mind  what  he  said  or 
wrote,  and  that  I  had  done  with  him.'  (Hill's  Bos- 
well,  I,   301.) 

420.  a.  8.   the    proprietor    of    The     World.     Edward 
Moore,    an    old    acquaintance    of   Johnson's. 

46.   The  shepherd  in   Virgil.     Eclogue  viii,   43,  ff. 

58.  till  I  am  solitary.  Johnson's  wife  had  died 
three  years  before. 

b.  22.  Mr.  James  Macpherson.  Johnson  had 
publicly  declared  that  the  poems  of  Ossian  which 
Macpherson  claimed  to  have  translated  from  the 
Gaelic  were  forgeries.  Macpherson  threatened  phys- 
ical vengeance  and  this  celebrated  letter,  Johnson 
said,  '  put  an  end  to  our  correspondence.' 


NOTES 


1075 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES 

421.  n.  Wolsey.  This  passage  is  largely  based  on 
the  picture  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  in  Shakspere  and 
I'letcher's    Henry    VIII. 

422.  68.  Swedish  Charles.  Charles  XII  (1682- 
171 8),  defeated  by  Peter  the  Great,  at  Pultowa,  July 
8,    1709.     Killed  at   Frederikshald,   Norway. 


JAMES   BOSWELL:     THE   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON 

423.  a,  38.  The  accession  of  George  the  Third. 
October  25,    1760. 

b.  56.  Mr.    Thomas    Sheridan.     The    father    of 
the  dramatist,  Richard   Brinsley  Sheridan. 
425.  a.  39.   Collins.      See  p.    386. 

428.  a.   7-8.  Messieurs  Thornton,   Wilkes.  Churchill, 
and   Lloyd.     Wits   of  the   time  all   of  whom   except 
Wilkes    had    been    members,    with   William    Cowper, 
of  the  Nonsense  Club. 
430.  a.  57.  Colley    Cibber.     Poet   laureate,    1730-57. 

b.  24.   Whitehead,  William  (1715—85).     He  suc- 
ceeded Cibber  as  poet  laureate. 

41-2.  His  Ode  which  begins,  etc.  The  Bard.  See 
p.   402. 

432.  a.  33.  Dr.    Goldsmith.     See   below,   p.   463. 
b.  51.  Mr.  Burke.     See  below,  p.  443. 

54.  Mr.  Malone.  Edmond  Malone  (1741— 181-'), 
the  great  Shakspere  scholar,  assisted  Boswell  in  pre- 
paring the  Life  of  Johnson   for  the  press. 

433.  a.  35.  A^i7ij7  quod  tctigit,  etc.  Inaccurate  and 
often  quoted  in  this  form.  Johnson  wrote  Qui 
nullum  fere  scribendi  genus  non  tetigit,  nullum 
quod  tetigit  non  ornavit.  [Who  left  hardly  any 
species  of  writing  untouched  and  touched  none  that 
he  did  not  adorn  it.] 

54.  un  etourdi,  a  rattle-head. 
b.   15.  Fantoccini,  puppets. 

434.  a.  3.  Mrs.  Piozzi.  Formerly  the  wife  of 
Henry  Thrale  (d.  1781),  one  of  Johnson's  most  inti- 
mate friends.  She  published  Anecdotes  of  Dr. 
Johnson  (1786),  Letters  to  and  from  Dr.  Johnson 
(1788). 

Sir  John  Hawkins.  A  member  of  Johnson's 
Club,  published  a  Life   in   1787. 

b,  24.  Miss    Williams.     One    of    the    many    re- 
cipients of  Johnson's  eccentric  charity. 
436.  b.  42.  Dr.    Adam   Smith    (1723-1790).     Author 
of   The  Wealth  of  Nations. 

438.  b.  5.  The  Old  Swan,  Swan  Stairs.  The 
landing  here  and  the  walk  to  Billingsgate  beyond 
London  Bridge  were  made  in  order  to  avoid  the 
risk  of  '  shooting  the  bridge.' 

439.  b.  27.  Turk's  Head  coffee-house.  In  the 
Strand.  Johnson  said,  on  an  earlier  occasion,  '  I 
encourage  this  house,  for  the  mistress  of  it  is  a  good 
civil  woman  and  has  not  much  business.'  See  be- 
low,  p.   440. 

442.  b.  18.  Bishop  Berkeley's  ingenious  sophistry. 
In  his  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge   (1710), 


BURKE:     SPEECH  FOR  CONCILIATION 

444.  a.  14.  Sensible,    concrete,    such    as    the    senses 
can  perceive. 

445.  b.  7.  Gothic,    We  should   say   Teutonic. 


34.  Blackstone's  Commentaties.  The  great  law 
treatise  published  (i  765-1 769)  by  Sir  William 
Blackstone. 

35.  General  Gage.  Governor  of  Massachusetts, 
1774. 

446.  a.  I.  Abeunt  studia,  etc.  Compare  Bacon,  199. 
b.  36,  and  note. 

with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head.  Hamlet  I, 
V.  79. 

447.  a.  25.  Lord  Dunmore.  Governor  of  New 
York,   and   later  of  Virginia. 

448.  b.  10-11.  'Increase  and  multiply.'  Inaccurate. 
See  Gen.   i,  22  and  28. 

449.  a.  II.  Spoliatis  arma  supersunt.  Juvenal,  Sat. 
viii,   124. 

55.  advocates  and  panegyrists.  For  example,  Dr. 
Johnson  in  Ta.vation  no  Tyranny. 

b.  39-41.  ye  gods  annihilate,  etc.  This  piece 
of  bombast  has  never  been  traced  beyond  The  Art 
of  Sinking  Poetry,  by  Arbuthnot,  Swift,  and  Pope, 
where  it  is  ostensibly  quoted. 

450.  a.  18.  Sir  Edward  Coke.  Public  prosecutor  in 
1603,  when  Raleigh  was  tried.  See,  also,  326,  b. 
26,   note,     the  very   same   title.     Popular  election. 

451.  a.   19.  juridical,   abstractly   legal. 

b.  37-39-  Serbonian  bog,  etc.  Milton,  Para- 
dise Lost  II,  592—4. 

41.  such  respectable  company.  Ironical  equivoke, 
in  allusion  to  Milton's  Satan. 

452.  b.  12.  the  repeal  of  a  Revenue  Act.  The 
Stamp  Act,   repealed    1766. 

GIBBON:     THE  DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF  THE 
ROMAN  EMPIRE 

The  extract  is  from  Chapter  Ixviii  of  the  De- 
cline and  Fall.  It  presents  the  first  grand  culmina- 
tion of  Gibbon's  massive  study,  the  fall  of  the  east- 
ern empire.  The  remaining  three  chapters  of  the 
last  volume  deal  with  the  disintegration  of  the  em- 
pire in  Italy  from  the  eleventh  to  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. Other  striking  passages  are  the  accounts  of 
Petrarch  and  of  Rienzi,  Chapter  Ixx,  and  the 
'  Prospect  of  the  Ruins  of  Rome  in  the  Fifteenth 
Century,'    Chapter   Ix.xi. 

453.  b.  3.  Phranza.  The  minister  and  friend  of 
the  Emperor  Constantine. 

454.  a.  57.  seven  times  in  one  day.  Near  an  hun- 
dred years  after  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  the 
French  and  English  fleets  in  the  Channel  were  proud 
of  firing  300  shot  in  an  engagement  of  two  hours. 
(Gibbon.) 

b.  18.  fascines,  bundles  of  sticks. 

455.  a.  14.  Justiniani.  John  Justiniani,  'a  noble 
Genoese,'  was  in  command  of  2,000  '  strangers.' 

30.  generosity,  spirit. 

455.  b.  54.  The  passions  of  his  soul,  etc.  I  must 
confess  that  I  have  before  my  eyes  the  living  pic- 
ture which  Thucydides  (i.  vii.  c.  71)  has  drawn 
of  the  passions  and  gestures  of  the  Athenians  in 
a  naval  engagement  in  the  great  harbor  of  Syracuse. 
(Gibbon.) 

456.  b.  I.  the  divan.  The  Turkish  council  of 
state. 

457.  a.  10-12.  the  boasted  miracle  .  .  .  our 
own    times.     I    particularly   allude   to   our   own    em- 


1076 


NOTES 


barkatioiis    011    the    lakes    of    Canada,    in    the    years 
1776  and   1777,  so  great  in  the  labor,  so  fruitless  in 
the  event.     (Gibbon.) 
457.  b.    18.   Gabours.     Unbelievers. 

51.  bashaws,  dignitaries,   here  probably  generals. 

52.  Janizaries.  Members  of  the  central  standing 
army  of  the  Sultan. 

57.  oda,  the  unit  of  janizary  organization. 

459.  a.  22.  sanjaks   were,   formerly,   bashaws  of   the 
rank   entitled   to   wear   one   horse-tail. 

47.  attaballs,    oriental    tambours. 

460.  a.  20.  Cantacticeiic.     Myzantine      emperors      of 
the   fourteenth  century. 

50.  Chosrocs.  Khusrau  I,  a  powerful  Persian 
king  of  the  sixth   century. 

the  Chagan,  the  Khan.  The  Tartar  regal  title. 
The  reference  here  is  to  Jenghiz  Khan,  who  con- 
quered central  Asia  and  threatened  Europe  early  in 
the  thirteenth   century. 

the  caliphs.     Successors  of  Mohammed. 

b.  48.  Ducas.  A  Byzantine  historian  who  was 
an  eye  witness  of  the  first  siege  of  Constantinople. 
His  history   was  first  printed  at  Paris  in   1649. 

461.  b.  40.  ducats.     The   ducat,   as  a  money   of   ac- 
count, was  about  two  dollars  and  thirty  cents. 

462.  b.  35.  imam.     The     officiating     priest     in     Mo- 
hammedan  worship. 

36.  nomas.  The  canonical  prayer  of  the  Mos- 
lems. 

4J.  the  great  Constantinc.  Constantine  I  (272- 
337)  transferred  the  seat  of  the  Roman  Empire  in 
the  year  330  to  Byzantium,  which  was  thereafter 
known  as  Constantinople. 

GOLDSMITH:  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

The   system   of  en- 


Altamaha 


464.  39.  One   only   master,  etc. 
closures  is   referred  to. 

468.  344.  wild     Altama.     The     river 
Georgia,  U.  S.  A. 

469.  418.   Torno's   cliffs.     Lake   Tornea  in   northern 
Sweden. 

Pambamarca's  side.     A  mountain   in   Ecuador. 

THE  RETALIATION 
I.  Edmund.     Edmund   Burke.     See   p.   445. 
6.   Tommy   Townshend.  '  Thomas   Townshend,   Vis- 
count Sidney    (i  733-1 780),  a  prominent  whig  states- 
man. 

15.  David      Garrick,      the     actor.     See     Boswell's 
Johnson,  p.  427. 


COWPER:     THE  TASK 

472.  112.  The  Sabine  bard.  Horace,  Sat.  ii,  6,  65. 
O  nodes  coenaeque  Deum  [O  nights  and  suppers  of 
the  gods]. 

475.  354.  Indian   fume.     Tobacco    smoke. 

356.  Lethean,  oblivious.  From  Lethe,  the  river 
of  oblivion. 

388.  Midas,  etc.  According  to  the  Greek  myth, 
by  a  grant  of  Dionysus,  whatever  he  touched  turned 
to  gold. 

476.  396.  Arcadian  .  .  .  Maro  sings.  Virgil  in 
his  Eclogues. 

397.  Sidney.     See  p.  81. 


453-  Tiiyrus.  A  shepherd  in  the  first  Eclogue  of 
Virgil. 

469.  Coxvley.     See  p.   183. 

474.   Chcrtsey's  silent  bowers.     A  village  in  Surrey 
not   far   from   London.     Here  Cowley  spent  his   last 
years. 
477.  511.  The   Frenchman's   darling.     Mignonette. 

ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  PIC- 
TURE 

Written  in  1788.  Cowper's  mother  died  in  1737, 
when  he  was  little  more  than  six  years  of  age;  yet 
fifty  years  afterward  he  wrote,  '  Not  a  week  passes 
(perhaps  I  might  with  equal  veracity  say  a  day) 
in  which  I  do  not  think  of  her.  The  picture  which 
suggested  this  poem  was  sent  to  him  '  out  of  Nor- 
folk,'  by   his   cousin  Anne   Bodham. 

ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 
The  Royal  George  was  the  flagship  of  Rear-Ad- 
miral Kempenfelt.  While  being  refitted,  off  Spit- 
head,  she  heeled  and  went  down  with  crew  and  ad- 
miral aboard,  Aug.  29,  1782.  Tlie  poem  was  prob- 
ably written  the  same  year,  though  not  published  un- 
til after  Cowper's  death.  The  meter  was  determined 
by  a  tune  which  Cowper  had  in  mind  and  the  poem, 
therefore,    must   be   regarded   as   a   ballad. 

GEORGE  CRABBE:     THE  VILLAGE 

480.  12.  Corydons.  Conventional  shepherds  of  pas- 
toral poetry,  from  a  character  of  this  name  in 
Virgil's  Eclogues. 

15.  Mincio's  banks.  See  below,  18.  Cccsar's 
bounteous  reign.     The   reign   of  Augustus. 

16.  //  Tityrus  found  the  Golden  Age  again. 
Virgil,  in  his  Eclogues,  particularly  Eclogue  11'. 

18.  Mantuan  song.  Mantua,  situated  on  an  island 
in   the   river  Mincio,   was   the  home  of   \'irgil. 

481.  27.  honest  Duck.  Possibly  Stephen  Duck,  a 
poor  thresher  who  was  patronized  by  Queen  Caro- 
line, wife  of  George  II.  He  is  mentioned  by  John- 
son in  his  Life  of  Savage  (Lives,  London,  i8ji. 
Vol.  II,  p.   149). 

97.  Ajax.     Homer's  '  strong  man.' 
484.  303.  '  passing   rich    with   forty   pounds   a   year.' 
Goldsmith's  Deserted    I'illage,    142.   See  p.  463. 

330.  the  moping  ozvl.  Compare  Gray's  Elegy,  10, 
p.  398. 

ROBERT  BURNS:     MARY  MORISON 

The  subject  of  this  song  (written  in  1781)  was 
Ellison  Begbie.  Burns  proposed  marriage  to  her  and 
was   refused. 

490.  5.  bide,  await,   endure,     stoure,   dust,   struggle. 
13.  braw,   fine,   handsome. 

SONG:     MY  NANIE,  O 
Written   in    1782. 

491.  I.   Lugar,   fanciful   for   Stinchar. 
5.  shill,   shrill,   keen. 

7.  plaid,    highland    shawl    or    wrap. 

15.  gowan,   daisy. 

21.  penny-fee,  wages  paid  in  money. 

23.  gear,   stuff,   wealth. 

25.  guidman,   master. 


NOTES 


1077 


SONC:     GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHKS 
Written  in    1783. 
I,  rashes,  rushes. 

13.  cannie,  well  considered,  clever. 
17.   douce,  solemn. 

19.    The  wisest   vian,  etc.      Solomon. 

LINES  TO  JOHN  LAPR.MK 

Written  in  1785.  The  recipient  of  the  verses  was 
a  rustic  wit  and  poet  of  local  reputation.  When 
they  were  written  Burns  was  still  unknown  to  the 
world  and  ([uite  unaware  <jf  the  greatness  of  his 
own  gift. 

14.  horns,   probably    ink-horns. 
i6.  sairs,  serves. 

17.  shoals,   shovels. 

18.  knappiti-hammers.  Hammers  for  breaking 
slone. 

19.  hashes,   fools,   weak-minded   persons. 
_M.  slirks,  yearling  steers. 

23.  syne,  afterwards. 

TO  A  MOUSE 

Written   in    1785. 

492.  4.  brattle,  sudden  sound  or  scamper. 
6.  pattle,  paddle  for  scouring  the  plow. 
13.  whyles,  at  times. 

15.  daimen  icker,  occasional  ear.     throve,  '  shock.' 
17.  lave,  remainder. 

21.  big,  build. 

22.  foggage,  aftermath. 

34.  but,   without. 
40.  a-gley,  awry. 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Written  in   1785. 

23.  ingle,   chimney-corner. 
26.  kiaugh,  worry. 

28.  Belyve,   soon,   c^irectly. 

30.  ca,    drive.     Literally,   call. 

31.  toun,  a  farm  with  its  collection  of  buildings. 

493.  34.   braxi'.     See  490.    13. 

35.  sair-won,  hard-earned. 
38.  spiers,  inquires. 

40.   uncos,    news. 

44.  Gars,  causes,  makes. 

48.  eydcnt,  attentive. 

49.  jatik,   trifle,   '  soldier.' 
62.   hafflins,   halfway,    partly. 
67.  cracks,  chats,   holds  forth. 
69.  blate,  bashful,  embarrassed. 

92.  halesome  parritch,  healthful  porridge  (oat- 
meal). 

93.  sowpe,  liquid. 

94.  hallan',   partition. 

96.  zveli-hain'd  kcbbuck  fell,  well-saved  cheese, 
and  ripe. 

494.  99.  towmond,    twelve    month,     lint.    flax,     bell, 
blossom. 

105.  lyart   haffets,  grayish  temples. 
107.  wales,    chooses. 

111-113.  Dundee's,  .  .  .  Martyrs,  ...  El- 
gin,    Sacred  melodies. 


'33-I3S-  Wo;i'  he,  who  lone  in  Fatinos,  etc.  John. 
See   Revelation. 

138.  Pope's  H'indsor  Forest,   112,  is  quoted. 
495.   166.  Pope's  Essay  on   Man,  iv,  248. 

182.  Wallace's  undaunted  heart.  Sir  William 
Wallace,  one  of  the  chief  national  heroes  of  Scot- 
land, maintained  a  sturdy  resistance  to  England  for 
several  years  at  the  close  of  the  13th  century,  but 
was  finally  captured  and  executed  at  London  in 
1305. 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL 
Written  the  winter  of   1784-5. 

495.  1-2.  Imitated  from  the  opening  of  Pope's  Dun- 
ciad. 

2.  Clootie.     Cloot  is  hoof. 

5.  Spairgcs,  splashes,     cootie,  foot-tub. 

II.  skelp,   slap. 

15.  lowin  heugh.  flaming  cavern   (gully). 

17.  lag,   slow.     Compare  verb,   to  lag  behind. 

18.  blate.  See  493.  69,  note,  scaur,  scary,  tim 
orous. 

22.   Tirlin,   stripping,     kirks,  churches. 
30.  eldritch,   uncanny,   elvish. 

32.  douce,  sober. 

33.  boortrees,  elder  bushes. 
38.  sklentin,  slanting. 

40.  lough,  lake,  pond. 

41.  rush-buss,  bush   of  rushes. 
43.  «4?ii,'e,  fist. 

45.  stoor,  harsh, 

49.  warlocks,  wizards. 

50.  ragweed  nags.  Horses  fed  on  ragweed,  hence 
neglected,   wild. 

54.  howket,  dug  up. 
56.   kirn,  churn. 

59.  dawtet,  petted.  Twal-pint  haivkie,  twelve-pint 
white  face.  The  Ayrshire  breed  of  cattle  has  white 
markings. 

60.  yell 's  the  bill,  dry  as  the  bull. 

496.  62.  crouse,  bold. 

64.  cantrip,    maliciously    magical. 

69.  water-kelpies.  Malevolent  water-spirits  in  the 
form  of  black  horses.  Compare  the  '  White  Horses  ' 
of  Ibsen's  Rosinersholin. 

73.  spunkies,  will-o-the-wisps. 

91.  sneck-drawin,  latch-lifting,  intruding. 

93.   brogue,  trick. 

gj.  bizs,  bustling  hurry. 

98.  reeket,  smoky,     reestet  gizz,  singed  face. 

1 01.  the  man  of  Uz.     Job.     See  i,  i. 

107.  lows' d,    let    loose,     scaul,    scold. 

108.  ava,  of  all. 

113.  ding,  knock,  be  too  much  for.     Lallan,  Low- 
land. Erse   (strictly,  Irish  not  Gaelic). 
117.  linkin,   skipping. 
119.  jinkin,  dodging. 

1 23.  aiblins,  possibly. 

124.  hae  a  stake,  have  something  to  gain. 

A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 
Written  in   1786. 

3.  blate,  see  493.  b.  69,  note,  snoot,  snivel, 
cringe. 

5.  dool,  sorrow. 


1078 


NOTES 


OF  A'   THE   AIRTS   THK   WIND   CAN   BLAW 

Written    in    1788. 
497.   I.  airts,  quarters,  directions. 

3.  bonie,  winsome.  This  favorite  Scotch  word 
combines  the  ideas  of  good,  good-looking,  and  good- 
tempered. 

5.  row,  roll. 

8.  my  Jean.     Jean  Armour,  Burns's   wife. 
14.  show,  grove,  woodland  dell. 

GO  FETCH  TO  ME  A  PINT  O'  WINE 

Written  in   1788. 
2.  tassie,  goblet. 

4.  bonie,  see  above,  3,  note. 

5.  Leith,  the  port  of  Edinburgh. 

7.  Berivick-law.  Berwick  hill,  a  landmark  to  sea- 
men cruising  in  that  region. 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 
Written  in  1788.  The  phrase  auld  lang  syne' 
was  an  ancient  one  and  there  were  other  songs  em- 
bodying it,  the  first  line  of  the  poem,  and  the  tune, 
when  Burns  took  them  up.  His  version  of  the  song 
is  immeasurably   superior   to   any   which   preceded   it. 

9.  pint-stowp,  flagon,  drinking  vessel. 

13.  braes,   hill-sides. 

14.  gowans,  see  491.  15,  note. 

15.  fit,  foot. 

17.  paidl't  i'  the  burn,  dabbled  in  the  brook. 
21    fier,  comrade. 
23.  wa^lght,  draught. 

JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO 
Written  in   1789. 

I.  jo,  sweetheart. 

4.  brent,   straight,   steep,   firm. 
7.  pow,  poll,  head. 

II.  canty,  cheerful. 

TAM  GLEN 

Written  in  1789. 

I.  tittie,  sister. 

5.  braw,   handsome,  fine. 

6.  poortith,  poverty,     fen',  shift. 

9.  laird,  landlord, 

10.  ben,  the  interior  of  the  house. 

I I,  siller,   money. 

498.   13.  ininnie,  mother,     deave,  deafen,  bother  with 
noise. 

17.  giti,  if   (given). 

18.  marks,  silver   coins,   each  worth   26   2-3   cents. 

19.  ordain' d,  a  humorous  allusion  to  the  prevalent 
Scotch  belief  in   foreordination. 

22.  sten,   bounce. 

25.  waitkin,  watching,  keeping  awake   over. 

26.  tny  dronkit  sark-sleeve.  Drenched  sleeve  of 
my  chemise. 

28.  breeks,  breeches. 

TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN 
The  subject  of  this  poem  was  Mary  Campbell 
and  the  parting  described  took  place  in  the  spring 
of  1788.  Mary  died  the  following  autumn  and  the 
poem  was  written  on  the  first  anniversary  of  her 
death,   after   a   night   of  agitated   recollection. 


TAM  O*  SHANTER 

Written    in    1790. 

498.  1.   chapnuin    billies,   ptddlcr   fellows. 

4.  tali    the    gate,    leave    town,    take    the    road,    go 
home. 

5.  nappy,  ale. 

6.  unco,  very. 

7.  lang    Scots    miles.     The    ancient    Scottish    mile 
was  1,976  yards. 

8.  slaps,   openings. 

16.   bunie,  see  497.  a.   3,   note. 

19.  skelliim,  scamp. 

20.  blcllum,  '  loud-mouth,'  '  blow-hard.' 

23.  ilka  melder,  every  grist. 

24.  siller,  497.   6.    11,  note. 

25.  ev'ry   naig,   etc.     Every    horse   that    was   shod. 
ca'd,  driven. 

28.  Kirkton,  the  village  near  any  church. 

30.  Doon,    a    charming    little    river    near    Burns's 
birthplace.     Compare  Bonie  Doon,  p.  501. 

31.  warlocks,  see  495.  b.  49,  note. 
33.  gars  me  greet,  makes  me  grieve. 
39.  ingle,  see  492.  23,  note. 

499.  40.  reamin  swats,   foaming  ale. 
41.  S outer,  cobbler. 

65.  like,   as. 

81.  skelpit,  clattered,     dub,  puddle. 
86.  bogles,  goblins. 

93.  whins,   boulders,   basaltic   rocks,     cairn,    stone- 
heap. 

103.  bore,  crevice. 

107.  tippenny,  twopenny  ale. 

108.  usquebae,   whiskey. 
110.  o  boddle,  a  copper. 

116.  brent-new,  brand  new. 

117.  strathspeys,    Scotch    dances    with    a    peculiar 
catch  in  the  time. 

119.  winnock  bunker.     Window  box,   bench. 
121.  towsie  tyke,  touseled  cur. 

123.  gart  them  skirl.     Made  them  shriek. 

124.  dirt,  tingle. 

127.  cantraip  sleight.     Magic  trick.     Compare  496. 
64  and  note. 

131.  aims,  irons. 
134.  gab,  mouth. 

500.  147.   cleekit,  linked. 

148.  carlin,  fellow,     rcckit,  smoked. 

149.  duddics,  duds,  clothes. 

150.  linket  at  it.     Went  at  it  energetically,     sark, 
chemise. 

151.  queans,  wenches. 

153.  creeshie,  greasy. 

154.  seventeen-hunder  linen.     Very  fine  linen. 

155.  Thir  breeks.     These  breeches. 

157.  hurdles,   hips. 

158.  burdies,  brides,  girls. 
160.  walie,  vigorous. 

162.  Carrick  shore. 

165.  corn,    wheat,     bear,   barley. 

167.  cutty  sark,  short,  under-dress.     Paisley  ham, 

coarse  linen. 

170.  vauntie,   vain. 

172.  coft,   bought. 

173.  I'i'a  pnnd  Scots.     The  pound   Scots  was  one- 
twelfth   cf  the   English   pound   sterling. 


NOTES 


1079 


182.  hotch'd,  hitched. 
184.  tint,   lost. 

189.  fyke,  fuss. 

190.  byke,   nest. 

191.  pussie,  the  hare. 

196.  eldritch.     See  495.  30,   note. 

197.  fairin,  reward,  a  present  from  the  fair. 

209.  ettle,  intention. 

210.  wist,  knew. 

WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK  O'  MALT 
Written  in  1789. 

1.  Willie,  William  Nichol,  a  schoolmaster. 

2.  Rob  and  Allan  came  to  sec.  r>urns  ami  Allan 
Masterton  celebrated  the  occasion  by  composing  this 
song,  Masterton  contributing  the  music. 

8.  tree,  brew. 
14.  lift,  sky. 

A  WINTER  NIGHT 
Written  in   1786. 

I.  Boreas,  the  north  wind,     doure,  grim, 

501.  4.  lift,  see  above,  14. 

9.  burns,  brooks. 

II.  backed,  poured  with  a  rush. 

13.  winnocks,   windows. 

14.  ourie,  drooping. 

15.  brattle,  clamor.     Compare  492.  4,  note. 

17.  deep-lairing,   foundering.     S prattle,  sprawl. 

18.  scaur,  scar,  jutting  rock. 
23.  chittering,  shivering. 

HIGHLAND  MARY 
Written  in   1792.     See  To  Mary  in  Heaven,  498. 
note.  • 

I.  braes.     See  note  to  Auld  Lang  Syne,  497.  13. 
9.  birk,  birch. 

BONIE  DOON 
Written  in  1791.     There  are  three  versions  of  this 
poem,  of  which  this  is  the  second  and  best. 

1.  bonie,  see  497.  3,  note.  Doon,  see  498.  30, 
note. 

6.  bough,  pronounced  in  Scotch  fashion  this  rimes 
perfectly  with  '  true,'  below. 
12.  wist,  Imew. 

19.  sraw,  stole. 

DUNCAN  GRAY 

Written  in  1792.  Like  many  of  Burns's  songs  of 
this  period  it  is  an  old  Scotch  ditty  completely  trans- 
formed by  his  rehandling.  Of  its  tune,  he  wrote, 
'  Duncan  Gray  is  a  light-horse  gallop  of  an  air 
which  precludes  sentiment.' 

2.  o't,  of  it. 

5.  hiegh,  high. 

6.  asklent,  askance,     skeigh,  skittish. 

7.  Gart,  made,     abiegh,  aside,  aloof. 
9.  fieech'd,  flattered. 

II.  Ailsa  Craig,  a  small  rocky  island  in  the  Firth 
of  Clyde. 

502.  14.  Grat    his    e'en,    etc.     Wept    his    eyes    both 
bleared  and  blind. 

15.   lowpin.    leaping.     Linn,    waterfall. 

17.   but  a  tide.  That  is,  they  ebb  and  flow. 

19.  sair,  sore,  hard,     bide,  bear,  endure. 


31.  sic,   such. 

38.  smoor'd,  smothered. 

39.  crousc,  brisk,     ccnilic,  cheerful. 

SCOTS  VVUA  HAE 

Written  in  1793.  In  1314,  100,000  Englishmen 
under  Edward  II  were  met  on  the  field  of  Ban- 
nockburn  by  Robert  Bruce  with  30,000  Scots. 
Hruce's  force  was  overwhelmingly  victorious.  Burns 
'  threw  into  a  kind  of  Scotch  ode '  what  Bruce 
might  be  supposed  to  have  said  '  on  that  eventful 
morning.' 

I.   Wallace.     See  495.    182,  note. 

22.  Liberty  's  in  every  blow.  By  this  victory  the 
Scotch  achieved  their  independence. 

A  MAN  'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 
Written  in  1795.  Burns  was  strongly  republican 
in  his  sentiments.  His  burning  sense  of  personal 
worth  as  opposed  to  the  privileges  of  station  are 
best  expressed  in  this  piece  which  he  called  '  no 
song,   but  .     .     two   or   three   pretty   good   prose 

thoughts  put  into   rime.' 

7.  guinea's  stamp.  That  is,  merely  the  statement 
of  its  value  which  is  intrinsic. 

8.  gowd,  gold. 

10.  hodden-gray,  coarse   woollen   cloth,   undyed. 

17.   birkie,   fine   fellow. 

20.  coof,    stupid    lout. 

28.   mauna  fa'  that.     Cannot  accomplish  that. 

36.  gree,  prize. 

WORDSWORTH:     PREFACE    TO    LYRICAL 
BALLADS 

This  preface,  in  which  Wordsworth  sets  forth  his 
theory  of  poetry,  was  prefixed  to  the  second  edi- 
tion of  Lyrical  Ballads  in  1800,  and  enlarged  and 
modified  in  subsequent  issues  to  the  shape  in  which 
it  is  here  given. 

504.  b.  27-9.  Catullus  (87-47  B.C.),  Terence  (c. 
195-158  B.C.)  and  Lucretius  (95-55  B.C.)  belong 
to  the  earlier  or  classical  period  of  Roman  poetry; 
Statins  (61-96  A.  D.)  and  Claudian  (fl.  c.  400 
A.  D.)  to  the  later  or  '  Silver  Age.' 
510.  b.  26.  Shakspere  hath  said.  Hamlet  IV,  iv,  37. 
513.  a.  5.  Clarissa  Harlowe  (1748),  Richardson's 
novel. 

6.  The  Gamester  (1753).  A  tragedy  by  Edward 
Moore  portraying  the  horrors  of  gambling. 

THE  PRELUDE 

This  poem  is  so  called  because  it  was  intended  to 
be  introductory  to  a  great  philosophical  poem 
Wordsworth  planned  on  retiring  to  the  Lake  Dis- 
trict in  1799,  'with  the  hope  of  being  enabled  to 
construct  a  literary  work  that  might  live.'  As  a 
preliminary  it  seemed  to  him  a  reasonable  thing 
■  that  he  should  take  a  review  of  his  own  mind,  and 
examine  how  far  Nature  and  education  had  qualified 
him  for  such  an  employment.  The  philosophical 
poem  was  to  be  divided  into  three  parts,  and  only 
one  of  these,  The  Excursion,  was  ever  finished.  But 
the  introductory  work,  in  which  Wordsworth  '  un- 
dertook to  record,  in  verse,  the  origin  and  progress 
of  his  own  powers,  as  far  as  he  was  acquainted  with 


io8o 


NOTES 


tlieni,"  was  completed  in  1805,  although  it  was  not 
published  till  1850,  after  the  poet's  death,  when  it 
was  given  the  title,  The  Prelude,  or  Groivth  of  a 
Poet's  Miinl;  an  Autobiographical  Poem.  Our  ex- 
tract is  taken  from  Book  I,  which  was  begun  at 
Goslar,  in  Germany,  and  finished  in  the  first  year 
or  two  of  Wordsworth's  settlement  at  Grasinere. 
Lines  101-163  were  published  in  1809  in  Coleridge's 
periodical  The  Friend.  The  whole  poem  was  ad- 
dressed to  Coleridge  as  a  dear  friend,  most  dis- 
tinguished for  his  knowledge  an<l  genius,  and  to 
whom  the  author's  intellect  is  deeply  indebted.' 
516  2-4.  Wordsworth  was  born  at  Cockermouth, 
in  Cumberland,  and  in  his  ninth  year  was  sent  to 
Hawkshead  Grammar  School  in  the  N'ale  of 
Esthwaite. 

10.  springes,  snares.  Hamlet  I,  iii,  115:  'Ay, 
springes  to  catch  woodcocks.' 

26.  the  cultured  I 'ale,  identified  by  Professor 
Knight  with  the  neighbouring  valley  of  Yewdale. 

I.  object,  what  we  aimed  at.  end,  what  actually 
resulted. 

40.  Dust  as  tve  are,  in  spite  of  our  mortal  bodies. 
57.  her.  Nature. 

^3.  elfin  pinnace,  fairy  bark.  The  '  craggy  ridge  ' 
was  probably  Ironkeld,  the  '  huge  peak  '  behind  it 
Wetherlam;  but  there  are  other  ridges  and  peaks 
about  Esthwaite  answering  to  Wordsworth's  descrip- 
tion. A  similar  impression  may  be  obtained  by 
rowing  out  into  any  lake  surrounded  by  ridges  with 
higher  mountains  behind  them.  It  is  the  moral  and 
spiritual  interpretation  of  the  impression  that  is 
Wordsworth's  own. 

80.  struck  with  the  oars. 
517.   101-163.  When     Wordsworth    published     these 
lines  in  1809  he  gave  them  the  title  Growth  of  Genius 
from  the  Influence  of  Natural  Objects  on  the  Imag- 
ination in  Boyhood  and  Early   Youth. 

101-114.  The  nominative  of  this  whole  sentence 
is  'thou,'  referring  to  the  '  Wisdom  and  Spirit  of 
the  universe,'  addressed  in  the  opening  lines;  the 
verb  is  'didst  intertwine';  and  lines  108-114  are 
an  extension  of  this  predicate.  By  intertwining  the 
passions  with  Nature,  the  Divine  Spirit  purifies  and 
ennobles  them;  the  very  emotions  of  pain  and  fear, 
awakened  by  contact  with  Nature,  gain  a  touch  of 
Nature's  grandeur. 

133-7-  What  is  meant  exactly  by  'shod  with 
steel '  and  '  games  confederate  '  ? 

143.  an  alien  sound.  The  weird  echo  from  the 
distant  hills  seemed  to  come  from  another  world. 
150.  reflex,  the  reflection  of  a  star  in  the  ice. 
155.  spinning  still.  To  the  swift  skater,  aided  by 
the  wind,  the  banks  seem  tc  be  moving  in  th'^  con- 
trary direction,  and  their  motion  seems  to  continue 
for  a  moment  or  two  even  after  he  has  stopped, 
the  mental  impression  being  retained. 

LINES  COMPOSED  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY 

Wordsworth  wrote  of  this  poem,  originally  pub- 
lished in  Lyrical  Ballads: — 'No  poem  of  mine  was 
composed  under  circumstances  more  pleasant  for  me 
to  remember  than  this.  I  began  it  upon  leaving 
Tintern,  after  crossing  the  Wye,  and  concluded  it 
just  as  1  was  entering  Bristol  in  the  evening,  after 
a   ramble   of    four    or   live  days   with   my    sister.      Not 


a  line  of  it  was  alkicd,  and  not  any  jiart  of  it 
written  down  till  I  reached  I'.ristol.' 

The  importance  of  this  poem  as  an  illustration  of 
Wordsworth's  view  of  Nature  has  been  already 
touched  on  in  the  Introduction;  but  it  cannot  be 
urged  too  strongly.  Myers  says: — 'To  compare 
small  things  with  great  —  or,  rather,  to  compare 
gieat  things  with  things  vastly  greater  —  the  essen- 
tial sjiirit  of  the  Lines  near  Tintern  Abbey  was  for 
practical  purposes  as  new  to  mankind  as  the  essen- 
tial spirit  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  Not  the 
isolated  expression  of  moral  ideas,  but  their  fusion 
into  a  whole  in  one  memorable  personality,  is  that 
which  connects  them  for  ever  with  a  single  name. 
Therefore  it  is  that  Wordsworth  is  venerated;  be- 
cause to  so  many  men  —  indifferent,  it  may  be,  to 
literary  or  poetical  effects,  as  such  —  he  has  shown 
by  the  subtle  intensity  of  his  own  emotion  how  the 
contemplation  of  Nature  can  be  made  a  revealing 
agency,  like  Love  or  Prayer  — ■  an  opening,  if  in- 
deed there  be  any  opening,  into  the  transcendent 
world.' 

518.  1—2.  Wordsworth's  earlier  visit  was  made, 
alone  and  on  foot,  in   1793. 

3—5.  The  Wye  Valley,  above  Tintern  Abbey,  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  river  scenery  in  Eng- 
land. Although  only  a  few  miles  from  the  sea,  the 
stream  is  free  from  the  influence  of  the  tide;  and 
rocks,  meadows,  and  wooded  cliffs  combine  to  make 
the  scene  one  of  romantic  loveliness. 

23-50.  The  memory  has  been  a  consolation  to  the 
poet  amid  the  noise  and  loneliness  of  city  life  (23- 
31);  it  has  given  him,  too,  feelings  of  pleasure, 
which  he  no  longer  remembers,  but  which,  he  is 
sure,  have  had  their  influence  on  his  moral  char- 
acter (31-36);  and,  finally,  when  perplexed  by  the 
mysteries  of  human  life,  he  has  been  uplifted  by 
the  recollection  of  Nature's  loveliness  to  a  mood, 
in  which  the  soul,  endowed  with  spiritual  insight, 
penetrates  beyond  material  things  to  the  secret  of 
life,  and  sees  with  joy  the  divine  harmony  underly- 
ing the  apparent  contradictions  of  the  world  (36- 
50). 

56.  Have  oppressed  my  spirits. 

66-111.  Wordsworth  in  this  passage  distinguishes 
three  periods  in  his  relation  to  Nature.  In  the 
first.  Nature  merely  offered  opportunity  for  boyish 
pleasures,  such  as  bird-nesting,  rowing,  and  skat- 
ing, described  in  the  extract  from  The  Prelude;  in 
the  second  he  took  delight  in  the  forms  and  colors 
of  the  woods  and  mountains  and  the  sound  of  the 
waterfalls  —  a  delight  of  ey  and  ear  only,  for  he 
was  as  yet  insensible 

to  the  moods 
Of  time  and  season,  to  the  moral  power. 
The   affections  and   the   spirit   of  the   place. 

In  the  third  period,  Nature  had  a  moral  and  spir- 
itual significance  and  helped  liim  to  understand  the 
mystery  of  human  life.  The  best  commentary  is 
a  passage  in  The  Prelude  (Book  VIII,  340-356),  in 
which  he  sets  forth  the  same  succession  of  his  de- 
light in  Nature  —  first,  animal,  second,  sensuous: 
third,  moral   and   contemplative. 

519.  90-104.  In  this,  which  we  have  called  the 
moral     or     contemplative     period,     Wordsworth     sees 


NOTES 


1081 


every  object  in  Nature  as  pervaded  by  the  Spirit 
of  tlod.     The  Prelude,  Cook  II,  396-409. 

108.  Wordsworth  noted  the  resemblance  of  this 
line  to  Young's  Night-Thoughts,  in  which  it  is  said 
that  '  Our  senses,  as  our  reason,  are  divine,"  '  And 
half-create   the  wondrous   world   they  see.' 

no.  In  nature  as  revealed  and  interpreted  by  the 
senses. 

114-122.  Dorothy  Wordsworth  was  a  little 
younger  than  her  brother,  and  even  in  her  child- 
hood was  a  refining  influence  in  his  life.  See  what 
he  writes  of  her  in  Tlie  Sparroiv's  Nest,  p.  5J7. 
From  childhood  they  were  separated  until  they  were 
both  over  twenty,  when  Dorothy  became,  not  only 
her  brother's  constant  companion  and  helper,  but  a 
hallowing   influence   in   the   crisis   of   his   life. 

128.   inform,   mold,   inspire. 

152.  Of  past  existence,  of  my  own  past  life.  Cf. 
119-123. 

STRANGE  FITS  OF  PASSION 
This  and  the  four  following  poems  belong  to  what 
is  known  as  the   '  Lucy  '   group   of   lyrics,   written  in 
(iermany  in   1799.     Nothing  is  known  of  the  English 
maiden    so    beautifully    and    devoutly    enshrined;    she 
may    have   existed    only  in    the    poet's   imagination. 
520.  2.  Dove,  a  river  in  the  English  Midlands. 
6.  diurnal  course,   daily   revolution. 

MICHAEL 
This  poem  was  written  in  Oct.-Dec,  1800, 
largely  at  the  sheep-fold  in  Green-head  Ghyll,  round 
which  the  subject  is  centered.  Wordsworth  said  to 
Mr.  Justice  Coleridge  that  there  was  some  founda- 
tion in  fact,  however  slight,  for  every  poem  he  had 
ever  written  of  a  narrative  kind.  '  Michael  was 
founded  on  the  son  of  an  old  couple  having  become 
dissolute,  and  run  away  from  his  parents;  and  on 
an  old  shepherd  having  been  seven  years  in  build- 
ing up  a  sheep-fold  in  a  solitary  valley.'  He  wrote 
en  another  occasion:  — '  In  the  two  poems.  The 
Brothers  and  Michael,  I  have  attempted  to  draw  a 
picture  of  the  domestic  affections,  as  I  know  they 
exist  amongst  a  class  of  men  who  are  now  almost 
confined  to  the  north  of  England.  They  are  small 
independent  proprietors  of  land,  here  called  '  states- 
men,' men  of  respectable  education,  who  daily  labor 
on  their  own  little  properties.  The  domestic  affec- 
tions will  always  be  strong  amongst  men  who  live 
in  a  country  not  crowded  with  population,  if  these 
men  are  placed  above  poverty.  Dut  if  they  are 
jii  oprietors  of  small  estates  which  have  descended  to 
them  from  their  ancestors,  the  power  which  these 
affections  acquire  amongst  such  men  is  inconceivable 
by  those  who  have  only  had  an  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving hired  laborers,  farmers,  and  the  manufac- 
turing poor.  Their  little  tract  of  land  serves  as  a 
kind  of  permanent  rallying  point  for  their  domestic 
feelings,  as  a  tablet  on  which  they  are  written, 
which  makes  them  objects  of  memory  in  a  thousand 
instances,  when  they  would  otherwise  be  forgotten. 
It  is  a  fountain  fitted  to  the  nature  of  social  man, 
from  which  supplies  of  affection,  as  pure  as  his  heart 
was  intended  for,  are  daily  drawn.  This  class  of 
men  is  rapidly  disappearing.* 


MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  I   BEHOLD 

Wordsworth  adopted  the  last  three  lines  of  this 
little  poem  (written  in  1802)  as  the  motto  of  the 
great  Ode  on  Immortality,  which  was  begun  about 
a  year  later.  '  Piety  '  is  used  in  its  original  sense 
of  '  reverence,  affection.'  The  meaning  is  that  the 
man  should  cherish  the  love  of  Nature  he  feels  as 
a  child,  so  that  it  may  be  a  continuous  inspiration, 
running  through  all  his  life.  The  sense  in  which 
•  the  child  is  father  of  the  man  '  is  explained  more 
fully  in  the  Ode.     (See  p.  535.) 

THE  SPARROW'S  NEST 
Written  at  Grasmere  in  1801.  The  nest  was  in 
the  hedge  of  the  garden  at  Cockermouth  in  which 
William  and  Dorothy  Wordsworth  played  as  chil- 
dren. In  the  poem  as  originally  composed,  1.  9 
read:  'My  sister  Dorothy  and  I.'  As  to  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  see  note  on  Tintern  Abbey,  ]  14-122, 
above. 

RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE 
Written  at  Grasmere,  1802.  '  This  old  man  I 
met  a  few  hundred  yards  from  my  cottage;  and  the 
account  of  him  is  taken  from  his  own  mouth.  I 
was  in  the  state  of  feeling  described  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  poem,  while  crossing  over  Barton  fell 
fiom  Mr.  Clarkson's,  at  the  foot  of  I'llswater,  to- 
wards Askham.  The  image  of  the  hare  I  then  ob- 
served on  the  ridge  of  the  fell.'  (Wordsworth's 
note.) 

528.  12.  plashy,  marshy,  swampy,  boggy. 
43.  Chattcrlon.  See  pp.  ^77  and  390. 
45.  Hitn.     Burns.     See  p.  490. 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

Written  1802.  The  poem  refers  either  to  Dor- 
othy Wordsworth  or  to  Mary  Hutchinson  —  prob- 
ably to  the  former. 

530.  17.  a  Lapland  night.  In  the  far  north  at  a 
certain  season  of  the  year  the  sun  does  not  sink  be- 
low the  horizon.  The  winter  nights  are  often  calm 
and  still. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 
Suggested  to  Wordsworth  by  the  following  sen- 
tence in  the  MS.  of  his  friend  Wilkinson's  Tours 
to  the  British  Mountains:  'Passed  a  female  who 
was  reaping  along;  she  sang  in  Erse,  as  she  bended 
over  her  sickle;  the  sweetest  human  voice  I  ever 
heard;  her  strains  were  tenderly  melancholy,  and 
felt  delicious  long  after  they  were  heard  no  more.' 

YARROW  UN\TSITED 

'  At  Clovenfor<l.  being  so  near  to  the  Yarrow,  we 
could  not  but  think  of  the  possibility  of  going 
thither,  but  came  to  the  conclusion  of  reserving  the 
jjleasure  for  some  future  time,  in  consequence  of 
which,  after  our  return,  William  wrote  the  poem 
which  I  shall  here  transcribe.' —  From  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  Recollections  of  a  lour  made  in 
Scotland,    1803. 

When  Scott  sent  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 
to  Wordsworth,  the  latter  returned  a  copy  of  these 
verses   by    way   of   acknowledgment.     Scott   in   reply 


io8i 


NOTES 


said:  'I  by  no  means  admit  your  apology,  how- 
ever ingeniously  and  artfully  stated,  for  not  visit 
ing  the  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow,  and  certainly  will 
not  rest  until  I  have  prevailed  upon  you  to  com- 
pare the  ideal  with  the  real  stream.  ...  I  like 
your  swan  upon  St.  Mary's  Lake.  How  came  you 
to  know  that  it  is  actually  frequented  by  that  su- 
perb bird?  ' 

Wordsworth  subsequently  complained  that  Scott 
in  one  of  his  novels  mis-quoted  lines  43-44  of  this 
poem,  printing  '  swans  '  instead  of  '  swan.'  ITe 
added  '  Never  could  I  have  written  "  swans  "  in  the 
plural.  The  scene,  when  I  saw  it  with  its  still  and 
dim  lake,  under  the  dusky  hills,  was  one  of  utter 
loneliness:  there  was  one  swan,  and  one  only,  stem- 
ming the  water,  and  the  pathetic  loneliness  of  the 
region  gave  importance  to  the  one  companion  of 
that  swan,  its  own  white  image  in  the  water.  It 
was  for  that  reason  that  I  recorded  the  Swan  and 
its  Shadow.  Had  there  been  many  swans  and  many 
shadows,  they  would  have  implied  nothing  as  re- 
gards the  character  of  that  place:  and  I  should  have 
said  nothing  about  them.' 

530.  6.  Marrow,   companion.     Dorothy   Wordsworth. 
20.  lintwhites,  linnets,   small   singing  birds. 

33.  holms,  flat  and  low-lying  pieces  of  ground  by 
a  river,  surrounded  or  submerged  in  time  of  flood. 

531.  37.  Strath,   valley. 

SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT 
The    subject    of    this    poem,    written    in     1804,    is 

Mary    Hutchinson,    whom    Wordsworth    had    married 

two  years  before. 

22.  machine.     This  word  has  been  objected  to  as 

unpoetical.     But  cf.  Hamlet  II,  ii,   124:   'whilst  this 

machine  is  to  him?' 

I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 
Wordsworth  says:  'The  daffodils  grew  and  still 
grow  on  the  margin  of  Ullswater,  and  probably  may 
be  seen  to  this  day  as  beautiful  in  the  month  of 
March,  nodding  their  golden  heads  beside  the  danc- 
ing and  foaming  waves.' 

Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal  has  the  following 
entry  under  April  15,  1802:  'When  we  were  in 
the  woods  beyond  Gowbarrow  Park  we  saw  a  few 
daffodils  close  to  the  water-side.  ...  As  we 
went  along  there  were  more,  and  yet  more;  and,  at 
last,  under  the  boughs  of  the  trees,  we  saw  there 
was  a  long  belt  of  them  along  the  shore.  .  .  . 
I  never  saw  daffodils  so  beautiful.  They  grew 
among  the  mossy  stones,  about  and  above  them; 
some  rested  their  heads  on  these  stones  as  on  a  pil- 
low for  weariness;  and  the  rest  tossed,  and  reeled, 
and  danced,  and  seemed  as  if  they  verily  laughed 
with  the  wind  that  blew  upon  them  over  the  lake. 
They  looked  so  gay,  ever  glancing,  ever  changing.' 
21—2.  These  lines,  said  by  Wordsworth  to  be  the 
best  in  the  poem,  were  contributed  by  his  wife. 
For  the  thought  of  this  stanza  cf.  Tintcrn  Abbey, 
lines  23-36. 

TO  A  SKY-LARK 
Cf.    Shelley's    poem    with    the    same    title    (p.    627) 
and   Meredith's   The  Lark  Ascending    (p.  960). 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS 

There  are  two  Peele  Castles,  one  in  the  Isle  of 
Man,  the  other  on  the  coast  of  Lancashire.  The 
latter  is  the  one  referred  to  in  the  poem,  Words- 
worth being  known  to  have  spent  a  four-weeks'  va- 
cation  in    its  neighborhood. 

ODE  ON  IMMORTALITY 
Of  this  poem  the  very  highest  opinions  have  been 
expressed  by  competent  judges.  Principal  Shairj) 
says  it  '  marks  the  highest  limit  which  the  tide  of 
poetic  inspiration  has  reached  in  England  .  .  . 
since  the  days  of  Milton.'  It  is,  therefore,  worthy 
of  the  most  careful  study.  The  best  help  to  under- 
standing it  is  given  in  Wordsworth's  own  note:  — 
'  This  was  composed  during  my  residence  at  Town- 
end,  Grasmere.  Two  years  at  least  passed  between 
the  writing  of  the  four  first  stanzas  and  the  remain- 
ing part.  To  the  attentive  and  competent  reader 
the  whole  sufficiently  explains  itself;  but  there  may 
be  no  harm  in  adverting  here  to  particular  feelings 
or  experiences  of  my  own  mind  on  which  the  struc- 
ture of  the  poem  partly  rests.  Nothing  was  more 
difficult  for  me  in  childhood  than  to  admit  the  no- 
tion of  death  as  a  state  applicable  to  my  own  being. 
I  have  said  elsewhere:  — 

A  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 
What  should  it  know  of  death? 
But  it  was  not  so  much  from  feelings  of  animal 
vivacity  that  tny  difficulty  came  as  from  a  sense 
of  the  indomitableness  of  the  spirit  within  me.  I 
used  to  brood  over  the  stories  of  Enoch  and  Elijah, 
and  almost  to  persuade  myself  that,  whatever  might 
become  of  others,  I  should  be  translated,  in  some- 
thing of  the  same  way,  to  heaven.  With  a  feeling 
congenial  to  this,  I  was  often  unable  to  think  of 
external  things  as  having  external  existence,  and  I 
communed  with  all  that  I  saw  as  something  not 
apart  from,  but  inherent  in  my  own  immaterial 
nature.  Many  times  while  going  to  school  have  I 
grasped  at  a  wall  or  tree  to  recall  myself  from  this 
abyss  of  idealism  to  the  reality.  At  that  time  I 
was  afraid  of  such  processes.  In  later  periods  of 
life  I  have  deplored,  as  we  have  all  reason  to  do,  a 
subjugation  of  an  opposite  character,  and  have  re- 
joiced over  the  remembrances,  as  is  expressed  in 
the  lines:  — 

Obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings,  etc. 
To  that  dream-like  vividness  and  splendor  which 
invest  objects  of  sight  in  childhood,  every  one,  I 
believe,  if  he  would  look  back,  could  bear  testimony, 
and  I  need  not  dwell  upon  it  here;  but  having  in 
the  poem  regarded  it  as  presumptive  evidence  of  a 
prior  state  of  existence,  I  think  it  right  to  protest 
against  a  conclusion,  which  has  given  pain  to  some 
good  and  pious  persons,  that  I  meant  to  inculcate 
such  a  belief.  It  is  far  too  shadowy  a  notion  to 
be  recommended  to  faith  as  more  than  an  element 
in  our  instincts  of  immortality.  But  let  us  bear  in 
mind  that,  though  the  idea  is  not  advanced  in  reve- 
lation,  there   is   nothing   there   to   contradict   it,   and 


NOTES 


1083 


the  fall  of  man  presents  an  analogy  in  its  favour. 
Accordingly,  a  pre-existent  state  has  entered  into  the 
popular  creeds  of  many  nations,  and,  among  all  per- 
sons acquainted  with  classic  literature,  is  known  as 
an  ingredient  in  Platonic  philosophy.  Archimedes 
said  that  he  could  move  the  world  if  he  had  a  point 
whereon  to  rest  his  machine.  Who  has  not  felt  the 
same  aspirations  as  regards  the  world  of  his  own 
mind?  Having  to  wield  some  of  its  elements  when 
I  was  impelled  to  write  this  poem  on  the  "  Immor- 
tality of  the  Soul,"  I  took  hold  of  the  notion  of 
pre-existence  as  having  sufficient  foundation  in  hu- 
manity for  autliorizing  me  to  make  for  my  purpose 
the  best  use  of  it  I  could  as  a  poet.' 

Wordsworth's  view  of  childish  reminiscences  of  a 
previous  existence  was,  however,  probably  not  sug- 
gested by  Plato,  but  by  the  seventeenth  century  poet 
Vaughan,  in  Childhood  and  The  Retreat.  .See  p. 
.85. 

534.  4.  Cf.  lines  4-5  of  the  Sonnet  Composed  upon 
fVestminsler  Bridge  (p.  538),  and  Elegiac  Stancas 
14-16  (p.  532). 

13.  bare,  of  clouds. 

535.  21.  tabor,   a   small   drum. 

22.  a  thought  of  grief,  the  thought  expressed  in 
the  last  two  lines  of  the  preceding  stanza. 

26.   wrong,  offend  by  lack  of  sympathy. 

28.  the  fields  of  sleep,  '  from  the  dark  beyond  the 
dawn,'  or  possibly  '  from  the  sleeping  [i.e.,  quiet] 
fields.' 

40.  coronal,  garland. 

56-7.  Cf.  lines  4-5  and  note  above. 

72.  Nature's  Priest,  the  Minister  and  Interpreter 
of  the  Divinity. 

8i.  homely,  humble  —  in  contrast  with  the  glories 
of  man's  divine  origin. 

85—9.  Probably  suggested  by  the  sight  of  Hartley 
Coleridge,  to  whom  Wordsworth  addressed  a  poem 
To  H.  C.  Six  Years  Old,  beginning:  'O  thou! 
whose    fancies    from    afar    are    brought.' 

102—7.  Referring  to  Shakspere's  well-known  lines 
in  As  You  Like  It,  II,  vii,  139-166,  '  All  the  world  's 
a  stage,'  etc. 

536.  112.  the  eternal  deep,  the  deep  mysteries  of 
eternity. 

126  earthly  freight,  'burden  of  earthly  cares.' 
(Webb.) 

132.  fugitive,    evanescent,    quickly    disappearing. 

14 1-5.  Professor  Bonamy  Price,  walking  one  day 
with  Wordsworth  by  the  side  of  Rydal  Water,  asked 
him  the  meaning  of  these  lines:  — '  The  venerable 
old  man  raised  his  aged  form  erect;  he  was  walk- 
ing in  the  middle,  and  passed  across  me  to  a  five- 
barred  gate  in  the  wall  which  bounded  tlie  road  on 
the  side  of  the  lake.  He  clenched  the  top  bar  (irmly 
with  his  right  hand,  pushed  strongly  against  it,  and 
then  uttered  these  ever-memorable  words,  "  There 
was  a  time  in  my  life  when  I  had  to  push  against 
something  that  resisted,  to  be  sure  that  there  was 
anything  outside  of  me.  I  was  sure  of  my  own 
mind;  everything  else  fell  away  and  vanished  into 
thought."  Thought  he  was  sure  of;  matter  for  him, 
at  the  moment,   was  an  unreality.' 

181.  primal  sympathy,  the  child's  intuitive  sym- 
pathy   with    Nature. 

183-4.   Cf.   Tintcrn  Abbey,  lines  92-5    (p.   518). 


185.   through,   beyond. 

189.  yet,   still,   even   now. 

196-9.  The  sunset  has  no  longer  '  a  celestial  light, 
the  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream,"  but  sug- 
gests serious  reflections  to  the  Man  who  has  pon- 
dered on  the  issues  of  Life  and  Death.  The  poet's 
final  thought  is  that  acquaintance  with  the  world, 
while  rf)bbing  Nature  of  its  tirst  glory,  increases  its 
significance  by  awakening  sympathy  with  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  humanity.  Professor  Dowden  has 
well  observed  that  the  last  two  lines  of  the  Ode  are 
'  often  <iuoted  as  an  illustration  of  Wordsworth's  sen- 
sibility to  external  nature;  in  reality,  they  testify  to 
his  enriching  the  sentiment  of  nature  with  feeling 
derived  from  the  heart  of  man  and  from  the  ex- 
perience of  human  life.' 

NUNS  FRET  NOT 

537.  3.  pcnsii'e   citadels,    refuges   in   which    they   can 
think,  secure  from   interruption. 

6.  Furness-fells,  the  hills  of  the  district  of  Furness, 
in  or  near  which  Wordsworth  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life. 

8-9.  Cf.  Lovelace,  To  Althca  from  Prison,  p.   182. 

PERSONAL  TALK,  III 

13.  Desdemona   in   Othello. 

14.  See  Spenser  Faery  Queen,  11.  27  flf.    (p.    no). 

COMPOSED   UPON   WESTMINSTER   BRIDGE 

Wordsworth  appears  to  have  been  mistaken  as  to 
the  date  he  assigned  to  this  sonnet,  which  was  writ- 
ten when  he  left  London  for  Dover  on  his  way  to 
Calais  early  in  the  morning  of  July  30th,  1802.  The 
following  is  the  entry  in  his  sister's  diary  under  that 
date:  '  Left  London  between  five  and  six  o'clock 
of  the  morning  outside  the  Dover  coach.  A  beauti- 
ful morning.  The  city,  St.  Paul's,  with  the  river  — 
a  multitude  of  little  boats,  made  a  beautiful  sight  as 
we  crossed  Westminster  Bridge;  the  houses  not 
overhung  by  their  clouds  of  smoke,  and  were  spreail 
out  endlessly;  yet  the  sun  shone  so  brightly,  with 
such  a  pure  light,  that  there  was  something  like  the 
purity  of  one  of  Nature's  own  grand  spectacles.' 

IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING 

538.  9.  Dear  Child!     Dorothy  Wordsworth. 

12.  Abraham's  bosom.  In  the  presence  of  God. 
See  Luke  xvi,   22. 

ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

1—2.  At  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century  the 
Venetians,  with  the  help  of  France,  captured  Con- 
stantinople, and  added  to  their  dominions  a  large 
part  of  the  Eastern  Empire.  They  protected  West- 
ern Europe  from  the  incursions  of  the  Turks  for 
centuries. 

4.  Venice  was  founded  in  the  fifth  century  in  the 
marshes  of  the  Adriatic  by  inhabitants  of  tlie  main- 
land who  fled  before  the  conquering  Huns  under 
Attila. 

7-8.  The  Venetians  having  protected  Pope  .Mex- 
ander  III  against  the  German  Emperor,  whom  they 
defeated  in  a  sea  fight  in  11 77,  the  Pope  gave  the 
Doge  a  ring  and  bade  him  wed  with  it  the  .\driatic 
tliat   posterity  might  know  that  the  sea  was  subject 


1084 


NOTES 


to  Venice,  '  as  a  bride  is  to  her  husband.'  The 
ceremony  was  observed  annually  by  a  solemn  naval 
procession,  after  which  the  Doge  threw  a  ring  into 
the  sea. 

9-14.  Venice  was  rubbed  of  much  of  her  power 
in  1508  by  the  League  of  Cambrai,  but  the  real  cause 
of  her  decay  was  the  discovery  of  the  New  World 
which  made  the  Atlantic  the  highway  of  trade  in 
stead  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  shifted  the  com 
mercial  center  from  Italy  to  England  and  Holland 
The  Republic,  however,  remained  free  and  inde 
pendent,  though  greatly  enfeebled,  until  1797,  when 
Austria  and  France  divided  its  territory  between 
them.  N'enice  remained  under  Austrian  dominion 
Cexcept  for  brief  intervals)  until  it  became  a  part 
of  the  kingdom  of  Italy  in   1866. 

TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 

This  sonnet  was  written  in  August,  180.-,  when 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  the  liberator  of  St.  Do- 
mingo, was  lying  in  prison  at  Paris,  where  he  died 
a  few  months  later.  He  was  born  in  1743,  the  child 
of  African  slaves,  and  showed  great  political  and 
military  ability;  but  he  was  unable  to  resist  the 
French  fleet  sent  against  him  by  Napoleon,  who  re- 
established slavery  in  the  island  in   1801. 

TO  THE  MEN  OF  KENT 

Written  when  Britain  was  in  fear  of  a  Napoleonic 
invasion. 

539.  4.  hardiment,  hardihood,  courage. 

540.  10.  from  the  Norman,  at  the  battle  of  Hastings, 
1066. 

ON   THE   SUBJUGATION   OF   SWITZERLAND 

Switzerland  was  conquered  by  the  French  in  1798, 
and  three  of  its  cantons  were  annexed  to  the  Re- 
public. The  sonnet  appears  to  have  been  suggested 
by  the  Act  of  Mediation,  by  which  Napoleon  ar- 
ranged for  the  government  of  Switzerland  in  1803; 
he  became  Emperor  a  few  months  afterwards,  and  at 
the  time  the  sonnet  was  written  had  made  himself 
master  of  Europe,  England  alone  having  resisted  him 
successfully.  It  was  the  attack  upon  the  liberties  of 
Switzerland  which  gave  the  final  blow  to  the  French 
sympathies  of  both  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  and 
united  them  with  their  fellow-countrymen  in  antago- 
nism to  Napoleon, 

THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US 

13-14.  Proteus  and  Triton  were  sea-deities  in  the 
old  Greek  mythology.  Wordsworth  means  that  he 
would  rather  be  a  heathen  with  some  sense  of  the 
Divinity  in  Nature  than  a  professed  Christian  whose 
heart  is  so  given  to  the  pursuit  of  wealth  and 
worldly  ambition  that  he  is  out  of  harmony  with  the 
beautiful  sights  and  sounds  of  land  and  sea. 

THE  RIVER  DUDDON 

This  is  the  concluding  sonnet  of  a  beautiful  series 
which  Wordsworth  wrote  under  the  above  title. 
The  Duddon  is  a  small  stream  which  rises  on  the 
borders  of  Westmoreland,  Cumberland,  and  Lanca- 
shire, and  flows  into  the  Irish  Sea. 


KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL 

This  beautiful  chapel  was  built  by  Henry  VI  for 
the  scholars  of  the  College,  which  up  to  a  few  years 
ago  was  reserved  to  students  from  Eton. 

CONTINUED 

541.  4.   Westminster  Abbey. 

8.  younger  Pile.  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  built  by 
Sir  Christopher  Wren  in  the  seventeenth  ':entury. 
It  is  a  more  modern  structure  than  the  Abbey,  and 
contains  the  ashes  of  many  rreat  men  for  whom 
room  could  not  be  found  in  the  older  national 
burial  place.  It  is  surmounted  by  a  great  dome  and  ■ 
cioss. 

ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

This  was  the  journey  which  Scott  took  in  the 
hope  of  recovery  from  what  proved  to  be  his  last 
illness.     Abbotsford,  on  the  Tweed,  was  his  home. 

3.  Eildon,  three  hills  near  Abbotsford,  famous  in 
Scottish   legend. 

14.  Parlhcnope,  one  of  the  Sirens,  said  to  be 
burned  at  Naples. 

'THERE!'  SAID  A  STRIPLING 

'  Mossgiel  was  thus  pointed  out  to  me  by  a  young 
n;au  on  the  top  of  the  coach  on  my  way  from  Glas- 
gow  to    Kilmarnock.'      (Wordsworth's   note.) 

9.  bield,  lodging,  dwelling,  place  of  shelter. 

CONCLUSION 

This  and  the  former  sonnet  were  among  the 
'  Poems  composed  or  suggested  during  a  tour  in  the 
summer  of  1833,'  published  two  years  later. 


COLERIDGE:     BIOGRAPIIIA  LITERARIA 

543.  a.  24.  The  Friend.  A  periodical  published  by 
Coleridge  in   1809-10. 

544.  b.  37.  stamp  tax,  levied  at  this  time  upon  all 
newspapers  and  weekly  periodicals. 

39.  a  war  against  freedom,  against  France. 
54.  ad   normam   Platonis,  after  the  rule  of  Plato, 
the   Greek   philosopher. 

KaT'eficpaaiv,  in  appearance  rather  than  reality. 

545.  a.  26.  pingui-nitescent,   shining  with   fat. 
b.   I.  Phileleutheros,  lover  of  freedom. 

31.  ambrosial,  heavenly. 

546.  a.  19.  Orpheus,  the  musician  of  classical  my- 
thology whose  strains  "persuaded  even  stones  and 
trees  to    follow   him. 

24.  illuminati,  illuminated  or  inspired  ones. 

547.  a.  I.  Jacobinism,  revolutionary  principle.  Ja- 
cobin means,  originally,  a  friar  of  the  order  of  St. 
Dominic.  Hence  one  of  a  faction  in  the  French 
revolution,  so  called  from  the  Jacobin  club,  which 
first  met  in  the  hall  of  the  Jacobin  friars  in  Paris, 
Oct.   1789. 

8.  The  Watchman  ran  from  March  i  to  May  13, 
1796. 

30.  text  from  Isaiah.  '  My  bowels  shall  sound 
like  an  harp.'     xvi,   1 1. 

36.  psilosophy.     See  544.  b.  57. 


TTOTES 


1085 


46.  gagging  bills.  The  bills  introduced  into  Par- 
liament to  restrict  public  meetings  and  the  freedom 
of  the  prec_3. 

b.  I.  melioration,  improvement. 

21,  a  dear  friend.     Thomas  Poole. 

29.  first  revolutionary  war,  against  the  French 
revolutionists. 

44.  Stozvcy.     In  Somersetshire. 

46.  inorning  patter.     The  Post. 
548.  a.  2Z.  a  poet.     Wordsworth  came  to  Stowey  in 
July,   I797- 

53.  Quidnunc,  an  idle  gossip,  continually  asking 
'  what  now?  ' 

55.  Dogberry,  the  pompous,  ignorant  constable  of 
Much  Ado   about  Nothing. 

57.  pour  surveillance  of,  to  exercise  supervision 
over. 

b  i%.  Spy  No.:y,  the  great  Jewish  philosopher 
Spinoza  (.1632—1677),  in  whose  teaching  Wordsworth 
and   Coleridge  were   greatly  interested. 

26.  a  remarkable  feature,  a  red  nose. 

652.  a.  3.  Anacrcon,   Greek   lyric   poet   of  the   sixth 
century  B.  C. 

b.  34.  Bishop  Taylor.     See  p.  221. 
35.  Burnet     (1635-1715),    a    distinguished    philos- 
opher and  divine.     His  Sacred  Theory  of  the  Earth 
is  a  fanciful  and  ingenious  speculation. 

653.  a.  47.  Sir  John  Davics  (i57o-i6-'6). 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 
The  circumstances  under  which  this  poem  was 
written  and  published  have  been  already  related  (see 
p.  503).  Some  further  particulars  of  the  sugges- 
tions made  by  Wordsworth  may  here  be  given,  from 
his  own  account: 

'  In  the  autumn  of  1797  Mr.  Coleridge,  my  sister 
and  myself  started  from  Alfoxden  pretty  late  in 
the  afternoon  with  a  view  to  visit  Linton  and  the 
Valley  of  Stones  near  to  it;  and  as  our  united 
funds  were  very  small,  we  agreed  to  defray  the  ex- 
pense of  the  tour  by  writing  a  poem,  to  be  sent  to 
the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  Accordingly  we  set  off 
and  proceeded  along  the  Quantock  Hills  towards 
Watchet;  and  in  the  course  of  this  walk  was  planned 
the  poem  of  the  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  founded  on  a 
dream,  as  Mr.  Coleridge  said,  of  his  friend  Mr. 
Cruikshank.  Much  the  greatest  part  of  the  story 
was  Mr.  Coleridge's  invention,  but  certain  parts  I 
suggested. 

'  For  example,  some  crime  was  to  be  committed 
which  should  bring  upon  the  Old  Navigator,  as  Cole- 
ridge afterwards  delighted  to  call  him,  the  spectral 
persecution,  as  a  consequence  of  that  crime,  and  his 
own  wanderings.  I  had  been  reading  in  Shelvocke's 
Voyages  a  day  or  two  before  that,  while  douI)ling 
Cape  Horn,  they  frequently  saw  albatrosses  in  that 
latitude,  the  largest  sort  of  sea-fowl,  some  extend- 
ing their  wings  twelve  or  thirteen  feet.  "  Suppose," 
said  I,  ''  you  represent  him  as  having  killed  one  of 
these  birds  on  entering  the  South  Sea,  and  that  the 
tutelary  spirits  of  these  regions  take  upon  them  to 
avenge  the  crime."  The  incident  was  thouglit  lit  for 
the  purpose,  and  adopted  accordingly.  I  also  sug- 
gested the  navigation  of  the  ship  by  the  dead  men, 
but  do  not  recollect  that  I  had  anything  more  to  do 
with  the  scheme  of  the  poem.     The  gloss  with  which 


it  was  subsequently  accomi)anied  was  not  thought 
of  by  either  of  us  at  the  time;  at  least  not  a  hint 
of  it  was  given  to  me,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  a 
gratuitous  afterthought.  We  began  the  composi- 
tion together  on  that,  to  me,  memorable  evening.  1 
furnished  two  or  three  lines  at  the  beginning  of  the 
poem,  in  particular:  — 

.\nd   listened   like  a   three  years'   child: 
The  Mariner  had  his  will.' 

Coleridge  seems  later  to  have  had  doubts  whether 
Wordsworth's  suggestion  of  moral  responsibility  was 
consistent  with  the  imaginative  character  of  the 
poem  as  a  wliole.  lie  is  reported  as  saying  in  his 
Table  Talk  on  May  31,  1830:  -'Mrs.  liarbauld  once 
told  me  that  she  admired  The  Ancient  Mariner  very 
much,  but  that  there  were  two  faults  in  it, —  it  was 
improbable,  and  had  no  moral.  As  for  the  proba- 
bility, I  owned  that  that  might  admit  some  ques- 
tion; but  as  to  the  want  of  a  moral,  I  told  her 
that  in  my  own  judgment  the  poem  had  too  much; 
and  that  the  only,  or  chief  fault,  if  I  might  say 
so,  was  the  obtrusion  of  the  moral  sentiment  so 
openly  on  the  reader  as  a  principle  or  cause  of  ac- 
tion in  a  work  of  pure  imagination.  It  ought  to 
I'.ave  had  no  more  moral  than  the  Arabian  Nights' 
tale  of  the  merchant's  sitting  down  to  eat  dates  by 
the  side  of  a  well  and  throwing  the  shells  aside,  and 
lo!  a  genie  starts  up  and  says  he  must  kill  the  afore- 
said merchant  because  one  of  the  date  shells  had,  it 
seems,    put   out   the   eye   of   the   genie's   son.' 

A  marginal  gloss  was  added  by  Coleridge  in  the 
edition  of  1817,  together  with  a  Latin  motto  from 
llurnet,  of  which  the  following  is  a  translation:  — 
•  I  readily  believe  that  there  are  more  invisible  be- 
ings in  the  universe  than  visible.  Hut  who  shall 
explain  to  us  the  nature,  the  rank  and  kinship,  the 
distinguishing  marks  and  graces  of  each?  What  do 
they  do?  Where  do  they  dwell?  The  human  mind 
has  circled  round  this  knowledge,  but  never  attained 
to  it.  Yet  there  is  profit,  I  do  not  doubt,  in  some- 
limes  contemplating  in  the  mind,  as  in  a  picture,  the 
image  of  a  greater  and  better  world:  lest  the  intel- 
lect, habituated  to  the  petty  details  of  daily  life, 
should  be  contracted  within  too  narrow  limits  and 
settle  down  wholly  on  trifles.  But,  meanwhile,  a 
watchful  eye  must  be  kept  on  truth,  and  proportion 
observed,  that  we  may  distinguish  the  certain  from 
the  uncertain,  day  from  night.' 

It  has  been  thought  that  Coleridge  took  some 
hints  from  the  Strange  and  Dangerous  Voyage  of 
Captain  Thomas  James  (London,  1633),  and  from 
an  earlier  story  of  Saint  Paulinus,  but  his  borrow- 
ings from  these  sources  were  certainly  slight.  The 
invention  of  the  subject,  as  well  as  its  imaginative 
treatment,  is  substantially  his  own. 
553.    II.  loon,  an   idle,   stupid,   worthless   fellow. 

12.  eftsoons,  forthwith,  immediately.  These  obso- 
lete words  are  used  to  recall  the  style  of  the  old 
ballads,  which  Coleridge  was  trying  to  revive,  and 
to  suggest  that  the  time  of  the  story  was  somewhat 
remote.  What  other  words  in  Part  I  produce  the 
same   impression? 

Notice  what  a  vivid  picture  of  the  Mariner  is 
brought  before  the  mind  by  the  mention  of  suc- 
cessive details  of  his   personal   appearance. 


io86 


NOTES 


23—4.  As  the  ship  sailed  further  away  from  the 
harbor,  first  the  church,  then  the  hill,  and  last  the 
top  of  the  lighthouse  upon  the  hill  disappeared  from 
view. 

25.  If  the  sun  rose  on  the  left,  in  what  direction 
was   the   ship   sailing? 

554.  29-30.  At  the  equator  the  noon  sun  is  never 
far  out  of  the  perpendicular,  and  during  the 
equinoxes  it  is  directly  overhead.  See  lines  111— 
114. 

32.  bassoon.  This  particular  detail  was  probably 
suggested  to  Coleridge  by  the  fact  that  during  his 
residence  at  Stowey,  his  friend,  Poole,  added  a  bas- 
soon to   the  instruments  used  in   the   village  church. 

36.  minstrelsy,  band  of  minstrels. 

41.  drawn  (in  the  marginal  note)  seems  to  be  a 
printer's  mistake  for  '  driven,'  but  it  is  the  reading 
given  in  all  the  editions  during  Coleridge's  lifetime. 

46-48.  Write  out  this  metaphor  in  your  own  words 
so  as  to  make  sure  that  you  understand  it. 

55—57.  clifts,  cliffs,  sheen,  brightness,  splendour. 
ken,  see,  discern.  Compare  notes  above  on  lines 
10— 1 1. 

58.  between   the  ship  and  the  land. 

62.  in  a  swound,  heard  in  a  swoon. 

75.  shroud,  a  rope  running  from  the  mast-head 
to  the  ship's  side. 

76.  vesper,  (Latin)  evening;  in  its  plural  form  the 
term  is  usually  applied  to  the  evening  service  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  church. 

81.  crossbozv.  This  suggests  that  the  time  of  the 
story  was  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  or  beginning  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  when  the  crossbow  was  still 
in   common  use. 

83.  Why  'upon  the  right?'  The  reader  should 
trace  the  voyage  of  the  ship  on  a  map;  it  must  have 
been  now  about  nine  days'  sail  from  a  point  between 
Cape  Horn  and  the  South  Pole. 

98.  uprist,  used  instead  of  '  uprose  '  (as  '  eat  '  in- 
stead of  '  eaten  '  in  line  67)  to  give  the  suggestion  of 
language  of  the  olden  time. 

104.  In  the  edition  of  181 7  Coleridge  altered  this 
line  to   read 

The  furrow  streamed  off  free, 

and  added  in  a  footnote:  '  In  the  former  edition  the 
line  was  — 

The  furrow  followed  free; 

but  I  had  not  been  long  on  board  a  ship  before  I 
perceived  that  this  was  the  image  as  seen  by  a  spec- 
tator from  the  shore,  or  from  another  vessel.  From 
the  ship  itself  the  wake  appears  like  a  brook  flowing 
off  from  the  stern.'  But  in  1828  and  after,  the  orig- 
inal reading  was  restored. 

107.  Notice  the  sudden  check  in  the  verse  at  the 
end  of  this  line,  and  the  contrast  with  the  swift 
movement  of  the  preceding  stanza. 

555.  128.  death-fires,  phosphorescent  lights,  to  which 
the  sailors  attached  a  superstitious  significance. 

139.  well-a-day,  an  antique  exclamation  of  lament, 
as  '  gramercy  '  in  line  164  is  of  joy  and  thankful- 
ness. 

152.  wist,  knew.  See  notes  above  on  use  of  old 
words. 

164.  'I  took  the  thought  of  "grinning  for  joy" 


from  poor  Burnett's  remark  to  me,  when  we  liad 
climbed  to  the  top  of  Plinlimmon,  and  were  nearly 
dead  with  thirst.  We  could  not  speak  for  the  coii 
striction,  till  we  found  a  little  puddle  under  a  stone. 
lie  said  to  mc,  "  You  grinned  like  an  idiot!  "  II l 
had  done  the  same.'      O  able  Talk.) 

184.  gossameres,  fine  spider-threads. 

185—9.  Coleridge  made  considerable  alterations, 
omissions  and  additions  in  this  part  of  the  poem 
after  it  was  first  published.  Another  version  of  this 
stanza  reads: 

'  Are  those  her  ribs  which  flecked  the  sun 
Like  bars  of  a  dungeon  grate? 
Are  these  two  all,  all  of  the  crew. 
That  woman  and  her  mate?  ' 

And  he  left  the  following  additional  stanza  in  manu- 
script: 

'  This  ship  it  was  a  plankless  thing 
A  bare  Anatomy! 

A  plankless  Spectre  —  and  it  moved 
Like  a  being  of  the  Sea! 
The  woman  and  a  fleshless  man 
Therein  sate  merrily.' 

197.  What  is  it  that  the  Woman  Lifein-Death  has 
won,  and  what  difference  does  this  make  to  the 
story? 

199—200.  A  fine  description  of  the  sudden  dark- 
ness of  the  tropics. 

556.  209-11.  A  star  within  the  lower  tip  of  the 
crescent  moon  is  never  seen.  This  is  Coleridge's  im- 
aginative way  of  using  what  he  describes  in  a  manu- 
script note  as  the  *  common  superstition  among  sail- 
ors that  something  evil  is  about  to  happen  whenever 
a  star  dogs  the  moon.' 

223.  Notice  at  the  end  of  each  part  the  repeated 
reference  to  the  crime  the  Ancient  Mariner  has  com- 
mitted. 

226-7.  '  i^'or  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza  I 
am  indebted  to  Mr.  Wordsworth.  It  was  on  a  de- 
lightful walk  from  Nether  Stowey  to  Dulverton, 
with  him  and  his  sister,  in  the  autumn  of  1797.  that 
this  poem  was  planned  and  in  part  composed.' — 
Coleridge's  note  in  the  edition  of   1817. 

254.  reek,  give  off  vapor. 

267-8.  The  white  moonlight,  as  if  in  mockery,  cov- 
ered the  hot  sea  with  a  sheen  like  that  of  April 
hoar  frost. 

294.  Note  this  and  other  indications  that  the  re- 
ligious setting  of  the  poem  is  Roman  Catholic  — 
another  way  of  suggesting  the  atmosphere  of  an- 
tiquity. 

657.  297.  The  buckets  looked  silly  because  they 
had  stayed  so  long  dry  and  useless. 

302.  dank,  wet. 

314.  sheen,  bright.  The  reference  seems  to  be  to 
the  Polar  Lights,  known  in  the  Northern  Hemisphere 
as  the  Aurora  Borealis. 

319.  sedge,  coarse  grass  growing  in  a  swamp, 

3i3.  had    been     (subjunctive    mood),    would    have 
been. 
558.  394.  I  have  not  the  power;  I  cannot. 

435.  charnel-dimgeon,  a  vault  for  the  bones  of  the 
dead. 


NOTES 


1087 


559.  489.   rood,  cross. 

5:2.  shrievc      (usually     pronounced     and     written 
'  shrive  ')  to  absolve  after  confession. 
524.  trow,  trust,  believe,  think. 
535.  ivy-tod,   ivy-bush. 

560.  575-   crossed    his    brow,    made    the    sign    of    the 
cross  on  his  forehead  to  warn  off  evil  spirits. 

623.  of  sense  forlorn,  one  who  has  lost  his  senses. 

CHRISTABEL 

Christ ahcl  was  begun  in  1797—8,  and  continued  in 
1800.  Scot  heard  it  recited  while  it  was  still  in 
manuscript,  and  the  melody  of  the  verse  made  such 
an  impression  on  his  mind  that  he  adopted  it  for 
The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  Christabel  in  its 
fragmentary  state  was  printed  in  1816;  Coleridge 
said  in  1821,  'Of  my  poetic  works  I  would  fain 
finish  Christabel,'  but  he  never  succeeded  in  doing 
so.  It  remains,  however,  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  poems  of  the  Romantic  Revival. 
564.  408—426.  Said  by  Coleridge  to  be  '  the  best 
and  sweetest   lines  I  ever   wrote.' 

KUBLA  KHAN 

In  a  note  to  this  poem  on  its  publication  in  1816, 
Coleridge  relates  the  circumstances  of  its  composi- 
tion. Being  in  ill-health,  he  had  retired  to  a  lonely 
farmhouse  on  Exmoor,  and  an  anodyne  had  been 
prescribed,  from  the  effects  of  which  he  fell  asleep 
in  his  chair  at  the  moment  that  he  was  reading  the 
following  sentence  from  the  old  book  of  travels 
known  as  Purchas  his  Pilgrimage: — 'In  Xamdu 
(lid  Cublai  Can  build  a  stately  palace,  encompassing 
sixteen  miles  of  plain  ground  with  a  wall,  wherein 
are  fertile  meadows,  pleasant  springs,  delightful 
streams,  and  all  sorts  of  beasts  of  chase  and  game, 
and  in  the  midst  thereof  a  sumptuous  house  of 
pleasure.'  Coleridge  adds: — 'The  Author  continued 
for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at  least 
of  the  external  senses,  during  which  time  he  has 
the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could  not  have 
composed  less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines; 
if  that  indeed  can  be  called  composition  in  which 
all  the  images  rose  up  before  him  as  things,  with  a 
parallel  production  of  the  correspondent  expressions, 
without  any  sensation  or  consciousness  of  effort. 
On  awaking  he  appeared  to  himself  to  have  a  dis- 
tinct recollection  of  the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down 
the  lines  that  are  here  preserved.  At  this  moment 
he  was  unfortunately  called  out  by  a  person  on  busi- 
ness from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above  an 
hour,  and  on  his  return  to  his  room,  found,  to  his 
no  small  surprise  and  mortification,  that  though  he 
still  retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollection  of 
the  general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines  and 
images,  all  the  rest  had  passed  away  like  the  images 
on  the  surface  of  a  stream  into  which  a  stone  had 
been  cast,  but,  alas  without  the  after  restoration  of 
the  latter!  ' 

Kubla  Khan  in  the  thirteenth  century  founded  the 
Mogul  dynasty  in  China,  and  made  Pekin  the  capital 
of  his  empire,  which  was  the  largest  that  has  ever 
existed  in  Asia.  He  was  an  enlightened  but  am- 
bitious ruler,  very  fond  of  pomp  and  splendor. 


565.  13.  alhwarl  a  cedarn  cover,  across  a  cedar 
wood. 

41.  Abora,  apijarently  a  mountain  of  Coleridge's 
imagination. 

FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 

Mrs.  Coleridge  was  wont  to  complain  to  her 
friends  that  her  husband  '  would  walk  up  and  down 
composing  poetry  instead  of  coming  to  bed  at  proper 
hours.'  This  poem  was  the  outcome  of  a  midnight 
nieditation  in  his  cottage  at  Stowey  in  February, 
1798,  and   was   published   in   the   same   year. 

566.  2y.  stranger,  a  film  of  soot  sticking  to  the  bars 
of  the  grate,  which,  according  to  a  common  Knglish 
superstition,  betokens  the  coming  of  a  visitor. 

29-30.  As  to  Coleridge's  birth  and  school  days,  see 
Life,  p.  542. 

38.  stern  preceptor.  Coleridge,  in  his  Biographia 
Lileraria,  says:  'At  school  I  enjoyed  the  inesti- 
mable advantage  of  a  very  sensible,  though  at  the 
same  time,  a  very  severe  master.'  He  goes  on  to 
sjiL-ak  at  length  of  Boyer's  merits  as  a  teacher, 
'  whose  severities,  even  now,  not  seldom  furnish 
the  dreams,  by  which  the  blind  fancy  would  fain 
interpret  to  the  mind  the  painful  sensations  of  dis- 
tempered sleep;  but  neither  lessen  nor  dim  the 
deep  sense  of  my  moral  and  intellectual  obligations.' 
Coleridge  writes  also  in  his  Table  Talk:  'The  dis- 
cipline at  Christ's  Hospital  in  my  time  was  ultra 
Spartan;  all  domestic  ties  were  to  be  put  aside. 
"  Boy!  "  I  remember  Boyer  saying  to  me  once  when 
I  was  crying  the  first  day  of  my  return  after  the 
holidays,  "Boy!  the  school  is  your  father!  Boy! 
the  school  is  your  mother!  Boy!  the  school  is  your 
brother!  Boy!  the  school  is  your  sister!  the  school 
is  your  first  cousin,  and  your  second  cousin,  and 
all  the  rest  of  your  relations!  Let  's  have  no  more 
crying!  "  '  Coming  under  the  influence  of  Voltaire, 
Coleridge  professed  himself  an  infidel.  '  So,  sirrah, 
you  are  an  infidel,  are  you?'  said  Boyer;  "then 
I'll  flog  your  infidelity  out  of  you!'  Coleridge 
said  it  was  the  '  only  just  flogging  he  ever  re- 
ceived.' 

43-44.  Coleridge  was  very  fond  of  his  sister  Ann, 
who  was  five  years  older  than  himself  and  had  been 
his  playmate  when  he  was  still  in  petticoats.  She 
died  in   1791,  to   his  great  grief. 

52-54.  At  Christ's  Hospital  Coleridge  used  to  lie 
on  the  roof  and  gaze  upon  the  clouds  and  stars. 

55-65.  There  was  no  likelihood  at  this  time  that 
Coleridge  would  live  in  the  Lake  District,  but  he 
fulfilled  his  own  prophecy  in  1800  by  removing  to 
Greta  Hall,  Keswick,  from  which  he  writes,  soon 
after  his  settlement  there,  of  his  little  son's  enjoy- 
ment of  nature:  '  I  look  at  my  doted-on  Hart- 
ley —  he  moves,  he  lives,  he  finds  impulses  from 
within  and  from  without,  he  is  the  darling  of"  the 
sun  and  the  breeze.  Nature  seems  to  bless  him  as 
a  thing  of  her  own.  He  looks  at  the  clouds,  the 
mountains,  the  living  beings  of  the  earth,  and  vaults 
and  jubilates.' 

HUMILITY  THE  MOTHER  OF  CHARITY 

The   date  appended  to   this   poem   is  that   of  con» 

position. 


NOTES 


Kl'ITAI'II 

This  poem  like  the  preceding  bears  the  date  oi 
its   composition. 

LAMB:     THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 

This  was  vvriten  in  Jan.,  1798,  at  the  time  of  the 
central  tragedy  of  Lamb's  life,  the  poem  in  its  orig- 
inal   form   beginning:  — 

'  Where  are  they  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces? 
I  had  a  mother,  but  she  died  and  left  me, 
Died  prematurely   in  a  day  of  horrors  — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces.' 

The  last  stanza  began  with  the  word  '  For,'  and 
the  words  '  And  some  are  taken  from  me  '  in  1.  _'o 
were  italicized,  referring  no  doubt  to  Mary  Lamb, 
whose  illness  was  probably  the  occasion  of  the  poem. 
The  '  friend  '  of  1.  10  was  Charles  Lloyd,  with  whom 
Lamb  had  a  temporary  difference  about  this  time; 
the  '  more  than  brother  '  of  1.   16,  Coleridge. 

MACKERY  END,  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE 
All   these   essays   appeared   in   the   London   Maga- 
zine,  1821-22,  and  were  afterwards  included   in  the 
Essays  of  Elia. 

Mackrye  End  may  now  be  easily  reached  from 
Wheathampstead  Station  on  the  Great  Northern 
Railway.  The  old  farmhouse,  with  some  additions 
since   Lamb's   day,   is  still   standing. 

568.  a.  4.  Bridget  Elia,  Mary  Lamb.  See  biograph- 
ical sketch,  p.  567. 

12.  the  rash  king's  offspring,  Jephthah's  daughter. 
Judges  xi,  30-40. 

15.  'with  a  difference.'  Ophelia  in  Hamlet  IV,  v. 
183,  '  O,  you  must  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference.' 

17.  bickerings,  little  quarrels. 

20.  dissembling,  simulating.  This  is  contrary  to 
the  established  usage,  according  to  which  dissemble 
is  to  pretend  not  to  be  something  that  you  are. 

26.  Burton,  the  author  of  The  Anatomy  of  Melan- 
choly  (162 1 ). 

33.  a  story.  Mary  Lamb's  passion  for  novel-read- 
ing is  spoken  of  by  others. 

39.  humors,    eccentricities. 
43,  bizarre,   whimsical,   fantastic. 
46.  'holds     Nature     more     clezer  ' — a     quotation 
from   Gay,   Epitaph  of  Bycwords. 

48.  obliquities,  irregularities. 

49.  Religio  Medici,  the  chief  work  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  whose  curious  notions  and  elaborate  style 
made  him  a  favorite  with  Lamb.     See  p.  200. 

52.  intellectuals,   reasoning  powers,   intelligence. 
b.   I.  Margaret   Neivcastle,    an    eccentric   Resto- 
ration   noblewoman,    of    high   character    and    remark- 
able   talents,    for    whom    Lamb    often    expressed    his 
admiration. 

34.  derogatory,  disparaging. 

42.  stuff  of  the  conscience,  quoted  from  Othello  I, 
ii,  2. 

50.  good  old  English  reading,  in  the  library  of 
Samuel   Salt  of  the  Inner  Temple. 

569.  a.  18.  beat  up  the  quarters  of,  arouse,  disturb, 
visit  unceremoniously.  The  expression  is  used  in 
exactly  the  same  way  by  Richardson  in  Pamela. 


JO.  corn  country.  Hertfordshire  is  mainly  agri- 
cultural  and   grows  a   large   quantity   of   wheat. 

35.  substa)itiiil  yeoman,  well-to-do  farmer. 

b.  13.  '  heart  of  June,'  quoted  from  Ben  Jon- 
son. 

14.  the  poet,  Wordsworth.  See  Yarrow  Visited, 
stanza  6,  '  than  which  '  (Lamb  wrote  to  Words- 
uorth)  'I  think  no  lovelier  stanza  can  be  found  in 
the   wide  world   of  poetry.' 

21.  waking  bliss,  conscious  enjoyment,  less  like  a 
dream;   quoted  from  Milton's  Com  lis. 

570.  a.  5.  gossamer,  spider  thread,  rending,  sepa- 
rating. 

14.  tlie  two  scriptural  cousins,  Mary  and  Elizabeth. 
Luke  i,  39-40. 

23.  B.  F.,  Baron  Field,  an  English  barrister,  who 
in  ]8i6  became  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
New  South  Wales.  To  him  Lamb  addressed  the 
Elia  essay   entitled   Distant   Correspondents. 

24.  peradt  enture,  by  chance. 

26.  The  fatted  calf.  See  the  Parable  of  the 
Prodigal   Son,  Luke  xv,  23. 

43.  astoundmcnt,  intense  surprise. 

so.  I  forget  all  this.  A  reminiscence  of  Psalm 
cxxxvii,  5:  '  If  I  forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem,  let 
my   right  hand  forget  her  cunning.' 

DREAM-CHILDREN:  A  REVERIE 
The  death  of  Lamb's  brother  John  on  Oct.  26, 
1821,  appears  to  have  suggested  the  tender  vein  of 
reminiscence  and  musing  on  '  what  might  have  been  ' 
in  this  essay,  which  is  justly  regarded  as  one  of 
the  most  delicate  in  pathos  and  perfect  in  work- 
manship Lamb  ever  wrote.  But  this  kind  of  rev- 
erie was  not  unusual  with  him.  He  writes  in  an 
earlier  essay  (New  Year's  Eve) :  '  Being  without 
wife  or  family  .  .  .  and  having  no  offspring  of 
my  own  to  dally  with,  I  turn  back  upon  memory, 
and  adopt  my  own  early  idea,  as  my  heir  and 
favorite.' 

b.  II.  Norfolk.  Lamb's  grandmother,  Mary 
Field,  was  housekeeper  for  more  than  fifty  years 
at  Blakesware  in  Hertfordshire,  the  seat  of  the 
Plumers,  described  in  the  Elia  essay,  Blakesmoor  in 

H shire.     William   Plumer,   who   lived   in  another 

family  seat  (also  in  Hertfordshire),  and  dismantled 
Blakesware,  was  still  living  when  Dream-Children 
was  published,  and  this  may  have  been  the  reason 
why  Lamb  altered  the  name  of  the  county  to  Nor- 
folk, the  scene  of  the  legend  of  the  children  in  the 
wood. 

23.  Robin  Redbreasts,  which  at  the  end  of  the 
ballad  cover  the  bodies  of  the  murdered  children 
with  leaves. 

50.  tawdry,  showy,   pretentious  and   yet   worthless. 

571.  a.  3.  Psaltery,  the  Psalms.  Psalter  is  the  more 
usual   and   correct   form. 

5.  spread  her  hands,  in  amazement  at  such  learn- 
ing. 

14.  cancer,  the  actual  cause  of  Mrs.  Field's  death. 

21.  apparition  of  two  infants.  There  was  a  legend 
in  the  Plumer  family  about  the  mysterious  disap- 
pearance of  two  children  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. 

36.  the  old  busts.  These  were  among  the  things 
removed   bv   Mr.   Plumer   from  Blakesware. 


NOTES 


1089 


49.  nectarines,  a  variety  of  peach  thought  par- 
ticularly  delicious. 

52.  forbidden  fruit.  See  Genesis  ii,  16-17,  and 
the  opening  lines  of  Paradise  Lost. 

b.  3.   basking,    lying    in    the    sun;    originally    a 
Norse  word,  meaning  '  to   bathe  one's  self.' 

II.  impertinent,  because  the  pike  eats  dace.  It 
is  a  sluggish  fish,  while  dace  are  very  lively. 

20.  irrelevant,  not  to  the  purpose,  not  worth  at- 
tention. 

30.  mettlesome,  high-spirited. 

43.  a  lame-footed  boy.  It  is  not  known  whether 
Lamb  was  ever  temporarily  lame  in  boyhood.  John 
Lamb's  lameness  was  caused  by  the  fall  of  a  stone 
in  1796,  just  before  the  tragedy  which  made  such  a 
difference  in  Charles  Lamb's  life.  Writing  to  Cole- 
ridge just  afterwards  he  says:  'I  had  the  whole 
weight  of  the  family  thrown  on  me;  for  my  brother, 
little  disposed  (I  speak  not  without  tenderness  for 
him)  at  any  time  to  take  care  of  old  age  and  in- 
firmities, had  now,  with  his  bad  leg,  an  exemption 
from  such  duties,  and  I  was  now  left  alone.'  John 
Lamb  was  self-indulgent,  and  in  manhood  they  saw 
little  of  each  other,  but  Charles  felt  his  loss  se- 
verely, as  is  shown  by  the  letters  he  wrote  at  the 
time.  A  fuller  account  of  John  Lamb,  written  be- 
fore his  death,  will  be  found  in  the  Elia  essay.  My 
Relations. 

572.  a.  13.  took  off  his  limb.  This  is  a  detail  sup- 
plied from  Lamb's  imagination. 

22.  Alice  W n,  Winterton   in   Lamb's  Key,   but 

he  adds  that  it  is  a  feigned  name.  The  real  name 
of  the  village  girl  '  with  the  bright  yellow  Hertford- 
shire hair,  and  eye  of  watchet  hue '  was  probably 
Ann  Simmons.  She  seems  to  have  lived  in  one  of 
the  cottages  near  Blakesware  and  married  Mr. 
Bartram,  or  Bartrum,  a  London  pawnbroker.  Lamb 
piobably  idealized  this  youthful  passion,  which,  if 
his  '  seven  long  years  '  are  to  be  taken  literally, 
must  have  begun  when  he  was  a  boy  of  fourteen. 
He  writes  in  New  Year's  Eve:  'I  would  scarce 
now  have  any  of  those  untoward  accidents  and 
events  of  my  life  reversed.  I  would  no  more  alter 
them  than  the  incidents  of  some  well-contrived 
novel.  Methinks  it  is  better  that  I  should  have 
pined  away  seven  of  my  goldenest  years,  when  I 
was  thrall  to  the  fair  hair,  and  fairer  eyes,  of  Alice 

W n,    than    that   so    passionate   a   love-adventure 

should  be  lost.' 

25.  difficulty,  shyness,  reserve,  reluctance  to  be 
won. 

28.  representment,  re-incarnation. 

31.  whose,   i.e.,   the   first   or   the   second   Alice's. 
42.  might  have  been,   if   he   had  married   Alice. 

44.  Lethe,  the  river  of  Hades,  which  made  those 
who  drank  of  it  completely  forget  their  past  life. 
Virgil  in  the  ALnid  (VI,  703-751)  says  that  after 
thousands  of  years  the  soul,  having  drunk  of  Lethe, 
returns  to  earth  in  another  body.  Some  such  far- 
off  incarnation  is  all  that  is  possible  for  the  creations 
of   the   dreamer's   imagination. 

49.  Bridget  .  .  .  James  Elia,  the  names  given 
by  Lamb  to  his  sister  and  brother  in  My  Relations. 

50.  gone  for  ever.  This  was  the  only  part  of  the 
dream  that  remaiiied  true. 


69 


A  CIIAI'TER  ON  EAKS 

Lamb  exaggerates  his  lack  of  appreciation  for  mu- 
sic in  this  essay,  as  in  his  verses,  Free  Thoughts  on 
Several  Eminent  Composers,  beginning: 

'  Some  cry  up  Haydn,  some  Mozart. 
Just  as  the  whim  bites;  for  my  part 
I  do  not  care  a  farthing  candle 
For  either  of  them,  or  for  Handel.' 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  a  fervent  admirer  of 
Braham,  whose  singing  of  Handel's  oratorio.  Israel 
tn  Egypt,  is  commended  in  the  essay  on  Imperfect 
Sympathies.  Lamb  wrote  of  this  great  singer:  '  He 
was  a  rare  composition  of  the  Jew,  the  gentleman, 
and  the  angel;  yet  all  these  elements  mixed  up  so 
kindly  in  him  that  you  could  not  tell  which  pre- 
ponderated.' 

b.  3.  volutes,   spiral   ornaments  at  the   sides  of 
the  capital  or  top  of  Ionic  and   Corinthian   pillars. 

6.  conduits,  channels,  usually  for  water,  here  for 
sound. 

8.  the  mole  has  small  ears  but  keen  hearing. 

9.  labyrinthine,  winding,  intricate. 

10.  side-intelligencers,  side  passages,  conveying  in- 
formation  to  the  brain. 

13.  to  draw  upon  assurance,  to  rely  upon  impu- 
dence. 

14.  '  quite  unabashed.'  Lamb  gave  the  reference 
in  a  foot-note  in  the  London  Magazine  to  Pope's 
Dunciad   (II,   147)  : 

*  Earless  on  high  stood  unabashed  Defoe.' 

15.  upon  that  article,  in  that  particular. 

17.  pillory,  a  frame  in  which  the  offender's  head 
and  hands  were  fixed  in  an  uncomfortable  and  help- 
less position  while  he  was  exposed  to  the  jeers  and 
insults  of  the  mob.  This  mode  of  punishment  was 
practised  in  Great  Britain  up  to  the  beginning  of 
Queen  Victoria's  reign.  Defoe  was  subjected  to  it 
for  hi*  satirical  tract.  The  Shortest  Way  v.ith  the 
Dissenters  (see  p.  287),  but  the  barbarous  practice 
of  cutting  off  the  ears,  which  often  accompanied  ex- 
posure in  the  pillory,  was  in  his  case  not  carried 
out. 

23.  concourse  of  sweet  sounds.  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  V,   i,  83-5. 

24.  '  Water  parted  from  the  sea.'  This  and  '  In 
infancy  '  are  both  songs  from  .Vrne's  opera  .Ir- 
ta.verxes.  Lamb's  First  Play. 

27.  harpsichord,  the  forerunner  of  the  modern 
pianoforte. 

32.  Mrs.    S ,    not    identified    beyond    the    name 

'  Spinkes  '  given  in  Lamb's  Key. 

42.  Alice   II' n.     See  notes  to   Dream  Children 

above. 

56.  A.,  William  Ayrton,  a  well-known  musical 
critic   of   the   time. 

573.  a.  29.  Sostenuto  and  adagio,  Italian  musical 
terms  indicating  that  a  passage  is  to  be  played  in  a 
'  sustained  '  or  '  leisurely  '  manner. 

31.  Sol,  Fa,  Mi,  Re,  names  of  notes  used  in  sing- 
ing. 

32.  conjuring,  mysterious,  magical.  Baralipton,  a 
meaningless  word  invented  by  the  scholastic  philos- 
ophers  for  the  purpose  of  exercises  in   logic. 


[090 


NOTES 


37.  Jubal  '  was  the  father  of  all  such  as  handle  the 
harp  and  organ  ' —  Genesis  iv,  j  1 . 

38.  gamut,  the  scale,  from  Ganimaul,  the  ancient 
name  of  the  first  note. 

39.  singly  uiiinipicssible  lo,  alone  incapable  of  re- 
ceiving impressions   from. 

41.  stroke,  effect. 

46.  cried-up,  extravagantly   praised. 

51.  midsummer  madness.  Olivia,  in  Twelfth 
Night  III,  iv,  61:  'Why,  this  is  very  midsummer 
madness.'  The  midsummer  moon  was  believed  a 
cause  of  insanity. 

56.   con,  learn  by  heart. 

b.   1.  ihrid,   thread,   follow  all   the   windings   of. 

2.  hieroglyphics,  the  sacred  picture-writings  of  the 
ancient  Egyptians. 

8.  follow,  with  the  mind,  in  the  attempt  to  con- 
nect what  went  before  with  what  comes  after. 

13.  the  Enraged  Musician,  a  picture  by  Hogarth 
of   a   musician   almost   driven   mad    by    street    noises. 

15.  Oratorio,  a  sacred  musical  performance  with- 
out  scenery  or   special   dress. 

1 8.  pit,  the  part  of  the  theatre  on  the  ground 
floor,  a  little  removed  from  the  stage,  chiefly  fre- 
quented by  devoted  theatre-goers  who  cannot  afford 
to  pay  for  dearer  seats. 

19.  Laughing  Audience,  a  wonderful  picture  by 
Hogarth  representing  varieties  of  mirth  as  seen  on 
different  human  faces  at  a  play.  There  is  a  good 
description  of  it  in  Dowden,  Sliakspcrc's  Mind  and 
Art,  pp.   338-9- 

30.  Party  in  a  parlor,  etc.  Quoted  from  the 
fiist  edition  of  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell.  The  stanza 
was  omitted  from  subsequent  editions,  but  in  the 
■neantime  Shelley  had  taken  it  for  the  motto  of  his 
I  urlesque  Peter  Bell  the  Third. 

2i.  concertos,  elaborate  pieces  of  music  for  one 
f.r   more  instruments,   accompanied   by   an    orchestra. 

46.  all  stops,  all   punctuation  marks,  no  words. 

50.  mime,    a    mimic    or    actor    of    farces.     Latin 
rnimus. 
574.  a.   I.  book  in  Patmos.     See  Revelation  x,   10. 

3.  Burton.     Anatomy  of  Melancholy   I,   ii,   2,   6. 

6.  melancholy  given,  given  or  inclined  to  melan- 
choly. 

ID.  amabilis  insania,  delightful  ecstasy.  Horace, 
Odes  III,  iv,  5. 

II.  mentis  gratissimus  error,  a  most  welcome  de- 
ception of  the  mind,  a  pleasing  hallucination. 
Horace,  Epistles  II,  ii,   140. 

17.  toys,  trifles,  innocent  amusements. 

26.  habitated,    habituated,   accustomed. 

30.  subrusticus  pudor,  awkward  bashfulness. 
Cicero,  Epistolae  ad  Famiiiares  V,  xii,  first  sentence. 

44.  Nov ,  Vincent  Novello,  a  well-known  or- 
ganist and  composer. 

53.  abbey,  Westminster. 

b.  3.  dove's  wings.  Psalm  Iv,  6:  '  Oh  that  I 
had  wings  like  a  dove!  '  Barron  Field  says  that 
Lamb  was  especially  fond  of  the  setting  of  these 
words  by  Kent,  the  Rnglish  composer  of  the  previous 
century.  Mendelssohn's  anthem,  '  O  for  the  wings 
of  a  dove,'  was  not  yet  composed. 

6.  cleanse  his  mind.  Psalm  cxix,  9:  'Where- 
withal   shall    a    young    man    cleanse    his   way?'     An- 


thems  to  these   words   were   written   by   the   English 
composers  Cook  and  Hoyce. 

10.  rapt  above  earth,  etc.  Walton's  Complete 
Angler   \,   iv.      See    p.    212. 

17.  'earthly'  .  .  .  'heavenly.'  See  i  Coi 
inthians  xv,  4S-0. 

21.   German  ocean,  of  music  by  German  composers. 

23.  Arion  (long  i),  a  musician  of  Lesbos,  who, 
according  to  the  Greek  legend,  when  threatened 
with  death  by  pirates,  obtained  permission  to  play- 
one  last  tune.  This  attracted  a  shoal  of  dolphins, 
antl  upon  the  back  of  one  of  these  he  escaped  to 
land. 

24.  Tritons,  sea  gods,  half  men,  half  fishes.  Mod- 
em opinion  would  not  agree  with  I.amb  in  making 
Hach  and  Ijcethoven  subordinate  to  Haydn  and 
Mozart. 

28.   at   my   wit's   end.      See   Psalm   cvii,    26-7. 

31.  dazzle,  gleam  confusedly.  This  is  a  curious 
use  of  the  word,  which  is  a  diminutive  of  '  daze,' 
and  means  to  make  or  become  confused,  his,  No- 
vello's. 

33.  tiara,  an  elaborate  head-dress;  originally  Per- 
sian, now  used  with  special  reference  to  the  triple 
crown  worn  by  the  Pope  on  ceremonial  occasions. 

34.  naked,    unadorned,    frank. 

38.  malleus  hereticorum,  the  heretics'  hammer,  the 
title  of  an  attack  upon  Luther  and  other  early  Prot- 
estants. 

39.  hcrcsiarch,  chief   of   heretics. 

41.  Marcion,  Ebion,  Cerinthus,  heretics  of  the 
first  century,  each  of  whom  had  a  view  inconsistent 
with   the   opinions   of   the   other   two. 

42.  Gog  and  Magog.  See  Revelation  xx,  8,  where 
they  stand  for  all  unbelievers,  zvhat  not,  anything 
and  everything. 

44.  dissipates  tite  figment,  dispels  the  vision. 

45.  Lutheran,  Protestant.  Ben  Jonson  has  a  jest- 
ing reference  to  'Luther's  beer'  (Epigram  101). 
Oilier  in  his  reminiscences  of  Lamb  says:  '  Once 
at  a  musical  party  at  Leigh  Hunt's,  being  oppressed 
with  what  to  him  was  nothing  better  than  a  pro- 
longed noise  ...  he  said  — "  If  one  only  had  a 
l)ot  of  porter,  one  might  get  through  this."  It  was 
procured  for  him,  and  he  weathered  the  Mozartian 
storm.' 

47.  rationalities  of  a  purer  faith,  reasonable  views 
of   Protestantism. 

A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG 
'  The  idea  of  the  discovery  of  roasting  pigs  I  bor- 
rowed from  my  friend  Manning,'  Lamb  says  in  a  let- 
ter written  six  months  later.  Manning  had  been  in 
China  for  some  years,  and  this  fact  may  have  sug- 
gested to  Lamb  his  fantastic  setting  of  the  story, 
which  in  its  bald  outlines  is  a  commonplace  of  lit- 
erature going  back  to  the  third  century.  With  the 
exception  of  the  name  of  the  Chinese  philosopher 
Confucius  (sixth  century  B.  C),  the  details  are,  of 
course.   Lamb's   own   invention. 

575.   a.    II.   broiling,  exposing  to  a  fierce  heat;   roast- 
ing, to  a  moderate  one. 

12.  the  elder  brother,  of  earlier  date. 
16.   mast,  beech  nuts,  used  to  feed  pigs. 

18.  lubberly,  awkwaid. 


NOTES 


1091 


20.  younker,  a  Shaksperean  word  conveying  the 
idea  of  youth  associated  with  either  gaiety  or  green- 
ness. 

J5.  antediluvian,   before    the    flood. 

28.   new-farrowcJ,  new-born. 

35.  tenement,  habitation. 

50.  firebrand,  used  in  the  double  sense  of  '  in- 
cendiary '  and  '  mischievous  rogue.' 

52.  premonitory  moistening.  He  was  forewarned 
of  the  delicacies  in  store  for  him  by  his  mouth 
watering. 

54.  nether,  lower. 

b.   I.  booby,   stupid. 

6.   crackling,  the  crisp  skin  of  roast   pork. 

19.  rctributory,  avenging,   punishing. 

25.  lower  regions,  stomach. 

27.  remote  quarters,  his  shoulders,  on  which  the 
blows  were  raining. 

31.  sensible,  conscious,  awaie. 

36.  inc.  the  indirect  object  of  advantage  or  dis- 
advantage, often  used  in  Shakspcre.  See  Tanning  of 
the  Shrc'v,  beginning  of  I,  ii:  'Knock  me  at  this 
gate.' 

42.  cats,  Quasi-passive.  Goldsmith,  Vicar  of 
Wakefield:  'If  the  cakes  at  tea  eat  short  and 
crisp.'     Used  in  the  same  sense  by  Shakspere. 

50.  the  lesser  half,  keeping  the  larger  share  for 
himself. 

54.  cramming,  stuffing  the  pig  into  his  mouth. 

55.  would  choke,  wished  to  choke  himself. 
576.  a.   13.   litter,  of  nine  pigs. 

26.  farrowed,  brought  forth  young. 

34.  assice  town,  in  England  a  county  town  to 
which  the  judges  come  to  hold  the  assizes.  Used 
here  to  give  a  burlesque  effect  of  historic  detail.  So 
with  the  whole  circumstances  of  the  trial,  which  are 
distinctively   modern   and   English. 

46.  charge,  direction  as  to  the  law  of  the  case 
given  by  an  English  judge. 

49.  box,  the  shut-in  benches  where  the  jury  sit 
during  an  English  trial.  After  hearing  the  evidence, 
they  are  conducted  to  a  private  room  for  consulta- 
tion, unless  they  are  ready  to  give  a  unanimous 
verdict  offhand,  as  Lamb  imagines  to  have  been  the 
case  in  this  instance.  The  taste  of  the  burnt  pig 
had  such  an  effect  upon  their  minds  that  they  at 
once  agreed  upon  a  verdict  in  direct  contradiction 
to  the  judge's  charge  and  the  evidence. 

54.  ivinked  at,  shut  his  eyes  to.  This  meaning  is 
common  in  the  Bible  and  Shakspere. 

b.  3.   took  wing,  was  noised  abroad. 

15.  Locke,  the  great  English  philosopher  (1632- 
1704)- 

23.  dynasty,  succession  of  sovereigns  of  the  same 
family.  Lamb  is  still  writing  in  tlie  mock-historic 
style. 

32.  culinary,  connected  with  cooking.  Latin, 
culina,  a  kitchen. 

36.  mundus  edibilis,   world   of   eatables. 

37.  princcps  obsoniorum,  chief  of  dainties. 

39.  between  pig  and  pork,  too  old  to  roast  and  too 
young   to   salt. 

40.  hobbydchoy  (or  hobbledehoy),  a  clumsy  youth, 
'  neither  a  man  nor  a  boy.' 

41.  suckling,    babe    at    the    breast,     moon,    month. 


Month    means   the   period   of    lime    measured    by    the 
moon,     guiltless     .     .     .     of,  unpolluted  by. 

43.  amor  immundiliae,  love  of  filth.  The  allusion 
is  to  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  the  fall  of  Adam 
wiiich   involved   all   his  offspring. 

45.  broken,  commonly  used  only  of  the  passage  of 
a  boy's  voice  to  the  deeper  tones  of  manhood. 

48.  practudium,  prelude,  music  played  by  way  of 
introduction. 

51.  exterior  tegument,  outer  skin.  The  longer 
words  are  used  in  mock  seriousness  for  comic  effect. 

54.   tawny,  yellowish-brown. 
577.  a.  2.  oleaginous,  oily. 

7.   quintessence,  essence   five   times  distilled. 

10.  manna,  the  food  sent  from  heaven  to  the 
Isratlites    in    the    wilderness.     See    Exodus    xvi,    14, 

10.  if  it  must  be  so,  if  we  must  use  terms  so  gross. 

13.  ambrosian,  heavenly,  like  ambrosia,  the  food  of 
tlic  Greek  gods. 

15.   doing,  being  cooked. 

17.  passi-L'e,  submissive. 

iS.  equably,  smoothly,  evenly,  with  mind  undis- 
turbed. 

20.  sensibility,   sensitiveness. 

22.  radiant  jellies  —  shooting  stars.  There  is  an 
ancient  superstition  that  shooting  stars  leave  jellies 
V.  here  they  fall.  The  prosaic  fact  is,  of  course,  that 
the  young  pig's  eyes  drop  out  because  of  the  heat  to 
which   they  are   exposed. 

30.  conversation,  manner  of  life,  as  in  2  Peter  ii, 
7,  '  the  filthy  conversation  of  the  wicked.' 

34.  Ere  sin  could  blight,  etc.  This  couplet  is 
quoted,  with  exquisite  humor,  from  Coleridge's  Epi- 
taph on  a  Young  Infant,  published  in  1796  in  a 
little  volume  of  poems  to  which  Lamb  himself  con- 
tributed. 

42.  epicure,  one  devoted  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
table.  The  modern  use  of  the  word  is  a  slander  on 
the  philosopher  Epicurus,  who  was  devoted  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  intellect,  for  such  a  tomb  might  be 
ccntent  to  die,  probably  a  reminiscence  of  the  last 
line  of  Milton's  verses  on  Shakspere,  '  that  kings  for 
such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die.'     See  p.  236. 

44.  sapors,   tastes,   flavors. 

50.  excoriateth,  takes  the  skin  off  —  an  exagger- 
ation of  the  keenness  of  the  flavour. 

54.  stoppcth  at  the  palate,  satisfies  the  taste,  not 
the  stomach. 

b.  6.  censorious,   inclined   to   find   fault   without 
sufficient  cause. 

7.  batten,  fatten. 

14-15.  helpeth  .  .  .  all  around,  may  be  served 
and  do  good  to  everybody. 

15.  is  the  least  envious,  excites  the  least  envy, 
because  all  parts  are  equally  good. 

17.  neighbors'  fare,  food  promoting  neighborly  or 
fiiendly  feeling. 

18.  /  am  one  of  those,  etc.  This  paragraph  and 
the  next  are  merely  the  elaboration  of  a  letter  Lamb 
wrote  to  Coleridge  on  March  g.  1822  —  six  months 
before  the  essay  was  published.  The  story  of  the  old 
gray  impostor  and  some  other  hints  are  to  be  found 
ni  the  letter,  which  was  evidently  the  foundation  of 
the  essay,  the  main  addition  being  the  fable  of  the 


1092 


NOTES 


(irigin  of  the  art  of  roasting,  suggested  by   Manning. 
24.  proper,    peculiar    to    liiniself.     Latin,    proprius, 
one's   own. 

26.  Absents,  tliose  absent.  The  odd  form  adds 
force  to  the  pun. 

27.  '  tame  villatic  fowl,'  quoted  from  Milton,  Sam- 
son Agonistes.     villatic.  of  tlic  village. 

28.  bra-en,  boar's  flesh   pickled   or   potted. 

33.  'give  everything.'  Lear  II,  iv,  253:  'I  gave 
you  all.' 

36.  e.vtra-domiciliate,  a  word  of  Lamb's  own  in- 
vention, from  the  Latin,  extra,  outside,  and  Jomi- 
ciliiim,  a  dwelling-house. 

37.  slightingly,    without   due   appreciation. 
39.  predestined,  decreed  beforehand   by    fate. 
41.  insensibility,  lack  of  feeling. 

43.  aunt,  Sarah  Lamb,  Charles's  Aunt  Hetty,  de- 
scribed by  him  more  fully  in  the  Elia  essay,  My  Re- 
lations. In  a  letter  to  Coleridge  in  1797  Lamb  de- 
scribes her  as  '  the  kindest,  goodest  creature  to  me 
when  I  was  at  school ;  who  used  to  toddle  there 
to  bring  me  good  things,  when  I,  school-boy  like, 
only  despised  her  for  it,  and  used  to  be  ashamed  to 
see  her  come  and  sit  herself  down  on  the  old  coal- 
hole steps  as  you  went  into  the  old  grammar-school, 
and  open  her  apron,  and  bring  out  her  bason,  with 
some  nice  thing  she  had  caused  to  be  saved  for  me.' 

52.  a  counterfeit,  an  impostor. 

55.   the  very   coxcombry   of  charity,   the   height   of 
conceit  disguising  itself  as  charity. 
578.  a.  23.  impertinent,  irrelevant,  inappropriate. 

29.  nice,   discriminating. 

33.  obsolete,  gone  out  of  use.  The  age  of  dis- 
cipline, of  the  use  of  the  rod.  The  clause  echoes  a 
famous  phrase  of  Burke's,  '  the  age  of  chivalry  is 
gone.' 

b.  2.  intenerating   and   dulcifying,    making   ten- 
der and  sweet. 

5.  refining  a  violet.     See  King  John  IV,  ii,  11. 

9.  gusto,  relish,  flavor. 

12.  St.  Omer's,  a  Jesuit  college  in  France.  Lamb 
was  never  there.  Canon  Ainger  remarks  upon  this 
as  an  instance  of  Lamb's  '  audacious  indifference  to 
fact.'  The  phrase  on  the  preceding  page  '  over 
London  Bridge  '  has  also  been  regarded  as  a  wilful 
mystification;  but  this  is  at  least  doubtful.  Lamb 
had  certainly  no  hesitation  in  adding  fictitious  de- 
tails according  to   his   fancy. 

16.  per  fiagellationem  extremam,  by  whipping  to 
death. 

21.  /  forget  the  decision.  This  is  the  final  touch 
of  affected  seriousness,  the  whole  incident  being,  of 
course,   a   playful   invention. 

28.  barbecue,  to  roast  whole  after  splitting  and 
stuffing.  The  derivation  '  barbe  a  queue  '  sometimes 
given  is  fanciful  and  erroneous.  It  comes  from  an 
Indian  word,  meaning  a  wooden  frame  for  smoking 
or  roasting  meat,  to  your  palate,  with  stuffing  to 
your  taste. 

29.  shalots,  strong  onions. 

30.  rank,  strong-smelling. 

31.  guilty,  harmful,  poisonous,  a  translation  of 
Horace's  phrase  (Epodes  III,  3)  cicutis  allium  no- 
centius. 

32.  stronger,  in  scent  and  flavor. 


SCOTT:     MARMION 

580.  16.  Tantallon's  towers.  Tanlallon  Castle  on 
the   coast   of   Haddingtonshire,   Scotland. 

82.  Save  Gawain.  Gawain  Douglas  (c.  1474- 
1522),  poet,  scholar,  and  translator  of  N'irgil's 
Aineid. 

107.  Old  Bcll-the-Cat.  A  phrase  applied  to  persons 
of  acknowledged  intrepidity.  From  the  fable  of  the 
mice  and  the  cat. 

581.  194.  The  Till  by  Tivisel  Bridge.  On  the 
evening  previous  to  the  memorable  battle  of  Flod- 
dtn,  Surrey's  headquarters  were  at  Barmorewood, 
and  King  James  held  an  inaccessible  position  on  the 
ridge  of  Flodden-hill,  one  of  the  last  and  lowest 
eminences  detached  from  the  ridge  of  Cheviot.  The 
Till,  a  deep  and  slow  river,  winded  between  the 
armies.  On  the  morning  of  the  9th  September, 
1513,  Surrey  marched  in  a  northwesterly  direction, 
and  crossed  the  Till,  with  his  van  and  artillery,  at 
Twisel-bridge,  nigh  where  that  river  joins  the  Tweed, 
his  rearguard  column  passing  about  a  mile  higher, 
by  a  ford.  This  movement  had  the  double  effect  of 
placing  his  army  between  King  James  and  his  sup- 
plies from  Scotland  and  of  striking  the  Scottish 
monarch  with  surprise,  as  he  seems  to  have  relied 
on  the  depth  of  the  river  in  his  front.  But  as  the 
passage,  both  over  the  bridge  and  through  the  ford, 
was  difficult  and  slow,  it  seems  possible  that  the 
English  might  have  been  attacked  to  great  advan- 
tage, while  struggling  with  these  natural  obstacles. 
(Scott.) 

583.  363.  Gilded  spurs.     The  rewards  of  victory. 


BYRON:  SONNET  ON  CHILLON 

587.  13.  Bonnivard,  Francois  de  Bonnivard  (1496- 
1570)  was  held  for  six  years  as  a  political  prisoner 
in  the  dungeon  of  the  Castle  of  Chillon,  near 
Geneva.  Byron's  well-known  tale.  The  Prisoner  of 
Chillon,  presents  an  imaginary  history  of  his  con- 
finement. 

CHILDE  HAROLD,  CANTO  III 
40.  Moral.     The    Swiss   gained   a    decisive    victory 
at  the  village  of  Morat  in   1476. 

43.  Burgundy.  Charles  the  Bold,  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy. 

45.  the  Stygian  coast,  etc.  An  allusion  to  the 
Greek  superstition  that  the  shades  of  unburied  men 
could  not  pass  the  river  Styx  which  bounded  Hades. 

47.  Waterloo.  The  Battle  of  Waterloo  which 
ended  the  military  career  of  Napoleon  was  fouglu 
June  18,  1815.  It  is  described  in  an  earlier  section 
of   this   canto. 

CanntF.  A  battle  in  which  Hannibal  defeated  the 
Roman  army,   216   B.  C. 

48.  Marathon.  The  Greeks  defeated  the  Persians 
on  the  plains  of  Marathon,  490  B.  C. 

55.  Draconic.  Because  of  its  free  use  of  the 
death  penalty,  the  code  of  Draco,  an  Athenian  law- 
giver of  the  seventh  century,  is  proverbially  said 
to  have  been  written  in  blood. 

64.  Adventicum.  The  Roman  name  for  Avenche, 
the  ancient  capital   of  Helvetia,  or  Switzerland. 


' 


NOTES 


1093 


66.  Julia.  This  passage  is  based  upon  ihe  epitaph 
of  Julia  Alpinula,  '  Deae  Aventiae  Sacerdos  [Priest- 
ess of  the  goddess  AventiaJ,'  now  known  to  be  a 
modern    forgery. 

588.  81.  like  yonder  Alpine  snow.  Byron  records 
that    Mont   Blanc   was   visible  in    the   distance. 

83.  Lake  Leman.  Lake  Geneva,  the  largest  lake 
in   Switzerland. 

589.  164.  Rousseau.  Jean  Jacciues  Rousseau  (1712- 
1778),  a  Swiss-French  philosopher  of  brilliant  though 
morbid  originality  whose  writings  are  held  to  have 
been  a  strong  influence  in  precipitating  the  French 
Revolution. 

182.  Julie.  The  heroine  of  Rousseau's  A'cto 
Hclo'ise    (1761). 

194.   the  kind.     Civilized   man. 

Joi.  Pythian's  mystic  cave.  The  prophetess  of 
the  Delphic  oracle  was  called  'The  Pythia';  while 
the  god  she  served  was  known  as  the  Pythian  Apollo. 

590.  248.  Jura.  A  mountain  chain  in  France  and 
Switzerland,  visible  from  Geneva. 

287.  Cytlierca's  zone.  The  zone  or  girdle  of  the 
Cytherean    .\phrodite,   or   Venus. 

592.  362.  Clarcns.  A  village  on  Lake  Leman  cele- 
brated in  Rousseau's  New  Heloisc  and  in  his  Con- 
fessions. 

410.  Love  his  Psyche's  cone,  etc.  An  allusion  to 
the  legend  of  Cupid  and  Psyche. 

421.  Titan-like.  The  Titans  piled  the  hills  on  each 
other,  attempting  to  ascend  the  sky,  in  their  war 
with  Zeus. 

425.  The  one.     Voltaire. 

593.  430.  Proteus.  The  son  of  Oceanus  who  could 
assume  any  shape  at  will. 

434.  The  other.     Gibbon.     See  p.  453. 

CHILDE  HAROLD,  CANTO  IV 
ID.  Niobe.  According  to  the  Greek  myth  Niobe 
brought  upon  her  children  the  wrath  of  Artemis 
and  Apollo,  by  boasting  over  their  mother  Leto  who 
had  only  those  two.  The  modern  currency  of  the 
legend  is  largely  due  to  a  remarkable  group  of 
antique  statues  preserved  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery  at 
Florence. 

14.  The  Scipio's  tomb,  A  group  of  tombs  on  the 
Appian  Way  is  called  '  The  tombs  of  the  Scipios.' 
The  most  famous  Roman  generals  of  this  name 
flourished  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  century 
B.  C. 

594.  39.  when  Brutus,  etc.  An  allusion  to  the  as- 
sassination   of  Julius   Caesar. 

41.  Tully's  voice.     The  oratory  of  Cicero. 

42.  Livy's  pictured  page.  Titus  Livius  (B.  C.  59- 
17  A.  D.).     The  greatest  Roman  historian. 

47.  Sylla.  Lucius  Cornelius  Sulla  (c.  138-78 
B.  C).  Famous  for  his  wholesale  proscription  of 
Roman    citizens. 

88.  Nemesis.  The  Greek  personification  of  for- 
tune  and   hence   retribution. 

89.  Pompey.  Cneus  Pompeius  Magnus  (106—48 
B.  C).  The  passage  is  evidently  influenced  by 
Shakspere's  description  in  Julius  Cirsar.  See  also, 
1267.  32,   note. 

92.  Shc-u'olf.  .Mlusion  to  a  bronze  group  which 
is  supposed  to  represent  Romulus  and  Remus,  the 
founders  ol  Rome,  suckled  by  a  wolf. 


595.  107.  Sale  one  vain  man.  Napoleon,  at  the 
time  this  was  written,  a  prisoner  on  the  island  of 
St.  Helena. 

116.  Alcides  with  the  distaff.  Hercules,  in  ex- 
piation of  the  murder  of  Iphitus,  sold  himself  for 
three  years  to  (Jmphale,  queen  of  Lydia.  During 
this  time  according  to  some  poets  he  sat  among 
women  and  spun  wool. 

135-  Renew  thy  rainbow,  God!  Compare  Gen.  ix, 
>3-'7. 

166.  Sprung  forth  a  Pallas.  According  to  the 
Greek  myth,  the  goddess  of  wisdom  sprang,  full- 
armed,  from  the  brain  of  Jove. 

596.  173.  Saturnalia.  A  Roman  feast  in  honor  of 
Saturn  in  which  great  license  was  customary. 

211.  Cornelia's,  etc.  Celebrated  Roman  matron, 
daughter   of    Scipio   Africaiuis   the    Elder. 

212.  Egypt's  graceful  queen.     Cleopatra. 

597.  252.  'J  here  woos  no  home.  Allusion  to  his 
separation  from  his  wife  and  exile  from  England. 

258.  the  Palatine.  One  of  the  '  seven  hills  '  of 
Rome.  It  is  adjacent  to  the  site  of  the  Forum. 
and  was  a  favorite  place  of  residence  with  the  Ku- 
inan  emperors. 

268.  All  that  learning,  etc.  There  have  been  great 
additions  to  the  knowledge  of  Roman  antiquities 
since   Byron's  day. 

294.  Titus  or  Trajan's.  It  is  now  believed  to  have 
been   erected   by   Trajan,    113  A.  D. 

304.  .1  mere  Alexander.  A  mere  military  con- 
queror. 

598.  337.  Ruins  of  years,  though  few.  Byron  was 
thirty. 

347.  Orestes,  the  son  of  Agamemnon  and 
Clytemnestra  and  brother  of  Electra.  After  the  re- 
turn of  Agamemnon  from  the  Trojan  Wars  he  was 
murdered  by  Clytemnestra  and  her  paramour, 
Aegisthus.  They  were  in  turn  slain  by  Orestes  and 
he  tormented  by  the  Furies  for  the  killing  of  his 
mother.  The  Agamemnon  and  J  he  Furies  of 
Aeschylus,  the  Electra  and  the  Orestes  of  Euripides, 
and  the  Electra  of  Sophocles,  are  based  upon  this 
legend. 

353.  For  my  ancestral  faults.  The  parallel  with 
Orestes  is  here  continued. 

384.  Janus.  The  Roman  guardian  of  doors  and 
gateways  was  represented  with  two  faces.  Compare 
our  epithet,   '  two-faced.' 

599.  415.  the  Gladiator.  The  statue  in  the  Museum 
of  the  Capitol  upon  which  this  passage  is  based  is 
now  usually  called  "  The  Dying  Gaul,'  not  as 
formerly,  '  The  Dying  Gladiator,'  and  is  believed  to 
represent  a  warrior  wounded  in  battle. 

429.  their  Dacian  mother.  The  region  north  of 
the  Lower  Danube  was  conquered  by  Trajan  and 
made  into  the  Roman  province  of  Dacia,  101  B.C. 
Ten  thousand  captives  were  carried  to  Rome  and 
exhibited  in  combats  for  the  amusement  of  the 
Roman  populace. 

432.  Arise!  ye  Goths,  etc.  Alludes  to  the  taking 
of  Rome  by  the  Barbarians,  in  410  A.  D. 

456.  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head.  '  Suetonius  in- 
forms us  that  Julius  C.x-sar  was  particularly  gratified 
by  that  decree  of  the  senate  which  enabled  him  to 
wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  nil  occasions.  He  was 
anxious,   not   to   show   that   he   was  the  conqueror  of 


1094 


NOTES 


the  world,  but  to  hide  that  he  was  bald.'  (Byron.) 
This  stroke  of  bold  bathos  is  very  characteristic  of 
Byron  and  anticii)ates  his  manner  in  Don  Juan. 
600.  463.  Thus  spake  the  piUjiiins.  Byron  refers  in 
his  note  on  this  passage  to  Cibhon's  Decline  and 
I- all.  His  familiarity  wilh  Cibbon  is  conspicuous 
Ihroughout  this  caulo. 

Till-:  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT 
This  poem  is  an  indignant  parody  upon  a  poem 
of  the  same  title  in  which  Robert  Southey,  poet 
laureate,  had  celebrated  the  passing  of  George  III. 
Byron's  anger  was  augmented  by  the  fact  that 
Southey  had  arraigned  him  in  his  preface  as  the 
chief  of  a  '  Satanic  School '  of  English  poetry. 
Southey  had  been  a  strong  radical  in  his  earlier 
years,  but  had  now  become  a  complacent  servant 
of  the  government.  The  situation  is  tersely  stated 
in  a  sentence  of  Byron's  Preface:  'These  apostate 
Jacobins   furnish   rich   rejoinders.' 

36.  A  German  zcill.  Probably  this  means  only  ob- 
scure, difficult.  Byron's  jibes  at  Germans  were  fre- 
quent. 

37.  his  son,  George  IV. 

602.  160.  Captain  Parry's  crew.  A  narrative  of 
Parry's  arctic  expedition  had  appeared  in   1821. 

168.  Johanna  Southcote.  A  fanatical  English- 
woman of  low  birth  who  created  a  popular  religious 
sensation  at  the  beginning  of  the  century.  Died 
1814. 

200.  champ  clos,  closed  field,  lists. 

604.  281.  He  came  to  his  scepter  young;  he  leaves 
it  old.     George  III  reigned  from   1760  to   1S20. 

308.  Apicius'  board.  Marcus  Gabius  Apicius,  the 
most  celebrated  Roman  epicure,  flourished  in  the 
time  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius. 

327.  The  foe  to  Catholic  participation.  The  po- 
litical disability  of  Catholics  was  not  removed  until 
1829. 

355.  Guelph.  The  House  of  Hanover  was  de- 
scended from  Guelph  stock.  The  allusion  seems 
inappropriate  here,  inasmuch  as  the  Guelphs  were 
friends  of  the   Papacy. 

357.  Cerberus.  The  watchdog  at  the  entrance  of 
the  infernal   regions.     See  237.  2,  note. 

359.  Bedlam.  Bethlehem  hospital  for  the  insane, 
in    London;    hence,   proverbially,   the  madhouse. 

DON  JUAN,  CANTO  III 

605.  2.  Sappho.     Greek  poetess   (c.   600  B.  C). 

4.  Delos.  An  island  of  the  Cyclades,  Apollo's 
birthplace,   hence   Apollo. 

4.  Phoebus.  One  of  the  epithets  of  Apollo,  god 
of  poetry. 

7.  Scian.  The  island  of  Scio  was  a  home  of 
epic   poetry   and   laid   claim  to   Homer. 

the    Teian    muse.     Anacreon.     See    below,    63-64. 

13.  Marathon.     See   587.   48,   note. 

20.  Salamis.  An  island  off  Attica,  near  which 
the  Greeks  won  their  decisive  naval  victory  over  the 
fleet  of  Xerxes,  480  B.  C. 

55.  Pyrrhic  dance.  An  ancient  martial  dance  in 
quick  time. 

63-64.  Anacreon's  song  .  .  .  Polycrates.  From 
his  birthplace,  Teos  in  .Asia  Minor,  Anacreon  went 
to  tlie  court  of  the  tyrant,   Polycrates   (d.   522  B.  C). 


in  the  island  of  Samos.  His  poetry  celebrates  the 
pleasures  of  love   and   wine. 

67-69.  Chersonese  .  .  .  Miltiades.  Miltiades 
whom  Peisistratus  had  appointed  master  of  the 
Chersonesus  in  Crete  was  the  leader  to  whom  the 
(ireeks   owed   much   of  their  success   in    Marathon. 

74.  .Suit's  rock.  Suli,  a  mountain  district  in  Al- 
bania, European  Turkey,  was  the  home  of  a  war- 
like race,  Suliotes.  Tliey  |)layed  an  important  part 
in  the  Greek  rebellion  with  which  Byron  was  later 
associated. 

Parga's   shore.     Parga    was    an    Albanian    sea-port. 

76.  Doric.  One  of  the  divisions  of  the  Greek 
race.     Here,    Siiarian. 

78.  HeracU'idan  blood.  Race  of  Hercules,  Spar- 
tans. 

79.  Franks.     Western   Europeans   generally. 

606.  91.  Siiniiim's  marbled  steep.  Cape  Colonna 
with  its   ruins  of  a  temple  of  Athene. 

99.  Orpheus.  The  earliest  poet  in  Greek  legend. 
See  238.    145,   note. 

127.  the  great  Marlborough's  skill.  He  won  the 
battle  of  Blenheim,    1704. 

128.  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe.  Like  many  of 
Byron's  allusions,  this  one  is  strictly  '  up-to-date.' 
The   Memoirs   of  Marlborough  appeared   in    1718— 19. 

133.  his  life  .  .  .  Johnson's  way,  etc.  Dr. 
Joluison's  life  of  Milton  in  his  Lives  of  the  English 
Poets   (1779-80). 

138.  Bacon's  bribes.      See  p.    187. 

139.  Titus'  Youth.  The  reign  of  Titus  Vespa- 
sianus  (A.  D.  79-81)  was  popular;  but  his  youth, 
though  brilliant,  had  been  marked  by  luxury  and 
indiscretion. 

Casar's  earliest  acts.  The  youth  of  Julius  Caesar 
is  said  to  have  been  voluptuous. 

140.  Doctor  Currie.  James  Currie  (1756-1805), 
a  Scottish  physician,  edited  the  first  collective  edi- 
tion of  Burns's  works  (1800). 

146.  Pantisocracy.  See  the  sketch  of  Coleridge, 
p.    542- 

148.  peddler  poems.  A  hit  at  the  humbleness  of 
Wordsworth's  characters. 

152.  Milliners  of  Bath.  The  implication  is  false. 
The  Misses  Fricker  were  respectable  young  women 
of  Bristol,  although  they  had  lived  for  a  time  at 
Bath. 

154.  Botany  Bay.  An  inlet  near  Sydney,  Aus- 
tralia, the  seat  of  a  colony  of  transported  criminals. 

607.  198.  Boccaccio's  lore.  The  reference  is  to  the 
eighth  tale  of  the   fifth  day  of  the  Decameron. 

199.  Dryden's  lay.  Dryden's  Theodore  and 
Honoria,  is  an  adaptation  of  the  above-mentioned 
tale  by  Boccaccio. 

205.  Onesti's  line.  Boccaccio's  Nastagio  degli 
Onesti  is  Dryden's  Theodore. 

608.  238.  Cantabs.  Those  associated  with  the  Uni- 
versity of  Cambridge. 

DON  JUAN,  CANTO  IV 
21.  'falls    into    the    vcllozv    leaf.'     From    Macbeth 

V,  3.   23. 

55.   Apollo      plucks      me      by      the      ear.     Compare 

Lycidas,  '  and  touched  my  trembling  ears,'  240.   77. 

611.  417.   Cognac.      .\   French   brandy. 
418.   Naiad.     .\    water   nymph. 


NOTES 


1095 


418.  Phlegethontic  rill.  Playful  allusion  to 
Phlegethon,  the  river  of  fire  in  Hades. 

431.  Fez.     A   province   of  Morocco. 
612.  456.  the   Simoom.     A    hot   wind   of   the   desert 
much  dreaded  in  the  Mediterranean  countries. 

484.  the  fair  Venus.  The  statue  described  by 
Byron  in  Childe  Harold,  Canto  IV,  St.  xlix,  is  the 
Venus  de  Medici. 

485.  Laocoon's  .  .  .  throes.  An  antique  group 
in  the  Vatican,  Rome.  It  is  described  by  Byron, 
Childe  Harold,  Canto  IV,  St.  clx. 

486.  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air.  See  599.  415, 
and   note. 

SHELLEY:  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND,  ACT 
IV 

The  conception  of  Prometheus  Unbound  was  sug- 
gested to  Shelley  by  the  Prometheus  Bound  of 
yEschylus.  The  Titan,  Prometheus,  having  of- 
fended Zeus  by  his  gift  to  man  of  fire  and  the  arts, 
is  bound  to  a  rocky  mountain-side  and  subjected  to 
appalling  tortures.  Nothing  can  subdue  his  will  and 
he  disappears  at  the  end  in  a  tremendous  storm. 
Shelley  represents  Prometheus,  after  the  lapse  of 
ages,  adding  love  to  power  and  endurance;  where- 
upon he  is  released  by  Hercules  and  united  with 
Asia,  who  typifies  the  generative  principle  in  na- 
ture. Act  IV  is  purely  lyrical  and  portrays  the  ele- 
ments rejoicing  in  the  overthrow  of  Jupiter,  the 
evil  potency  which  has  hitherto  ruled  the  universe 
and  the  bulk  of  humanity. 

619.  197.  JEolian,  wind-born.  From  yEolus,  god  of 
winds. 

620.  291.  valueless,    priceless,    beyond    valuation. 

621.  348.  Sceptered  curse.     Jupiter. 

622.  427.   Dadal,     cunningly   contriving   or    creative. 

623.  484.  Mcenad,   Bacchante. 

485.  Agave,  the  daughter  of  Cadmus. 

486.  Cadmeian,  Theban ;  from  Cadmus,  the  myth- 
ical founder  of  Thebes.  A  world  of  oriental  mys- 
tery  envelops   the   Cadmeian  legend. 

5J2.  A  mighty  Pozcer.  Demogorgon,  who  seems 
to  represent,  in  Shelley's  mythology,  the  ultimate 
force  which  presides  over  the  destinies  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

625.  21.  Manad.     See  623.  484,  note. 

32.  pumice,   a  light,   porous,   volcanic   substance. 

32.  Baiec's  bay.  Modern  Baja,  in  Campania,  Italy. 
Baiae  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  luxurious  in  the 
(lays  of  the  Early   Empire. 

THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

626.  II.  Champak.  An  Indian  tree,  planted  about 
temples.  The  perfume  of  its  flowers  is  often  cele- 
brated in   Hindu   poetry. 

THE  CLOUD 

627.  81.  cenotaph.  An  honorary  tomb  to  a  person 
whose  remains  are  lost,   or  who  is  buried  elsewhere. 

ADONAIS 
629.  This    elegy    was    written    in    memory    of    John 
Kpn\s,  for  whom,  see  p.  639. 


12.  Urania.  The  celestial  Muse.  She  is  the 
Heavenly  Muse  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  Shel- 
ley's conception  has  been  influenced  by  that  of  Mil- 

630.  55.  that  high  Capital.     Rome. 

631.  127-35.  i-ost  Echo,  etc.  Narcissus,  insensible 
to  love,  was  caused  to  fall  in  love  with  his  own 
image  and  pined  away  until  he  was  turned  into  a 
flower.  The  nymph  Echo,  disappointed  of  his  love, 
died   from  grief. 

140.  to  Pha:bus  7vas  not  Hyacinth.  Apollo  fell 
in  love  with  a  beautiful  youth,  Hyacinthus,  who 
died  and  was  turned  into  a  Hower.  Sec  241.  106, 
note. 

141.  Narcissus.     See  above,   127-35,  note. 
160.  brere,  brier. 

632.  J38.  the  unpastured  dragon.  The  selfish  and 
greedy  world. 

244.  The  herded  wolves.  The  banded  critics  who 
execute  the  will  of  successful   politicians. 

250.  The  Pythian  of  the  age.  Lord  Byron  in 
his  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Revieuers,  by  allu- 
sion to  the  Pythian  Apollo,  slayer  of  the  Python. 

633.  264.  The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity.  The  author  of 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Byron. 

268.  lerne,  Ireland.     Thomas  Moore  is  meant. 

271.  Midst  others  of  less  note,  etc.  Shelley  tiiin- 
self. 

276.  Actceon-like.  According  to  a  Greek  myth  the 
hunter  Actjeon,  having  seen  Diana  bathing,  was 
changed  into  a  stag  and  destroyed  by  his  own 
hounds. 

280.  pardlike,  leopardlike. 

307-15.  What  softer  voice,  etc.  Keats's  nearest 
friend  among  literary  men,  Leigh  Hunt. 

634.  325.  Live  thou,  whose  infamy,  etc.  The  un- 
known critic  who  had  assailed  Keats  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review. 

635.  399.  Chatterton.     See   p.    377. 

401.  Sidney.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  (iS54— 86).  See 
p.  81. 

404.  Lucan.  Marcus  Annaeus  Lucanus  (39-65 
A.  D.),  Roman  poet.  He  committed  suicide  to  pre- 
vent his  execution  for  joining  a  conspiracy  against 
Nero. 

439.  A  slope  of  green  access.  The  protestant 
burial  ground  at  Rome,  where  Keats  was  buried,  and 
where  Shelley's  ashes  were  placed  a  few  months 
after   these   lines   were  written. 

FINAL  CHORUS  FROM  HELLAS 

636.  The  conception  of  this  poem  and  many  of  the 
details  are  adapted   from   \'irgil's   fourth   Eclogue. 

9.  Pencus.     The   principal    river   in  Thessaly. 

11.  Tempcs.  The  vale  of  Tempe.  in  Thessaly,  be- 
tween Olympus  and  Ossa  and  traversed  by  the  river 
Pencus,  is  celebrated   for  its  beauty. 

12.  Cyclads.  The  islands  known  as  the  Cyclades 
are  in  the  .Cgean  Sea,  about  Delos.  Among  those 
frequently  mentioned  in  Greek  history  are  Ceos, 
Naxos,  and  Paros. 

13.  Argo.  The  ship  in  which  Jason  and  the 
Argonauts  sought   the  golden  fleece. 

15.   Orpheus.     See  238.   145.  note. 
18.   Calypso.     At     the     opening     of     the     Odyssey, 
Llysses    is    being    detained    by    the    nymph    Calypso 


1096 


NOTES 


upon  her  island,  where  he  has  been  for  seven  years. 

21.  Laian.  As  of  Laius,  king  of  Thebes  and  fa- 
ther to  CEdipus,  whose  family  was  pursued  by 
Grange    misfortunes. 

23.  A  subtler  S/'hiux,  etc.  (Kdipus  solved  the 
riddle  of  the  Sphinx;  whereupon  she  slew  herself. 
637.  31.  Saturn  and  Love.  The  age  of  gold,  sup- 
Itosed  to  have  existed  before  Saturn  was  overthrown 
by  Jupiter,  was  thought  of  as  one  of  perfect  happi- 
ness and  love. 

WITH  A  GUITAR,  TO  JANE 

I.  Ariel  to  Miranda.  The  reference  is,  of  course, 
to  the  characters  in  Shakspere's  Tcni/^csl.  Ariel  is 
Shelley,   and    Miranda  is  Mrs.   Williams. 

10.  Prince  Ferdinand.  Edward  Williams,  a  young 
English  officer  with  whom  Shelley  was  intimate  to- 
wards the  end  of  his  life.  He  and  Shelley  were 
drowned  together.     See   Life,   p.   614. 

KEATS:     KEEN,    FITFUL   GUSTS    ARE    WHIS- 
PERING HERE  AND  THERE 

639.  10.  a  little  cottage.  Leigh  Hunt's  home  at 
Hampstead  Heath.  Hunt  was  deeply  interested  in 
Italian    poetry. 

12.  gentle  Lycid  drozvncd.  For  Milton's  Lycidas, 
see   p.   240. 

13.  Laura.  The  lady  to  whom  Petrarch  ad- 
dressed his  sonnets.  According  to  one  theory  she 
was  the  wife  of  Hugues  de  Sade  and  mother  of 
eleven   children. 

14.  Petrarch  gloriously  crowned.  Francesco  Pe- 
trarca  (1304-1374).  He  was  crowned  poet  laureate, 
at  Rome,  in  1341. 

ON   FIRST  LOOKING   INTO   CHAPMAN'S 

HOMER 

4.  Apollo,     As  patron  of  poetry. 

8.   Chapman.     George       Chai)man       published       his 

translation    of    Homer    in    instalments    between    1598 

and   1616.     It  is  still  prized  as  one  of  the  greatest  of 

English   poetical   translations. 

II.  stout  Cortec.  Not  Cortez,  but  Balboa  actually 
discovered  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

14.  Darien.  The  mountain  from  which  Balboa 
first  sighted  the  Pacific  was  nearly  a  month's  jour- 
ney from   his  base  at  Darien. 

ENDYMION,  BOOK  I 

640.  35.  the  story  of  Endymion.  The  most  famous 
English  treatment  of  the  legend  before  Keats  was 
that  of  John  Lyly  in  his  drama,  Endymion   (1579). 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 
I.  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  January  20,  in  popular  opin- 
ion, apt  to  be  the  coldest  night  of  the  year.  St. 
Agnes  suffered  martyrdom  under  Diocletian.  The 
chief  superstitions  connected  with  the  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  are  given  in  the  course  of  the  poem,  espe- 
cially 11.   47-55- 

643.  172.  Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon.  According 
to  the  legend  with  which  Keats  was  familiar.  Merlin 
had  been  begotten  by  demons.  He  was  beguiled 
by  an  enchantress  who  employed  one  of  his  own 
spells  to  imprison  him  forever  in  a  tree  in  the 
forest    of    Broceliande.     Immediately    afterward,    a 


terrific  tempest  swept  the  forest.  The  legend  forms 
the  basis  of  Tennyson's  Merlin  and  Vivien  in  The 
Idylls  of  the  King. 

643.  242.  7nissal  where  swart  Paynims  pray.  A 
prayer-book  bearing  upon  its  margin  pictures  of 
converted  heathen  in  the  act  of  prayer. 

644.  270.  Fea.     See  611.  431,  note. 

271.  Samarcand.  A  city  in  Turkestan,  more  im- 
portant in  the  middle  ages  than  now.  It  was  the 
capital    of   the   conqueror   Tamerlane. 

271.  cedared  Lebanon.  A  mountain  range  in 
Syria,  famed  from  remote  antiquity  for  its  cedars. 

293.  In  Provence  called,  '  La  belle  dame  suns 
mercy.'  This  is  the  title  of  a  poem  by  Alain 
Cliartier,  a  translation  of  which  Keats  had  seen  in 
a  volume  of  Chaucer.  The  ascription  of  it  to 
Provence  is  fanciful.  The  same  words  suggested  to 
Keats  the  poem  of  this  title,  p.   654. 

645.  350.  Rhenish,  wine  from  the  vmeyards  of  the 
Rhine. 

350.  mead,  a  liquor,  made  by  fermenting  honey, 
much   prized  by  the  ancient  Teutons. 

ROBIN  HOOD 
For    the   ballads    of    Robin    Hood,   see   above,    pp. 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

646.  4.  the  Mermaid  Tavern.  A  favorite  resort  of 
Elizabethan  dramatists,  Shakspere,  Ben  Jonson, 
Beaumont,  etc. 

6.  Canary  wine.  Wine  made  in  the  Canary 
islands.  It  was  the  '  sack  '  of  Shakspere  and  his 
contemporaries. 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

647.  7.   Tempe.     See    636.      11,    note. 

7.  Arcady.  Arcadia,  celebrated  in  pastoral  poetry 
as  the   house  of  a   carefree  shepherd   life. 

41.  brede,   embroidery.     Strictly,   braid. 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

4.  Lethe-wards.     Towards  the  river  of  oblivion. 
7.  Dryad,  a  tree  nymph. 

13.  Flora,  goddess  of  the  flowers  and  the  spring. 

14.  Provencal  song.  Medieval  lyric  began  in 
Provence.     See   644.   293,  and  note. 

16.  Hippocrene,  the  Muses'  fountain  on  Mount 
Helicon. 

648.  32.  Bacchus  and  his  pards.  The  leopard  or, 
more  strictly,  the  panther,  was  associated  with  the 
god  of  wine.  He  was  sometimes  represented  in  a 
chariot  drawn  by  leopards. 

2~.  Fays,    fairies. 

6b.   Kiith.     See  Ruth  ii. 

ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 
1.  Lethe.     The  river  of  oblivion,  in  Hades. 
4.  Proserpine.     Queen   of   the  infernal    regions. 
7.  Psyche,   the  soul.     Her  symbol   was  the  butter- 
fly. 

HYPERION 
Of  the  design  of  this  poem  Keats's  friend.  Wood- 
house,    wrote    in    his   annotated    copy:     '  The    poem, 
if  completed,    would    have   treated   of   the    dethrone- 


NOTES 


1097 


ment  of  Hyperion,  the  former  god  of  the  sun,  by 
Apollo  —  and  incidentally  of  those  of  Oceaiuis  by 
Neptune,  of  Saturn  by  Jupiter,  etc.,  and  of  the  war 
of  the  Giants  for  Saturn's  reestablisliment  - —  with 
other  events,  of  which  we  have  but  very  dark  hints 
in  the  mythological  poets  of  Greece  and  Rome.' 

650.  4.  Saturn,  an  Italic  deity,  sup[)oseJ  to  have 
ruled  in  the  golden  age;  he  was  identified  with  tlic 
Greek  Cronus,  father  and  predecessor  of  Zeus.  .See, 
also,  250.   509,   note. 

23.  there  came  one.  Thea,  sister  of  Hyperion, 
one  of  the  female  Titans. 

30.  Ixion's  wheel.     See  361.  133,  note. 

31.  Memphian  sphinx.  A  purely  hypothetical 
sphinx.     Memphis  was  an  early  capital  of  Egypt. 

651.  147.  The  rebel  three.  Jupiter,  Neptune,  and 
Apollo. 

652.  166.  Biasing  Hyperion.  Hyperion  was  tlic 
pre-Olympian  god  of  the  sun.  He  was  supplanted 
by   Apollo. 

181.  Aurorian.     Of  Aurora,  goddess  of  the  dawn. 

653.  246.  Telhis,  the  earth  goddess. 

274.  broad-belting  colure.  The  colures  are  the 
two  great  circles  which  belt  the  celestial  sphere, 
intersecting  each  other  at  right  angles  at  the  poles 
of   the  equator. 

307.  Cwlus,  god  of  the  firmament. 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 
See  644.  293,  note. 

ON  SEEING  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES 
Between  1801  and  1803  the  Earl  of  Elgin  brought 
from  Athens  and  deposited  in  the  British  Museum  a 
superb  collection  of  Greek  sculptures.  Keats  de- 
rived not  a  little  of  his  sympathy  with  Greek  con- 
ceptions of  beauty  from  the  study  of  these  an- 
tiquities. 

BRIGHT    STAR!     WOULD    I    WERE    STEAD- 
FAST AS  THOU  ART 
This  is  believed  to  have  been  the  last  poem  writ- 
ten  by    Keats.     It   was   composed   on    shipboard   just 
before  his  departure  for  Italy  and  written  across  a 
blank  page  of  Shakspere's  poems. 
4.  eremite,    hermit. 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LYRICS 
ROBERT  SOUTHEY:  THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 
657.  56.  Prince  Eugene.  Francois  Eugene  de  Sa- 
voie-Carignan  (i 663-1 736),  a  distinguished  Austrian 
general,  in  alliance  with  Marlborough  defeated  the 
French   and    Bavarians   at   Blenheim,    Aug.    13,    1704. 

WALTER    SAVAGE   LANDOR  :      ROSE   AYLMER 
657.  The    subject    of    this    poem    was    a    beautiful 
Welsh   girl   who  had   died  in  Italy.     She   was  of  an 
ancient     and     tilled     family;     hence,     'the    sceptred 
race.' 

PAST   RUINED   ILION 

1.  Ilion,  Troy. 

2.  Alcestis,  the  heroine  of  Euripides'  drama  of 
that  name. 


ARTEMIDORA 
658.    II.   Iris    stood    over    her    dark    hair.     Iris    the 
messenger  of  the   gods   was   supposed   to   loosen   the 
hair    of   dying    persons   and,    until    she   did    so,    their 
spirits  were  unable  to  depart. 

DIRCE 
I.  Stygian,  of  the   river  Styx;   here,   destined   for 
Hades. 

3.  Charon.     The   ferryman  of  the  river  Styx. 

ON   LUCRETIA  BORGIa's   HAIR 
l.ucretia  Borgia   (1480-1519),  Duchess  of  Ferrara, 
was  famed  for  beauty,  wit,  and  wickedness. 

MEMORY   AND   PRIDE 

3.  lanthe,  Sophia  Jane  Swift,  afterwards  Countess 

de    Molande,    Landor's    early    '  flame  '    and    life-long 

friend.      Many    of    his   lyrics    of    gallantry    were    ad- 
dressed  to   her. 

TO   ROBERT   BROWNING 
10-14.  But     ivarmcr    climes,    etc.     Browning     had 
just  married  Elizabeth  Barrett  and  left  England  for 
Italy. 


3.  The  Fates 
and  note. 


TO  AGE 

.     shears.     Compare  240.   75. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL:      YE    MARINERS    OF    ENG- 
LAND 
659.   15.  Blake.     Robert    Blake,   the   famous  admiral 
of  the  Commonwealth,  died  at  sea,   1757. 

Nelson  fell.  Horatio,  first  Viscount  Nelson,  the 
chief  naval  hero  of  England,  died  at  Trafalgar,  Oc- 
tober 21,  1805.  He  '  fell  '  severely  wounded,  at  the 
Battle   of  Copenhagen,  April  2,    1801. 


THOMAS     MOORE:      THE     HARP    THAT    ONCE 

THROUGH   TARA's   HALLS 

Tara,    the    ancient    capital    of    one   branch    of    the 

Irish  race,  is  frequently  named  in  early  Irish  poetiy. 


JOHN   KEBLE:      UNITED   STATES 
661.   I.  This  poem   had   been   preceded    in    the   Lyra 
Apustolica   by    John    Henry    Newman's   similar    apos- 
trophe to  England,  beginning  '  Tyre  of  the  West.' 

J3.  Tyre,  the  great  trading  center  of  ancient 
I'henicia,  was  constantly  execrated  by  the  Hebrew 
prophets  for  its  worldliness  and  commercial  pros- 
perity.    Salem,  Jerusalem. 

WINTHROP    MACKWORTH     PRAED :      THE    BELLE 
OF   THE   BALL-ROOM 

665.  31.  Locke.  John  Locke  (1632-1704),  author 
of  Essay  Concerning  Human    Understanding,  etc. 

32.  Little.     A   pseudonym   of   Thomas   Moore. 

61.  Handel.  Georg  Friederich  Handel  lived  for  a 
long  time  in  London  and  died  there  in  1759.  His 
compositions  were  popular  in  England. 


loyS 


NOTES 


6-^  the  Calalani.  Angelica  Catalani,  an  Italian 
iiiigcr. 

70.  Fierce  odes,  etc.  Probably  an  allusion  to 
Coleridge's  Fire,  Fnmkie,  and  Slaughter. 

71.  Prince  Lehoo.  Jean  Louis  Joseph  Lebcau  (b. 
1794)  was  a  distinguished  Belgian  diplomat  who 
carried  on  important  negotiations  in   England,   1830- 

31- 

666.  67.  the  vat'ors,  a  '  Queen  Anne  '  term  for  the 
blues. 

71.  Wcriher.  Goethe's  sentimental  novel,  The 
Sorrows  of  IVerther. 

73.   The  City.     The  business  district  of  London. 

WILLIAM   BARNES:       BLACKMORE   MAIDENS 
The    peculiarities    of    the    spelling   are    intended    to 
suggest  the   Dorsetshire   pronunciation. 

667.  4.   Clole,  waterlily. 

7.   bnckcn  tuns.      Brick-built  vats. 
37.   twcil.   toil. 

EDWARD   FITZGERALD:      THE   RUBAIYAT 

669.  7.   the   dark   Ferrash,    servant,   camp-follower. 
II.   SciL-i,  wine-bearer. 

ELIZABETH     BARRETT    BROWNING:       A     MUSICAL 
INSTRUMENT 

670.  I.  Pan.  God  of  forests  and  flocks,  the  special 
deity  of  Arcadia.  To  him  was  imputed  the  inven- 
tion  of  the   shepherd's  flute. 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 
This  sonnet  series  is  based  upon  the  courtship 
of  Robert  Browning  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  (see  p. 
785).  When  the  poems  were  published  the  de- 
scription '  from  the  Portuguese  '  was  adopted  for 
the  sake  of  disguising  their  personal   import. 


1-2.  Theocritus  had  sung  .  .  .  years.  Idyl 
XV,  104-S. 

13.  'Death'!  I  said.  Miss  Barrett  had  been  for 
years  an  invalid. 

V 

2.  As  once  Electro,  etc.  An  allusion  to  a  passage 
in  the  Electro  of  Sophocles  in  which  the  heroine, 
holding  as  she  supposes  the  urn  containing  the 
ashes  of  her  brother  Orestes,  experiences  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling  when  she  finds  him  alive  be- 
fore her. 

II.  those   laurels,   etc.     Browning's   poetical    fame. 

XXXV 

671.    I.  If     I     leave     all,     etc.     The     marriage     with 
Browning,   because   of   the   character  and  attitude   of 


Miss   Barrett's   fathi 
home  ties. 


involved    the   severing    of   all 


SIDNEY   DOBELL:      AMERICA 

These  sonnets  are  from  a  series  published  during 
the  Crimean  War,  when  America  was  supposed  to 
be  hostile  to  Great  Britain. 

677.  6.  satchelcd.     Compare  As   You   Like  It,  II,  7. 
145,  '  the   schoolboy   with   his   satchel,'   etc. 


AUSTIN    DOBSON  :      A   DEAD   LETTER 
679.   II.  Goldsmith's  Madam  Blaize.     An  allusion  to 
Goldsmith's   ridiculous  poem   An   elegy   on   the   Glory 
of  her  Se.K,  Mrs.  Mary  Bloize. 

14.  tea-hoard  garden-maker.  Apparently,  one  de- 
signing a  garden  on  the  scale  of  a  tea-tray. 

15.  Dutch  William's  day.  William  of  Orange's 
time,    1688  and  after. 

38.   Tithonus.     See  p.  778  and  note. 
C80.  s~-  Damson    Jam.     Jam    made    of   the    damson, 
or  damask  plum. 

6-'.  Padesoy,  paduasoy,  a  rich  heavy  silk  from 
Ladua. 

63.   the    Vapors.     See   666.   67,  note. 

79.   Bon-es,  images  of  Buddhist  priests. 

112.   Point  and  Flanders.     Lace. 

JAMES    THOMSON  :    MELEXCOLIA 

16.  the  pure  sad  artist.  Albrecht  Diirer  (1471- 
i5j8),  Nuremberg,  painter  and  engraver.  The 
sketch   here  described  is  one  ot  his  works  on  copper. 

74.   teen  and  threne.      Sorrow  and  lamentation. 

DE    OUINCEY:     CONFESSIONS   OF   AN    ENG- 
LISH OPIUM  EATER 

The  version  of  the  '  Confessions  '  adopted  in  the 
text  is  that  of  the  original  issue  in  the  London 
Magazine  (1821),  which  has  been  generally  pre- 
ferred, both  by  the  critics  and  the  public,  to  the  en- 
larged edition  published  by  De  Quincey  in  his  col- 
lected works  thirty-five  years  later.  On  account  of 
his  tendency  to  digression,  De  Quincey's  second 
tlioughts  are  sometimes  less  effective  than  his  first. 
The  additional  details  given  in  the  later  version  have 
been  used  in  the  notes  and  are  distinguished  by 
quotation   marks. 

684.  a.  I.  an  affection  of  the  stomach.  Opium  is 
said  to  be  a  remedy  for  gastrodynia,  or  neuralgia 
of  the  stomach. 

20.  My  father.  Thomas  Quincey,  merchant,  of 
Manchester,  d.  July  18,   1793. 

so.  '  and  a  ripe  and  good  one.'  See  Henry  I' III, 
I\',  ii,  51—2.  The  master  in  question  was  a  Mr. 
Morgan,  of  Bath  Grammar  School. 

55.  a  blockhead.  The  master  of  W^inkfield,  a 
small    private    school. 

b.    1.  a  respectable  scholar.     Mr.   Lawson,   head 
of    Manchester    Grammar   School. 

4. College,    Brasenose. 

9.  Etonian  Up  to  1851  the  curriculum  at  Eton 
was    entirely   classical. 

2y.  Archididascalus.     Greek  for  head  master. 

685.  a.  II.  a  ivoman  of  high  rank.  Lady  Carbery. 
'  A  young  woman  some  ten  years  older  than  my- 
self, and  who  was  remarkable  for  her  intellectual 
pretensions  as  she  was  for  her  beauty  and  her 
benevolence.' 

15.  five  guineas,   $25. 

35.  of  Dr.  Johnson's,  at  the  end  of  the  last  article 
in  his  periodical.   The  Idler. 

44.  1  had  not  been  happy.  The  chief  reasons  of 
De  Quincey's  unhappiness  at  Manchester  Grammar 
School  were  (i)  the  state  of  his  health,  the  school 
hours  not  permitting  him  to  take  sufficient  exercise; 


NOTES 


1099 


(j)  liis  dislike  of  tlie  head  master;  (3)  the  refusal 
of  his  guardian  to  allow  him  to  go  to  Oxford,  as 
explained  above. 

b.  3.  valediction,  farewell. 

21.  towers    of    ,    the    'old    cliurcli,"    now    the 

cathedral   of  the  modern  diocese  of   Manchester. 

49.  'pensive  citadel.'  See  Wordsworth's  sonnet 
Nuns  fret  not,  537.   3,  and  note. 

686.  a.  9.  eighteen  years  ago,  when  De  Quincey 
wrote  the  'Confessions'  about  Christmas,  i8jo; 
really  nineteen  when  they  were  published,  the  fol- 
lowing  September    and    October. 

13.  lovely  .     A   portrait  of  an  unknown  lady, 

reputed  in  the  school  to  be  a  copy  from  Vandyke 
(1598-1641). 

22.  clock.    '  the  old   church   clock.' 

S4-5S.  See  Paradise  Lost   II,  306-7,  p.  J58. 
56.  Salisbury  Plain,  in  Wiltshire. 

b.  3.  contretemps,  mishap,  unlucky  accident. 

25.  canorous,    resonant,    ringing. 
686.  b.  27.  the     Seven     Sleepers,     seven     Christian 
youths  of  Ephesus,  who  took  refuge  in  a  cave  from 
persecution,  and,  according  to  the  legend,  slept  there 
for   230   years. 

32.  ctourdcrie,  heedless,  giddy  behaviour. 

35.  Dr.  .     '  The  head-master  at  that  time  was 

Mr.  Charles  Lawson.  In  former  editions  of  this 
work  I  created  him  a  doctor;  my  object  being  to 
evade  too  close  an  approach  to  the  realities  of  the 
case,  and  consequently  to  personalities,  which 
(though  indifferent  to  myself)  would  have  been  in 
some  cases  displeasing  to  others.' 

50.  '  with  Providence  my  guide.'  Paradise  Lost, 
closing  lines: 

'  The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps  and  slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary   way.' 

C87.  a.   16.   lustrum,   period    of    five   years. 

38.   I'VxOrif'-fpov,  a  night  and  a  day. 

42.  1  hat  moveth.  See  Wordsworth's  Resolution 
and  Independence,  529.   77. 

44.  Now,  then,  I  was  again  happy.  This  was  in 
1816,  the  year  of  De  Quincey 's  marriage,  which 
induced  him  to  suddenly  cut  down  from  8,oqo  to 
i,ooo  drops  his  daily  allowance  of  opium.  "In- 
stantaneously, and  as  if  by  magic,  the  cloud  of  pro- 
foundest  melancholy  which  rested  upon  my  brain, 
like  some  black  vapors  that  I  have  seen  roll  away 
from  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  drew  off  in  one 
week.'  De  Quincey  began  to  take  opium  in  1804  as 
a  remedy  for  '  excruciating  rheumatic  pains  of  the 
head  and  face  ';  but  he  did  not  become  a  regular 
and  contirmed  opium  eater  till  1813,  when  he  was 
attacked  by  '  a  most  appalling  irritation  of  the 
stomach.'  De  Quincey  made  repeated  efforts  to  free 
himself  from  thraldom  to  the  drug,  which  brought 
on  severe  depression  and  made  him  at  times  in- 
capable of  mental  exertion,  but  he  never  entirely 
succeeded. 

b.  3.   Kant,    Imnianuel    Kant    (1724—1804),    the 
founder   of   '  Transcendental  '    Philosophy. 

22.  Malay.  There  has  been  an  inclination  to  re- 
gard this  as  a  fictitious  personage  invented  by  De 
Quincey    to    give    variety     and    color    to    his    narra- 


tive; he  himself  protested  that  he  had  recorded  the 
incident  '  most  faithfully.'  He  adds  a  note  to  the 
later  edition:  '  Between  the  sea-faring  populations 
on  the  coast  of  I.ancashire  and  the  corresponding 
populations  on  the  coast  of  Cumberland  (such  as 
Uaven^lass,  Whitehaven,  Workington,  Maryport, 
etc.)  there  was  a  slender  current  of  interchange  con- 
stantly going  on,  and  especially  in  the  days  of 
press-gangs  —  in  i)art  by  sea,  but  in  part  also  by 
land.' 

28.  a  young  girl.  '  This  girl,  Barbara  Lewth- 
waite,  was  already  at  that  time  a  person  of  some 
poetic  distinction,  being  (unconsciously  to  herself; 
the  chief  speaker  in  a  little  pastoral  poem  of  Words- 
worth's. That  she  was  really  beautiful,  and  not 
merely  so  described  by  me  for  the  sake  of  improv- 
ing the  picturesque  effect,  the  reader  will  judge 
from  this  line  in  the  poem,  written  perhaps  ten 
years  earlier,  when  Barbara  might  be  six  years 
old:  — 

"fwas   little   Barbara   Lewthwaite,  a  child   of  beauty 
rare!  ' 

De  Quincey  adds  in  an  appendix  that  subse- 
quently, when  a  young  woman,  she  entered  uncon- 
sciously into  the  composition  of  Wordsworth's  Ode, 
Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of 
Early  Childhood.  Wordsworth,  however,  writing  in 
1843,  when  Barbara  Lewthwaite  was  still  living  at 
Ambleside,  says  that  she  was  not  in  fact  the  child 
whom  he  had  seen  and  overheard  as  described  in 
The  Pet  Lamb.  Within  a  few  months  after  the 
publication  of  the  poem,  it  came  to  Barbara's  knowl- 
edge, 'and  alas!  I  had  the  mortification  of  hearing 
that  she  was  very  vain  of  being  thus  distinguished: 
and,  in  after-life,  she  used  to  say  that  she  remem- 
bered the  incident  and  what  I  said  to  her  upon  the 
occasion.' 

688.  a.  32.  Anastasius,  a  novel  published  in  1819, 
and  in  1821  'both  of  high  reputation  and  of  great 
inrtucnce  amongst  the  leading  circles  of  society.' 
Its  hero  was  a  Greek  who  ate  opium,  and  it  in- 
cluded a  glossary  of  the  Oriental  terms  used  in  the 
slory. 

34.  Mithridates,  King  of  Pontus,  was  said  to  be 
able  to  speak  the  twenty  two  dialects  of  his  king- 
dom. For  this  reason  the  German  philologer  Ade- 
lung  gave  this  title  to  a  universal  dictionary  of 
languages  he  published  in  1806. 

b.  29.  '  a-muck,'  Malay  amoq,  '  rushing  in  a 
state  of  frenzy  to  the  commission  of  indiscriminate 
murder.' 

32.  intercalary,  interpolated,  intervening.  An  in- 
tercalary day  is  one  inserted  to  make  the  calendar 
agree  with  the  solar  year,  as  the  29th  of  February  in 
leap  year. 

32.  happiness,  i.e.,  opium. 

689.  a.  21.  didactically,  in  the  way  of  teaching,  by 
direct  instruction. 

26.  c/i.ri>,  the  philosopher's  stone,  which  the 
alchemists   imagined    would    confer   perpetual    youth. 

30.  a  collage  standing  in  a  valley.  '  The  cottage 
and  valley  concerned  in  this  description  were  not 
imaginary:  the  valley  was  the  lovely  one,  in  those 
days,  of  Grasmere:  and  the  cottage  was  occupied  for 
more    than    twenty    years    by    myself,    as    immediate 


IIOO 


NOTES 


successor,  in  the  year  1809,  to  Wordsworth.  Look- 
ing to  the  limitation  here  laid  down  —  viz.  in  those 
Jays  —  the  reader  will  in(|iiire  in  what  way  Time 
can  have  affected  the  beauty  of  (Jrasmere.  Do  the 
Westmoreland  \  alleys  turn  greyheaded  ?  O  reader! 
this  is  a  painful  memento  for  some  of  us!  Thirty 
years  ago,  a  gang  of  vandals  (nameless,  1  thank 
heaven,  to  me),  for  the  sake  of  building  a  mail- 
coach  road  that  never  would  be  wanted,  carried,  at 
a  cost  of  £3,000  to  the  defrauded  parish,  a  horrid 
causeway  of  sheer  granite  masonry,  for  three-quar- 
ters of  a  mile,  right  thiough  the  loveliest  succession 
of  secret  forest  dells  and  shy  recesses  of  the  lake, 
margined  by  unrivalled  ferns,  amongst  which  was 
the  Osiiiunda  regalis.  This  sequestered  angle  of 
Cirasmere  is  described  by  Wordsworth,  as  it  un- 
veiled itself  on  a  September  morning,  in  the  ex- 
quisite poems  on  the  "  Naming  of  Places."  From 
this  also  ^ — viz.  this  spot  of  ground,  and  this  mag- 
nificent crest  (the  Osinunda) —  was  suggested  that 
imique  line,  the  finest  independent  line  through  all 
the  records  of  verse: 

Or  lady  of  the  lake. 
Sole-sitting  by   the   shores   of   old   romance. 

Rightly,    therefore,    did    I    introduce    this    limitation. 

The    Grasmere    before   and    after    this    outrage    were 

two   different   vales.' 

689.  a.  42.  a  witty  author,  Coleridge  in  The  Devil's 

Thoughts: 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A   cottage   of  gentility! 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

b.  21.  The  Castle  of  Indolence,  by  Thomson, 
Canto   I,    Stanza   43.     See  p.   373. 

25.  a  high  latitude,  far  north.  Lord  Dufferin's 
travels  in  Iceland  are  described  in  Letters  from 
High   Latitudes. 

32.  '  particular/  precise,  exactly.  De  Quincey 
l)uts  the  word  in  quotation  marks  because  this  use 
of  it  is  a  Northern  provincialism. 

34,  Mr.  ,     '  Anti-slavery  Clarkson,'  the  author 

of  a  History   of  the  Abolition  of  the   Slave   Trade. 

45.  a  Canadian  winter.  De  Quincey  seems  to 
have  been  in  earnest  in  this  preference.  At  one 
time  he  thought  of  retiring  to  the  woods  of  Lower 
Canada  to  devote  himself  to  philosophic  studies, 
and  he  had  even  fixed  upon  the  situation  for  a 
cottage  and  a  considerable  library  seventeen  miles 
below  Quebec.  He  gives  the  following  reasons  for 
this  choice:  '  My  object  was  simply  profound  soli- 
tude, such  as  cannot  now  be  had  in  any  part  of 
Great  Britain  —  with  two  accessory  advantages,  also 
peculiar  to  countries  situated  in  the  circumstances 
and  under  the  climate  of  Canada:  viz.  the  exalting 
presence  in  an  iinder-consciousness  of  forests  end- 
less and  silent,  the  everlasting  sense  of  living 
amongst  forms  so  ennobling  and  impressive,  together 
with  the  pleasure  attached  to  natural  agencies,  such 
as  frosts,  more  powerfully  manifested  than  in  Eng- 
lish   latitudes,    and    for    a    much    longer    period.     I 


hope  there  is  nothing  fanciful  in  all  this.  It  is 
certain  that  in  England  and  in  all  moderate  cli 
mates,  we  are  too  slightly  reminded  of  nature  or 
the  forces  of  nature.  Great  heats  or  great  coUU 
(and  in  Canada  there  are  both)  or  great  hurricanes, 
as  in  the  West  Indian  latitudes,  recall  us  continually 
to  the  sense  of  a  powerful  presence,  investing  our 
path  on  every  side:  whereas  in  England  it  is  possi 
ble  to  forget  that  we  live  amongst  greater  agencies 
than    those   of   men   and    human    institutions.' 

48.  fee-simple,  a  legal  phrase  for  absolute  owner- 
ship. 

51.  St.  Thomas's  day,  December  21. 

53.  vernal,  spring. 
690.  a.  10.  bcllum  intcrnccinum,  war  to  the  death. 
Ilanway  wrote  an  Essay  on  Tea  (1756),  which  Dr. 
Johnson  reviewed  and  condemned,  declaring  himseli 
'  a  hardened  and  shameless  tea-drinker,  .  .  . 
whose  kettle  has  scarcely  time  to  cool.'  A  lively 
controversy  resulted.  See  Boswell's  Life  of  Jolin- 
son  (Macmillan's  edition  —  Library  of  English 
Classics),   I,   pp.   -24-5. 

27.  '  a  double  debt  to  pay.'  Goldsmith's  Deserted 
Village,    466.    229-30. 

46.  eternal  d  parte  ante  and  a  parte  post,  from 
everlasting  to  everlasting,  having  no  beginning  and 
no   end. 

53.  Aurora  .  .  ,  Hebe,  beautiful  Greek  god- 
desses, the  former  the  personification  of  Dawn,  the 
latter  of  Youth. 

54.  dear  AI ,   Margaret,   De  Quincey's   wife. 

b.  8.  'little  golden  receptacle,  etc.,'  quoted 
from  the  Anastasius  mentioned  above. 

]6.  'stately  Pantheon,'  a  London  theatre,  so  de- 
scribed by  Wordsworth,  near  which  was  the  drug- 
gist's shop  from  which  De  Quincey  first  obtained 
opium,  as  described  in  an  earlier  passage  in  the 
'  Confessions  '  not  included  in   our  extracts. 

29.  my  body  should  be  had  into  court,  adapted 
from  the  wording  of  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus. 

iy.  the  Opium-eater's  exterior.  As  was  pointed 
out  in  the  introductory  biography,  De  Quincey's 
personal  appearance  was  peculiar.  Carlyle  describes 
him  as  '  one  of  the  smallest  men  you  ever  in  your 
life  beheld;  but  with  a  most  gentle  and  sensible 
face,  only  the  teeth  are  destroyed  by  opium,  and 
the  little  bit  of  an  under  lip  projects  like  a  shelf.' 
'Blue-eyed,  blonde-haired,  sparkling  face, —  had 
there  not  been  a  something,  too,  which  said,  "  Ec 
covi,  this  child  has  been  in  hell!  "  '  Professor  Mas- 
son  writes:  '  In  addition  to  the  general  impression 
of  his  diminutiveness  and  fragility,  one  was  struck 
with  the  peculiar  beauty  of  his  head  and  forehead, 
rising  disproportionately  high  over  his  small,  wrinkly 
visage  and  gentle,  deep-set  eyes.'  The  effect  of  his 
childish  figure  and  odd  gait  was  increased  by  his  ec- 
centricities of  dress.  '  His  clothes  had  generally  a 
look  of  extreme  age,  and  also  of  having  been  made 
for  a  person  somewhat  larger  than  himself.'  He 
was  fond  of  list  slippers  for  outdoor  wear  and  some- 
times forgot  to   put  on  one   or  both   stockings. 

48.  categories,  of  Aristotle:  i  Substance  or  Be- 
ir.g,  2  Quantity,  3  Quality,  4  Relation,  5  Place,  6 
Time,  etc. 


NOTES 


IIOI 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY:     THE 
ROMANCE  OF  HISTORY 

The  article  of  which  the  latter  part  is  here 
piinted  was  professedly  a  review  in  the  Edinburgh, 
May,  1828,  of  a  new  book  by  a  popular  writer  of 
that  day,  Henry  Neele,  entitled,  '  The  Romance  of 
History.  England  ';  but  this  served  Macaulay 
merely  as  an  opportunity  to  set  forth  his  own  ideas 
as  to  how  history  should  be  written.  He  had  stated 
the  same  opinions  before  in  a  review  of  Mitford's 
History  of  Greece,  and  he  re-stated  them  in  reviews 
of  the  historical  works  of  Hallam  and  Mackintosh 
before  he  was  able  to  put  them  into  practice  in  his 
own  History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of 
James  II.  In  spite  of  his  extraordinary  aptitude  for 
the  undertaking,  he  carried  out  his  scheme  for  only 
fifteen  years  of  the  century  and  a  half  for  which 
the  work  was  planned;  no  one  man,  even  in  a  long 
life,  could  have  executed  the  design  with  such  a 
broad  canvas  and  in  such  minute  detail  as  Macaulay 
attempted.  Much  of  the  higher  side  of  life  was 
omitted,  and  many  of  his  judgments  have  not  stood 
the  test  of  subsequent  investigation.  The  modern 
historian  aims  at  far  greater  accuracy  as  well  as  a 
more  profound  inquiry  into  causes;  but  no  one  has 
been  more  successful  than  Macaulay  in  writing  a 
historical  narrative  of  unfailing  interest  to  the  gen- 
eial  reader. 

692.  a.  7.  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  1633— 
45,  and  the  director  of  Charles  I's  ecclesiastical  pol- 
icy. Curiously  enough,  the  very  faults  of  which 
Macaulay  here  accuses  other  historians  have  since 
been  urged  against  himself,  and  Laud  is  one  of  the 
instances  cited.  Professor  Montague  says:  '  Ma- 
caulay, who  regarded  this  period  of  English  history 
in  a  peculiarly  partisan  spirit,  uniformly  wrote  of 
Laud's  personal  character  with  a  loathing,  and  of 
his  abilities  with  a  contempt,  unbecoming  the  gravity 
of  a  historian.' 

II.  Herodotus,  'the  father  of  history'  and  the 
first  important  writer  of  Greek  prose.  Macaulay 
says  of  him  earlier  in  this  same  article:  'Of  the 
romantic  historians  Herodotus  is  the  earliest  and 
the  best.  His  animation,  his  simple-hearted  tender- 
ness, his  wonderful  talent  for  description  and  dia- 
logue, and  the  pure,  sweet  flow  of  his  language, 
place  him  at  the  head  of  narrators.  .  .  .  He  has 
written  something  better  perhaps  than  the  best  his- 
tory; but  he  has  not  written  a  good  history;  he  is, 
from  the  first  to  the  last  chapter,  an  inventor." 
Fuller  knowledge  has  proved  that  Herodotus  is 
much  more  accurate  and  trustworthy  than  Macaulay 
here  makes  out. 

41.  Hume's  History  of  England  was  published  in 
1754-61  and  still  retained  its  popularity  in  1825, 
as  Macaulay  admits  in  his  essay  on  Milton,  in  which 
he  says  that  Hume  '  hated  religion  so  much  that  he 
hated  liberty  for  having  been  allied  with  religion, 
and  has  pleaded  the  cause  of  tyranny  with  the  dex- 
terity of  an  advocate,  while  affecting  the  impartiality 
of  a  judge.'  This  comment  Professor  Montague 
describes  as  '  mere  childish  petulance,'  adding  that 
'  Hume  sympathized  with  the  Stuarts  because  he 
was  a  Scotchman  and  distrusted  popular  government 
because  he  was  a  sceptic'     The  fact  is,  as  Professor 


Huxley  points  out  in  his  essay  on  Hume,  that 
Hume  wrote  history  from  the  Tory  point  of  view, 
Macaulay  from  that  of  the  Whigs. 

46.  obnoxious,  open,  liable.  Gibbon  published  his 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Emj^ire  in  1776-88. 
It  has  stood  the  test  of  time  much  better  than  Ma- 
caulay's  own  work  and  has  still  a  very  high  reputa- 
tion  for   impartiality  and   accuracy. 

49.  Mitford,  who  died  the  year  before  this  criti- 
cism appeared,  published  his  History  of  Greece  in 
1 784-1 8 18.  Macaulay  had  reviewed  it  with  some 
severity  in  1824,  with  the  object,  to  use  his  own 
words,  of  '  reducing  an  over-praised  writer  to  his 
proper  level.' 

b.  15.  Plutarch  (first  century  A.  D.)  wrote  the 
Lives  of  46  eminent  Creeks  and  Romans,  arranged 
in  pairs  so  as  to  bring  out  contrasts  of  character 
and  point  moral  and  political  lessons.  Sir  Thomas 
North's  English  version,  made  from  .Xmyot's  French 
translation  of  the  Greek  original,  was  the  foundation 
of   Shakspere's  Roman  tragedies. 

15.  Thuc^didcs,  the  second  great  Greek  historian 
(fifth  century  B.  C),  wrote  the  history  of  the  long 
struggle  between  Athens  and  Sparta  which  ended 
in  the  ruin  of  the  former.  Macaulay  says  earlier  in 
this  essay  that  '  Thucydides  has  surpassed  all  his 
rivals  in  the  art  of  historical  narration,  in  the  art 
of  producing  an  effect  on  the  imagination,  by  skilful 
selection  and  disposition,  without  indulging  in  the 
license  of  invention.' 

23.  Calcutta  .  .  .  Bombay  both  in  India,  but 
at  opposite  ends  of  it.  So,  it  is  said,  English  peo- 
ple coming  to  Montreal  are  charged  with  messages 
for    friends   in    Vancouver. 

24.  Rollin  and  Barthelemi,  French  historians  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  who  in 
Macaulay's  time  had   not  ceased   to  be  read. 

693.  a.  17.  make  the  worse  appear  the  better  rea- 
son. Milton  of  Belial  in  Paradise  Lost,  II,  112— 4. 
See  p.   255. 

24.  the  poet  Laureate,  Southey,  who  wrote  excel- 
lent biographies  of  Nelson  and  Wesley,  but  no  his- 
torical works  of  any  value.  His  Book  of  the 
Church,  Macaulay  wrote  a  year  or  two  later,  'con- 
tains some  stories  very  prettily  told;  the  rest  is 
mere  rubbish.'  Southey  was  a  copious  writer  of 
reviews  and  miscellaneous  articles,  in  which  he  fre- 
(luently  attacks  Lingard,  who  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 
'Ihe  latter's  History  of  England  (first  edition  1819- 
.^5)  at  once  became  a  standard  work  on  account  of 
its  learning  and  insight;  it  is  still  held  in  high 
esteem. 

26.  Brodie,  author  of  A  History  of  the  British 
Empire  from  the  Accession  of  Charles  I  to  the 
Restoration  (1822).  In  1836  he  was  appointed  His- 
toriographer Royal   for  Scotland. 

29.  about  to  be  reheard.  Macaulay  no  doubt  re- 
fers to  the  History  of  Greece  by  George  Grote,  writ- 
ten with  much  more  sympathy  for  democracy  than 
Mitford's.  It  was  not  published  till  1846-56,  but 
the  author  began  to  collect  materials  as  early  as 
.823. 

37.  neglect  the  art  of  narration.  This  was  Ma- 
caulay's repeated  complaint  about  the  historians  of 
his  day;  it  was  an  art  in  which  he  himself  ex- 
celled. 


1102 


NOTES 


49.  the  most  frivolous  and  indolent.  This  passage 
is  an  instance,  not  only  of  Macaulay's  exaggeration 
of  statement,  but  of  his  niisconceiition  of  popular 
tastes,  lie  writes  in  his  review  of  Sir  James 
Mackintosh: — 'A  history  of  England,  written 
throughout  in  this  manner,  would  be  the  most  fasci- 
nating book  in  the  language.  It  would  be  more  in 
request  at  the  circulating  libraries  than  the  last 
novel.'  In  his  own  History  Macaulay  went  further 
than  any  one  else  towards  justifying  the  claim  he 
here  puts  forward;  but  he  could  not  altogether  suc- 
ceed. The  comparison  with  the  historical  novel,  on 
which  Macaulay  so  often  insisted,  is  misleading,  as 
Professor  Montague  points  out.  '  A  novel  and  a 
history  can  never  really  be  occupied  with  the  same 
matter.  Imaginative  writing,  whether  in  prose  or 
verse,  is  always  and  above  all  concerned  with  the 
individual,  and  everything  else  is  only  accessory. 
History  concerns  itself  with  the  great  organized 
masses  of  men  known  as  people  or  states  and  treats 
of  individuals  only  in  relation  to  such  masses  and 
the  effect  produced  upon  them  by  uncommon  per- 
sonal qualities.'  Moreover,  history  deals  witli  what 
actually  happened,  the  historical  novel  with  what 
might    have    happened. 

b.  10.  conventional  decencies  .  .  .  of  the 
French  drama,  the  rules  of  classical  tragedy  which 
forbid  the  introduction  of  comic  or  commonplace 
elements  and  the  representation  of  acts  of  violence 
on  the  stage,  all  the  murders,  etc.,  being  reported  by 
messengers.  The  bane  of  the  French  drama,  from 
the  English  point  of  view,  has  been  rather  the  ob- 
servance of  the  Unities  of  Time  and  Place,  the 
restriction  of  the  plot  to  one  critical  event,  and  the 
consequent   exclvision   of   incident. 

15.  too  trivial  for  the  majesty  of  history.  This 
is  a  favorite  idea  with  Macaulay.  In  1824  he 
wrote  that  the  true  historian  '  will  not  think  any- 
thing too  trivial  for  the  gravity  of  history  which  is 
not  too  trivial  to  promote  or  diminish  the  happiness 
of  man.'  In  the  opening  of  his  History  (1848)  he 
says:  '  I  shall  cheerfully  bear  the  reproach  of  hav- 
ing descended  below  the  dignity  of  history,  if  1  can 
succeed  in  placing  before  the  English  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  a  true  picture  of  the  life  of  their 
ancestors.' 

18.  King  of  Spain,  Philip  III,  who  was  said  to 
have  died  from  a  fever  brought  on  by  the  excessive 
heat  of  a  fire,  which  the  courtiers  refused  to  damp 
because  it  was  contrary  to  etiquette,  the  nobleman 
whose  ofhce  it  was  being  absent.  But  Lafuente 
in  his  History  of  Spain  says  tlie  story  was  a  pure 
invention   of  the   French   Ambassador,    Bassompierre. 

29.  The  knowledge  of  it  is  valuable,  etc.  It  is 
characteristic  of  Macaulay  that  he  has  no  appre- 
ciation  of  knowledge   for  its   own   sake. 

35.  turnpike,  tollgate. 

36.  Sir  Matthew  Mite,  the  principal  character  in 
Foote's  farce  The  Nabob  (,17-/2),  described  by  Ma- 
caulay in  his  essay  on  Clive  as  '  an  Anglo-Indian 
chief,  dissolute,  ungenerous,  and  tyrannical,  ashamed 
of  the  humble  friends  of  his  youth,  hating  the  aris- 
tocracy, yet  childishly  eager  to  be  numbered  among 
them,  squandering  his  wealth  on  panders  and  flat- 
terers, tricking  out  his  chairmen  witli  the  most 
costly    hot-house    flowers,    and    astounding    the    igno 


rant  with  jaiRon  about  rupees,  lacs,  and  jaghires.' 
He  uses  the  fortune  he  has  made  in  India  to  bribe 
his  way  into  Parliament,  becomes  a  member  of  the 
Antiquarian  Society,  and  commits  scores  of  ex- 
travagant follies  similar  to  that  referred  to  in  the 
text. 

37.  Lord  Clarendon,  Charles  ll's  chief  minister 
and  author  of  the  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion. 

46.  Hampden,  Oliver  Cromwell's  cousin  and  the 
man  on  the  Parliamentary  side  whom  Macaulay 
most  admired.  In  his  essay,  John  Hampden,  he  de- 
scribes him  as  '  the  first  of  those  great  English  com- 
moners whose  plain  addition  of  Mister  has,  to  our 
ears,  a  more  majestic  sound  than  the  proudest  of 
the  feudal  titles.' 

51.  Vane  was  'a  singular  combination  of  the 
statesman  and  the  mystic'  According  to  Clarendon 
'  he  did  at  some  time  believe  that  he  was  the  person 
deputed  to  reign  over  the  saints  upon  earth  for  a 
thousand  years.'  He  was  at  one  time  Governor 
of  Massachusetts,  and  his  statue  adorns  the  en- 
tiance  hall  of  the  Boston  Public  Library.  He  was 
a  leading  member  of  the  Long  Parliament  and  after 
the    Restoration    v/as   put   to    death    as   a    traitor. 

694.  a.  5.  Rupert  (Prince),  nephew  of  Charles  I  and 
commander  of  the  Royalist  cavalry  in  the  Civil 
War. 

6.  Harrison  and  Fleetwood,  leaders  on  the  Par- 
liamentary side,  who  were  famous  for  their  religious 
zeal. 

40.  Bishop  Watson  (1737-18 16),  a  distinguished 
defender  of  revealed  religion  against  Tom  Paine 
and   other   sceptical    writers. 

53.  at  the  close  of  the  Seven  Years'  War  (1763), 
when  France  gave  up  Canada  to  Great  Britain  and 
acknowledged   British   supremacy   in   India. 

55.  American    war    of    Independence. 

b.  9.  late  ministerial  interregnum,  in  1827,  on 
the  death  of  Canning,  when  Goderich  kept  the  min- 
istry together  for  a  few  months,  giving  place  in 
January,  1828,  to  a  new  government  under  Welling- 
ton and  Peel. 

695.  b.  7.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  whose  novels  Macaulay 
praises  in  this  and  the  following  pages,  is  not  now 
so  highly  esteemed  as  a  historical  authority  for  the 
customs  and  phraseology  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries. 

32.  Froissart  was  the  chronicler,  as  Chaucer  was 
the  poet,  of  fourteenth  century  chivalry.  The 
Tabard  Inn,  in  Southwark,  is  the  scene  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  Canterbury  Tales. 

38.  Legate,  the  ambassador  of  the  Pope. 

40.  palmers,  strictly,  pilgrims  who  had  been  to 
the  Holy  Land  and  were  therefore  entitled  to  carry 
a  branch  or  leaf  of  palm,  but  often  used  of  pilgrims 
generally,  and  especially  of  those  who  gave  all  their 
lives  to  pilgrimage. 

42.  refectory,  dining-hall. 

52.  villain  (Low  Latin  villanus),  a  medieval  vil- 
lager or  serf,  who  was  bound  to  the  soil  and  sub- 
ject to  the  lord  of  the  manor. 

696.  a.  II.  Tacitus  is  described  by  Macaulay  earlier 
in  this  essay  as  unrivaled  for  the  delineation  of 
character  and  certainly  the  greatest  of  the  Latin 
historians. 


XOTES 


1 103 


40.  keep,  the  central  tower  or  stronghold  of  a 
rr:edieval  castle. 

44.  oriel,  a  window  built  out  so  as  to  form  a  re- 
cess. It  is  one  of  the  features  of  Elizabethan  do- 
mestic architecture,  of  which  Longleat  and  ISurleigh 
were  conspicuous  examples.  The  houses  of  the  no- 
bility built  at  this  time  surpassed  all  that  had  been 
built  before  in  comfort  and  magnificence  and  all 
that    have    been    built    since    in    beauty. 

b.  18.  Fifth-inonarcli\-ma)\,  one  of  those  who 
in  the  seventeenth  century  believed  that  the  second 
coming  of  Christ  was  immediately  at  hand,  and 
that  it  was  the  duty  of  Christians  to  be  prepared  to 
assist  in  establishing  his  reign  by  force,  and  in 
the  meantime  to  repudiate  all  allegiance  to  any 
other  government.  The  allusion  is  to  the  fifth 
kingdom   foretold  in  Daniel  ii,  44. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND 
This  short  extract  cannot  give  any  adequate  im- 
pression of  the  scope  and  methods  of  the  great  his- 
tory, but  it  may  be  enough  to  suggest  some  idea 
of  the  way  in  which  Macaulay  carried  out  his  con- 
ception  of   how  history   should   be   written. 

697.  b.   I.  Danby's  administration.      1674-9. 

45.  clown,  country  bumpkin. 

698.  a.  12.  Perrault  (1628— 1703),  a  member  of  the 
French  academy,  the  advocate  of  the  superiority  of 
modern  literature  against  Boileau,  who  upheld  the 
classics. 

17.  Venice  Preserved  (1682),  a  tragedy  by  Thomas 
Otway. 

22.  Templars,  barristers  or  law  students,  of  the 
Inner  or  Middle  Temple. 

30.  Racine   (1660-1699). 

31.  Bossu    (i63i-!68o). 

b.  33.  Lord  Mayor's  show,  a  magnificent  alle- 
gorical procession  through  the  streets  of  London 
made  every  year  when  the  Lord  Mayor  assumes  of- 
fice. 

34.  Moncydroppers,  coiners  or  distributors  of  false 
money,  cart's  tail,  at  which  they  were  whipped 
through   the  city. 

699.  b.  38.   Tlioresby    (1658-1725). 

42.  Pepys   ( 1 632-1 703),  the  great  diarist. 

700.  a.  20.  higgler,  a  wandering  dealer  in  poultry 
and  dairy  produce. 

b.  34.  parochial,  levied  on  the  parish,  the  small- 
est territorial   division  in   England. 

SI.  turnpike  acts,  acts  of  parliament  establishing 
trusts  for  the  maintenance  of  roads  on  which  tolls 
were  collected.  The  toll-gates  or  toll-bars  were  abol- 
ished about  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

701.  a.   31.  seven  pounds,  nearly  $35. 
33.  fifteen  pence,   30c. 

b.  37.  I'anbrugh  (1666-1726),  writer  of  witty 
and  licentious  comedy. 

NEWMAN:     THE    IDEA   OF   A   UNIVERSITY 
This    discourse    is    one    of    a    series    given    before 
the  University  of  Dublin  and  addressed  primarily  to 
Catholic  educators. 

706.  a.  54-5  5.  '  the  world  is  all  before  it  where  to 
choose.'     Paradise   Lost,  XII,    646. 

707.  a.  24,  St.  Thomas.  Thomas  Aquinas,  the  fa- 
mous schoolman  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


b.  46.  Pompey's  Pillar,  a  shaft  of  the  Cor- 
inthian order  near  Alexandria.  Its  traditional  as- 
sociation with  Pompey  is  no  longer  believed  to  have 
any    foundation    in    fact. 

708.  b.  33.  the  Peripatetic,  an  epithet  applied  to 
the  school  of  Aristotle,'  traditionally  because  his 
discussions  were  carried  on  while  walking  about  in 
the   Lyceum. 

35.  the  Stoic,  the  school  of  Greek  philosophy 
founded  by  Zeno,  about  340-265   B.  C. 

37-39-  Felix  qui  potuit,  etc.  Virgil's  Georgics 
II,   490—92. 

709.  a.  23.  the  music  of  the  spheres.  A  proberbial 
phrase  founded  on  the  old  belief  that  the  celestial 
spheres  were  of  crystal  and  made  a  harmonious 
sound  as  they  revolved. 

b.  2.  Salmasiiis.  A  Dutch  scholar,  chiefly  re- 
membered by  Englishmen  for  his  controversy  with 
Milton. 

3.  Burman.  Francois  Burmann,  Dutch  theologian 
of   the    seventeenth   century. 

4.  Imperat  aut  scrvit  collecta  pecunia  cuique  [a 
man's  money  is  either  his  master  or  his  servant]. 
Horace,  Ep.   i,  x,  48. 

8-10.   Vis  consili,  etc.     Horace,  Odes  3,  iv,  65. 

15.  Tarpeia.  According  to  legend,  she  betrayed 
the  Roman  citadel  to  the  Sabines  for  promised  treas- 
ure, but  was  crushed  to  death  by  the  shields  they 
threw   upon   her. 

-'9.  Moshcim.  Johann  Lorenz  von  Mosheim 
(1694-1755). 

30.  Du  Pin,  Louis  Ellies  (1657-1719),  French 
ecclesiastical   historian. 

711.  a.  54.  a  so-called  university,  etc.  The  Univer- 
sity of  London,  a  corporation  for  the  giving  of  ex- 
aminations and  conferring  of  degrees  had  been 
founded   in    1836. 

b.  5-6.  the  University  of  O.vford  .  .  . 
some  si.rty  years  since.  One  may  read  in  this  con- 
nection Gibbon's  account  of  Oxford,  in  his  Memoirs. 

712.  a.  46.  genius  loci.     Spirit  of  the  place. 

713.  b.  9-10.  '  tongues  in  the  trees  .  .  .  brooks.' 
Slightly  inaccurate  quotation  of  As  You  Like  It,  II, 
i,  16.  * 

CARLYLE:  PAST  AND  PRESENT 
This  pamphlet,  written  during  the  first  seven 
weeks  of  1843,  and  published  in  April,  has  two 
sides:  its  historical  side  is  founded  on  the  twelfth 
century  Chronicle  of  Jocelin  de  Brakelonde,  de- 
scribing the  government  of  the  .\bbey  of  St.  Ed- 
mund's, which  had  been  printed  in  1840  by  the 
Camden  Society;  its  social  and  political  side  is  con- 
cerned with  the  England  of  1842,  alarmed  by  Chart- 
ist riots  and  at  a  loss  which  way  to  turn  for  relief 
of  popular  discontent.  Carlylc  was  not  in  sympathy 
with  any  of  the  existing  political  parties;  his  pam- 
phlet aimed  at  arousing  the  laboring  classes,  their 
employers,  and  the  landed  aristocracy  to  nobler 
ideals  and  a  sense  of  their  obligations  to  each  other. 

714.  a.  II.  Laissez-faire,  freedom  of  manufacture, 
originally  a  protest  against  artificial  restrictions  of 
ir.dustry,  but  later  the  motto  of  the  English  free- 
traders. Carlyle  denounced  their  policy  because 
they  were  opposed  to  all  state-interference  with  in- 
dustry. 


104 


NOTES 


715.  a.  1.  Mammon-Gospels.  Matthew  vi,  54:  '  Ye 
cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.'  Evangel.  Gos- 
pel. 

22.  '  wine-and-walnuts  philosophy.'  Philosophy  suit- 
ed to  be  taken  with  wine  and  walnuts  after  a  good 
dinner. 

27.  '  Suul,  take  thy  ease'     See  Luke  xii,  19-20. 

36.  his  Grace  of  Castle-Rackrent.  Duke  with  an 
estate  on  which  exorbitant  rents  are  charged  to  the 
tenants. 

39.  Land  Auctionecrship,  selling  land  to  the 
highest  bidder. 

41.  Sliding-scales,  adjusting  the  duty  on  corn  to 
the  price  of  wheat. 

42.  Plugsoii,  the  typical  manufacturer. 

51.  Chancery,  the  principal  English  court  for  deal- 
ing with  business  matters. 

b.   I  J.  are    discrepant,    disagree,    show    discrep- 
ancies. 

48.  Abbot  Samson,  the  hero  of  the  Chronicle  of 
Jocelin  de  Brakelonde.     See  introductory  note  above. 

716.  a.  36.  Bucanier  and  Chactaw.  Carlyle's  own 
spellings,  which  it  has  seemed  best  to  leave,  along 
with  his   profuse   capitals. 

46.   Caliban.     The   monster   in    The    Tempest. 
48.  Fiat-Lux.     '  Let   there   be   light.'     See   Genesis 
i,  3- 

51.  garments  rolled  in  blood.     See  Isaiah  ix,  5. 
b.   :i.  unkempt,  uncombed,   raw. 

15.  Howel  Davies.  Not  found  in  the  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography.  There  was  a  famous  West 
Indian  pirate,  Edward  Davis,  who  flourished  1683- 
1702,  and  had  at  one  time  command  of  abouf  3,000 
men. 

717.  a.  2.  Soul-Overseers.  Bishops,  the  Greek 
eTTicTAOTros.  from  which  the  word  is  derived,  mean- 
ing literally  an   overseer. 

3.  Hence  these  tears.  Hinc  illae  lacrumae,  a  say- 
ing in  Terence's  Andria,  quoted  by  Cicero  and 
Horace,  and  since  established  as  a  commonplace  of 
literature. 

44.  ll'tUiain  the  Norman  Bastard.  William  I, 
Duke  of  Normandy  and  King  of  England,  was  of 
illegftimate   birth. 

45.  Taillefcr  (.literally  '  cut-iron  '),  a  minstrel  of 
William's  who  at  the  battle  of  Hastings  obtained 
from   him   the   privilege   of   striking   the  first  blow. 

52.  orthoepy,  right  speech. 

b.  44.   tipstaves,  bailiffs,  constables. 

718.  a.  7.  li'cstminster  Hall,  one  of  the  oldest  Eng- 
lish places  of  legislation  and  the  administration  of 
justice.     Charles  I   was  tried  here  in    1649. 

20.  Bastille,  a  great  prison  in  Paris,  destroyed  at 
the  French  Revolution.  Carlyle  applies  the  term  to 
the  workhouses,  in  which  the  poor  take  refuge  in 
England  when  they   have  no   employment. 

21.  IVestminster.     Parliament. 

30,  articulated,  systematized,   organized. 

34.  Midas-eared.  Midas,  a  mythological  king  of 
Phrygia,  who  had  asses'  ears,  and  who  obtained 
from  the  gods  the  embarrassing  gift  that  everything 
he  touched  turned  to  gold. 

57.  Duces,    lenders    (Latin). 

'  on  a  7ninimum  of  four  thousand  five  hundred.' 
Some  one  had  said  that  £4,500  (about  $20,000)  was 
a  minimum  salary   for  an   I2ngli»h  bishop. 


b.   J4.   Mammunish,  done  merely   to  get  money. 

719.  (/.  18.  Ececliiel.  There  is  no  reference  to  the 
potter's  wheel  in  Ezechiel.  Carlyle  probably  trusted 
to  his  remembrance  of  Jeremiah  xviii,  1-6,  and 
ascribed  the  passage  to  the  wrong  prophet. 

23.  amorphous,   shapeless. 

35.  shambling,   unable   to  stand   straight. 

35.  squint-cornered,  irregular. 

37.  vessel  of  dishonor.  Romans  ix,  21:  'Hath 
not  the  potter  power  over  the  clay,  of  the  same 
lump  to  make  one  vessel  unto  honor,  and  another 
unto  dishonor?  ' 

47.  festering,  stagnant,  decaying. 

51.  How  blessed,  etc.,  blessed  for  the  man's  life, 
no  matter  what  kind  of  work  it  is. 

57.  awakens,  nominative  '  force  '  two  lines  above. 
b.    10.  schools,  of  philosophy. 

II.  vortices,  whirlpools. 

23.  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  after  St.  Paul's  was 
destroyed  by  the  great  (ire  of  London  (1666)  was 
appointed  architect  of  the  new  Cathedral,  and  car- 
ried his  design  to  accomplishment  in  1710,  in  spite 
of  the  many  difficulties  Carlyle  here  refers  to.  Nell 
Gwyn  was  a  popular  actress  of  the  time,  a  great 
favorite  with  Charles  II,  who  spoke  of  her  en  his 
death-bed.  '  Defender  of  the  Faith  '  is  a  title  con- 
ferred by  the  Pope  upon  Henry  VHI  for  his  answer 
to  Luther,  and  retained  by  all  the  English  sovereigns 
since. 

41.  architectonics,  the   principles  of  building. 

720.  a.  3.  monument.  Sir  Christopher  Wren's  tomb 
in  St.  Paul's  bears  the  inscription:  '  Si  monumentum 
quaeris  circumspice.'  '  If  you  seek  his  monument, 
look  around  you.' 

50.  Ursa  Major,  the  Great  Bear,  a  group  of  stars 
near  the  North  Pole,  popularly  known  as  Charles's 
Wain  or   the    Dipper. 

b.  33.   '  Religion.'      Carlyle   now   returns   to   the 
thought  of  the  last  paragraph  but  one. 

36.  Brahmins,  the  highest  caste  in  the  Hindoo  re- 
ligion. 

Antinomians,  a  sect  who  maintained  that  the  moral 
law  was  not  binding  upon  Christians. 

37.  Spinning  Dervishes,  Mohammedan  friars  who 
whirl  round  and  round  in  a  state  of  religious  ex- 
citement   '  till    collapse    ensue   and   sometimes   death.' 

51.  immethodic,   without  method,   irregular. 

721.  a.  12.  Shovel-hat,  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  turned 
up  at  the  sides  and  projecting  in  front,  worn  by 
some  clergymen. 

Talfourd-Mahon  Copyright  Act  (1842)  gave  the 
author  copyright  for  forty-two  years.  The  meaning 
is  that  people  should  attack  Ignorance,  without  wait- 
ing to  be  invested  with  authority,  or  promised  re- 
ward and  legal  protection. 

22.  Sinai  thunders.     See   Exodus  xix,   16—19. 

23.  speech  of    Whirlwinds.     See    i    Kings   xix,    11- 

12. 

34.  work,  etc.  John  ix,  4:  'I  must  work  the 
works  of  him  that  sent  me,  while  it  is  day:  the 
night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work.' 

43.  Kepler  (1571-1630),  Newton  (1642— 1727),  two 
of  the  world's  greatest  mathematicians  and  astron- 
omers. 

46.  '  Agony   of  bloody  sxveat.'     See   Luke   xxii,   44, 


NOTES 


1105 


b.  15.  denicoi,  one  born  in  the  country,  hav- 
ing rights   of   citizenship;    opposed   to   '  foreigner.' 

^4.  Mayfair,    the    fashionable    quarter    of    London. 

34.  Phantasm,   an   appearance,    not  a    reality. 

40.  unprofitable  servants.     See  Luke  xvii,    10. 

53.  Eldorado,  the  '  golden  '  land  dreamed  of  by 
the   Spanish   explorers   of  America. 

722.  a.  I.  St.  Stephen's.  The  Houses  of  Tarlia- 
ment. 

20.  Owen,  Robert  (1771-1858),  a  socialist  re- 
former, who,  amid  many  other  projects  intended 
to  benefit  working  people,  established  in  1832  an 
■  Equitable    Labor    Exchange.'     It    proved   a    failure. 

29.  ZJou'jn'nysireet,  where  many  of  the  govern- 
ment  offices  are  in   London. 

723.  a.  8.  Manes,  the  deified  souls  of  the  departed, 
the  gods  of  the  Lower   World. 

15.  Acheron,  a  river  in  the  Lower  World;  often 
used  as   synonym   for  the   Lower   World   itself. 

17.  Dante  (ij65-ijtfi),  the  great  Italian  poet 
from  whose  Divine  Comedy  {Inferno  xv,  55)  Car- 
lyle  quotes  below. 

25.  Se  tu  segui  la  tua  stella.  '  If  thou  followest 
thy  star.' 

33.   Cerberus,  the  dog  who  guarded  Hades. 

30.  Eccovi  .  .  .  all'  Inferno.  '  Behold  the 
man  who  has  been  in  hell.' 

36.   Dryden.      See  269.   79. 

4->.  Eurydice,  beloved  of  Orpheus,  who  went 
down  to  Tartarus  to  rescue  her. 

b.  3.  lath-and-plaster  hats.  Used  for  adver- 
tisements. 

7.  Controversies  were  raging  at  this  time  in  the 
Church  of  England  as  to  whether  the  preacher 
should  wear  a  black  gown  or  a   white  surplice. 

10.  Corn-Laws,  imposing  duties  on  wheat,  which 
made  bread  dear,  and  pampered  industry  by  increas- 
ing  wages.     Abolished    1846. 

23.  Great  Taskmaster's  eye.  Milton's  Sonnet  On 
his  having  arrived  at  the  age  of  23  ends 

All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 

31.  Galvanism,   electricity. 

55.  Antaeus,  a  giant  in  classical  mythology,  who 
renewed  his  strength  by  contact  with  the  earth,  his 
mother. 

724.  a.   56.   adscititioHS,  accidental. 

b.  19.  the  proper  Epic,  not  of  military  heroes, 
or  of  tailors,  but  of  captains  of  industry. 

725.  a.  18.  Stockport,  a  manufacturing  town  in  the 
North  of  England,  where,  at  this  time,  many  work- 
ing people  lived  in  cellars. 

19.  Poor-Law  Bastilles,   workhouses. 

30.  villani,  bordarii,  sochemanni,  medixval  Latin 
terms  for  serfs. 

43.  arrestment,  arrest. 

46.  Dryasdust,  the  scholarly  historian  or  medixval 
chronicler. 

b.  6.  Phalaris,  a  tyrant  of  ancient  Sicily,  who 
was  said  to  burn  men  alive  in  a  bronze  bull. 

31.  Dahomey,  a  kingdom  in   West   Africa. 

33.  Mungo  Park  (1771  — 1806),  an  African  explorer 
who  tells  in  his  Travels  the  incident  referred  to  by 
Carlyle. 

40.  Calabash,  a  tree  common  in  tropical  .America, 
70 


but  said  to  have  been  introduced  from  Guinea.  The 
hard  shell  of  the  fruit  is  used  for  bottles,  cups, 
and  other  vessels. 

52.  Gurth  .  .  .  Cedric  the  Saxon.  Characters 
in  Scott's  Ivanhoe. 

726.  a.  2.  boscage  and  umbrage,  wood  and  shade. 

b.  35.  Tancred  of  Hautcville  (1078-1112),  one 
uf  the  leaders  of  the  first  crusade. 

38.  cased  in  tin.  The  Champion  of  England,  who 
appears  at  the  Coronation  ceremony,  wears  armor  — 
a  survival  of  ancient  custom  which  Carlyle  wishes 
to  ridicule. 

49.  Hereward,  a  Saxon  hero  who  withstood 
William  I  in  the  Fen  Counties,  on  the  east  coast 
of   England. 

51.  H'allheof,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  beheaded 
in    1076    for   conspiring   against   William    I. 

727.  a.  35.  Corn-Laws,  maintained  for  the  advan- 
tage of  the  country  landowners,  whose  main  activ- 
ity, according  to  Carlyle,  was  the  preservation  and 
slaughter  of  partridges. 

37.  bedlamtsm,  lunacy. 

38.  bush,  to  plant  bushes  on  game  preserves  so 
as  to  prevent  the  use  of  nets  by  poachers. 

40.  Par  la  Splendeur  dc  Dieu,  a  Norman  oath. 
'  By  God's  Splendor.' 

44.  Joe  Manton  (d.  1835),  a  famous  London  gun 
maker. 

b.  14.  Charter.  The  agitation  for  the  People's 
Charter  was  coming  to  a  height  when  Past  and 
Present  was  written.  The  six  '  points  '  in  it  were 
(1)  manhood  suffrage;  (2)  equal  electoral  districts; 
(3)  vote  by  ballot;  (4)  annual  parliaments;  (%) 
abolition  of  the  property  qualification  for  members 
of  the  House  of  Commons;  (6)  payment  of  mem- 
bers  of   parliament. 

25.  St,  Mary  Axe,  a  London  parish. 

30.  Wahngasse  of  Wcissnichtieo,  the  imaginary 
street  of  '  Nowhere,'  in  which  lived  Terr  Teufels- 
drockh  (Devil's  dung),  the  hero  of  Carlyle's  Sartor 
Resartus.  Carlyle  here  returns  to  the  style  and 
thought  of  his  earlier  work,  and  quotes  from  his 
own  hero  —  really  from  himself,  for  Teufelsdrockh  is 
merely   Carlyle  under  a  thin  disguise. 

41.  mein  Lieber,  my  dear  fellow.  The  imaginary 
German  philosopher  intersperses  his  speech  with 
scraps   of   his   native   language. 

728.  a.   I.  Sansculottic,    revolutionary. 

2.  ruinous,  because  sansculottic  literally  means 
'  without  breeches.' 

10.  Keinestvcgs,  by  no  means. 

11.  Sumptuary  Laws,  regulating  the  dress  and 
way  of  living  of  various  classes. 

14.  amphibium,  a  compromise,  neither  one  thing 
nor   another. 

24.  Cheruscan,  a  German  tribe  mentioticd  by 
Julius  Cxsar. 

b.  I.  Sedan,  a  town  on  the  French  frontier 
with  many  cloth  factories:  now  more  famous  for  its 
surrender  by  Napoleon  III  to  the  Germans  in  1870. 
Huddcrsfield,  one  of  the  centers  of  the  Yorkshire 
cloth   trade.     Nescience,   ignorance. 

50.  Windsor  Georges,  decorations  or  titles. 

53.  Franchiser,  voter,  elector. 
;6.   Heavy  wet.  ale. 


iio6 


NOTES 


729.  a.  48.  wardmotes,   meetings   of   the    voters   of   a 
small  district. 

55.  Palaver,  Parliament,  which  literally  means 
'  talking-place.' 

b.  24.  Pococurantisin,   carelessness,  inattention, 

J5.  Beait-Bruminelism,  dandyism. 

-•7.  Byronism,  sentimental  egotism.  Dead  Sea, 
in  Palestine,  on  the  site  of  the  once  flourishing 
'  cities  of  the  plain.' 

30.  Sabbath-day,  of  witches  and  apes. 

730.  a.   16.  lion-soirees,  evening  entertainments  given 
for  the  exhibition  of  social  '  lions  '  or  notabilities. 

27.  dispiritments,  discouragements. 

40.  Histrios,   actors. 

47.  Qtiackhood,    quackery. 

54.  ninth-parts  of  men,   tailors. 
b.  5.  succedanea,  substitutes. 

36.  Bobus  Higgins,  '  Sausage-maker  on  the  great 
scale  .  .  .  with  his  cash-accounts  and  larders 
dropping  fatness,  with  his  respectabilities,  warm 
garnitures,  and  pony-chaise,'  is  Carlyle's  incarnation 
of   commercial    success. 

47.  Friend  Prudence.  '  Prudence  keeps  a  thou- 
sand workmen;  has  striven  in  all  ways  to  attach 
them  to  him;  has  provided  conversational  soirees; 
play-grounds,  bands  of  music  for  the  young  ones; 
went  even  "the  length  of  buying  them  a  drum"; 
all  which  has  turned  out  to  be  an  excellent  invest- 
ment. For  a  certain  person,  marked  here  by  a 
black  stroke,  whom  we  shall  name  Blank,  living 
over  the  way  —  he  also  keeps  somewhere  about  a 
thousand  men;  but  has  done  none  of  these  things 
for  them,  nor  any  other  thing,  except  due  payment 
of  the  wages  by  supply-and-demand.  Blank's  work- 
ers are  perpetually  getting  into  mutiny,  into  broils 
and  coils:  every  six  months,  we  suppose.  Blank 
has  a  strike;  every  one  month,  every  day  and  every 
hour,  they  are  fretting  and  obstructing  the  short- 
sighted Blank,  pilfering  from  him,  wasting  and 
idling  for  him,  omitting  and  committing  for  him. 
"  I  would  not,"  says  Friend  Prudence,  "  exchange 
my  workers  for  his  with  seven  thousand  pounds  to 
boot,"  ' 

8.  Law-ward,  '  maintainer  and  keeper  of  Heaven's 
laws  ' —  Carlyle's  interpretation  of  the  word  '  lord.' 
Its  true  origin  is,  however,  hlaf-weard,  loaf-ward  or 
keeper  of  bread,  as  that  of  '  lady  '  is  hlaf-dige, 
kneader  of  bread.     Cf.  725.  b.  21. 

731.  a.  23.  flunky-species,  people   with  the   ideas  .of 
footmen. 

Chactaw,  Indian,  heathen. 

48.  my  Transcendental  friends.  Carlyle  was  in 
correspondence  with  two  of  the  New  England 
Transcendentalists  —  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  and 
George  Ripley.  The  latter  defined  Transcendental- 
ists as  people  who  'believe  in  an  order  of  truth 
that  transcends  the  sphere  of  the  external  senses. 
Their  leading  idea  is  the  supremacy  of  mind  over 
matter.  H«nce  they  maintain  that  the  truth  of  re- 
ligion does  not  depend  en  tradition  or  historical 
facts,  but  has  an  unswerving  witness  in  the  soul.' 
As  may  be  gathered  from  the  text,  Carlyle  was  not 
altogether  in  sympathy  with  his  Transcendental  ad- 
mirers. He  wrote  to  Emerson  in  1842:  'You  seem 
to    me    in    danger    of    dividing    yourselves    from    the 


Fact  of  this  present  Universe,  in  which  alone,  ugly 
as  it  is,  can  I  find  any  anchorage,  and  soaring  away 
after  Ideas,  Beliefs,  Revelations,  and  such  like  — 
into  perilous  altitudes,  as   1  think.' 

52.  Demiuryusships,  Lordships.  The  Demiurgus 
is  in  the  Platonic  philosophy  the  Maker  of  the 
world.  It  means  literally  '  one  who  works  for  the 
people,'  and  in  some  Greek  states  was  the  title  of  a 
magistrate. 

56.  Chronos,  in  Greek  mythology  Kronos,  the 
ruler  of  heaven  and  earth  until  his  son  Zeus  (Latin 
Jupiter  or  Jove)  drove  him  from  the  throne.  Odin, 
the  All-father  of  Norse  mythology,  the  same  as  the 
Old  English  Woden,  whose  name  is  preserved  in 
'  Wednesday.' 

57.  St.  Olaf,  who  early  in  the  eleventh  century 
converted  Norway  to  Christianity,  the  Dollar,  etc. 
The  promised  change  in  American  ideals  was  prob- 
ably suggested  to  Carlyle  by  Emerson,  who  wrot'e 
to  him  from  Concord  on  Oct.  30,  :84o:  '  We  are 
all  a  little  wild  here  with  numberless  projects  of 
social  reform.  Not  a  reading  man  but  has  a  draft 
of  a  new  Community  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  I 
am  gently  mad  myself,  and  am  resolved  to  live 
cleanly.  George  Ripley  is  talking  up  a  colony  of 
agriculturists  and  scholars,  with  whom  he  threatens 
to  take  the  field  and  the  book.  One  man  renounces 
the  use  of  animal  food;  and  another  of  coin;  and 
another  of  domestic  hired  service;  and  another  of 
the  state;  and  on  the  whole  we  have  a  commendable 
share  of  reason  and  hope.' 

b.  2.  Socinian  from  two  Italian  theologians 
of  the  sixteenth  century  named  Socinus,  who  did 
not  believe  that  Christ  was  God.  Emerson  and 
Ripley  had  both  resigned  their  charges  as  Unitarian 
ministers. 

5.  retire  into  the  fields,  etc.  Carlyle  here  refers 
to  the  Brook  Farm  Institute  of  Agriculture  and 
Education,  which  Emerson  mentions  in  the  passage 
quoted  above.  Emerson,  though  in  sympathy  with 
the  enterprise,  took  no  active  part  in  it.  The  leader 
was  George  Ripley,  and  another  active  member, 
John  S.  Dwight,  had  also  been  a  Unitarian  minis- 
ter. The  Farm  was  managed  on  a  system  of 
'  brotherly  co-operation,'  and  no  one  was  paid  more 
than  a  dollar  a  day;  provision  was  made  for  edu- 
cational courses  of  an  advanced  character,  but  after 
a  year  or  two  it  v/as  found  that  the  income  did  not 
meet  the  expenditure.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was 
one  of  the  original  members  of  the  community,  and 
has  left  an  account  of  his  experiences  in  The  Blithe- 
dale  Romance. 

20.  Exeter  Hall,  the  meeting  place  of  various 
Evangelical  societies  every  May.  It  is  in  the  Strand 
and  has  since  been  bought  by  the  Y.   M.   C.  A. 

22.  Puscyism,  from  Pusey,  an  Oxford  professor 
and  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  High  Church  move 
ment  which  was  attracting  public  attention  about 
this  time. 

32.  zvliy  will,  why  not  shall,  expressing  determina- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  speaker. 

732.  a.  II.  Long-acre,  a  London  street  where  car- 
riages were  sold.  A  witness  in  a  famous  trial  in 
1823  had  described  a  certain  person  as  'respecta- 
ble,'   and    when    asked    why,    answered,    '  he    always 


NOTES 


1 107 


kept  a  gig.'  This  furnished  Carlyle  with  a  text  on 
which  he  was  never  tired  of  preaching  against  tlie 
superficiality  of  current  standards  of  worth. 

14.  Simulacrum    (Latin),   image. 

18.  llion,  Troy;  Latium,  the  country  about  Rome, 
scenes  of  the  Iliad  and  the  JEncid.  Mayfair,  a 
fashionable  part  of  London,  east  of  Hyde  Park; 
so  called  from  a  Fair  formerly  held  there  in  the 
month   of   May. 

23.  Phrygians,  inhabitants  of  Asia  Minor,  Tro- 
jans. 

24.  j'dtuns,  a  supernatural  race  of  giants  in  Scan- 
dinavian mythology.  The  heroism  of  the  future  will 
consist  in  overcoming  tlie  forces  of  nature  and  the 
evil  passions  of  the  heart  of  man. 

30.  Fribbles,    triflers. 

'  bush,'  preserve  game.     See  727.  a.  38,  note. 

35.  the  Subtle  Fowler,  Destiny. 

42.  with  beards  on  their  chins,  grown  men,  no 
longer  children. 

b.  24.  Brindley      (1716-72)    ,  engineer     of     the 
Bridgewater  and  Grand  Trunk  Canals. 

25.  Goethe,  '  for  the  last  hundred  years,  by  far  the 
notablest  of  all  Literaiy  Men.' — Heroes  and  Hero 
Worship.  Odin,  celebrated  by  Carlyle  in  his  lecture 
on  '  The  Hero  as  Divinity.'  Arkwright  (1732-92), 
inventor   of  cotton  spinning  machinery. 

35,  Bath-garter.  The  orders  of  the  Garter  and 
the  Bath  are  among  the  highest  honors  conferred 
by  the  English  sovereign.  Carlyle  confuses  the  two, 
for  the  purpose  of  expressing  contempt  for  such 
decorations  regarded  as  claims  to  respect. 

36.  George,  the  jewel  which  forms  part  of  the 
insignia  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter. 

43.  Duke  of  Weimar.  Carlyle  had  written  in  the 
previous  chapter:  'A  modern  Duke  of  Weimar, 
not  a  god  he  either,  but  a  human  duke,  levied, 
as  I  reckon,  in  rents  and  taxes  and  all  incomings 
whatsoever,  less  than  several  of  our  English  Dukes 
do  in  rent  alone.  The  Duke  of  Weimar,  with  these 
incomings,  had  to  govern,  judge,  defend,  everyway 
administer  his  Dukedom.  He  does  all  this  as  few 
others  did:  and  he  improves  lands  besides  all  this, 
makes  river-embankments,  maintains  not  soldiers 
only  but  Universities  and  Institutions; — and  in  his 
Court  were  these  four  men:  Wieland,  Herder, 
Schiller,  Goethe.  ...  I  reckon  that  this  one 
Duke  of  Weimar  did  more  for  the  Culture  of  his 
Nation  than  all  the  English  Dukes  and  Duces  now 
extant,  or  that  were  extant  since  Henry  the  Eighth 
gave  them  the  Church  Lands  to  eat,  have  done  for 
theirs!  ' 

47.  The  Future  hides  in  it,  etc.  This  is  a  stanza 
from  Goethe's  poem  '  Symbolum,'  introductory  to 
the  series  entitled  '  Loge.'  Carlyle  had  given  a 
translation  of  the  whole  poem  earlier  in  Fast  and 
Present  (end  of  Bk.  III).  He  now  recalls  it  as  the 
final  thought  he  wishes  to  impress  upon  the  minds 
of  his  readers. 

49.   thorozv,   through. 

RUSKIN:     TRAFFIC 

734.  a.   12.  carelessness,  lack   of  interest. 

b.  28.   pitch    farthing,    pitch    and    toss,    '  match- 
ing '   coppers. 


735.  a.  18.  Teniers  (1582-1649).  the  great  Dutch 
realist  painter. 

29.  Titian  (i477-«576),  the  leading  artist  of  the 
X'enetian  school. 

30.  Turner  (1775-1851).  the  greatest  of  English 
landscape  painters  and  Ruskin's  particular  favorite. 
See   introductory   biography,    733.   4. 

49-  Fleet  Street,  a  great  London  thoroughfare, 
where  many   London   publishers   have   offices. 

54.   classifying,    dividing   into    classes. 

b.  7.  costermonger,  peddler  of  apples  ('  cos- 
tards ')    and   other  small    fruits. 

8.  Newgate  Calendar,  a  publication  giving  ac- 
counts of  sensational  crimes.  Newgate  is  a  London 
prison. 

736.  a.  4-6.  Quoted  from  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,    Canto    i. 

38.  steel-traps  .  .  .  spring  guns.  Appliances 
used  against  poachers,  but  here  allegorically  signi- 
fying the  armaments  of  modern  nations. 

54.  Bedlam,  the  monastery  of  St.  Mary  of  Beth- 
lehem in  London,  later  used  as  an  asylum  for  the 
insane. 

b.  13.  Armstrongs,  big  guns  manufactured  by 
the  great  English  firm  of  Armstrong. 

19-  black  eagles  of  Austria.  Ruskin  means  that 
the  English  let  the  great  military  nations  alone. 

52.  Inigo  Jones  .  .  .  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  the 
great  English  architects  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  former  planned  the  royal  palace  of  Whitehall 
in  London,  the  latter  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  both  in 
the   Italian  style. 

737.  a.  50.  This  is  none  other  than  the  house  of 
God.     See   Genesis  xxviii,    10-17. 

b.  25.  Thou,  when  thou  prayest.  See  Mat- 
thew vi,   5-6. 

49.  Lares,  Latin  gods  of  the  hearth,  household 
gods. 

738.  a.  s.  The  Seven  Lamps.  See  introductory 
biography,   p.  733. 

b.  48.  Bosphorus,  the  strait  dividing  Europe 
from  Asia. 

739.  a.  9,  to  the  Jews.     See   i    Corinthians  i,  23. 
b.  51.  Tetsel,  a  seller  of  papal  indulgences  who 

provoked  the   indignation  of  Luther. 

b.  55.  bals  masques,  masked  balls.  They  were 
a  feature  of  the  French  frivolity  which  preceded 
the  Revolution  and   the  guillotine. 

740.  a.  6.  Revivalist,  of  classical  architecture,  as 
seen  in  the  royal  palace  of  Versailles,  near  Paris, 
and  the  papal  palace  of  the  Vatican  at  Rome. 

17.  sevenths  of  time,  Sunday,  one-seventh  of  the 
week. 

38.  Acropolis,  the  hill  overlooking  Athens;  the 
site  of  the  Parthenon  and  other  Greek  temples. 

39.  walls  of  Babylon  .  .  .  temple  of  Ephesus, 
monuments    of   antiquity. 

b.  23.  affairs  of  exchange.  See  Matthew  xxi, 
12-13. 

34.  quartering.  As  armies  do  when  they  occupy 
a  country,     color,  pretence. 

55.  '  carry.'     At  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 

741.  b.  2.  St.   George,  the  English  national   saint. 
3.  semi-fleeced     .      .      .      proper     .     .      .     fields, 

terms  of  heraldry. 


iio8 


NOTES 


.•3.    Comjoitcr,    the    Holy    Ghost.     See    John    xiv, 
16-17. 
.'7.  Agora,   market. 

742.  a.  4.   Olympus     .      .      .      Pclion      .      .      .     Ossa. 
Mountains  of  classical  antiquity.     See   llamlcl    V,  i, 

304-7- 

743.  a.  21.  Solomon    made    gold.     See     1     Kings    x, 

14-17- 

51.  Bolton  priory,  a  beautiful  abbey  in  Wharfc 
dale,   Yorkshire. 

56.  '  men  may  come.'  Quoted  from  Tennyson's 
The  Brook. 

744.  b.  7.  plain  of  Dura,  where  Nebuchadnezzar  set 
up  a  golden  image.     See  Daniel  iii,  i. 

25.  pleasantness     .     .     .     peace.     See  Proverbs  iii, 

35.  not  made  with  hands.     See  2  Corinthians  v,  1. 


TENNYSON:     MARIANA 

745.  8.  moated  grange.  Tennyson  printed,  as  the 
motto  of  this  poem,  the  phrase,  '  Mariana  in  the 
moated  grange,'  adapted  from  a  passage  in  Shak- 
spere's  Measure  for  Measure,  III,  i.  The  situation 
of  Shakspere's  Mariana,  then,  probably  furnished  the 
germ   of  Tennyson's   conception. 

THE  POET 
747.   15.  Calpe,   Gibraltar.     Caucasus,   the   Caucasian 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

This  was  probably  Tennyson's  earliest  study  from 
the  Arthurian  legend.  It  may  be  compared  with 
his  later  embodiment  of  the  story  in  Lancelot  and 
Elaine. 

5.  Camelot.  In  Cornwall.  The  legendary  seat  of 
King  Arthur's  court. 

9.  Shalott.     Malory's   Astolat.     According   to   Pal- 
grave,   this   poem   was   suggested   to   Tennyson  by   an 
Italian   romance  upon    the   Donna   di  Scalotta.     This 
would  account  for   the  form,   Shalott. 
748.  84.   the  golden  Galaxy.     The  Milky  Way. 

107.  '  Tirra  Lirra.'  Tirelirer,  in  French,  signifies 
to  sing  like  a  lark. 

THE  PALACE  OF  ART 

The  ethical  burden  of  this  poem  has  been  well 
stated  by  Tennyson's  friend,  James  Spedding.  The 
poem  '  represents  allegorically  the  condition  of  a  mind 
which,  in  the  love  of  beauty  and  the  triumphant 
consciousness  of  knowledge  and  intellectual  su- 
premacy, in  the  intense  enjoyment  of  its  own  power 
and  glory,  has  lost  sight  of  its  relation  to  man  and 
God.' 

750.  99.  Saint    Cecily.     C-nipare    276.    138-47.    and 
note. 

105.  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son,  King  Arthur. 
See  below,  p.   758. 

111.  The  wood-nymph,  Egeria.  The  Ausonian 
king,  Numa  Pompilius. 

115.  Indian  Cama.     The  Hindu  god  of  love. 

117.  Europa.  According  to  the  Greek  myth, 
Europa,  sister  of  Cadmus,  was  carried  to  Crete  by 
Zeus,    who    assumed    the    form    of    a    white    bull. 


'Europa  and  the  Hull'  is  the  subject  of  a  famous 
painting  by  Titian. 

121.  Ganymede,  the  cup-bearer  of  Zeus,  who  was 
conveyed  to  Olympus  by  an  eagle. 

137.   the  Ionian  father,  etc.      Homer. 

163.  I'erulani.  Francis  Macon  was  created  Baron 
V'erulam  in   1618.     See  pp.   187-199. 

171-J.  as  morn  from  Memnon,  etc.  A  colossus 
near  Thebes,  Egypt,  was  believed  by  the  Greeks  to 
represent  this  solar  deity  and  to  give  forth  a  niusi 
cal  sound  when  reached  by  the  rays  of  the  rising 
sun. 

752.  219.  Like  Herod,   etc.     See   Acts   xii,   21-J3. 
226.  The  airy   hand,  etc.     See   Daniel  v,  24—27. 

A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 

753.  2.  The  Legend  of  Good  Women.  For  its  place 
among   Chaucer's  works,   see  p.  4. 

27.  tortoise,  the  roof  formed  by  the  shields  of 
soldiers  held  over  their  heads. 

754.  87.  a  daughter  of  the  gods,  etc.     Helen. 

100.  One  that  stood  beside.  Iphigenia,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Agamemnon.  Part  of  the  details  are  drawn 
from  Aeschylus'  Agamemnon,  225—49,  and  from  Lu- 
cretius' De  Rerum  Natura,  I,  85-100. 

122.  Sudden  I  heard,  etc.  The  description  of 
Cleopatra  is  based  chiefly  on  Shakspere's  Antony 
end  Cleopatra,  though  there  are  touches  from 
Horace.  Ode  i. 

755.  145.  Canopus.  One  of  the  brightest  of  the 
first  magnitude  stars.  It  is  not  visible  in  our  mid- 
dle  northern   latitudes. 

154.   the   other.     Octavius   Cssar. 
176.   Then     I     heard,     etc.     Jephthah's     daughter. 
See  Judges  xi. 

756.  250.  Rosamond.     See  375.  95,  note. 

254.  Eleanor,  Henry  II's  queen.  She  is  said  to 
have  slain  Rosamond  with  her  own  hand  or  to  have 
forced  her  to  drink  poison. 

260.  Fulvia.  Antony's  first  wife.  Cleopatra 
n'.eans,  '  You  should  have  slain  your  rival.' 

264.  The  captain  of  my  dreams.  The  morning 
star,  an  allusion  to  1.   3. 

265—6.  her,  who  clasped  .  .  .  father's  head. 
Margaret  Roper,  the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  More, 
is  said  to  have  rescued  his  head  from  London  Bridge 
where  it  had  been  placed  after  his  execution  for 
high  treason,  and  to  have  kept  it  until  she  died. 

267—71.  Or  her  who  knew,  etc.  Eleanor,  wife  of 
Edward  I,  who  saved  his  life  by  applying  her  lips 
to  his  wound  after  he  had  been  stabbed  with  a 
poisoned    dagger. 

ST.  AGNES  EVE 
See  640.   i,  note. 

OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE  HEIGHTS 
758.  15.  the  triple  forks.  The  trident  of  Neptune, 
symbolic  of  maritime  supremacy. 

SIR  GALAHAD 

25.  When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes.  After 
a  victory  over  the  Saracen. 

S3,   the  leads.     The  roofs  of  lead. 

84.  C'ii/i7  /  find  the  holy  Grail.  The  sacred  ves- 
sel   in    which   the   blood    of   the    Lord    was    caught   as 


NOTES 


1109 


he  hung  upon  the  Cross,  was  said  to  have  been 
carried  to  Britain  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea.  It  was 
an  object  of  quest  among  the  knights  of  the  Rouml 
Table,  but  only  Galahad  was  pure  enough  to  acliievt- 
it.  See  Tennyson's  Holy  Grail  in  The  Idylls  of  Hit- 
King  and  Malory's  Morte  d'  Arthur. 

A  FAREWELL 

759.  The  Tennysons  left  their  old  home  at  Somers- 
by  in  1837.  There  are  references  to  the  incident 
and  to  the  same  brook  in  In  Alemoriam. 

MORTE  D'ARTHUR 

For  Malory's  Mortc  d'  Arthur,  Bk.  XXI,  upon 
which  this  poem  is  based,  see  p.  21.  The  poem  was 
afterward  incorporated,  with  additions,  into  The 
Idylls  of  the  King. 

4.  Lyonnesse.  A  mythical  region,  oflf  the  shores 
of  Cornwall,  now  supposedly  submerged  by  the  sea. 

15.  The  goodliest  felloivshit>,  etc.  The  Round 
Table. 

21.  Camelot.     See  747.  s,  note. 

23.  Merlin.     The  wise  magician  of  Arthur's  cimrt. 

31.  samite,  a  kind  of  silk. 

43.  hcst,  behest,  command. 

760.  139.  the  northern   morn,     Aurora  borealis. 
140.  isles  of  winter,  icebergs. 

761.  186.   harness,  armor. 

215.  greaves,   shin   pieces,     cuisses,  thigh   pieces. 

762.  259.  the  island  valley  of  Avilion.  Tennyson's 
description  is  influenced  by  classical  conceptions  of 
the  Fortunate  Islands.     See  763.  63,  note. 

ULYSSES 
The  germ  of  this  poem  is  to  be  found  in  Dante's 
Inferno  xxvi,  85—142. 

2.  these  barren  crags,  the  bleak  island  of  Ithaca. 

3.  mete,   measure. 

10.  the  rainy  Hyadcs.  A  part  of  the  constellation 
Taurus,  supposed  to  bring  rain.  Virgil's  pluvias 
Hyadas. 

763.  63.  the  Happy  Isles.  X'aguely  thought  of  by 
the  ancients  as  somewhere  in  the  Atlantic  off  tlie 
west  coast  of  Africa,  perhaps  the  Cape  Verde  or 
the  Canary  Islands.  Tennyson's  description  of 
Avilion    borrows    from    classical    sources.     See   762. 

LOCKSLEY  HALL 
Suggestions  for  this  poem  were  derived  from  the 
Amriolkais,    an    Arabian     poem     translated    by     Sir 
William  Jones.     Works,  Vol.  IV,  pp.  247-57. 

8.  Orion.  A  conspicuous  constellation  often  men- 
tioned by  Tennyson. 

9.  the  Pleiads.  A  group  of  stars  in  the  constella- 
tion Taurus.  A  similar  reference  occurs  in  the 
Amriolkais. 

765.  75.  Comfort  scorned  of  devils.  The  reference 
is  to  Paradise  Lost,  Books  I  and  II,  passim. 

75-76.  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings,  etc.  Nessun 
maggior  dolore,  .  Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nclla   miseria. —  Dante,    Inferno   v,    121-3. 

766.  155.  Mahratta-hattle.  With  the  Mahrattas,  a 
warlike  and  powerful  Hindu  people  of  mid-India, 
the  British  had  a  number  of  serious  wars  between 
1750   and    1818. 


767.    180.  Joshua 
12-13. 


moon   in   .4jaion.     See   Joshua   x, 
nging  grooves  of  change.     Tennyson  has 


182.  the 

explained  that  when  he  traveled  by  the  first  train 
from  Liverpool  to  Manchester  in  1830  it  was  night 
and  he  thought  that  the  wheels  ran  in  a  groove. 
■  Then   1   v/role  this  line.' 

184.  Cathay,  China. 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 
Composed   '  in  a   Lincolnshire   lane  at  five   o'clock 
in   tlie  mo*-   ing  between   blossoming  hedges.'     (Ten- 
nyson.) 

N  MEMORIAM  A.  H.  H. 
Arthur  Henry  Ilallam  died  at  Vienna,  in  Septem- 
ber, 1833.  He  had  been  Tennyson's  most  intimate 
friend  at  Cambridge  and  was  betrothed  to  Tenny- 
son's sister.  He  was  a  youth  of  great  intellectual 
promise  and  exceptional  purity  of  spirit.  The 
'  elegies  '  as  they  were  called  which  make  up  In 
Mcmuriam,  were  composed  at  various  times  during 
the  seventeen  years  which  intervened  between  Hal- 
lam's   death  and   their   publication   in    1850. 

769.  5.  orbs  of  light  and  shade.     The  eyes. 
8.  the  skull.     As  symbolizing  death. 

35.  merit  lives  from  man  to  man.  That  is,  man 
in  comparison  with  man. 

42.  Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth.  This  section 
of  the  poem  was  written  in  1849,  while  much  of  the 
poem  had  been  composed  years  before. 

XIX 

1-4.  The  Danube  to  the  Severn,  etc.  Vienna, 
where  Ilallam  died,  is  on  the  Danube;  while  C'leve- 
don  Church,  where  he  is  buried,  is  on  the  river 
Severn  near   its  confluence   with   Bristol   Channel. 

5-8.  There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills,  etc.  The 
tide  pushes  back  into  the  Severn  and  up  the  tribu- 
tary Wye. 

LV 

770.  7-8.  So  careful  of  the  type,  etc.  Type,  species. 
In  Ivi,  Tennyson  points  out  that  types,  as  well  as 
inilividuals,  become  extinct. 


1.  Ilwu,  the  spirit  of  Ilallam. 

LXVll 

3.  that  biuad  water  of  the  ivest.  The  mouth  of 
the  Severn.     See  xix,  1-4,  note. 

LXXXVIII 

2.  quicks,  hedges.     Literally,  living  things. 

MAUD;  A  MONODRAMA 

772.  36.  vitriol   madness.     The    frenzy    produced    by 
chemicalized   liquor. 

40.  center-bits.     The  drills  of  the  safe-blower. 

43.  poisoned  poison.     Adulterated   drugs. 

45.  Timour-Mammon.  Timour  (Tamerlane),  '  the 
Scourge  of  the  World,'  is  united  with  the  god  of 
riches  to  name  an  evil  potency  of  the  modern 
world. 

773.  89.  Orion.     Compare    Locksley    Hall,    763.    8. 
and  note. 


lO 


NOTES 


132.  Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden,  etc.  Tenny- 
son called  attention  to  the  imitation  of  the  cries  of 
the  rooks,  11.  134  and  158,  and  of  the  smaller  birds, 
1.    142. 

774.  206.  Lebanon.  The  cedars  of  Lebanon  arc 
said  to  have  been  brought  into  England  by  the  cru- 
saders,  on   their   return   from  the   Holy   Land. 

227.  A  sad  astrology.  The  old  astrology  was 
based  upon  a  belief  that  the  movements  of  stars 
controlled  the  destiny  of  men;  but  modern  science 
teaches  us  that  they  have  no  such  significance. 

775.  297.  the  planet  of  love.  Venus,  as  morning 
star. 

392.  the  Breton  Strand.  The  coast  of  Brittainy, 
in   France. 

777.  411.  that  of  Lamech.  'I  have  slain  a  man  to 
my  wounding,  and  a  young  man  to  my  hurt.' 
Genesis  iv,  2Z. 

456.  O  that  't  were  possible,  etc.  This  section  of 
the  poem,  in  slightly  different  form,  had  been  pub- 
lished in  The  Tribute,  1837.  Tennyson's  friend.  Sir 
John  Simeon,  who  greatly  admired  the  verses,  sug- 
gested that  they  needed  some  introduction  to  make 
them  fully  intelligible.  Tennyson  undertook  to 
carry  out  the  suggestion,  and  Maud  was  the  result. 

TITHONUS 

Although  not  published  until  i860,  this  poem  was 
written  at  about  the  same  time  as  Ulysses,  It  is 
based  upon  the  Greek  myth  according  to  which 
Tithonus,  a  mortal,  being  beloved  by  Eos,  goddess 
of  the  dawn,  the  gods  conferred  vipon  him  the  gift 
of  immortality.  As  they  had  neglected  the  gift  of 
immortal  youth,  he  gradually  dwindled  away  and 
was  metamorphosed  into  a  grasshopper.  The  poem 
should  be  read  as  a  myth  of  the  dawn. 

MILTON 

This  is  one  of  a  group  of  poems  which  Tennyson 
styled  '  experiments  in  quantity.'  It  imitates  the 
Alcaic  stanza  of  Horace  and  other  classical  poets. 
To  those  who  are  unacquainted  with  classical  prosody 
perhaps  the  best  advice  is  that  which  Tennyson  gave 
in  regard  to  a  similar  experiment:  '  Read  it  as 
prose  and  the  meter  will  come  right.' 

The  following  time  scheme  may,  however,  be 
found  useful  in  interpreting  the  meter: 

—  |-^o|-^—  ||-^uo|-lo|-i 

NORTHERN  FARMER 
This   poem   is  written   in   the   Lincolnshire   dialect 
with   which   Tennyson    was   familiar   from    childhood. 
It  will  be  more  easily  understood  if  read  aloud. 

779.  I.  'asta,  hast  thou,     liggin',  lying. 
2.  nowt,  nothing. 

10.  issen,  himself. 

780.  II.  towd,  told,     toithe,  tithe. 
14.  barne,  bairn,  child. 

16.  raate,  tax. 


18. 
23. 

-'7- 

have 

28. 


31. 
32- 
34- 
35- 
36. 
37- 
38. 
41. 
49. 
52. 
54- 
61. 
62. 

781. 
66. 

he  's 


Though     some    may 


bussard-clock,  cockchafer 
'Siver,   howsoever. 
thaw    summnn    said    it. 
said   it. 

stiibb'd,  grubbed,  cleared. 
boggle,   goblin,  bogle. 
btttter-bunip,  bittern. 
raiived,   rived,  tore,     rembled,   removed. 
'enemies,  anemones. 
toaner,   the  one  or  the  other. 
'seise,  the  assizes. 
Dubbut,  do  but. 

bracken,   brake,   fern,     fiizs,   furze,   gorse. 
nobbut,  only. 

'aapoth,  half-penny's  worth. 
hoalnis,  flats,  lowlands. 
sewerloy,  surely. 
kittle  o'  steam,  steam-engine. 
Hucsin'  an'  maasin'.     Buzzing  and  amazing. 
65.  atta,  art  thou. 

'toattler,  teetotaler,     a's  haollus  t'  the  oud  taale, 
always  at  the  old  story. 


THE  REVENGE 
Compare    the    account    from    Hakluyt,    above, 


92  ff. 


TO  VIRGIL 
.     .      fire.     The     reference     is 


)f     the      burning     of     Troy. 


783.  I.  Ilion's     .     . 
^neas's      description 
Alneid   II. 

3.   he   that   sang   the   '  Works   and  Days.'     Hesiod. 
S.   Thou  that  singcst     .     .     .     herd.     Reference  to 
the  Georgics. 

7.  Tityrus.     See  Eclogue  I. 

8.  the   poet-satyr.     See   Eclogue    VI. 

9.  the  Pollio.     See  Eclogue  IV. 

II.  Thou  that  seest  Universal  Nature,  etc.  See 
Aineid  VI,  727. 

14.  Golden  branch,  etc.     See  Aineid  VI,  208. 

16.  the  Northern  Island,  etc.     See  Eclogue,  I,  67. 
19.  Mantovano,  Mantuan.     From   Mantua,   Virgil's 
birthplace. 

FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

The  refrain,  '  Brother,  hail  and  farewell,'  is  from 
Catullus's  invocation  at  his  brother's  tomb.  See 
Catullus,  ci. 

1.  Desemano  .  .  .  Sirmione.  Villages  on  the  Lago 
di  Garda,  largest  of  the  northern   Italian  lakes. 

2.  O  venusta  Sirmio  [O  Ancient  Sirmio].  See 
Catullus  xxxi. 

8.  Lydian  laughter  of  the  Garda  Lake.  See  Ca- 
tullus xxxi. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Tennyson   requested   of  his   son   that   these  verses 

should   be   placed   at  the   close   of   all   collections   of 

his    poems.     They    were    written    in    his    eighty-first 

year  and  '  came  in  a  moment.' 

784.  3.  moaning  of  the  bar.  The  poem  was  sug- 
gested by  the  popular  superstition  that  the  tide 
moans  in  going  out,  whenever  a  death  has  occurred. 

15.  my  Pilot  'that  Divine  and  Unseen  who  is  al- 
ways guiding  us.'     (Tennyson.) 


NOTES 


nil 


BROWNING:     SONGS  FROM  '  PIPPA  PASSES  ' 

Browning  was  walking  alone  in  a  wood  on  the 
outskirts  of  London  when  the  image  flashed  upon 
him  of  '  someone  walking  thus  alone  through  life; 
one  apparently  too  obscure  to  leave  a  trace  of  his 
or  her  passage,  yet  exercising  a  lasting,  though  un- 
conscious, influence  at  every  step  of  it."  This  orig- 
inal conception  is  charmingly  worked  out  in  the 
character  of  Felippa  or  I'ippa,  tlie  little  silk  winder 
of  Asolo,  a  hill  town  in  North  Italy  which  had 
taken  Browning's  fancy  during  his  first  visit. 
I'ippa  is  introduced  in  her  humble  room  springing 
out  of  bed  on  her  one  holiday  —  New  Year's  Day, 
and  singing  the  tirst  of  her  songs,  as  here  given. 
During  the  day  she  passes  in  and  out  of  the  vil- 
lage, singing  her  artless  songs,  and  unconsciously 
influencing  the  lives  of  those  about  her.  The  sec- 
ond song,  '  The  year  's  at  the  Spring,'  awakens  two 
wicked  people  to  a  sense  of  their  guilt  and  the  di- 
vine government  of  the  world.  The  third,  '  Give 
her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me,'  rouses  a  young 
painter  to  a  higher  conception  of  love  and  art.  The 
explanation  of  this  song  is  given  in  the  lines  which 
follow  in  the  original:  — 

What  name  was  that  the  little  girl  sang  forth? 
Kate?     The  Cornaro,  doubtless,   who  renounced 
The  crown  of  Cyprus  to  be  lady  here 
At  Asolo,  where  still  her  memory  stays. 
And  peasants  sing  how  once  a   certain  page 
Pined  for  the  grace  of  her  so  far  above 
His  power  of  doing  good  to  '  Kate  the  Queen  — 
She  never  could  be  wronged,  be  poor,'  he  sighed, 
'  Need  him  to  help  her!  ' 

Browning  gives  us  in  the  first  five  lines  of  each 
stanza  the  page's  song;  in  the  last  four  the  com- 
ments of  the  Queen  and  her  maid,  who  overhear 
him.  Caterina  (or  Kate)  Cornaro  was  a  Venetian 
citizen  who  married  the  King  of  Cyprus,  and  after 
his  death,  resigning  her  authority  to  the  Republic, 
retired  to  keep  a  small  court  at  the  Venetian  vil- 
lage of  Asolo,  where  she  '  wielded  her  little  sceptre 
for  her  people's  good,  and  won  their  love  by  gentle- 
ness and  grace.' 
786.  18.  jesses.     Straps  for  hawks'  legs. 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 
Ferrara,  which  Browning  gives  as  the  scene  of 
tl:is  poem,  is  a  town  in  North  Italy,  not  far  from 
Venice.  It  was  the  capital  of  the  House  of  Este, 
who  were  among  the  most  accomplished  and  the 
most  cruel  of  the  tyrants  of  the  Italian  Renascence. 
Symonds  says  in  his  Age  of  the  Despots:  '  Under 
the  House  of  Este,  Ferrara  was  famous  throughout 
Italy  for  its  gaiety  and  splendor.  No  city  enjoyed 
more  brilliant  or  more  frequent  public  shows.  No- 
where did  the  aristocracy  retain  so  much  feudal 
magnificence  and  chivalrous  enjoyment.  The  square 
castle  of  red  brick,  which  still  stands  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  town,  was  thronged  with  poets,  players, 
fools  who  enjoyed  an  almost  European  reputation, 
court  flatterers,  knights,  pages,  scholars,  and  fair 
ladies.  But  beneath  its  cube  of  solid  masonry,  on 
a  level  with  the  moat,  shut  out  from  daylight  by 
the   sevenfold   series   of  iron   bars,   lay   dungeons  in 


which  the  objects  of  the  Duke's  displeasure  clanked 
chains  and   sighed    their   lives   away.' 

3.  Fra.  The  painter,  who  is  an  imaginary  char- 
acter, was  a  monk  like  Fra  Angelico  and  other  Ital- 
ian  artists  of   the   Renascence. 

787.  45-6.  There  has  been  much  discussion  as  to 
whether  these  two  lines  imply  that  the  Duke  gave 
orders  for  his  wife's  execution.  Professor  Corson 
put  the  question  to  Browning  himself,  and  quotes 
his  answer  thus:  '"Yes,  1  meant  that  the  com- 
mands were  that  she  should  be  put  to  death."  And 
then  after  a  pause  he  added  with  a  characteristic 
dash  of  expression,  as  if  the  thought  had  just  started 
in  his  mind,  "  Or  he  might  have  had  her  shut  up  in 
a  convent."  ' 

56.  Claus  of  Innsbruck.  An  imaginary  artist. 
Innsbruck  is  in  the  Tyrol.  It  is  famous  for  the 
bronze  work  on  the  tomb  of  the  emperor  Maxi- 
milian. 

The  teacher  should  take  care  that  the  student 
masters  all  the  points  in  this  exquisite  example  of 
the  dramatic  monologue.  Browning's  favorite  art 
form. 

COUNT  GISMOND 
This  stirring  narrative,  in  which  Browning  con- 
centrates the  heroic  spirit  of  mediaeval  chivalry, 
tells  in  the  very  words  of  the  heroine  of  the  inci- 
dent a  straight-forward  story  which  needs  no  com- 
ment; but  the  reader  should  not  miss  the  charming 
equivocation  with  which  the  heroine  avoids  telling 
her  husband  that  she  has  been  boasting  to  her  friend 
of  his  prowess. 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 
Ratisbon  is  in  Bavaria,  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Danube.  It  was  stormed  by  Napoleon  in  1809,  after 
an  obstinate  defence  by  the  Austrians.  Mrs.  Orr 
says:  '  The  story  is  true;  but  its  actual  hero  was 
a  man.* 

788.  1.  we  French.  The  story  is  told  by  a  specta- 
tor. 

7.  prone.     Bending  or   leaning   forward. 
II.  Lannes.     One  of  Napoleon's  generals. 

789.  29.  flag-bird.  The  Napoleonic  standard  was  a 
tricolor  powdered  with  golden  bees,  with  an  eagle 
on   the  central  stripe. 

vans.  Wings.  Latin  vannus,  a  fan  for  winnow- 
ing grain. 

34-5.  film  is  nominative  to  sheathes. 

THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 
Browning   was   proud   to   remember   that   the   Ital- 
ian   patriot    Mazzini    used    to    read    this   poem    to    his 
fellow   exiles   in   England   to   show  how  an    English- 
man could  sympathize  with  them.     (Mrs.  Orr.) 

8.  Charles.  Charles  Albert,  Prince  of  Carignano, 
belonged  to  the  royal  house  of  Savoy,  but  was 
brought  up  among  the  people,  and  as  a  young  man 
expressed  sympathy  with  revolutionary  principles. 
He  was  afterward  accused  of  betraying  Italy,  and 
was  bitterly   denounced   by  his   former   friends. 

19.  Mettcrnich  our  friend.  Said  ironically.  Met- 
ternich,  the  .Nustrian  statesman  and  diplomatist,  was 
the    most    determined    enemy    of    Italian    independ- 


III2 


NOTES 


JO.  See  note  above  on  Charles  Albert. 

41.  ciyft.  i'lace  of  concealment;  commonly  used 
of  a  place  for  burial. 

46.  My  fears  were  not  for  myself,  but  f«r  my 
country;    'on   me   Rested   the   hopes   of   Italy.' 

35,  75.  duomo.      (Italian)   Cathedral. 

76.  Tenebra.  A  service  of  the  Roman  (^alliolic 
Church,  which  involves  the  gradual  extinction  of 
the  lights  on  the  altar.  The  Latin  word  literally 
means  '  darkness.' 

81.  It  was  not  unusual  for  a  priest  to  render 
service  to  the  cause  of  Italian  liberty. 

790.  125-7.  Charles  Albert  became  King  of  Sar- 
dinia in  1831  and  resigned  the  crown  to  his  son, 
Victor  Emmanuel,  in  1849.  He  retired  to  Portugal, 
where  he  died  in  the  same  year,  '  broken-hearted 
and  misunderstood.'  The  patriot's  wish  as  ex- 
pressed by  Browning  was,  therefore,  fulfilled  four 
years  after  the  poem  was  published.  Charles  Al- 
bert's position  wr:;  a  very  difficult  one,  and  his- 
torians generally  take  a  nc:^  favorable  view  of  his 
conduct  than  i:  here  given.  Browning  has  merely 
given  characterlztic  exprc;;ion  ti  the  sentiment  of 
the  ardent  Italian  patriots  of  tli-  time. 

138-44.  '-'lieSc  lines  forcefully  represent  the  divi- 
sion of  opinion  in  Italy  during  the  apparently  fruit- 
less struggles   for  independence. 

THE  LOST  LEADER 
The  suggestion  for  this  early  poem  was  undoubt- 
edly Wordsworth's  abandonment  of  the  Liberal 
principles  of  his  youth  for  the  reactionary  Con- 
servatism of  his  old  age;  but  it  was  only  a  sugges- 
tion. '  Once  call  my  fancy  portrait  Wordsworth,' 
Browning  wrote,  '  and  how  much  more  ought  one  to 
say.'  In  another  letter  he  speaks  of  Wordsworth's 
'  moral  and  intellectual  superiority,'  and  protests 
against  taking  this  poem  as  an  attempt  to  draw  his 
real  likeness.  It  is  really  a  character  study  from 
Browning's  own  imagination,  and  should  be  so  re- 
garded, in  justice  to  both  poets. 

791.  29-30.  It  is  best  for  him  to  fight  for  the  side 
he  has  chosen  as  well  as  he  can,  to  fight  so  well 
indeed  as  to  threaten  us  with  defeat  before  the 
hour  of  our  final  triumph.  '  Then  let  him  receive,' 
etc. 

HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD 

It  is  interesting  to  contrast  Browning's  prefer- 
ence for  English  birds  and  flowers,  expressed  in 
this  poem  after  his  earlier  visits  to  the  Continent, 
with  the  love  of  Italy  breathed  in  '  De  Gustibus  — ' 
p.  802,  which  was  written  after  his  settlement  with 
his   wife   in   Florence. 

HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA 
Written     off     Gibraltar     during     Browning's     first 
voyage  to  Italy   in   1838. 

1-7.  Cat^c  St.  Vincent,  Cadiz  Bay,  Trafalgar  are 
all  associated  with  English  victories.  Gibraltar. 
the  famous  rock-fortress  which  guards  the  entrance 
to  the  Mediterranean,  has  been  held  by  Great 
Britain  since  its  capture  in  1704.  These  glorious 
memories  inspire  the  poet  with  a  sense  of  his  duty 
to   his   country,   and    he  mingles    prayer    for   the    fu- 


ture   with    praise    for    the    past.     Say    is    imperative. 
'  Whoso  turns,  etc.     ...     let  him  say  "  How  can 


1  help  England? 


SAUL 


Browning  found  the  suggestion  for  this,  one  of 
his  finest  religious  poems,  in  the  Old  Testameirt 
narrative  of  Saul's  depression  and  its  relief  by  the 
harping  of  David,  the  shepherd  boy  —  i  Samuel  xvi, 
14-23,  which  the  teacher  would  do  well  to  read  to 
the  class  in  order  to  show  how  the  poet  has  filled 
with  life  and  color  the  mere  hints  of  the  original. 
Browning  has  read  into  the  ancient  story  not  only 
doctrines  and  ideas  taken  from  the  New  Testament, 
but  modern  religious  views  and  sentiments. 

I.  Abner.  The  son  of  Ner,  captain  of  Saul's  host. 
See   I    Samuel  xxvi,  5. 

792.  36-41.  Professor  Albert  S.  Cook  suggests  that 
Browning  obtained  his  hints  for  these  tunes  from 
Longus's  romance  of  Dcphnis  end  Chloe.  The  first 
is  found  on  pp.  303-4  (Smith's  Translation,  Bohn 
ed.),  '  He  ran  through  all  variations  of  pastoral 
melody,  he  played  the  tune  which  the  oxen  obey, 
and  which  attracts  the  c^ats  —  that  in  which  the 
sheep  delight,'  etc.;  pp.  332-4,  '.  .  .  .  standing 
under  the  shade  of  a  beech-tree,  he  took  his  pipe 
from  his  scrip  and  breathed  into  it  very  gently. 
The  goats  stood  still,  merely  lifting  up  their  heads. 
Next  he  played  the  ]  asture  tune,  upon  which  they 
all  put  down  their  heads  and  began  to  graze.  Now 
he  produced  some  notes  soft  and  sweet  in  tone; 
at  once  his  herd  lay  down.  After  this  he  piped  in 
a  sharp  key,  and  they  ran  off  to  the  wood,  as  if 
a  wolf  were  in  sight.'  In  answer  to  the  question 
as  to  whether  there  is  any  historical  foundation  for 
David's  songs.  Rabbi  Charles  Fleischer  of  Boston 
replied  in  a  letter  to  the  editors:  'I  believe  that 
David's  songs  in  Browning's  poem  Saul  are  the  in- 
spired melodies  of  our  nineteenth  century  David 
rather  than  the  songs  of  Israel's  poetic  shepherd- 
king.  .  .  .  While,  then,  I  believe  that  these 
melodies  in  Saul  were  not  current  among  the  Jews 
of  old,  I  know  that  they  would  serve  well  to  ex- 
])ress  beliefs  and  ideals  characteristic  of  the  best 
minds  among  the  Jews  of  to-day.' —  Porter  and 
Clarke. 

45.  Jerboa.     The   jumping   hare. 
795.   203.  Hebron    was    one    of   the    cities   of    refuge, 
but    Browning   evidently   takes   it   as   the    name    of   a 
mountain. 

204.   Kidron.     A  brook   near  Jerusalem. 

The  first  nine  stanzas  of  this  poem  (to  line  96) 
were  published  in  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics 
in  1845;  the  later  stanzas  were  written  after  his 
marriage,  and  published  in  Men  and  Women  (1855). 
The  latter  part  shows  a  marked  advance  in  inten- 
sity of  religious  conviction,  probably  due  to  Mrs. 
Browning's  influence.  The  student  should  note  that 
David  first  played  on  his  harp  (36-60) ;  then  sang 
(68-190);  and  finally  spoke  (237-312).  The  inner 
structure  of  the  poem  should  be  carefully  studied 
so  as  to  bring  out  the  gradual  rise  of  theme  from 
external  nature  to  human  activities  and  sympathies, 
from  the  glory  of  kingship  to  the  glory  of  fame, 
and  so  to  the  culmination  of  Divine  Love  as  mani- 
fested in  the  Incarnation. 


NOTES 


1113 


LOVE  AMUNC;  THE  RUINS 
This  poem  was  written  when  Browning  was  in 
Rome  in  the  winter  of  1853-4,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  suggested  by  the  contrast  between  the  present 
desolation  of  the  Campagna  and  its  former  mag- 
nificence; but  the  scene  is  imaginatively  treated,  and 
cannot  be  identified  with  any  place  in  particular. 
The  living  love,  even  of  an  obscure  boy  and  girl, 
counted  for  more  with  Browning  than  all  the  dead 
glories  of  the  earth. 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 
The  title  refers  to  the  old  proverb,  '  a  woman 
will  always  have  the  last  word  in  a  quarrel.'  This 
'  woman's  last  word,'  however,  is  not  one  of  re- 
crimination, but  of  reconciliation  and  submission. 
She  will  even  sacrifice  what  she  believes  to  be  true 
(st.  iv),  lest  she  should  lose  her  domestic  peace  as 
Eve  lost  Paradise. 

A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S 

Baldassare  Galuppi  (1706-85),  a  musical  composer 
of  some  note  in  his  day,  who  was  for  the  last 
years  of  his  life  organist  at  St.  Mark's  Cathedral, 
Venice,  is  here  taken  by  Browning  as  an  exponent 
and  critic  of  the  frivolous,  empty  life  with  which 
the  name  of  this  Italian  city  has  long  been  asso- 
ciated. But  the  toccata  speaks  to  the  man  who 
plays  it  —  a  student  of  science  —  not  only  of  the 
emptiness  of  life  at  Venice  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, but  of  the  emptiness  of  life  in  general,  for 
St.  xiii  is,  of  course,  to  be  taken  ironically;  as  he 
thinks  of  the  beauty  and  gaiety  of  Venice  all  turned 
to  '  dust  and  ashes,'  he  feels  '  chilly  and  grown 
old,'  for  even  so  all  human  activities  seem  to  pass 
away    into    nothingness. 

The  toccata  is  marked  by  the  repetition  of  phrases 
calculated  to  display  a  peculiar  facility  of  touch 
(It.  toccarc,  to  touch)  on  the  musician's  part. 
799.  6.  '  The  ceremony  of  wedding  the  Adriatic  was 
instituted  in  1174  by  Pope  .\lexander  III,  who  gave 
the  Doge  a  gold  ring  from  his  own  finger  in  token 
of  the  victory  achieved  by  the  Venetian  fleet  at 
Istria  over  Frederick  Barbarossa,  in  defense  of  the 
Pope's  quarrel.  When  his  Holiness  gave  the  ring, 
he  desired  the  Doge  to  throw  a  similar  ring  into  the 
sea  annually,  in  commemoration  of  the  event.' 
(Brewer.) 

8.  Shy  lock's  bridge.     The   Rialto. 

18.  claiichurd.  An  old-fashioned  instrument,  with 
keys  and  strings,  the  predecessor  of  the  modern 
pianoforte. 

The  musical  technicalities  made  use  of  are  thus 
elucidated  by  Porter  and  Clarke,  Poems  of  Robert 
Browning: — 'The  technical  musical  allusions  in 
the  poem  are  all  to  be  found  in  the  7th,  8th,  and 
9th  stanzas.  The  lesser  thirds  (line  19)  are  minor 
thirds  (intervals  containing  three  semitones),  and 
are  of  common  occurrence,  but  the  diminished  sixth 
is  an  interval  rarely  used.  Ordinarily  a  dimiiiislied 
sixth  (seven  semitones),  exactly  the  same  interval 
as  a  perfect  fifth,  instead  of  giving  a  plaintive, 
mournful,  or  minor  impression,  would  suggest  a 
feeling  of  rest  and   satisfaction.     There  is  one  way. 


however,  in  which  it  can  be  used  —  as  a  suspension, 
in  which  the  root  of  the  chord  on  the  lowered  super- 
tonic  of  the  scale  is  suspended  from  above  into 
the  chord  with  added  seventh  on  the  super-tonic, 
making  a  diminished  sixth  between  the  root  of  the 
first  and  third  of  the  second  chord.  The  effect  of 
this  progression  is  most  dismal,  and  possibly  Brown- 
ing had  it  in  mind.  Suspensions  (line  20)  are 
notes  which  are  held  over  from  one  chord  into  an- 
other, and  must  be  made  according  to  certain  strict 
musical  rules.  This  holding  over  of  a  note  always 
produces  a  dissonance,  and  must  be  followed  by  a 
concord  —  in  other  words,  a  solution.  Sevenths  are 
very  important  dissonances  in  music,  and  a  com- 
miserating seventh  (line  21)  is  most  likely  the  va- 
riety called  a  minor  seventh.  Being  a  somewhat 
less  mournful  interval  than  the  lesser  thirds  and 
the  diminished  sixths,  whether  real  or  imaginary, 
yet  not  so  final  as  "  those  solutions  "  which  seem 
to  put  an  end  to  all  uncertainty,  and  therefore  to 
life,  they  arouse  in  the  listeners  to  Galuppi's  play- 
ing a  hope  that  life  may  last,  although  in  a  sort 
of  dissonantal,  Wagnerian  fashion.  The  "  com- 
miserating sevenths  "  are  closely  connected  with 
the  "dominant's  persistence"  (line  24).  The  domi- 
nant chord  in  music  is  the  chord  written  on  the 
fifth  degree  of  the  scale,  and  it  almost  always  has 
a  seventh  added  to  it,  and  in  a  large  percentage  of 
cases  is  followed  by  the  tonic,  the  chord  on  the  first 
degree  of  the  scale.  Now,  in  fugue  form  a  theme  is 
first  presented  in  the  tonic  key,  then  the  same  theme 
is  repeated  in  the  dominant  key,  the  latter  being 
called  the  answer;  after  some  development  of  the 
theme  the  fugue  comes  to  what  is  called  an  episode, 
after  which  the  theme  is  presented  first,  in  the 
dominant.  "  Hark!  the  dominant's  persistence  "  al- 
ludes to  this  musical  fact;  but  according  to  rule 
this  dominant  must  be  answered  in  the  tonic  an 
octave  above  the  first  presentation  of  the  theme,  and 
"  So  an  octave  struck  the  answer."  Thus  the  in- 
exorable solution  comes  in  after  the  dominant's  per- 
sistence. Although  life  seemed  possible  with  com- 
miserating sevenths,  the  tonic,  a  resistless  fate, 
strikes  the  answer  that  all  must  end.' 

MY  STAR 
This  poem  has  been  interpreted  as  having  per- 
sonal reference  to  Mrs.  Browning;  but  there  is  no 
reason  to  set  it  apart  from  the  other  poems  de- 
scribed by  Browning  as  '  always  dramatic  in  prin- 
ciple, and  so  many  utterances  of  so  many  imaginary 
persr>i's.' 

GOO.  4.  angled  spar.  '  A  prism  of  Iceland  spar  l.a3 
the  property  of  polarizing  or  dividing  a  ray  of 
light  into  two  parts.  Suppose  this  polarized  ray 
be  passed  through  a  plate  of  Iceland  spar,  at  a 
certain  angle,  and  a  second  prism  of  Iceland  spar 
be  rotated  in  front  of  it,  different  colors  will  be 
given  out.  complementary  tints  being  ninety  de- 
grees apart,  and  four  times  during  the  rotation  the 
light  will  vanish  completely.  Some  such  experiment 
as  this  was  probably  in  the  poet's  mind  when  he 
made  the  comparison  with  the  angled  spar.'  (Por- 
ter and  Clarke.) 


1II4 


NOTES 


THE  LAST  KIDE  TOGETHER 
The    utter    devotion    of   this    poem    is,    in    Brown- 
ing's view,  characteristic  of  true  love. 

801.  6-'.   Ten   lines.     Of  history   or  biography. 

65.  the  Abbey.  Westminster  Abbey,  wliere  Eng- 
land's heroes  are  commemorated. 

67-88.  Cf.   Ill   a  Balcony,  664-7:  — 

'  We  live,  and  they  experiment  on  life  — 
Those  poets,  painters,  all  who  stand  aloof 
To  overlook  the   farther.     Let  us  be 
The   thing   they    look   atl  ' 

MEMORABILIA 
•  Things  worth  remembering.'  This  poem  is  said 
to  have  been  suggested  to  Browning  by  overhearing 
a  man  say  in  a  shop  that  he  had  met  and  spoken 
to  Shelley.  ]5y  the  metaphor  of  the  eagle's  feather, 
Browning  conveys  to  the  reader  that  if  such  a 
piece  of  good  fortune  had  happened  to  him,  it 
would  have  been  enough  to  blot  out  all  other  inci- 
dents. 

'DE  GUSTIBUS' 
The  Latin  proverb  '  De  gustibus  non  est  disputan- 
dum,'  corresponds  to  the  English  one  '  There  's  no 
accounting  for  tastes.'  Browning  says  that  if  our 
preferences  persist  after  death,  his  will  be,  not  for 
England,  but   for  Italy. 

802.  22.  cicala,  the  tree-cricket,  often  heard  in  Italy 
in  the   heat  of   summer. 

36.  liver-wing,  right  arm.  The  Bourbon  rule  in 
Southern  Italy  was  exceedingly  unpopular,  and  nu- 
merous attempts  were  made  to  cast  it  off;  the  king 
here  referred  to  was  Ferdinand  II,  whose  cruelties 
were  denounced  by  Gladstone  in  1851.  He  was 
succeeded  by  his  son,  who  was  expelled  in  i860, 
and  Naples  was  incorporated  with  the  new  king- 
dom of  Italy.  Browning  sympathized  with  all  the 
Italians'  attempts  to  regain  their  liberty  and  inde- 
pendence, even  when  they  went  the  length  of  as- 
sassination. 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
This  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  Browning's 
shorter  poems,  whether  regarded  as  a  study  of 
character  or  of  art.  It  was  written  when  he  was 
living  in  Florence,  in  answer  to  a  request  from  a 
friend  in  England  for  a  copy  of  the  portrait  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his  wife  in  the  Pitti  Palace. 
Browning  could  not  get  one,  and  sent  the  poem 
instead.  Mr.  Ernest  Radford  thus  describes  the 
picture: — 'The  artist  and  his  wife  are  presented 
at  half  length.  Andrea  turns  towards  her  with  a 
pleading  expression  on  his  face.  .  .  .  His  right 
arm  is  round  her;  he  leans  forward  as  if  searching 
her  face  for  the  strength  that  has  gone  from  him- 
self. .  .  .  She  holds  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and 
looks  neither  at  that  nor  at  him,  but  straight  out 
of  the  canvas.  And  the  beautiful  face  with  the  red- 
brown  hair  is  passive  and  unruffled,  and  awfully 
expressionless.  There  is  silent  thunder  in  this  face 
if  there  ever  was,  but  there  is  no  anger.  It  sug- 
gests only  a  very  mild,  and  at  the  same  time  im- 
mutable determination  to  have  her  own  way.' 

Browning    develops,    in    his    favorite    form    of    the 


dramatic  monologue,  the  suggestion  given  by  An- 
drea's portrait  of  himself;  for  the  details  he  is 
chiefly  indebted  to  V'asari's  Life  of  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
as  will  be  seen  from  the  following  extracts  (trans- 
lation by  Blashfield  and  Hopkins,  with  Mrs.  Fos- 
ter's notes; :  — '  Had  this  master  possessed  a  some- 
what bolder  and  more  elevated  mind,  had  he  been 
as  much  distinguished  for  higher  cjualifications  as 
he  was  for  genius  and  depth  of  judgment  in  tiic 
art  he  practised,  he  would,  beyond  all  doubt,  have 
been  without  an  equal.  But  there  was  a  certain 
timidity  of  mind,  a  sort  of  diffidence  and  want 
of  force  in  his  nature,  which  rendered  it  impossi- 
ble that  those  evidences  of  ardor  and  animation, 
which  are  proper  to  the  more  exalted  character, 
should  ever  appear  in  him;  nor  did  he  at  any  time 
display  one  particle  of  that  elevation  which,  could 
it  but  have  been  added  to  the  advantages  where- 
with he  was  endowed,  would  have  rendered  him  a 
tiuly  divine  painter.  ...  At  that  time  there  was 
a  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  Via  di  San  Gallo,  who 
was  married  to  a  cap-maker,  and  who,  though  born 
of  a  poor  and  vicious  father,  carried  about  her  as 
much  pride  and  haughtiness  as  beauty  and  fasci- 
nation. She  delighted  in  trapping  the  hearts  of 
men,  and  among  others  ensnared  the  unlucky  An- 
drea, whose  immoderate  love  for  her  soon  caused 
him  to  neglect  the  studies  demanded  by  his  art,  and 
in  great  measure  to  discontinue  the  assistance 
which  he  had  given  his  parents.  Now  it  chanced 
that  a  sudden  and  grievous  illness  seized  the  hus- 
band of  this  woman,  who  rose  no  more  from  his 
bed,  but  died  thereof.  Without  taking  counsel  of 
his  friends  therefore;  without  regard  to  the  dig- 
nity of  his  art  or  the  consideration  due  to  his 
genius,  and  to  the  eminence  he  had  attained  with 
so  much  labor;  without  a  word,  in  short,  to  any  of 
his  kindred,  Andrea  took  this  Lucrezia  di  Baccio 
del  Fede,  such  was  the  name  of  the  woman,  to  be 
his  wife;  her  beauty  appearing  to  him  to  merit  thus 
much  at  his  hands,  and  his  love  for  her  having 
more  influence  over  him  than  the  glory  and  honor 
towards  which  he  had  begun  to  make  such  hope- 
ful advances.  But  when  this  news  became  known 
in  Florence  the  respect  and  affection  which  his 
friends  had  previously  borne  to  Andrea  changed 
to  contempt  and  disgust,  since  it  appeared  to  them 
that  the  darkness  of  this  disgrace  had  obscured  for 
a  time  all  the  glory  and  renown  obtained  by  his 
talents.  But  he  destroyed  his  own  peace  as  well  as 
estranged  his  friends  by  this  act,  seeing  that  he 
soon  became  jealous,  and  found  that  he  had  be- 
sides fallen  into  the  hands  of  an  artful  woman,  who 
made  him  do  as  she  pleased  in  all  things.  He 
abandoned  his  own  poor  father  and  mother,  for  ex- 
ample, and  adopted  the  father  and  sisters  of  his 
wife  in  their  stead;  insomuch  that  all  who  knew  the 
facts  mourned  over  him,  and  he  soon  began  to 
be  as  much  avoided  as  he  had  previously  been 
sought  after.'  Andrea  found  this  mode  of  life  so 
oppressive  that,  on  the  advice  of  his  friends,  he 
put  his  wife  in  safe  keeping  and  went  to  Paris, 
where  he  was  richly  rewarded  by  the  King  of 
France  for  his  work.  But  a  pitiful  letter  from 
his  wife  induced  him  to  return.  '  Taking  the  money 
which    the    king   confided    to    him    for    ihc    purchase 


NOTES 


1115 


of  pictures,  statues  and  other  fine  things,  he  set 
off,  therefore,  having  first  sworn  on  the  gospels  to 
return  in  a  few  months.  Arrived  happily  in  Flor- 
ence, he  lived  joyously  with  his  wife  for  some 
time,  making  large  presents  to  her  father  and  sis- 
ters, but  doing  nothing  for  his  own  parents,  whom 
he  would  not  even  see,  and  who,  at  the  end  of  a 
certain  period,  ended  their  lives  in  great  poverty 
and  misery.'  Having  spent  the  money  entrusted  to 
him  in  building  a  house  and  indulging  himself  in 
various  other  pleasures,  Andrea  was  afraid  to  re- 
turn to  France,  and  remained  in  Florence  in  the 
very  lowest  position,  '  procuring  a  livelihood  and 
passing  his   time   as   he   best   might.' 

So  says  Vasari,  who  at  one  time  was  Andrea's 
pupil,  and  published  his  Lives  of  the  Painters  while 
Andrea's  widow  was  still  in  Florence;  but  recent 
investigation  has  failed  to  reveal  the  slightest  evi- 
dence in  support  of  the  charge  of  embezzlement 
made  by  Vasari  against  i\ndrea,  and  it  has  been 
generaly   discredited. 

803.  15.  Fiesole.  The  village  on  the  top  of  the 
ridge  overlooking  the  quarter  of  Florence  in  which 
Andrea    lived. 

25.  It  saves  a  model.  '  Andrea  rarely  painted  the 
countenance  of  a  woman  in  any  place  that  he  did 
not  avail  himself  of  the  features  of  his  wife;  and 
if  at  any  time  he  took  his  model  from  any  other 
face  there  was  always  a  resemblance  to  hers  in  the 
painting,  not  only  because  he  had  this  woman  con- 
stantly before  him  and  depicted  her  so  frequently 
but  also  and  what  is  still  more,  because  he  had  her 
lineaments  engraven  on  his  heart;  it  thus  happens 
that  almost  all  his  female  heads  have  a  certain 
something  which  recalls  that  of  his  wife.'     (Vasari.) 

32.   no   one's.     Not  even   his. 

36-45.  Lucrezia  has  lost  only  her  first  pride  in 
her  husband;  he  has  lost  all  his  youthful  ambitions 
and  aspirations,  as  the  day  loses  its  noontide  splen- 
dor, and  the  glory  of  summer  changes  to  the  decay 
of   autumn. 

43.  huddled  more  inside.  The  trees  are  huddled 
together  within  the  convent  wall,  and  have  no  room 
to  grow;  but  they  are,  perhaps,  safer  —  so,  per- 
haps, too,  is  the  painter  in  his  own  home,  though 
he  misses  the  inspiration  and  development  that  come 
fiom  contact  with  the  world.  Andrea  acquiesces  in 
his  seclusion,  but  he  cannot  help  regretting  his  lost 
opportunities. 

93.  Morello.     A  mountain  near  Florence. 

804.  105.  the  Urbinate.  Raphael  of  Urbino,  the 
most  famous  of  Italian  painters;  he  died  in  ii.-o, 
ten  years  before  Andrea.  Vasari  says  that  Andrea 
copied  a  portrait  by  Raphael  with  such  exactncri 
that  Raphael's  own  pupils,  who  had  helped  in  the 
painting,  could  not  tell  the  copy  from  the  original. 

130.  Agnolo.  The  great  Italian  painter  usually 
called  Michael  Angelo  in  English;  he  was  doubtless 
the  'Someone'  of  line  76;  Andrea  refers  to  him 
again   in  line    184. 

150.  Fontaineblcau.  A  royal  palace  not  far  from 
Paris. 

166.  See  quotation  from  Vasari  above  for  An- 
drea's recall  from  France  by  his  wife's  importuni- 
ties. 

173.   there.     In   your   heart. 


174.  ere  the  triumph.     Of  my  genius  in  art. 

805.  189—193.  Hocchi,  in  his  Beauties  of  Florence, 
states  that  Michael  Angelo  said  to  Raphael,  re- 
ferring to  Andrea: — 'There  is  a  little  man  in 
I'lorence,  who,  if  he  were  employed  upon  such  great 
works  as  have  been  given  to  you,  would  bring  the 
sweat  to  your  brow.' 

199.  Lucrezia  has  interrupted  to  ask  Andrea 
about  whom  and  what  he  is  talking.  She  is  evi- 
dently   paying   no   attention. 

209-10.  Mount  Morello  can  no  longer  be  seen, 
the  lights  on  the  city  wall  are  lit;  and  the  little 
owls,  named  in  Italy  fiom  their  call,  Chiu,  are  cry- 
ing; darkness  is  falling  on  the  house,  as  on 
Andrea's  life. 

212-18.  See  above  for  the  charge  against  Andrea 
of  building  a  house  for  himself  with  the  money  en- 
trusted to  him  by  King  Francis  to  buy  pictures 
with. 

220.  The  cousin  (or  lover)  who  waits  outside  is 
the  third  character  in  the  little  drama  —  silent  and 
unseen,    but    profoundly    affecting    the    situation. 

806.  263.  Leonard.  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  the  third 
great  Italian  painter  of  the  time;  he  died  the  year 
before  Raphael. 

266.  Andrea  at  last  acknowledges  to  himself  that 
his  wife  has  been  a  hindrance  instead  of  a  help,  a 
drag  preventing  his  ascent  from  the  second  rank  to 
the  first:  but  he  prefers  this  to  the  sacrifice  of  giv- 
ing her  up. 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL 

In  the  Church  of  St.  Augustine  at  Fano,  on  the 
Adriatic,  there  is  a  picture  called  '  The  Guardian 
Angel,'  by  Guercino,  an  Italian  painter  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  It  represents  an  angel  with  out- 
spread wings  embracing  a  kneeling  child,  whose 
hands  he  folds  in  prayer. 

6.  another   child.     The   poet  himself. 

7.  retrieve.     Bring  back  to  the  right  way. 
14-16.  In  the  picture  cherubs  point  to  the  opened 

heaven,  and  the  child  looks  upward  past  the  angel's 
head. 

18.  bird  of  God.  This  beautiful  expression  is 
translated  from  Dante's  Purgatorio. 

20—21.  The  angel  seems  to  be  enfolding  the  child 
with  the  skirt  of  his  robe,  held  in  his  left  hand. 

39-40.  The  angel's  head  is  turned  away,  but  tin- 
reason  given  is   Browning's  own. 

46.  My  angel  with  me,  too.  His  wife.  See  line 
54- 

C07.  5t.  dear  old  friend.  Alfred  Domett,  a  much- 
prized  friend  of  P.rowning's  youth,  who  in  1842 
settled  in  New  Zealand. 

56.  Ancona.  On  the  Italian  coast,  near  Fano. 
Browning  and  his  wife  visited  both  places  soon 
after  their  first  settlement  in  Italy  in  1846,  and 
the  poem  was  doubtless  written  at  the  time.  Mrs. 
Browning  writes  of  the  visit  to  her  friend,  Miss 
Mitford: — 'So  we  went  to  Ancona  —  a  striking  sea 
city,  holding  up  against  the  brown  rocks,  and  elbow- 
ing out  the  purple  tides  —  beautiful  to  look  upon. 
An  exfoliation  of  the  rock  itself  you  would  call  the 
houses  that  seem  to  grow  there  —  so  identical  is 
the  color  and  character.' 


iii8 


NOTES 


PROSPICE 

'  Look  forward."  This  noble  defiance  of  death 
was  written  in  the  autumn  after  Browning  lost  his 
wife,  and  appeared  first  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
for  June,    1864. 

816.  19.  life's  arrears.  All  the  pain  that  a  man 
might  fairly  have  expected  to  suffer  in  life,  but 
missed. 

23.  fiend-voices.  The  ancient  belief  was  that  the 
soul  at  the  moment  of  separation  from  the  body  is 
the  object  of  a  struggle  between  the  angels,  whose 
office  is  to  bear  away  the  freed  spirit  (Luke  xvi,  22) 
and  the  powers  of  darkness  who  strive  to  snatch  it 
from  salvation.  For  this  reason  fervent  prayers  are 
offered  for  a  soul  on  the  point  of  departure. 

27-28.  Browning  had  a  strong  faith  in  immor- 
tality, and  repeatedly  expressed  it  in  both  prose  and 
verse.  He  said:  'I  know  I  shall  meet  my  dearest 
friends  again.' 

HERVE  KIEL 

Browning  was  in  France  when  it  was  invaded  by 
Prussia  in  1870,  and  escaped  from  the  country  with 
some  difficulty  before  the  outbreak  of  the  disorders 
which  followed  the  collapse  of  the  French  resist 
ance.  Desiring  to  express  his  sympathy  for  the  suf- 
ferers by  the  siege  of  Paris,  he  sold  this  poem  to 
Cornhill  Magazine  for  £100,  which  he  gave  as  a 
subscriptioH  to  the  Relief  Fund.  It  was  written  in 
1867  and  first  published  in  1871.  The  incident  it  re- 
lates was  first  denied  in  France,  but  the  records 
of  the  admiralty  of  the  time  proved  that  Browning 
was  correct,  except  in  one  small  detail:  the  reward 
Herve  Riel  asked  and  received  was  '  iin  conge  ab- 
solu' — a  holiday  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

I.  the  Hague.  Cap  La  Hogue,  where  the  French 
fleet  was  attacked  in  1692  by  the  English  and 
Dutch,  and  forced  to  retire.  The  expedition  aimed 
at  the  restoration  of  James  II,  who  watched  the  de- 
feat from  the  Norman  coast. 

5.  St.  Malo,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ranee  River, 
in  Brittany,  has  a  harbor  which  is  described  as 
'  safe,  but  difficult  of  approach.'  In  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries  it  was  a  flourishing  port, 
and  from  it  Jacques  Cartier  sailed  in  1535  to  ex- 
plore the  River  St.  Lawrence,  the  Ranee.  A  small 
stream  with  picturesque  steep  banks.  The  town  is 
situated  on  a  rock  between  the  harbor  and  the 
mouth  of  the  river. 

18.  twelve  and  eighty.  French,  quatre-vingt- 
douze. 

817.  30.  Plymouth  Sound.  In  the  West  of  Eng- 
land, an   important   harbor   and   naval   station. 

43.  pressed.     Forced   to   serve. 
Tourville.     The   French   admiral. 

44.  Croisickese.  Of  Croisic,  a  little  fishing  vil- 
lage of  Brittany,  where  Browning  liked  to  stay. 
See  the  title  of  the  next  poem  in  this  selection.  It 
was  no  doubt  at  Croisic  that  Browning  picked  up 
the   story. 

46.  Malouins.     Men  of  St.  Malo. 

49.  Greve.  La  Grande  Greve,  the  sandy  shallows 
of  the  coast  about  St.   Malo,  especially  to  the  east. 

53.  Solidor.  A  small  harbor  near  the  mouth  of 
the  Ranee,  beside  the  town  of  St.  Servan.  A  fort 
of  the  same  name  defends  it. 


75.  profound    (here    used   as   a   noun).     Depths. 
92.   rampired.     I'rotccted   by   ramparts   or   fortifica- 
tions. 

95.  for.     Instead  of. 

818.  135.   the    Louvre.     A    famous    palace    at    Paris, 
now  used  as  an  art  museum.     On  its  external   walls        ^ 
there   are   eighty-six   statues   of   notable    Frenchmen,        J" 
but  not,  of  course,  one  of  the  forgotten  hero,  Herve        I 
Riel.  f 

THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC 
The  Prologue  and  the  Epilogue  are  connected 
with  the  main  jjoem  (which  is  here  omitted)  only 
by  the  thought,  common  to  all  three,  that  }ove  is  a 
necessary  part  of  the  poet's  life  and  art.  The 
Prologue  may  cause  a  little  difficulty  to  begin  with 
by  its  extraordinary  conciseness,  but  this  only  adds 
to  its  charm  when  the  meaning  has  been  grasped. 
The  grammatical  construction  and  the  relation  of 
the  stanzas  to  each  other  are  indicated  in  the  fol- 
lowing prose  rendering:  '  As  a  bank  of  moss 
stands  bare  till  some  May  morning  it  is  made  beau- 
tiful by  the  sudden  growth  of  the  violets;  as  the 
night  sky  is  dark  and  louring  till  a  bright  star 
pierces  the  concealing  clouds;  so  the  world  seemed 
to  hem  in  my  life  with  disgrace  till  your  face  ap- 
peared to  brighten  it  with  the  smile  of  God  —  the 
divine  gift  of   love.' 

In  the  Epilogue  it  is  a  young  girl  who  repeats  to 
the  poet  the  '  pretty  tale  '  he  has  once  told  her, 
and  makes  her  own  application  of  its  significance. 
The  story  is  found  in  Greek  literature  both  in  prose 
and  in  verse. 

819.  so.  Here,  as  in  lines  15  and  21,  the  poet  has 
attempted  to  interrupt. 

77.  Lotte.     The  pet  name  of  Charlotte  Buff,  upon  ' 

whom  Goethe  modelled  the  heroine  of  Tite  Sorrows 
of  Young  Werther.  The  reference  here,  however, 
is  rather  to  Goethe's  way  of  treating  women  in 
general  than  to  the  particula;'  ease  of  Lotte,  for  she 
was  already  engaged  to  he  married  when  he  .net 
her, 

100—2.  The  sweet  lilt  of  the  treble  was  supp'ied 
by  the  chirping  of  the  ri  ic-ket,  when  its  absence 
would  have  allowed  the  predominance  of  the  sombre 
bass.     Cf.   lines   112-4. 

120.  (There,  enough!')  To  what  interruption  of 
the  poet's  does  this  repfy? 

PHEimPPIDES 

This  is  Browning's  romantic  setting  of  an  incident 
of  the  Persian  war  which  is  thus  recounted  by  the 
Greek  historian  Herodotus  (VI,  105.  Rawlinson's 
tianslation)  :  — 

'  And  first,  before  they  left  Athens,  the  genera's 
sent  off  to  Sparta  a  herald,  one  Pheidip'pides,  who 
was  by  birth  an  Athenian,  and  by  birth  and  prac- 
tice a  trained  runner.  This  man,  according  to  the 
account  which  he  gave  to  the  Athenians  on  his 
return,  when  he  was  near  Mount  Parthenium, 
above  Tegea.  fell  in  with  the  god  Pan,  who  called 
him  by  his  name,  and  bade  him  ask  the  Athenians 
'  wherefore  they  neglected  him  so  entirely,  when 
he  was  kindly  disposed  towards  them,  and  had  often 
helped  them  in  times  past,  and  would  do  so  again 
in    time  to  come?  '     The   Athenians,   entirely   believ- 


NOTES 


1119 


iiig  ill  llie  trulh  of  this  report,  as  soon  as  tlicir 
affairs  were  once  more  in  good  order,  set  up  a  Ic-in- 
pie  to  Pan  under  the  Acropolis,  and,  in  return  for 
the  message  which  1  have  recorded,  eslablished  in 
his  honor  yearly  sacrifices  and  a  torch-race. 

'  On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak,  when 
Pheidippides  was  sent  by  the  Athenian  generals, 
and,  according  to  his  own  account  saw  Pan  on  his 
journey,  he  reached  Sparta  on  the  very  next  day 
after  quitting  the  city  of  Athens.  Upon  his  arrival 
he  went   before  the  rulers,  and  said  to  them:  — 

'  "  Men  of  Laceda>mon,  the  Athenians  beseech  you 
to  hasten  to  their  aid,  and  not  allow  that  state, 
which  is  the  most  ancient  in  all  Greece,  to  be  en- 
s-laved by  the  barbarians.  Eretria,  look  you,  is  al- 
ready carried  away  captive,  and  Greece  weakened 
by  the  loss  of  no  mean  city." 

'  Thus  did  Pheidippides  deliver  the  message  com- 
mitted to  him.  And  the  Spartans  wished  to  help 
the  Athenians,  but  were  unable  to  give  them  any 
present  succor,  as  they  did  not  like  to  break  their 
established  law.  It  was  the  ninth  day  of  the  first 
decade,  and  they  could  not  march  out  of  Sparta  on 
the  ninth,  when  the  moon  bad  not  reached  the  full. 
So   they    wailed    for   the    full    of  the    moon.' 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  original  story  makes  no 
mention  of  a  reward  promised  by  Pan  to  Pheidip- 
j)ides.  This  was  Browning's  own  invention,  follow- 
ing a  later  tradition.  In  connection  with  the 
Marathon  race  at  the  Olympic  games  this  was  the 
subject  of  a  considerable  discussion,  to  which  Pro- 
fessor Ernest  A.  Gardner  contributed  the  following 
note  as  to  Pheidippides:  '  His  great  exploit,  as  re- 
corded by  Herodotus,  was  to  run  from  Athens  to 
Sparta  within  two  days,  for  the  practical  purpose 
of  summoning  the  Spartans  to  help  against  the  Per- 
sian invader.  The  whole  Athenian  army  made  a 
forced  march  back  to  Athens  immediately  after  the 
battle,  also  for  a  practical  purpose;  but  there  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  Pheidippides  or  any  one 
else  ran  the  distance.  The  tale  of  his  bearing  the 
message  of  victory  and  falling  dead  when  he  ar- 
rived is  probably  an  invention  of  some  later  rheto- 
rician; it  is  referred  to  by  Lucian,  as  well  as  by 
Robert  Browning,  but  the  two  authorities  are  about 
of  equal  value  for  an  occurrence  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury B.  C.  It  is  most  unlikely  that  Herodotus  would 
have  omitted  such  a  story  if  it  had  been  current  in 
his  time.' 

XCLipere,  viKWfiev,  the  Greek  words  prefixed  by 
Browning  to  the  poem,  form  the  message  which 
Plutarch  and  Lucian  attribute  to  the  dying  runner 
after  Marathon.  Browning  translates  them  '  Re- 
jcice;  we  conquer!'  and  in  lines  113— 114  makes 
effective  use  of  the  fact  that  ^^at'/aere  ('  Hail !  '  or 
'  be  of  good  cheer!  ')  was  also  the  customary  form 
of  salutation  with  the  Greeks.  Here  again  he  was 
indebted  to  a  suggestion  derived  from  Lucian. 
820.  4.  Her  of  the  ccgis  and  s(>ear.  Athene,  auis, 
shield. 

5.  yc  of  the  botv  and  the  buskin.  Apollo  and 
Artemis,     buskin,  laced  boot. 

9.  Aichons.  Rulers  or  magistrates,  tettix.  The 
golden  grasshopper  worn  by  Athenians  to  show  that 
they  were  autochthons   (natives  of  the  country). 


II.  Crowned  with  the  myrtle.  This  still  refers  to 
Archons.  Browning  is  strictly  accurate  in  these 
points  of  detail. 

18.  water  and  earth.  The  emblems  of  subjection. 
This  demand  was  made  in  493  B.  C.  The  invading 
Persians  were  defeated  at  Marathon  three  years 
later. 

19-  Eretria.  The  chief  city  of  the  island  of 
Eubfea,  a  little  north  of  Athens. 

-•o.  Hellas.  Greet  civilization  regarded  as  a 
whole. 

25-40-  Herodotus,  as  quoted  above,  says:  '  So 
they  waited  for  the  full  of  the  moon.'  Grote  ascribes 
the  delay  of  the  Spartans  to  conservatism,  Rawlin- 
son  to  envy;  there  was  longstanding  jealousy  be- 
tween Athens  and  Sparta,  who  were  rivals  for  tlu- 
leadership  of  Hellas.  Sparta  later  sent  ::,ooo  men, 
v.ho  arrived  after  the  battle. 

3'-33-  Phoibos.  Olumpos.  Browning  preferred 
to  retain  the  Greek  spelling  instead  of  the  Latinized 
forms   '  Phoebus  '    and    '  Olympus.' 

47.  filleted.  Adorned  for  sacrifice  with  wreaths 
and   ribbons. 

821.  5->.  Fames.  In  North  Attica.  But  according 
to  Herodotus  as  quoted  above.  Pan  appeared  to 
Pheidippides  near  Mount  Parthenium  in  Argolis. 
This  would  be  on  his  way  from  Athens  to  Sparta: 
I'arnes  would  not.  Professor  John  Macnaughton 
suggests  that  Browning  made  the  change  deliber- 
ately. '  He  must  have  an  Attic  hill  at  all  costs, 
when  what  he  wants  to  say  is  that  it  is  the  spirit 
of  her  own  mountains,  her  own  autochthonous  vigor, 
which  is  going  to  save  Athens.  He  consciously  sac- 
rifices, in  a  small  and  obvious  point,  literal  ac- 
curacy to  the  larger  truth.'  {Queen's  Quarterly, 
April,    1903.) 

62.  Erebos.  The  darkness  under  the  earth  — 
Erebus. 

72-80.  After  Marathon,  the  Athenians  built  a 
temple  to  Pan  and  established  yearly  sacrifices  and 
a  torch-race  in  acknowledgment  of  the  help  the  god 
had  given  them  in  the  battle  by  affecting  the  Per- 
sians with  '  panic ' —  the  headlong  fear  Pan  was 
supposed  to  inspire. 

83.  Fennel.  Marathon,  the  name  of  the  place 
where  the  battle  was  fought,  is  also  Greek  for  fennel. 
This  touch  is  Browning's  own. 

87.  on  the  razor's  edge.  In  a  critical  position  — 
a  proverbial  phrase  in  Greek. 

89.  Miltiades.  The  leading  Athenian  citizen  of 
the  time  and  commander  of  the  forces  at  Marathon. 

822.  106.  Akropolis.     The   citadel   of  Athens. 

109.  the  Fennel-field.  Marathon.  See  note  on 
line  83. 

Pheidippides  is  in  a  measure  of  Browning's  own, 
composed  of  dactyls  and  spondees,  each  line  ending 
in  a  half  foot  or  pause.  It  gives  the  impression  of 
firm,  continuous,  and  rhythmic  emotion,  and  is  gen- 
erally fitted  to  convey  the  exalted  sentiment  and 
heroic  character  of  the  poem.      (Mrs.  Orr.) 

The  metrical  scheme  should  be  carefully  analysed. 
Dr.  D.  G.  Brunton  uses  this  poem  as  an  illustration 
of  Browning's  employment  of  rime  '  merely  as  a 
means  of  heightening  his  secondary  rhythm.  The 
riming    words   are    so    far    apart    that    we    are    aware 


I  120 


NOTES 


only  of  a  faint  melodious  echo.  The  always  arti- 
licial  and  somew  hat  mechanical  etfect  of  rime  is 
thus  avoiilcd,  while  its  rhythmic  essence  is  retained.' 

EPILOGUE  TO  ASOLANDO 
We  have  given  al  the  foot  of  each  poem  the  date 
of  its  publication,  and  the  \olunie  to  which  this 
little  poem  is  the  Epilogue  bears  the  date  1890; 
it  was  actually  issued  in  London  on  Dec.  12,  1S89, 
the  day  of  Browning's  death  at  Venice.  '  The  re- 
port of  his  illness  had  quickened  public  interest  in 
the  forthcoming  work,  and  his  son  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  telling  him  of  its  already  realized  success, 
while  he  could  still  receive  a  warm,  if  momentary 
pleasure  from  the  intelligence.'  (Mrs.  Orr.) 
Browning  prepared  the  volume  for  publication  while 
staying  in  the  Asolo  villa  of  his  friend  Mrs.  Arthur 
lironson,  to  whom  it  is  dedicated.  The  fanciful 
title  is  derived  from  the  Italian  verb  asolare — 'to 
disport  in  the  open  air,  amuse  one's  self  at  random  ' 
—  popularly  ascribed,  Browning  tells  us,  to  Cardinal 
Bembo,  who  was  Queen  Cornaro's  secretary,  and 
in  his  dialogue,  Gli  Asolani,  described  the  discus- 
sions on  platonic  love  and  kindred  subjects  the  lit- 
tle court  at  Asolo  used  to  indulge  in.  To  Mrs. 
Bronson  Browning  justified  the  title  in  the  follow- 
ing sentence:  'I  use  it  for  love  of  the  place  and 
in  requital  of  your  pleasant  assurance  that  an  eariy 
poem  of  mine  first  attracted  you  thither.'  This  was, 
no  doubt,  PitM  Passes. 

The  Epilogue  is  a  final  expression  of  Browning's 
profound  belief  in  a  future  life  of  hopeful  activity. 
When  reading  the  poem  in  proof,  he  said  of  the 
third  stanza: — 'It  almost  looks  like  bragging  to  say 
this,  and  as  if  I  ought  to  cancel  it,  but  it  's  the 
simple  truth;  and  as  it's  true,  it  shall  stand.' 

As  in  life  he  had  faith  in  right,  so  in  death  — 
which  only  fools  think  of  as  a  prison  of  the  soul  — 
he  would  be,  not  pitied,  but  encouraged  by  the  good 
wishes  of  those  who  are  working  in  the  world. 

17.  tlie  unseen.     The  poet  himself  after  death. 


ARNOLD:     THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 
This   essay    was    published    as    the    Introduction   to 
The  English  Poets,  edited  by  T.   H.   Ward,   London, 
1880. 

823.  b.  1.  tliese  zvords  of  my  own,  quoted  —  not 
quite  exactly  —  from  Arnold's  introduction  to  Tlie 
Hundred   Greatest  Men,   Vol.    I,   London,    1879. 

5.  In    the    present    work,    in    The    English    Poets, 
edited  by  Ward. 

824.  a.  II,  15.  Wordsworth  .  .  .  Again  Words- 
worth. These  two  quotations  are  taken  from  the 
Preface  to  the  Second  edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads, 
1800. 

38.  Sainte-Benve,    Charles    Augustin    Sainte-Beuve 
(1804-1869),    an    eminent    French   critic. 

825.  a.  48.  Pcllisson,  Paul  Pellisson  (1624-1693),  a 
French  man   of  letters  and   politician. 

56.  Charles  d'   Hcricault   (born    1823),  French   his- 
torian,  novelist,   and   editor. 

57.  Clement    Marot,    a    noted    French    poet    (i-l97- 
1544)- 


826.  (1.   13.  Methuselah,   see   Genesis  v,   25-27. 

b.  8.  tlic  Imitation,  The  Imitation  of  Christ, 
a  religious  treatise  commonly  ascribed  to  Thomas  a 
Kempis  (1380-1471).  The  passage  quoted  is  found 
in    Bk.   iii,  Ch.   43.   §   2- 

28.  Cccdmon,  an  Anglo-Saxon  poet  who  is  said  to 
have  flourished  about  the  year  670.  The  Biblical 
Iiaraphrases  long  ascribed  to  Cxdmon  are  now  re- 
garded   as    of   uncertain   authorship.  ■ 

iZ.  M.  I'itet,  a  French  critic  and  politician  (1802-  I 
.873).  I 

35.  Chanson  de  Roland,  the  oldest  French  iia-  I 
tional  epic,  written,  probably,  during  the  closing  I 
years   of   the    nth   century. 

37.  joculator  or  jongleur,  well  enough  understood 
by    our    English    word    w.instrcl. 

39.  Hastings,  battle  of  Hastings,  in   1066 

43.  Ronccvaux,  a  pass  in  the  Pyrenees,  in  Spain, 
notable  as  the  scene  of  the  events  recounted  \i\  the 
Chanson  de  Roland. 

44.  Turoldus  or  Tluroulde.  The  last  line  of  the 
Chanson  in  the  Oxford  nianuscrijjt  may  be  trans- 
lated, '  Here  ends  the  geste  that  TurolUis  tells.' 
Turoldus  may  be  the  name  of  the  minstrel  who 
sang  or  recited  the  poem  rather  than  that  of  the 
poet  who   composed   it. 

827.  b.  27.  Dante,  Dante  Alighieri  (1265-1321), 
the  greatest  of  Italian  poets.  His  great  work.  The 
Divine  Comedy,  consisted  of  three  parts:  Hell, 
Purgatory,  and  Paradise.  Ugolino,  Ugolino  della 
tiherardesca  (d.  1289),  a  partisan  leader  in  Pisa. 
With  his  two  sons  and  two  nepliews  he  was  starved 
to   death  in  prison. 

32.  Beatrice  to  Virgil.  According  to  The  Di- 
vine Comedy,  \'irgil  guided  Dante  through  Hell 
and  Purgatory.  In  Paradise,  Beatrice  became 
Dante's   guide. 

44.  Henry  the  Fourth's  cxftoslulation,  2  Henry 
IV,  Act  iii.  Scene    i. 

828.  a.  6.  Hamlet's  dying  request.  In  the  closing 
scene   of   the  play. 

14.  that  Miltonic  passage,  Paradise  Lost,  I,  599- 
602. 

17.  intrenched,    cut,    furrowed. 

21.   tzvo   such   lines.  Paradise  Lost,   I,    108-9. 

27.  cxqitisttc   close.  Paradise  Lost,  IV,   271—2. 

829.  a.  53.  Southcy,  Robert  Southey  (1774-1843),' 
an    English    poet   and    prose-writer. 

b.  7.  Biunctto  Latini  (1J30-1J94),  an  Italian 
poet,  scholar,  and  orator.  His  chief  work  is  an  en- 
cyclopedia,   Tresor    (Treasure),   in   French. 

13.  Christian  of  Troycs.  The  passage  here  quoted 
is   from  Cliges,  lines  30—39. 

48.  that  stanza.  To  which  of  the  Chaucerian 
stanzas  Arnold  refers  we  cannot  be  certain.  In 
the  matter  of  stanza  forms  Chaucer  borrowed  muel) 
from  France,  and  practically  nothing  at  all  from 
Italy. 

54.  Wolfram  of  Eschcnbach,  a  German  poet  (ff. 
c.   1200). 

830.  a.  30.  Dryden's.  Quoted  from  the  Preface 
to  the  Fables.  See  edition  of  Scott  and  Saiutsbury, 
Vol.    XI,    p.    230. 

49.  Cower,  John  Gower  (1325  ?-i4o8),  an  Eng- 
lish poet. 


NOTES 


II2I 


b.  40.  worship,    honor. 
41.  O    Alma,    the    beginning    of    a    hymn    to    the 
Virgin, 

831.  b.  12.  Villon.  Frangois  Villon  (1431-1484?), 
a   French  poet   of  irregular  life. 

832.  a.  20.  Cowley,  Abraham  Cowley  (1618- 
1667),  an   English   poet.     See   p.    183. 

-M-8.  Dryden  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  perfect. 
See  Preface  to  the  Fables,  edition  of  Scott  aiul 
Saintsbury,  Vol.  XI,  p.  224. 

b.  10.  Chapman,  George  Chapman  i559?- 
1634),  an  English  poet  and  dramatist,  best  known 
for  his  translation  of  Homer. 

14.  Cades,  a  I'henician  colony  on  the  spot  where 
Cadiz  now  stands,  on  the  western  coast  of  Spain. 
Aurora,  the  dawn,  the  East. 

15.  Ganges,   the   sacred    river   of   India. 

21.  Milton  writing.  See  Milton's  An  Apology 
for  Smectymnuus,  Prose  Works  (ed.  Bohn),  Vol. 
Ill,  pp.    1 1 7-1 18. 

29.  Dryden  telling  us.  See  the  Postscript  to  the 
Reader  appended  to  Dryden's  translation  of  the 
JEneid. 

41.  Restoration,  the  reestablishment  of  the  Eng- 
lish monarchy  with  the  retain  of  Charles  II  in 
1660. 

833.  a.  30-31.  .4  milk-ivhilc  Hind  .  ,  .  ranged, 
the  opening  lines  of  7'lie  Hind  and  the  Panther. 

40—44.  To  Hounslow  Heath  .  ,  .  my  ozvn, 
Second  Satire,  lines  143—4. 

b.   23.   Cray.     See    p.    396. 

834.  a.  I.  Mark  ruffian  I'iolence,  etc.,  from  On  the 
Death   of  Robert  Dundas,   Esq. 

ij.  Clarinda's  love-poet  Sylvander.  Over  the 
name  Sylvander,  Burns  carried  on  a  correspondence 
with   Mrs.   Maclehose,   whom   he  called   Clarinda. 

15.  gravel,  vex. 

b.  5.  Leece  me  on,  dear  to  me  is.  The  quota- 
tion is  from  The  Holy  Fair,  gies,  gives,  niair, 
more. 

7.  waukens   lair,   wakes   learning. 

8.  pangs,  crams,    stuffs,     fou,    full. 

9.  gill,   a   pint   of  ale.     penny   wheep,   small   ale. 
12.  kittle,  tickle,  enliven. 

23.  aboon,   above. 

34.  mauna  fa',  may  not  get. 

43.  falls  moralizing.  See  Epistle  to  a  Young 
Friend. 

45.  lowe,  flame. 

47.  rove,  roving. 

50.  quantum,  quantity. 

56.  Who  made,  etc.,  from  Address  to  the  Unco 
Cuid. 

835.  a.   II.  To   make,   etc.,   from    To   Dr.   Blacklock. 
12.  weans,   children. 

20—22.  Xenophon  .  .  .  Socrates.  In  his  Mem- 
orabilia, the  Greek  historian  and  essayist,  Xeno- 
phon (born  about  430,  died  after  357  B.C.),  de- 
fends  the  memory   of  his  master   Socrates. 

b.  27.  Thou  Power  Supreme,  etc.,  from  Win- 
ter. 

32.  laz'e,  remainder. 

836.  a.  6.  Auerbach's  Cellar  of  Goethe's  Famt. 
Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe  (1749— 1832)  is  the 
greatest    name   in    German    literature.     The    scene    in 


Auerbach's  Cellar  is  to  be  found  near  the  beginning 
of  the  First  Part  of  Faust. 

9.  Aristophanes  (c.  450-c.  380  B.  C),  the  great- 
est of  the  Greek  writers  of  comedy. 

36.  We  two,  etc.,  from  Auld  Lang  Syne,  paidl't, 
paddled,     burn,  stream,   brook. 

37.  dine,  dinner-time. 

38.  braid,  broad. 

39.  Sin   auld   lang  syne,   since  old   times. 

52.  Pinnacled  .  .  .  inane,  Shelley's  Prometheus 
I  nbound.  Act   III,   So.   iv,   1.   204. 

b.   I.  On    the    brink,    etc.,    from    Shelley's    Pro- 
metheus Unbound,  Act  II,  Sc.  v. 

10.  niinnie,  mother,     deave,  pester. 

SOHRAB  AND  RUSTRUM 

840.  2.  Oxus,  the  chief  river  of  central  Asia,  flow- 
ing northwest   into   the   Aral    Sea. 

3.  Tartar  camp.  The  Tartars  were  nomadic  tribes 
of   central    Asia   and   southern    Russia. 

841.  II.  Peran-Wisa,  a  chief  of  central  Asia,  in 
command  of  Afrasiab's  army  of  various  Tartar 
tribes. 

15.   Pamcre,  a  plateau   region  of  central   Asia. 
38.  Afrasiab,    king    of    the    Tartars. 

40.  Samarcand,  a  city  in  Turkestan. 

42.  Ader-baijan,  the  northwest  province  of  Per- 
sia. 

60.  common  fight,  general   engagement. 

82.  Seistan,  a  province  of  southwest  Afghanistan, 
bordering   on    Persian    territory. 

85.  Persian   King,    Kai    Khosroo.     See   line   223. 

842.  loi.  Kara-Kul,  a  district  in  the  southern  part 
of  central  Asia. 

107.  Haman,  a  leader  of  the  Tartars,  ne.xt  to 
Peran-Wisa    in    command. 

113.  Casbin,  a  fortified  city  in  the  northern  part 
of  Persia. 

114.  Elburz,  mountains  on  the  northern  border 
of  Persia.  Aralian,  on  the  Aral  Sea,  in  central 
Asia. 

1 15.  frore,  frozen. 

1:9.  Bokhara,  a  large  district  in  central  Asia,  of 
which   Bokhara,   is  the   capital. 

120.  Khiva,  a  district  in  the  valley  of  the  lower 
Oxus. 

iJi.  Toorkmuns,  a  branch  of  the  Turkish  race, 
living  in   central   .\sia,   cast   of  the  Caspian   Set. 

122.  Tukas,  from  northwest  Persia.  Salore,  a 
tribe   living  east  of   the   Caspian    Sea. 

123.  Attruck,  a  river  in  northern  Persia. 

128.  Ferghana,    a    district    in    Turkestan. 

129.  Jaxartes,  an  ancient  name  of  the  Sir-Daria 
River,  which  flows  northwest  through  Turkestan 
into  the  Aral  Sea. 

131.  Kipchak,  a  district  in  central  Asia. 

132.  Kalmucks,  Mongolian  nomads  dwelling  in 
western    Siberia. 

Kiiccaks.  Cossacks,  a  warlike  people  in  southern 
Russia    and    in    various    parts    of    Asia. 

133.  Kirghizzes,  a  nomadic  people  in  northern 
Turkestan. 

138.  Uyats    of   Khorassan.     Khorassan    is   a    prov 
iiice   in   northeastern   Persia. 
i.s6.   cum.   grain. 


1 122 


NOTES 


1 60.  Cabool,     an     important     commercial     city     of 
northern    Afghanistan. 

161.  Indian    Caucasus,    a    range    of    mountains    on 
the  boundary  between  Turkestan  and  Afghanistan. 

843.  217.  Iran's,  Persia's. 

844.  257.   plain  arms,  arms  not  emblazoned   with  de- 
vices.    See   line   266. 

277.  Dight,  adorned,   harnessed. 
286.  Bahrein,    or    Aval    Islands,    in    the    Persian 
Gulf,  celebrated  for   their   pearl-fisheries. 
288.  tale,    reckoning,   count. 

846.  412.  Hyphasis,  Hydaspes,  two   rivers  in   north- 
ern India. 

414.  wrack,   ruin. 

847.  452.  autumn-star,  Sirius,  the  Dog  Star. 
497.  shore,  cut. 

508.  curdled,   thickened. 

848.  590.  Ader-baijan.     See   1.    42. 

592.  Koords,  a  semi-independent  people  of  west- 
ern  Persia. 

596.   bruited  up,  noised  abroad. 

849.  613.  style,  name. 

851.  750.  Scistan.     See  1.  82. 

751.  Helmund,  a  river  in   Seistan,  in  Afghanistan. 

752.  Zirrah,  a  lake  in   Seistan. 

763-4.  Moorghab,  Tejend,  Hohik,  rivers  in  Turke- 
stan. 

765.  The  northern  Sir,  the  Maxartes.     See  1.   129. 

852.  861.  Jcmshid,  a   mythical   king.     Persepolis,   an 
ancient  capital  of  Persia. 

878.   Chorasmian  waste,  a  region  of  Turkestan. 
880.  Right     .     .     .     star,     i.e.,     due     north.     Or- 
gunje,  a  village  near  the  delta  of  the  Oxus. 
887.  Pamere.     See  1.   15. 
890.  luminous  home,  the  Aral  Sea. 

THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY 

•  There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  University 
of  Oxford  who  was  by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave 
his  studies  there  and  at  last  to  join  himself  to  a 
company  of  vagabond  gipsies.  Among  these  ex- 
travagant people,  by  the  insinuating  subtilty  of  his 
carriage,  he  quickly  got  so  much  of  their  love  and 
esteem  that  they  discovered  to  him  their  mystery. 
After  he  had  been  a  pretty  while  exercized  in  the 
trade,  there  chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of  scholars 
who  had  formerly  been  of  his  acquaintance.  They 
quickly  spied  out  their  old  friend  among  the  gipsies, 
and  he  gave  them  an  account  of  the  necessity  which 
drove  him  to  that  kind  of  life,  and  told  them  that 
the  people  he  went  with  were  not  such  impostors 
as  they  were  taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  tradi- 
tional kind  of  learning  among  them,  and  could  do 
wonders  by  the  power  of  imagination,  their  fancy 
binding  that  of  others;  that  himself  had  learned 
much  of  their  art,  and  when  he  had  compassed  the 
whole  secret,  he  intended,  he  said,  to  leave  their 
company,  and  give  the  world  an  account  of  what  he 
had  learned.'  (Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatising, 
1661.) 

2.  zvattled  cotes,  sheep-folds. 
853.    19.  corn,  grain. 

31.  Glanvil's  book.     See  note  above. 

42.  erst,  formerly. 


57.  Hurst,  Cumner  Hurst,  a  hill  a  few  miles 
southwest   of  Oxford. 

58.  Berkshire,  a  county   south  of  Oxford. 

59.  ingle-bench,   bench   in   the   chimney-corner. 

854.  74.  Bab-lock-hithe,  a  village  about  four  miles 
southwest   of   Oxford. 

79.  Wychwood  bowers,  Wychwood  Forest,  ten 
miles  or  so  northwest  from  Oxford. 

83.  Fyfield  elm  in  May,  the  May-pole  dance  at 
Fyfield,  some   six   miles   soutliwest   of   Oxford. 

91.  Godstow  Bridge,  about  two  miles  up  the 
Thames  from   Oxford. 

95.  lasher  pass,  mill   race. 

III.  Bagley    Wood,  southwest  of  Oxford. 

114.  tagged,  marked. 

115.  Thessaly,  the  name  of  the  northeastern  dis- 
trict of  ancient  Greece,  here  given  to  a  ground  near 
Bagley    Wood. 

125.  Hinksey,  a  village  a  short  distance  south  of 
Oxford. 

855.  129.  Christ-Church,  a  large  and  fashionable 
college   in    Oxford. 

133.   Glanvil,      Joseph      Glanvil      (1636-1680),      an 
English  clergyman  and  writer. 
147.  teen,  sorrow. 

856.  208—9.  Averse  .  .  ,  turn.  Dido,  queen  of 
Carthage,  deserted  by  her  lover  ^neas,  slew  her- 
self. When  jEneas  encountered  her  on  his  jour- 
ney through  Hades,  she  turned  scornfully  away  from 
him. 

220.  dingles,  v/ooded  dells. 

232,  Tyrian,  a  city  of  Phenicia,  anciently  an  im- 
portant  commercial   center. 

236.  Aigean  isles,  islands  of  the  ^gean  Sea,  east 
of  Greece. 

238.  Chian  wine.  Chios,  an  island  in  the  jEgean, 
was  noted   for  its  wine. 

239.  tunnies,  a  kind  of  fish. 

244.  Midland  waters,  Mediterranean   Sea. 

245.  Syrtes,  Gulf  of  Sidra,  on  northern  coast  of 
Africa. 

247.  western  straits.   Strait  of  Gibraltar. 

250.  Iberians,  inhabitants  of   Spain  and   Portugal. 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 
Written    in    memory    of    the    poet's    father.    Dr. 
Thomas  Arnold   (1795-1842),  head-master  of  Rugby, 
whose  remains  are  interred  in   Rugby  Chapel. 


ROSSETTI:  FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI 

Francesca  da  Rimini,  an  Italian  lady  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  became  the  wife  of  Giovanni  Mala- 
testa.  Having  discovered  the  love  between  Fran- 
cesca and  his  young  brother  Paolo,  Giovanni  killed 
them  both.  An  incident  in  the  love-story  of  Paolo 
and  Francesca  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  Francesca  in 
Dante's  Divine  Comedy,  Hell,  Canto  v,  whence  it  is 
here  rendered  by  Rossetti. 

861.  17.  Lancelot,  the  lover  of  Queen  Guenevere,  in 
several  medieval  romances. 

862.  26.  A  Galahalt.  C.alahalt  was  the  go-between 
for  Lancelot  and  Guenevere.  Hence  the  book  that 
brought  Paolo  and  Francesca  together  is  here  called 
'  a  Galahalt.' 


NOTES 


123 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY 

'  Tradition  says  that  Catherine  Douglas,  in  honor 
of  her  heroic  act  when  she  barred  the  door  with 
her  arm  against  the  murderers  of  James  the  First 
of  Scots,  received  popularly  the  name  of  "  Bar- 
lass."  This  name  remains  to  her  descendants,  the 
Barlas  family,  in  Scotland,  who  bear  for  their  crest 
a  broken  arm.  She  married  Alexander  Lovell  of 
Bolunnie. 

A  few  stanzas  from  King  James's  lovely  poem, 
known  as  The  King's  Quair,  are  quoted  in  the 
course  of  this  ballad.  The  writer  must  express  re- 
gret for  the  necessity  which  has  compelled  him  to 
shorten  the  ten-syllabled  lines  to  eight  syllables,  in 
order  that  they  might  harmonize  with  the  ballad 
meter.'     (Rossetti.) 

The  passages  from  The  King's  Quair  quoted  in 
the  present  poem  are  printed  in   italics. 

James  I  was  murdered  at  Perth,  Feb.  20,  1437, 
by  the  Earl  of  Atholl  and  Robert  Graham   (Gra?me). 

864.  8.  palm-play  ball,  an  old  kind  of  tennis  in 
which  the  ball  was  struck  with  the  hand  rather  than 
with  a  racket. 

25.  Bass  Rock,  an  islet  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Firth  of  Forth. 

29.  England's  king,  Henry  IV. 

30.  long  years  immured.  In  1405,  on  his  way 
from  Scotland  to  France,  James  was  captured  by  the 
English,  and  detained  in  one  English  prison  or  an- 
other  until    1424. 

37.  a  lady,  Joan  Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Somerset.  She  became  the  wife  of  James  in 
1424. 

41.  a  sweeter  song,  a  reference  to  King  James' 
poem,   The  King's  Quair. 

865.  45.  teen,  sorrow,  grief. 

48.  At  Scone  .  .  .  crowned.  Scone,  in  Perth- 
shire, Scotland,  was  the  traditional  scene  of  Scot- 
tish coronations.  The  coronations  of  James  I  and 
Joan  occurred  on  May  21,   1424. 

72.  leaguer,  siege.  Roxbro'  hold,  Roxburgh  Cas- 
tle, on  the  Tweed,  near  the  English  border,  be- 
sieged by   James   I    in    1436. 

106.  Three  Estates,  that  is,  the  nobility,  the  clergy, 
and   the  common  people. 

\22.  Gr<tme.     See  introductory  note  above. 

866.  157.  sea-wold,  open  land  on  the  sea. 
162.  urithen,  twisted. 

165.  rack,    floating   mass   of   clouds. 

176.  Duchray  .  .  .  Dhu.  The  Duchray  is 
probably  the  smallest  stream  west  of  Loch  Lomond. 
A  Loch  Dhu  is  found  in  southwest  Aberdeenshire. 

179.  Inchkeith  Isle,  a  small  island  in  the  Firth 
of   F^orth. 

181.  cerecloth,  waxed  cloth,  used  in  burial. 

183.  Links  of  Forth,  slightly  undulating  land  on 
the   Firth    of   Forth. 

192.  drouth,  thirst,  lack. 

867.  217.  hind,   peasant. 

246.  solace  and  disport,  pleasure  and  entertain- 
ment. 

251.  lift,  sky,  air. 

868.  305.  IVindsor's  castle-hold.  During  the  period 
of  his  detention  in  England,  James  was  for  a  time 
imprisoned  in  Windsor  Castle. 


316.  Worship,  ye  lovers.  The  lines  printed  in 
italics  are  adapted  from  King  James'  The  King's 
Quair. 

343-  blissful  aventure,  happy  chance. 

388.  pearl-tired,  attired  in  pearls. 

869.  414.  voideecup,  a  drink  of  spiced  wine  served 
well  after  dinnertime  and  before  bed  time. 

424.  riven  and  brast,  torn  and  broken. 

430.  hurdles,  narrow  board*. 

440.  ingle-nook,  a  corner  by  the  fire. 

442.  arrased  wall,  hung  with  tapestries  from 
Arras. 

445.  dight,  prepared,  placed. 

448.  doffed,  took  off. 

462.  dule  to  dree,  sorrow  to  suffer. 

469.  Aberdour,  north  of  Edinburgh,  on  the  north 
shore  of  the  Firth  of  Forth. 

870.  532.  heft,    handle. 

871.  585.  litters,   movable   bed-frames. 

873.  751.  requiem-knell,    the    bell    at    requiem-mass 
fcr   the  dead. 


MORRIS:  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 
The  Earthly  Paradise  is  a  collection  of  stories  re- 
lated, supposedly,  at  fortnightly  feasts  alternately 
by  the  Wanderers,  who  are  Norwegian  mariners, 
and  by  certain  men  of  a  '  Western  land  '  whose 
guests  they  have  become.  Twenty-four  tales  are 
eventually  told  in  the  course  of  the  year.  Ata- 
lanla's  Race  and  The  Lady  of  the  Land  are  the  first 
and  eighth  stories,  respectively. 

atalanta's  race 

I 

878.  I.  Arcadian    woods.     Arcadia    was    an    inland 
country   of  Peloponnesian   Greece. 

14.  cornel,  the   tough  wood  of  the  cornel-tree. 

28.  King  Schtrneus'  town,  probably  Tegea  or 
Mantinea,  these  being  two  of  the  larger  towns  of 
Arcadia. 

879.  63.  tlie  fleet-foot  one,  Hermes,   Mercury. 

79.  Diana,  patroness  of  hunting  and  woodland 
sports. 

TI 

881.  51.  the  sea-born  one,  Venus. 
65.  presently,   at   once. 

73.  Dryads,   wood-nymphs. 

75.  Adonis'  bane.  Adonis  was  killed  by  a  wild 
boar  that   he  had   wounded. 

78.  Argive  cities,  cities  of  the  Grecian  state  of 
Argolis. 

91.  must,  new  wine  not  yet  fermented. 

882.  142.   three-formed  goddess,   Diana. 
149.  framer  of  delights,  Venus. 

168.  .Artemis,   Diana. 

883.  207.  sleepy   garland,   poppy   wreath. 
210.  heading,  beheading. 

Ill 

1.  .4rgolis.  one  of  the  states  of  Greece. 

2.  the  goddess.   Venus. 

6.  murk,  what  is  left  of  fruit  after  the  juice  has 
been  extracted. 
8.  close,  enclosure. 


1 124 


NOTES 


884.  54.  unliolpen,   unhelped. 

70.  the  golden  age,  a  fabled  age  of  innocence  and 
plenty. 

100.  wrack,  seaweeds  cast  up  on  the   shore. 

885.  169.  scrip,  wallet. 

IV 

887.  72.  the    Argive,    Milanion,    whose    father    was 
king  of  Argolis. 

V 
I.  the  posts,  the  starting  and  turning  posts. 

5.  mighty  lord,  Zeus. 

6.  her,  Venus. 

16.  Love's  servant,  Milanion. 

21.  maiden  sone,  a  girdle  worn  by  maidens  before 
marriage. 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND 

888.  35.  law,   belief,   religion. 
890.   182.  poor  shepherd,  Paris. 

892.  310.  orb  of  June,  the  moon. 

893.  389.  Cathay,  a  mediaeval  name  for  a  vague  re- 
gion in  eastern  Asia. 

894.  467.  wend,  go. 


SWINBURNE:     ATALANTA    IN    CALYDON 
FIRST  CHORUS 

895.  S-8.  nightingale  .  .  .  Itylus  .  .  .  Thra- 
cian  ships  .  .  .  tongueless  vigil.  Philomela  and 
Procne  were  daughters  of  Pandion,  king  of  Attica, 
who  gave  Procne  in  marriage  to  his  ally,  the 
Thracian  king  Tereus.  After  Procne  had  borne  a 
son,  Itys  (Itylus),  Tereus  concealed  her  in  the 
country,  that  he  might  dishonor  her  sister  Philo- 
mela. Having  accomplished  his  purpose,  he  de- 
prived Philomela  of  her  tongue.  By  embroidering 
her  story  on  a  robe,  however,  Philomela  communi- 
cated the  truth  to  Procne,  whereupon  Procne  killed 
her  son  and  served  his  flesh  on  a  dish  before  Tereus. 
When  Tereus  pursued  the  fleeing  sisters,  the  gods 
granted  them  an  escape  by  transforming  Procne 
into  a  swallow  and  Philomela  into  a  nightingale. 

10.  Maiden    most    perfect,    Artemis. 

896.  41.  Pan,   god  of  flocks  and  shepherds. 

44.  Mcenad,  a  female  worshipper  of  Bacchus. 
Bassarid,   a  Lydian  or  Thracian   bacchanal. 

THIRD  CHORUS 

897.  49.  Aphrodite,   Venus,   goddess  of  love. 

136,  146.  Tyro,  Enipeus.  Tyro  was  the  wife  of 
Cretheus,  beloved  by  the  river-god  Enipeus  in 
Thessaly. 

THE    GARDEN    OF    PROSPERPINE 

898.  28.  Prosperpine,  queen  of  the  infernal  regions. 
During  the  six  months  of  the  year  that  she  passed 
in  Olympus  she  was  considered  an  amiable  and 
propitious  divinity;  but  during  the  six  months  in 
Hades  she  was  stern  and  terrible.  She  personified 
the  chaiiging  seasons. 

HERTHA 
Hertha,  or  Nerthus  was  the  Germanic  goddess  of 
the  earth,  of  fertility,  and  of  growth. 


A   FORSAKEN   GARDEN 
The  scene  of  this  pocin  is  East  Dene,  Bonchurch, 
Isle  of  Wight. 

TIIALA.SSIUS 

903.  15.  Oread,  a  nymph  of  the  hills. 

18.  Cymotho'e,  a.  nereid,   or  nymph  of  the  sea. 
37.  he,   Walter   Savage  Landor.     See  p.   657. 

904.  88-9.  And  gladly  .  .  .  dead.  A  rendering 
of  the  epitaph  written  by  Landor  for  the  Spanish 
troops  who  died  resisting  the  invasion  of  Napo- 
leon: 

Emeriti  lubenter  quiescerimus 

Libertate    parta; 
Quiescimus  amissa  perlubenter. 

THE  ROUNDEL 
The  roundel  in  Swinburne's  sense  is  illustrated 
by  this  poem.  It  consists  of  nine  complete  lines 
arranged  as  follows:  a  b  a,  b  a  b,  a  b  a,  part  of 
the  first  line  being  repeated  as  a  refrain  after  the 
third  and  ninth  lines.  The  refrain  is  usually  so 
selected  as  to  rime  with  the  b  lines. 

THE  ARMADA 
Written    for  the   three   hundredth  anniversary   of 
the    defeat    of    the    Spanish    Armada    by    the    Eng- 
lish. 

907.  8.  affrayed,  frightened. 

908.  28.  when  Athens  hurled  back  Asia,  A  refer- 
ence to  the  wars  between  the  Persians  and  the 
Greeks,  which  began  in  500  B.  C.  and  ended  about 
449  B.  C. 

33.  the  tierce  July.  The  Armada  descended  upon 
England  in  July,   1588. 

34.  galleon,  a  large,  unwieldy  vessel,  usually  hav- 
ing 3  or  4  decks,  galliass,  a  large  galley  carrying, 
usually,  3  masts  and  some  20  guns. 

39.  bastions  of  serpentine.  A  bastion  is  a  part 
of  a  fortification  projecting  from  the  main  ram- 
part.    A  serpentine  is  a  kind  of  cannon. 

41.  charged    with    bale,    laden    with    destruction. 

46.   tlie  Lion,   the   symbol   of   England. 

909.  63.  the  helmsman's  bark,  boat  of  Charon,  in 
which  souls  were  ferried  across  the  Styx. 

65.  told,   counted. 

910.  no.  burgeon,   bud,   sprout,     yearn,   feel  desire. 
124.  hurtles,  knocks  violently,  dashes. 

133.  Python,  a  huge  serpent  which  lived  on 
Mount   Parnassus. 

911.  194.  Sark,  one  of  the  Channel  Islands,  off  the 
northern  coast  of  France.  Wight,  the  Isle  of 
Wight. 

213.  England's  Drake,  Sir  Francis  Drake,  vice- 
admiral  to  Lord  Howard. 

912.  238.  Oquendo,  Miguel  de  Oquendo,  the  most 
valiant  of  the  captains  under  the  Spanish  admiral, 
the   Duke   of   Medina. 

246.  Number,  Tees,  Tyne,  Tweed,  English  rivers 
emptying  into  the   North   Sea. 

252.  Forth,  the   Firth  of  Forth,  in  Scotland. 
254.   quarry,   game. 
262.   ruth,  pity. 

913.  264.  Shetlands  and  Orkneys,  groups  of  islands 
off  the  northern  coast  of  Scotland. 


NOTES 


284.  the  pontifF,  the  pope. 
290.  fulfilled,   filled   full. 
292.  guerdon,  reward. 

301.  Sixtiis,   Sixtua  V,   Pope   1585-90. 

302.  Philip,   Philip    II,    King   of    Spain    1556-98. 
914.  309.  rede  is  read,   doom  is  assigned. 

COR  CORDIUM 
Cor  cordium,   '  Heart  of   Hearts,' —  the  words   on 
Shelley's  tomb  in  Rome. 

NON  DOLET 

4.  the  Roman  wife.  '  Paetus  Caecina  was  ordered 
by  the  Emperor  Claudius  to  take  his  own  life;  and 
when  he  hesitated,  his  wife  Arria  stabbed  herself, 
crying,  "  Pxte,  non  dolet "  (Psetus,  it  does  not 
hurt).'      (Beatty.) 

ON    THE     DEATHS    OF    THOMAS    CARLYLE 
AND    GEORGE    ELIOT 
Carlyle  and   George   Eliot  died  in  the  same  year, 
1881. 

CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE 
9-10.  These  two  lines  are  quoted  from  Marlowe's 
Tambiirlaine,  Part  I,  Act  v.  Scene  i. 


PATER:     STYLE 

916.  b.  7.  Bacon.     See  above,   p.    187. 

8.  Lizy,  Titus  Livius  (59  B.  C.-17  A.  D.),  great- 
est of  the   Roman   historians.     Carlyle.     See  p.   714. 

9.  Cicero,  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  (106  B.  C.-43 
li.  C),  the  celebrated  orator,  philosopher,  and 
statesman.     Nexvman.     See  p.   702. 

10.  Plato  (4-29  or  427-347  B.  C),  a  famous  Greek 
philosopher.  Michelet,  Jules  Michelet  (1798— 1874), 
I'rench  historian  and  man  of  letters.  Sir  Thomas 
Broivne.     See  p.   200. 

12.  Milton.     See   p.   236.     Taylor.     See  p.   221. 

917.  a.  7.  Lycidas.     See   p.    240. 
15.   Dryden.     See   p.    266. 

46.  dichotomy,   a   division   into  two   parts. 

48.  De  Qiiiiicey.     See  p.  683. 

b.  17-  Pascal,  Blaise  Pascal  (1623-1662), 
French  mathematician,  philosopher,  and  man  of 
letters. 

56.  Gibbon.     See   p.   453. 

918.  a.   1.   Tacitus,    Cornelius    Tacitus    (c.    bs-after 
117),  an  eminent  Roman  historian  and  orator. 

919.  a.  31.  neology,    innovation    in    language. 
b.  4.  Ic  cuistre,   the  pedantic  fellow. 

31.  Johnson.     See   p.   405. 

920.  a.  51.  Montaigne,     Michel     Eyquem     de     Mon- 
taigne   ( 1 533-1 592).   a    famous    French   essayist. 

b.  6.  asccsis,  a  transliteration  of  a  Greek  word 
meaning  '  exercise,   training,   art.' 

25.  Esmond,  a  historical  novel,  Henry  Esmond, 
by    William    Makepeace    Thackeray    (1811-1863). 

26.  Newman's   Idea   of  a    University.     See   p.    703. 
41.   Schiller,      Johann      Christoph      Friedrich      von 

Schiller     (1759-1805),    a    celebrated    German    poet, 
dramatist,    and    historian. 

921.  a.   6.  Flaubert's    Madame   Bovary,   a   novel    by 


the  French  man  of  letters,  Gustave  Flaubert  (1821- 
1880). 

8.  Stendhal's  Le  Rouge  et  Le  Noir,  a  novel  by 
Marie  Henri  Beyle  (1783-1842),  best  known  by  his 
pseudonym   '  De   Stendhal.' 

36.  Michelangelo,  Michelagnolo  Buonarroti  (1475- 
1564),  a  famous  Italian  sculptor,  painter,  architect, 
and  poet. 

b.  47,  Dean  Mansel,  Henry  Longueville  Man- 
sel  (1820-1871),  dean  of  St.  Paul's,  an  English 
metaphysician. 

922.  b.  30.  ante-penultimate,  immediately  preceding 
that  one  of  a  series  which  is  next  to  the  last  one. 

55-  Blake.     See   p.   485. 

923.  a.  36.  Sxfcdenborg,  Emanuel  Swedenborg 
( 1 688-1 772),  a  Swedish  philosopher  and  theoso- 
phist.  Tracts  of  the  Times,  a  series  of  90  pamphlets 
published  at  Oxford  from  1833-1841,  to  which  New- 
man, Pusey,  and  others  contributed.     See  p.  702. 

b.  29-39.  series  of  letters.  .  .  .  Madame  X. 
Flaubert's  letters  to  Madame  X.,  in  which  he  so 
often  disparages  human  love  and  exalts  the  love  of 
art,  were  written  during  the  latter  half  of  the  year 
1846.     Madame  X.   was  Madame  Colet. 

924.  a.  55.  a  sympathetic  commentator,  Guy  de 
Maupassant,  who  wrote  an  introduction  to  Lettres 
de  Gustave  Flaubert  a  George  Sand.  The  passage 
here  quoted  will  be  found  in  the  edition  of  Paris, 
1884,   pp.   Ixii-lxv. 

b.  48.  Blake's   rapturous   design.     See   p.   485. 

925.  b.  2.  ennuis,    wearinesses,    vexations. 

37.  Buffon,  the  Comte  de  Buffon  (1707-1788), 
a  celebrated  French  naturalist.  Especially  known  to 
literary  criticism  for  his  Discours  sur  le  style 
(1853). 

926.  a.  41.  Scott's  facility.     See  p.    579. 

b.  13.  Les  Miscrables,  a  famous  novel  by  Vic- 
tor Marie  Hugo   (1802-1885). 

44.  Raphael,  Raphael  Santi  (1483-1520),  a  fa- 
mous  Italian  painter. 

927.  a.  8.  Flaubert's  commentator,  Guy  de  Maupas- 
sant. See  Lettres  de  Gustave  Flaubert  a  George 
Sand,   Paris,    1884,   pp.   Ixi-lxii. 

32.  Bach,  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  (1685-1750), 
one   of   the   greatest  of   German   musicians. 

b.  22.  The  Divine  Comedy,  the  greatest  work 
of  the  greatest  of  Italian  poets,  Dante  Alighieri 
(1265-1321). 


STEVENSON:     THE   FOREIGNER  AT  HOME 

929.  a.  4.  biggin',    building. 

17.  Black    Country.     In    the    English    Midlands. 

Moor  of  Rannoch.     In  Perthshire. 

b.  22.  Miss  Bird.  Isabella  L.  Bird,  authoress 
of  a  popular  book  of  travel.  Unbeaten  Tracks  in 
Japan. 

930.  a.  35.  plausible,    pleasing,   acceptable. 
52.   roundly,    plainly,    flatly. 

53-  a  Scottish  legal  body.  The  Society  of  Scot- 
tish Advocates,  whose  examinations  Stevenson  passed 
at  his  father's  request,  though  he  never  practiced 
law.     See  his  Apology  for  Idlers. 

b.  27.  bickering,   flushing,   quivering. 


126 


NOTES 


931.  a.  9.  harled,  roughcast  with  lime  mingled  with 
small  gravel. 

b.   5.  commerce,    conversation,    intercourse. 

to.  counters,  remarks  that  mean  nothing,  not  true 
coin. 

25.  Give  him  the  ivages  of  going  on.  A  rem- 
iniscence of  Tennyson's  poem  entitled  Wages,  in 
which  the  poet  says  of  Virtue,  '  Give  her  the  wages 
uf  going  on,   and  not  to  die.' 

932.  a.  37.  Byron  did  actually  discuss  theology  on 
his  way  to  take  part  in  the  Greek  war  of  inde- 
pendence. As  to  his  descent  and  schooldays,  see 
the   biographical   sketcli  on   p.   586. 

b.  3.  proctors,  officers  who  supervise  the  be- 
havior of  students  at   Oxford  and   Cambridge. 

18.  rotten  borough.  The  constituencies  which  be- 
fore the  Reform  Act  were  in  the  gift  of  great 
patrons  were  so-called;  they  were  regarded  as  safe 
refuges  for  unknown  or  unpopular  politicians,  and 
some  of  the  greatest  of  English  statesmen  made 
their  entrance  into  Parliament  —  Gladstone  for  in- 
stance —  in   this  way. 

21,  raffish,   fashionable. 

35.  Professor  Blackie  (1809-95).  a  popular  pro- 
fessor  of   Greek   at   the   University    of   Edinburgh. 

37.   umbrageous,   suspicious,   shy. 

933.  a.  6.  iron  skerries,  rocks  projecting  from  the 
sea,   hard   as   iron. 

13.  girdle,  griddle,  gridiron. 

30.  Flodden  Field,  where  James  IV  of  Scotland 
was  defeated  in   1513- 

21.  Darien,  an  attempt  in  1698  to  plant  Scottish 
settlers  on  the  Isthmus  of  Panama,  which  caused 
considerable  loss  of  life  and  widespread  disappoint- 
ment. 

Forty-five,  the  rebellion  of  174s,  which  was 
crushed  by  the  defeat  of  the  Scotch  at  Culloden  the 
following   year. 

24.  Wallace,  the  Scottish  hero  who  was  defeated 
by  the  English  at  Falkirk  in   1298. 

2$.  Bruce  defeated  the  English  at  Bannockburn 
in  1314;  he  was  King  of  Scotland,  1306-29,  and 
suffered    many   reverses. 

47.  Shorter  Catechism,  adopted  at  an  Assembly 
of  Puritan  divines  held  at  Westminster  during  the 
Commonwealth. 

b.  3.  another  church.  The  Highlanders  were, 
for  the  most  part,   Roman   Catholics. 

8.  Highland  costume,  the  kilt,  a  short  plaited 
skirt,  coming  to  the  knees. 

15.  Black   Watch,  a  famous  Highland  regiment. 

43.  Ireland,  though  in  the  '  political  aggregation  ' 
of  the  British  Empire,  retains  its  own  religion  and 
customs. 

FRANCOIS  VILLON 

934.  a.  24.  exhumed,  dug  out  of  the  grave. 

b.  20.  pilloried,   exposed   to   public    disgrace. 

935.  a.  21.  tubbed  and  swaddled,  washed  and 
wrapped  in  baby  clothes. 

26.  given  piously,  addicted   to   pious   practices. 
b.   24.  Notre   Dame   de   Paris,    a    novel    by    Vic- 
tor Hugo    (1831). 

936.  a.  9.  piping   the   eye,   pretending   to  cry. 


54.  the  red  door,  the  Porte  Rouge  of  the  previous 
column,    1. 

b.  32.  Cluuyh.     See    p.    673. 

937.  b.  41.  cannikin  clinked.  A  reminiscence  of 
lago's   drinking  song,    Othello   II,   iii,   71. 

938.  a.  12.  words  of  Mariana.  Pericles  IV,  vi, 
173-4- 

25.  Murger  (1822—61),  author  of  Scenes  de  la  Vie 
de  Bohhne. 

939.  a.  II.  Hogarth  (1697-1764),  the  great  Eng- 
lish caricaturist.  One  of  his  most  famous  series 
portrayed  the  careers  of  The  Industrious  and  the 
Idle  Apprentice. 

b.  42.  pitch-and-toss.     '  Matching  '    coppers. 

940.  a.  55.  aumries,  boxes  in  which  the  offerings 
for  the  poor  were  kept. 

b.  21.  made  a  demonstration  against,  attempted 
to  break  into. 

941.  a.  19.  was  upsides  with  him,  had  the  advan- 
tage of  him. 

942.  a.   7.  pantler,  butler. 

39.  extraordinary,   by   torture. 

b.  26.  put   to   the  question,   tortured. 
35.  of    our    pleasant    vices.     Lear     \',     iii,     170- 
171:  — 

The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make   instruments  to  plague  us. 

48.  Nathan's  parable.     See  ii    Samuel   xii,    3. 

943.  a.  4.  planted  upright,  buried  alive.  See  937. 
b.  20. 

22.  mortal  push,  hand  of  death. 

SI.  more  pecked,   pecked  more   full  of  holes. 

944.  a.  26.  present  volume.  Familiar  Studies  of 
Men  and  Books   (1882). 

b.  21.  roystering,   swaggering. 

945.  a.  43.  Rabelais  (1483-1553),  the  great  humor- 
ous writer  of  the  French   Renaissance. 

51.  a  work  of  some  power.  Perhaps  Albert 
Glatigny's  L'lllustre  Bresacier,  which  made  some 
sensation  in  1873.  Stevenson's  essay  appeared  first 
in   Cornhill,   August,    1877. 

946.  a.  23.  Beranger  (1780—1857),  the  most  popu 
lar  of  French  lyrical  poets. 

26.  Johnson.     See  p.  405. 

31.  fox  burrowing.  Like  the  Spartan  boy  of  an- 
cient fable,  who  concealed  under  his  cloak  a  fox 
he   had  stolen. 

52.  mauvais  pauvre,  wicked   poor   man. 

53.  Victor  Hugo  (1802-85),  the  great  French  poet 
of   the  century. 

57.  mole-skin  cap,  sometimes  worn  by  the  lower 
classes  in   England. 

b.   27.   for   me,    so    far    as    I    am    concerned.     I 
will   not   translate   it. 

52.   yester,   last. 

A    CHILD'S    GARDEN    OF    VERSES 

Stevenson  began  this  collection  of  '  Rimes  for 
Children  '  (as  he  once  intended  to  call  them  — 
another  rejected  title  was  '  Penny  Whistles  ')  in 
1881.  They  were  dedicated  when  published  in  1885 
to  his  old  nurse  Alison  Cunningham,  the  '  Cummy  ' 
of  his  own  childhood. 


NOTES 


1 127 


HEATHER  ALE 

Among  the  curiosities  of  human  nature,  this 
legend  claims  a  high  place.  It  is  needless  to  remind 
the  reader  that  the  Picts  were  never  exterminated, 
and  form  to  this  day  a  large  proportion  of  the 
folk  of  Scotland:  occupying  the  eastern  and  the 
central  parts,  from  the  Firth  of  Forth,  or  per- 
haps the  Lammermoors,  upon  the  south,  to  the 
Ord  of  Caithness  on  the  north.  That  the  blunder- 
ing guess  of  a  dull  chronicler  should  have  inspired 
men  with  imaginary  loathing  for  their  own  an- 
cestors is  already  strange:  that  it  should  have  be- 
gotten this  wild  legend  seems  incredible.  Is  it  pos- 
sible the  chronicler's  error  was  merely  nominal? 
that  what  he  told,  and  what  the  people  proved 
themselves  so  ready  to  receive,  about  the  Picts, 
was  true  or  partly  true  of  some  anterior  and 
perhaps  Lappish  savages,  small  of  stature,  black 
of  hue,  dwelling  underground  —  possibly  also  the 
distillers  of  some  forgotten  spirit?  See  Mr.  Camp- 
bell's Tales  of  the  West  Highlands.  (Stevenson's 
own  Note.) 
948.  2.  long-syne,   long  ago. 

6.  Swound,  swoon. 

8.  underground.  The  ballad  tells  of  the  early  race 
of  men   who   dwelt  in  caves. 

ID.  feld,  fierce,  dreadful. 

12.  roes,  deer. 

15.  dwarfisJu  This  ancient  race  was  of  small 
stature. 

21.  like   children's.     They  were  so  small. 

23.  Brewsters.     Brewers. 

27.  curlews.  Characteristic  birds  of  the  Scottish 
moorlands,  with  a  peculiarly  piercing,   haunting  cry. 

33.  fortuned,   happened. 

34.  free.     Not  on  the  road. 

36.  vermin.     The    despised   cave-dwellers. 
43.  swarthy.     It  was  a  small  dark  race. 

MEREDITH:  LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

First  published  in  1851;  here  printed  in  the  fuller 
and    more  perfect  version   of   1878. 

950.  24.  for,    in    return    for,    instead    of. 

32.  OfF  a  sunny  border,  the  sunlit  edge  of  the 
cloud. 

so.  bloomy,  like  blossom. 

951.  77.  the  rose-flush  drinks  the  rayless  planet. 
The  rising  sun  absorbs  the  morning  star  in  its 
brighter  rays. 

88.  Covert,   thick   wood. 

117.  yaf}]e,  the  European  green  woodpecker,  noted 
for  its  loud  laugh-like  note. 

952.  128.  like  the   sun.     By   her   blinding   beauty. 
132.  wink,   flash  with  quick  darting  motion. 
134.  Swarms,   quivers  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 
148.  blue    (sky). 

152.  tiger,  striped  like  a  tiger,  or,  perhaps,  fierce. 

154.   nutbrown   tresses,  of  the   wheat. 

156.  girdle,  of  straw  about  the  sheaf. 

162.  Clipped,  cut  off,  or,  perhaps,  embraced. 
violet  shaded,  by  the  purple  shadows  of  the  setting 
sun.  snow,  the  season  has  changed  from  autumn 
to  winter. 

165.  black     print-branches,     the     shadows     of     the 


branches    printed    black   on    the    snow    in    the    moon- 

JUGGLING  JERRY 
light. 

178.  Deepens,   lowers. 

179-  of,  at. 

953.  183.  in   our   names,   as  we   greeted  each   other. 

188.  girdle     .     .     .     tresses.     Sec  11.    154   and   156. 

193-  beamy,   with   sunbeams   between   the   showers. 

200.  tears,  evoked  by  the  vision  seen  before  wak- 
ing. 

203.  dogwood,   which  has  red  branches. 

204.  whitebeam,  a  tree  with  leaves  white  under- 
neath, which  are  suddenly  lighted  up  by  a  gust  of 
wind. 

208.  what   is    for   heaven    alone,    the    secret   which 
I   wish   to  breathe   to   heaven.     See   11.    201-2. 
7.  One   that   outjuggles   all.     Death. 
25.  cricket,   play   at   cricket. 

27.  bale,  a  small  piece  of  wood  placed  on  top  of 
the  wickets,  and  whipped  off  by  the  wicket  keeper 
to  put  the   batsman   '  out.' 

33.  victual,   pronounced   '  vittle.' 

39-  session    (of   Parliament). 

41.  mock  thunder  of  the  juggler's  pistol. 

954.  45.  professor  of  juggling. 
67.   bolus,  a  large  pill. 

70.   fields,   souls  or  bodies. 
81.  chirper,   glass. 

88.  sword-trick,  by  which  a  sword  appears  to  be 
swallowed. 

THE  OLD  CHARTIST 

The  Chartists  were  political  revolutionaries,  whose 
agitation  came  to  a  head  in  1848.  See  first  note  on 
Carlyle's  Past  and  Present.  Some  of  them  were 
transported  on  charges  of  sedition.  The  hero  of 
the  poem  has  returned  to  England  after  serving  his 
sentence. 

7.  transportation,   imprisonment  beyond  the  seas. 

955.  £2.  his  Grace's,  the  Duke's. 

28.  wrong  note,  too  high,  in  advance  of  the  time. 
39-  poll,  head. 

56.  parson  .  .  .  bishop,  from  the  black-gowned 
parson  into  the  bishop  with  his  sleeves  of  white 
lawn. 

65.  needle-mussle,  sharp  nose. 

76.  place,  situation  as  a  linen  draper  or  dry 
goods   salesman. 

87.     dock.     At  the  police  court. 

FRANCE  1870 
This  ode  was  written  in  the  hour  of  France's 
bitter  humiliation  by  Germany,  when  Paris  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Meredith  regards 
Prance  as  the  nation  which  brought  political  en- 
lightenment and  freedom  to  the  world  at  the  Revo- 
lution, but  surrendered  her  ideals  at  the  instigation 
of  Napoleon  III,  whom  he  despises  as  a  trickster. 
The  Franco-Prussian  war,  he  thinks,  did  France  a 
service  by  showing  her  the  hollowness  of  the  pre- 
tensions of  her  sham-hero,  and  by  recalling  her  to 
the  path  of  light  and  freedom  from  which  she  had 
been  beguiled  by  the  Emperor's  dreams  of  military 
glory.     France     is     treated     throughout     under     the 


NOTES 


similitude  of  the  mythological  Prometheus,  who 
brought  fire  from  heaven  for  the  service  of  man, 
and  was  punislied  by  Zeus  by  being  chained  on  a 
rock  with  a  vulture  peri)ctually  tearing  his  vitals: 
being  immortal,  he  suffered  unending  agony,  al- 
though the  bringer  of  light  and  fire  —  the  founda- 
tion of  all  the  arts  —  to  men.  He  is  first  mentioned 
by  name  in  1.  270. 

11.  when  our  time  was  dark.  Before  the  Revo- 
lution of  1788. 

12.  fetters,  of  feudal  serfdom,  spark,  of  free- 
dom. 

24.  Angel    and    IVanton.     Half   an    angel    of    light, 
and    half    sunk    in    vice.     The    state    of    private    and 
public   morality    under    Napoleon    III    was    low. 
31.  riven,  split  by  lightning. 

37-8.  the  lurid  hosts  who  .  .  .  irreparable 
mischance.  The  Fallen-Angels  in  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost. 

45.  fire  from  heaven.  Here  the  Prometheus  meta- 
phor  begins. 

48.  Mother  of  Pride.  The  past  is  contrasted  with 
the  present,  which  is  pictured  in  the  words  that 
follow. 

SI.  Heroes,  bondsmen.     The  contrast  continued. 
56.  crown    unth    bays.     The    King    of    Prussia    was 
made   Emperor   of   Germany   in   the   Palace   of    Ver- 
sailles, on  the  outskirts  of  Paris. 

957.  64.  Tranced  circumambient.  The  world  is 
imaged  as  a  circle  of  spectators,  struck  dumb  with 
astonishment. 

65.  Beaks.  As  the  vulture  tore  the  entrails  of 
Prometheus  with  its  beak. 

72.  Chamber   (gives  answer)   to  chamber. 
sequent,  logical,  reasoning. 
74.  vaults  (of  the  brain). 
84.  long,  long  ago. 

100.  pinnacled  Alp.  A  reference  to  the  crossing 
of  the  Alps  by  Napoleon  I,  a  feat  up  to  that  time 
thought   impossible. 

106.  along  the  snows.  Napoleon  I's  retreat  from 
Moscow. 

112.  oriAamme,  the  banner  of  ancient  France, 
which  gave  place  to  the  imperial  eagle  under  Na- 
poleon I. 

113-  forgets,     how     they    sucked,     etc.     (1.     no), 

during   the   wars   of   Napoleon   I.     Earth   covers   the 

slain    with    the    green    grass,    but    the    gods    do    not 

forget;   they  punish   after  the  lapse  of  many   years. 

120.  They,  the  gods. 

133.  Immortal.  Again  the  Prometheus  metaphor. 
958.  136.  Unsparing.  The  gods  are  merciless  as 
were  the  children  of  France  in  their  hour  of  tri- 
umph  over   Europe  under   Napoleon   I. 

140.  perishable,    material,    the    vine    and   grain    of 
1.    138.     imperishable,    spiritual. 
153.  worm,  grave. 
161.  their,  the  gods'. 

171.  fables  of  her  priests.  Napoleon  III  had  the 
support  of  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy,  who,  when 
the  tide  of  battle  went  against  France,  prayed  for 
a  special  intervention  of  Providence. 
182.  In  peril  of,  at  the  risk  of  losing. 
190.  a  forfeit  blade.  Meredith  changed  this  after- 
wards to  '  a  broken  blade.'     His  point  is  that  France 


was  defeated  because  of  the  insufficiency  of  her 
military  organization,  which,  under  the  laxity  and 
corruption  of  the  administration  of  Napoleon  III, 
had   been   allowed   to   fall   into   decay. 

194.  Clamored  of  treachery.  At  the  surrender  of 
Sedan,  which  was  the  turning  point  of  the  war, 
there  were  outcries  that  France  had  been  betrayed 
to  the  Germans  by  her  leaders. 

204.  her  Dishonorer,  Napoleon  III. 

206.  Bellona  and  Bacchante,  the  goddesses  of  War 
and    Bacchic    Frenzy. 

207.  Schoolmen  of  the  North,  the  Germans,  who 
planned  the  campaign  scientifically  long  before  it 
began. 

959.  210.  faithful  to  himself,  to  the  law  of  strength. 
See  11.   161-170. 

215.  A  name  of  terror.  Napoleon  III  was  much 
dreaded  in  Europe,  but  was  suffering  from  severe 
illness,  and  showed  a  lack  of  self-control  at  crit- 
ical  moments. 

216.  trickster.     Napoleon   III. 

217.  for  dominion.  Napoleon  had  gained  military 
successes  and  territory  in  previous  wars,  to  patch 
a  throne.  The  war  against  Germany  was  said  to 
be  undertaken  to  divert  the  public  attention  from 
internal  misgovernment  and  secure  the  succession 
of  Napoleon   Ill's  son,  the  Prince   Imperial. 

220.  for   their  sake,   i.e.,   in   a  righteous   cause. 

221.  divine,    and   therefore   immortal. 

228.  her  own   (line).      That,  so  that. 

229.  cease,   die. 

231.  burn  .  .  .  IVhatso.  Destroy  her  charms 
with  a   resolute   heart,   which   is   left   unconsunied. 

234.  from  prone,  from  the  position  of  humiliation, 
to  which  she  has   been  stricken  down. 

236.  His,   Ambition's. 

237.  Shown  by  her  taskmasters  (the  Germans)  to 
be  the  retribution  for  her  misdeeds  in  the  past. 

252.  The  Man.     Prometheus. 

284.  prototype.     Prometheus,       the       light-bringer. 
See  1.  251. 
9G0.  302.  ghost,  spirit. 

322.  the  undying  Ones.  The  gods,  or  eternal 
principles  of  right. 

334.  counter-changing,   interchanging,   checkered. 

335.  meridional,  of   the  sun   at   noon. 

341.  in  fee,  in  lordship,  placing  them  under  an 
everlasting  obligation. 

343.  aureole,   crown   of  glory. 

THE  LARK  ASCENDING 
Cf.   Wordsworth    (p.    531)    and    Shelley  .To  a   Sky 
Lark    (p.    627).     The    difterent    ways    in    which    the 
subject  is  treated  by  the  three  poets  should  not  be 
overlooked. 

13.  quick  o'  the  ear,   inmost  nerve  of  the  ear. 

14.  her,  the  brain. 

16.  dry    (referring   to   springs)    unresponsive,     he, 
the  lark. 
961.  44.  argentine,   silvery. 

46.   choric,   dancing  in  the  wind. 

48.  shivers  wet.     In  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain. 

49.  chime   (of  a  waterfall). 
56.   him,   the   lark. 

64.  The  sentence  here  ended  runs  on  continuously 


NOTES 


1 129 


from  the  beginning  of  the  poem,  like  the  lark's 
song. 

75-  fallows,   fields   lying  fallow. 

101-124.  In  associating  the  lark's  song  with  hu- 
man intellectual  activities,  Meredith  strikes  a  char- 
acteristic note,  different  from  that  of  the  older  poets 
of  the  nineteenth  century. 

no.  Earth.     See  biographical  sketch,  p.  949. 

THE  WOODS  OF  WESTERMAIN 

This  is  more  difficult  tlian  the  preceding  poems, 
and  had  perhaps  better  not  be  attempted  by  stu- 
dents wlio  have  not  attained  some  mastery  of  Mere- 
dith's Iiabits  of  thought  and  modes  of  expression. 
It  will,  however,  repay  study,  for  it  sets  forth  the 
poet's  attitude  towards  Nature  and  Life  somewhat 
fully.  Wordsworth's  belief  that  '  Nature  never  did 
betray  the  heart  that  loved  Her  '  is  made  by  Mere- 
dith the  foundation  of  a  wide-reaching  philosophy. 
To  trust  and  follow  Nature,  to  keep  close  to  the 
Earth,  and  yet  to  maintain  a  firm  hold  on  the  senses, 
to  control  self,  and  to  follow  the  highest  develop- 
ment of  humanity  —  this  is  for  Meredith  the  secret 
of  happiness. 

The  first  three  stanzas  are  similar  in  structure, 
the  first  part  in  each  indicating  the  consequences  of 
an  attitude  of  trustfulness  towards  Nature,  the  sec- 
ond part  the  consequences  of  an  attitude  of  dis- 
trust. Both  these  attitudes  are  represented  by  the 
same  formula,  used  in  different  senses  in  the  first 
two  and  last  two  lines.  At  the  beginning  of  each 
stanza,  the  poet  says:  'You  may  enter  the  en- 
chanted woods  safely,  if  you  do  so  trustingly;  '  at 
the  end,  '  If  you  enter  distrustfully,  you  do  so  at 
your  own  risk.*  The  fourth  stanza  passes  into  a 
general  discussion  of  the  conduct  of  life,  consid- 
ered allegorically  under  the  similitude  of  a  wood. 

5-7.  If  you  toss  your  heart  up  —  you  fare  suc- 
cessfully. 

8-9.  But  if  you  show  a  sign  of  fear,  they  change 
their   form. 
962.  15.  golden   bath,   of  sunlight. 

17.  winnoiving  plumes,  fanlike  wings. 

18.  on  a  chuckle,  chuckling. 

21.  jar,  a  bird  with  wings  mottled  like  those  of  a 
moth. 

23.  Note  the  change  of  thought. 

25.  rood,  a  small  plot  of  ground,  a  fraction  of  an 
acre. 

30-40.  The  wood  opens  in  various  directions,  with 
bramble  bushes,  and  wild  strawberries,  topped  by 
the  star-flower;  the  ground  is  encumbered  by  fallen 
twigs,  fir  cones,  seed  pods,  mole  hills,  and  parti- 
colored flint  stones;  here  and  there  in  the  earth 
are  to  be  seen  the  footprints  of  small  animals  that 
have  fled  in   fear. 

46.  zihins,  low  shrubs. 

47.  minikins,   small  birds. 

51.  flowing  not  from  purse,  not  dependent  upon 
the  power  of  money. 

58.  If  you  desire  it  with  all  your  soul. 

59.  *'  the  lyre,  to  the  poet. 
62.  Granaries,  treasures. 

65.  Not  enslaved  to  worldly   appetites. 

66-73.   In    the   place    too    often    usurped    by    mere 


worldly  success,  you  will  enthrone  the  joy  evoked 
by  such  natural  beauties  as  a  brook  or  a  waterfall, 
or  a  clearing  in  the  wood,  where  the  light  shines 
through,  and  the  deer  pass,  stately  and  magnificent 
as  the  knights  of  old. 

74-81.  Or  the  dull  eyes  of  cattle  chewing  tlie  cud 
may  take  your  mind  back  to  the  primeval  ages, 
before  mind  was  developed,  when  Earth  was  mere 
rocks  and  slime,  and  the  sky  was  a  place  for  un- 
gainly  winged  creatures  —  the  pterodactyls. 

84.  The  Nurse  of  seed.  The  i)rinciple  of  repro- 
duction. 

88-91.  If  you  follow  Nature,  you  will  embrace 
closely  her  glory  narrowed  down  to  beauty,  or  take 
in  arms  spread  wide  as  air  her  beauty  enlarged  to 
magnificence. 

92.  u'hite  Foam-born,  X'enus,  the  goddess  of  Love. 

94.  Phoebus,  Apollo,  the  god  of  song.  Phoebe, 
Diana  the  huntress,  goddess  of  chastity. 

95.  Pan,  the  god  of  untamed  Nature. 
97-  her.   Nature. 

98.  sterner  worship,  of  modern  science,  which  re- 
gards them  not  as  deities  but  as  natural   forces. 

99.  her.   Nature's. 

103.  awn,  the  delicate  silky  growth  that  termi- 
nates the  grain-sheath  of  barley,  oats,  etc. 

104.  Argent,  silvery.  The  moon  is  imaged  as 
Diana  the  huntress. 

105.  the  blush,  of  sunrise. 

107.  Passing,   and   eternally   recurring. 

no.  opposing  grandeurs,  as  of  moonlight  and  sun- 
rise. The  spirit  of  beauty  saves  their  glory  from 
death    ('  fleetingness  '). 

1 14-12 1.  The  divine  harmony  of  Nature  destroys 
no  spring  (fountain)  of  strength;  it  subdues,  but 
does  not  slay,  guiding  the  course  of  the  stream,  but 
pieserving  its  source;  it  tempers  the  heat  of  young 
blood,  but  hears  the  heart  of  its  wildness  beat 
through  self-restraint,  like  the  solemn  yet  ardent 
dance  of  centaurs  on  the  greensward. 

122—9.  If  you  catch  the  sense  of  Nature's  har- 
mony, it  will  open  the  way  to  a  larger  fellowship 
with  humanity,  and  to  a  Love,  instinct  with  pas- 
sion, soaring  beyond  egotism,  if  you  do  not  put 
the  sensual  appetites  in  the  foreground. 
963.  132-3.  Womanhood,  the  supreme  triumph  of 
Nature,  demands  reverence  for  Nature's  earlier  de- 
velopments. 

138.  throat  and  thigh.  The  waterfall,  reflecting 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  is  pictured  as  a  human  being. 

143.  Bare  or  veiled.  The  'courtly  dames'  are 
compared  to  the  open  waters  and  whispering  leaves, 
with   which  they  share  the  sincerity  of  Nature. 

146.  Part  of  the  Nature,  by  whicli  they  are  sur- 
rounded, and  of  which  they  are  the  outcome. 

147.  They  have  the  surety  of  the  tree's  roots  and 
the    grace   of    its   branches. 

148— 151.  They  reveal  the  treasures  of  their  hearts, 
and  do  not  conceal  those  of  their  minds,  in  order 
to  flatter  the  pride  of  the  tyrant,  .Man;  for  when  the 
mind  is  not  open  to  the  light  of  day.  darkness  breeds 
trickery.  Of  woman's  wiles  when  oppressed  and  their 
consequences,   strange   and    terrible   stories   are    told. 

iS4-  the  ancient  battle,  between   the  sexes. 

155.   astonished    friends,    man    and    woman,    aston- 


1 130 


NOTES 


ished  at  the  charm  of  the  new  relation   of   friend- 
ship. 

158.  the  tiger,  man.     the  snake,  woman. 

162—165.  Now  the  woman  leads  the  man  in  a 
silken  leash,  decked  with  wild  flowers,  and  uncon- 
scious of  the  constraint,  though  feeling  its  sweet- 
ness. 

166-169.  Love  ennobles  the  senses,  and  develops 
individuality. 

172.  The  dots  indicate  the  change  of  thought. 

181.  Gaps,    rends. 

185.  fell,  savage,   dreadful. 

187.  Fellowly,  in  the  spirit  of  comradeship. 

189.  cocks  of  day,  harbingers  of  dawn. 

191.  quern,   mill. 

199.  thought  and  felt,  what  is  thought  and  what 
is  felt. 

200-1.  Nature  flows  on,  ever-changing,  like  the 
brook,  not  foolishly  standing  still  in  established 
customs,    like   a   stagnant   pool. 

209.  them  you  quit,  the  fellow  mortals  you  leave 
behind. 

2 1 0-2 1 1.  The  most  soaring  spirit  gains  by  con- 
tact with  common  humanity. 

215-16.  The  sense  of  superiority  to  one's  fellows 
is   always   dangerous. 

218.  Again    the   thought   changes. 

220.  Dragon-fowl,   of  selfishness.     See   1.   243. 

226-7.  No  force,  not  even  that  of  egotism,  is  de- 
stroyed, but  is  controlled  and  turned  to  noble  uses. 

235-8.  Nothing  in  nature  is  philosophically  wise, 
least  of  all  man,  except  when  long  experience  has 
freed   his   mind   from   egotism. 

239.  him.     The   dragon  of  selfishness. 

dumb,  with  astonishment.  Beware  of  self-es- 
teem, even  when  you  seem  to  be  drinking  in  wis- 
dom. 

964.  241.  she,    wisdom.     When    you    feel    that    you 
only  are  wise,   then  above  all  beware. 

244.  late  in  the  history  of  the  race. 

250.  Maw,   stomach,   material   desires. 

251.  Shrewd  only   for   his  own   material   interests. 

256.  unthin.     See  1.  251. 

257.  Like  the  pine,  soft  within,  but  obdurate  to 
all   outside  himself. 

265-7.  Out  of  sight  of  heaven,  to  the  very  heart 
of  Earth,  the  source  of  her  activity  and  the  spring 
of  progress. 

270-287.  Humanity  is  imagined  as  a  crowd  gaz- 
ing on  the  source  of  Nature,  and  discovering  in 
the  history  of  the  race  the  slow  beginnings  of  hu- 
man sensibility.  In  all  these  beginnings  are  de- 
scribed the  efforts  of  man  to  demand  of  Nature  the 
satisfaction  of  material  and  selfish  desires.  But 
Nature  cares  nothing  for  the  individual,  and  gives 
no  sign  in  answer  to  the  cravings  of  egotism. 
She  proceeds  with  her  task  of  developing  the  hu- 
man   spirit    out    of    sensual    desires. 

292-305.  Regarded  merely  from  the  physical  side, 
the  history  of  the  race  appears  only  a  constant 
interchange  of  beginnings  and  endings,  darkness 
and  light,  life  and  death,  youth  and  age;  but  re- 
garded spiritually,  beyond  the  mere  senses.  Nature 
is  seen  to  be  permanent. 

306-9.  We  may  regard  Nature  with  loathing,  gaz- 


ing on  the  dust  in  the  tomb,  or  with  love,  keeping 
in   mind  the   spiritual   sense   of  living  men. 

312-3.  Yield  to  the  sensual  appetites,  or,  like 
Nature,  give  yourself  to  service. 

321.  Airing,    opening. 

323.  seer,   the  prophet  or  beholder  of  Nature. 

324.  witch,  bewitch,  play  the  witch,  charming  you 
with  external  beauty. 

329.  her  aivful  tremble.  What  is  dreadful  in  Na- 
ture, as   well   as  what  appears  beneficent. 

330.  Fount.     The  source  of  Nature.     See  11.  266-7. 

346-9.  Not  the  pleasures  of  sense,  which,  wan- 
tonly followed,  grow  into  habits,  and  like  hags, 
ride  the  souls  of  men  to  destruction. 

350-1.  Pleasures  that  keep  the  senses  under  the 
control   of   the   intellect. 

352.  sequent  birth.  Body,  mind,  and  spirit  de- 
veloped   in    orderly    succession. 

356-363.  '  It  is  fatal  to  neglect  either  blood,  or 
brain,  or  soul.  If  we  part  company  with  any  one 
of  these  three  we  shall  be  wrecked.  The  attempt 
to  develop  soul  without  blood,  or  worse  still,  with- 
out brain,  is  to  court  certain  disaster,  of  which 
the  chronicles  of  religion  are  full.  The  athletic 
craze  for  training  the  blood  alone,  is  no  better; 
and  if  the  brain  of  the  mere  intellectual  be  a 
higher  development,  it  is  not  in  itself  perfect,  or 
satisfying,  or  secure.'  (G.  M.  Trevelyan.) 
965.  363.  Glassing  her,   mirroring  Earth  or  Nature. 

370.  Eglantine,   the  wild-rose. 

371.  darkness.  Dark  eglantine  in  thought  most 
beautiful. 

372.  Knowing,  who  know. 

373.  kin  o'  the  rose.  Short-lived,  but  beautiful 
while   it   lasts. 

374.  Those  who  have  explored  the  depths  of  Na- 
ture use  life  as  a  tool  or  weapon. 

379.  If  they  ask  the  secret  of  life,  the  answer 
is  the  same  as  the  question  '  Why?  '  With  this  an- 
swer they  are  content.     See  1.  369. 

380.  ramped,  held  in  check.  Selfishness  being  sub- 
dued,  they  will  thrill  to  be  marked   for   service. 

384-5.  So  that  in  the  hour  of  death,  where  fear 
sits,  they  will  still  see  the  stream  of  life  flowing 
on. 

386.  lynx.     Eyeing  it  without  fear,     her.  Nature. 

388.  Sphinx.     Riddle. 

396.  lop,   trim,   keep  within  bounds. 

418.  Momently,  for  a  moment. 

430.  at  the  paths  behind,  at  the  past  history  of 
the  race. 

441.  Again  the  note  of  warning. 

446-452.  If  with  the  sons  of  selfishness  you  fear 
all  that  is  outside  of  your  personal  interests.  All 
these  are  conditional  clauses,  dependent  on  1.  453. 

455.  Nighted,  descending  by  night,  like  a  vul- 
ture. 

457.  One  whose  eyes  are  out.     Ignorance. 

463-  yapping,   barking. 

466.  drums   the   sconce,   confuses   the   intelligence. 

467.  nibblcnips,  pinches,  torments. 

469.  demon-growing    girl,    the    girl    being    trans- 
formed into  a   demon. 
479.  yell  you  Where,  yell  to  you  where  you  arc. 


NOTES 


131 


MODERN  LOVE 
This  beautiful  series  of  sixteen  line  stanzas  in  its 
entirety  tells  the  tragedy  of  an  ill-assorted  pair. 
In  the  first  here  given,  the  husband  looks  back  to 
an  evening  before  the  shipwreck  of  their  love. 
The  second  describes  a  meeting  by  the  sea  after 
a  hollow  though  well-meant  reconciliation.  The 
third  cominemorates  a  moment  of  peaceful  compan- 
ionship. The  last  analyses  the  causes  of  their  fail- 
ure, and  contrasts  the  immense  forces  of  passion 
with  their  pitiful  outcome  when  not  wisely  guided 
and    controlled. 

BEOVVULF 
The   translation    is   that   of   John    Earle. 

967.   a.    12.   ethelings,    warriors   of   noble   descent. 


13.  Scyld  of  the  Sheaf.  The  story  goes  that  the 
fcunder  of  the  Danish  royal  house  was  Scyld,  who 
as  a  lone  child  drifted  ashore  in  a  boat,  in  which 
he  had  used  as  a  pillow  a  sheaf  of  grain.  See 
gtnealogical    table    below. 

^'3.   Ireu'age,   tribute. 

h.  ID.  Beouulf.  This  Beowulf,  son  of  Scyld, 
is  not  the  hero  of  the  poem,  who  was  not  a  Dane, 
lut  a  Geat  (Goth).  The  name  Beowulf  in  the 
passage  before  us  is  probably  formed  from  that  of 
the  god  Beaw,  by  contamination.  See  genealogical 
tiibles    below. 

II.  Sccdelands.    Denmark. 

13.   largesses,    liberal    K'fts. 
968.   a.  3.  Scyldxngs.   followers  of  Scyld,  i.e..  Danes. 

5.  hithc,    port,    haven. 

15-   hills,    swords. 


THE  DANISH  ROYAL  FAMILY    (SCYLUINGS) 
Scef   (or   Sceaf) 

Scyld 

Beowulf    (not    the    hero) 

Healfdenc 

I 


Heorogar 


Hrothgar  =  Wealtheow 


Halga 
HrothuIf(?) 


Ongentheow(?)  =  Elan(?) 


Ingeld  =  Freawaru 


THE  ROYAL   FAMILY   OF  THF  COTHS    (CEATS.   WEDERAS) 
Swerting 


Ecgtheow  =  a   daughter 


Beowulf    (the  hero) 


IIcTethcyn  ?  «=  Hygelac  =  Hygd 

Eofor  =  a   daughter     Hcardred 


THE    ROYAL    FAMILY    OF    THE    SWEPES    (SCYLFIXCS) 
Ongentheow  =  Elan  (?) 


I 
Eadgils 


132 


NOTES 


25.   holm,   sea. 

43.  Healfdeiie,  son  of  Beowulf  t!ie  Dane.  For 
genealogy,   see  the  table  above. 

46—8.  Heorogar  .  .  .  Hrothgar  .  .  .  Ilalga 
.     .     .     Elan.     See  genealogical   tabic  above. 

49.  the  warlike  Scylfing,  Ongentheow.  See  table 
above. 

57.  mead-house,  hall  for  gatherings  and  for  drink- 
ing mead. 

b.  12.  Heorot,  a  name  meaning  '  hart,'  or 
'stag.'  The  hall  was  situated  on  the  coast  of  Den- 
mark. 

43.  Grendel.  The  name  may  mean  '  grinder.' 
mark-ranger,  one   who   dwells   on   the   borders. 

47.  Cain's  posterity.  According  to  tradition,  Cain 
was  the  ancestor  of  hateful  monsters.  See  Section 
xix   below. 

54.  eotens,  giants. 

969.  a.  24.  tholed,    suffered,   endured. 
24.  thanes,    followers,    retainers. 

45-  friend  of  the  Scyldings,  Hrothgar. 
b.  23.  fanes,   temples,    shrines. 

24.  goblin-queller,   killer  of  monsters. 

53.  thane  of  Hygelac's,  Beowulf  the  hero.  Hy- 
gelac  was  then  king  of  the  Goths  (Geats),  who 
occupied  the  southern  part  of  what  is  now  Sweden. 
See  the  genealogical  table  above. 

970.  a.   I.  wave-traveler,    kenning    for    boat. 

3.  swan-road,  kenning  for  sea.  gallant  king,  i.e., 
Hrothgar. 

10.  leeds,  people,  tribes. 

11.  fourteen  in  company,  i.e.,  fifteen  including 
Beowulf. 

17.  dight,  prepared. 

32.  Weder  leeds,  Goth  people. 
34.  sarks,   shirts   of  mail. 

b.  3.  earls,  noble  freemen.  The  word  indi- 
cates nobility  in  general  rather  than  definite  rank. 

28.  Ecgtheow,   see  genealogical  tables  above. 
31.   worshipful  man,   man   of   dignity. 

33.  son   of   Healfdene,   Hrothgar. 
so.  seethings,   boilings. 

51.  tholeth,  suffers,  endures. 

971.  a.  12.   Wedermark,  the  home  of  Beowulf's  peo- 
ple in   southern   Sweden. 

21.  farrow,  pig,  boar, —  referring  to  the  ornament 
on  the  helmet. 

24.  hall  structure,   Heorot. 

b.  2.  damasked,    ornamented   with   patterns. 
II.  leed  of  the  Wederas,  Beowulf. 
20.    Wendlas,   perhaps   Vandals. 

22.  Thereanent,   in   reg  "-d  to  that. 
24.  ring-dispenser,   kenning   for   king. 

972.  a.  2.  Hrethel,   see  genealogical   table  above. 

29.  war-boards,    shields. 
41.  byrnie,  coat  of  mail. 

55.  insense,  inform  and  incite. 
b.  2.  eoten,  giant. 

3.  nickers,  supernatural  sea-monsters. 
5.   Wederas,   Beowulf's  people. 

23.  mood,   mind. 

29.  doom,  judgment. 

33.    Hrethmcn,  '  triumph-men,'  a  name  of  the  Danes. 

36.  blood-besprent,   sprinkled   with   blood. 


42.  Hild,   personification   of  battle. 
45-  Hrethia,      Hrethel.      See      genealogical      table. 
U'etand,    the    Vulcan    of   Germanic    mythology. 
46.   IVyrd,   Destiny,   Fate. 

973.  a.  2.  banesman  of  Heatholaf  .  .  .  Wyl- 
tings.  Beowulf's  father,  Ecgtheow,  iiad  killed 
Heatholaf  of  the   tribe   of   VVylfings. 

II.  Heorogar.     See    genealogical    table   above. 

13.  /  composed  the  feud.  The  Danish  king  came 
to  the  aid  of  Beowulf's  father,  by  settling  the  feud 
with  the  Wylfings. 

b.  3.   Unferth,   spokesman   of  Hrothgar. 

13.  Breca.  Concerning  this  person  we  know  only 
what  is  here   recounted. 

20.  meted,   measured. 
23,  sennight,  a  week. 

26,  Heathoram  people,  perhaps  in  southern  Non 
way. 

29.  Brandings,  the  people  of  Unferth. 

31.  Beanstan's  son,   Breca. 

32.  soothly,    truly. 

974.  a.  4.   body-sark,   coat  of   mail. 
II.  hand-bill,    sword. 

34.  quietus,   final   settlement,   death. 
52.  Finns,  whom  we  call   Laplanders. 
b.  3.  dree,   suffer. 

11.  grisly,   horrible. 

25.  dispenser  of  wealth,  Hrothgar. 

37.  sovereign   of  the  East-Danes,   Hrothgar. 

41.  Helming  princess.  The  Helmings  were  the 
tribe  to  which  Wealhtheow  belonged. 

976.  b.  24.  weened,  thought. 

32.  eldritch,  hideous,  ghastly,  weird. 

37.  main,   strength. 

51.  heirloom,  i.e.  sword. 

977.  a.   15.  warlock,  monster. 
b.  3.  mere,  water,   lake. 

10.  Hela,  goddess  of  the  realm  of  the  dead. 

12.  bachelor,    young    warrior. 

14.  jennets,   small   horses. 

38.  Sigemund's  exploits.  The  exploits  of  Sig- 
mund,  son  of  Waels,  are  a  well  known  part  of  Ger- 
manic heroic  tradition. 

See  the  Nibelungenlied  and  the   Volsunga  Saga. 

42.  Fitela,    Sinfiotli,   son  of   Sigmund. 
50.  quelled,   killed. 

54.  Nathless,   nevertheless. 

56.  worm,  dragon. 

978.  a.  II.  Heremod,  a  Danish  king,  who  is  here 
cited  as  a  stock  example  of  a  bad  king,  a  burden  to 
his  people. 

13.  Eotens,  may  be  the  name  of  a  human  enemy, 
or,  more  probably,  mere  giant  monsters. 

33.  varlet,  candidate  for  knighthood. 

49.  staple,    perhaps    a    platform    outside    the   hall. 

b.  7.  bogles,   hobgoblins. 
9.   erewhile,   formerly. 

55.  son  of  Ecglaf,  Unferth. 

979.  a.  46.  Hrothulf,  probably  the  son  of  Hroth- 
gar's  brother  Halga.     See  the  genealogical  table. 

b.  20.  Ingwines,   a  name  of  the  Danes. 
49.  brooks,    enjoys,   experiences. 

57.  The  somewhat  obscure  lay  of  Finn  is  here 
omitted. 


NOTES 


1 133 


980.  a.   19.  lady   of  the  Scyldiugs,  Wealhtheow. 

41.  Hrethric  and  Hrothmund,  see  genealogical 
table. 

56.  carcanets,  circlets  of  gold  and  jeweli. 

b.  3.  necklace    of    the    Brisings,    originally    the 
famous  necklace  of  the  goddess   Freyja. 

7.  grandson    of   Siverting,    see   genealogical    table. 

II.  feud  with  the  Frisians.  A  reference  to  the 
raid  of  Hygelac  into  the  territory  of  the  Frisians 
about  512  A.  D.  Hygelac  was  killed  in  this  expe- 
dition.    See  p.   967. 

24.  Brook,    use,   enjoy,   wear. 

:^8.  these  boys,  Wealhtheow's  sons,  Hrethric  and 
Hrothmund. 

981.  a.  28.  beldam,  hag. 
29.  troll-wife,   giantess. 

b.  24.   blood-sprent,    blood-sprinkled. 
32.  his   chief  est   thane,    2E,schert\    see   below,    Sec- 
tion   XX. 

982.  a.   13.  quell,   kill. 

28.  mark-stalkers,   boundary-stalkers. 
45.  rimy,  covered  with  hoar-frost. 
b.  41.  crull-maned,   curly-maned. 

45.  weald,   any  open   country. 

47.  warlock,    monster. 

52.  scion  of  Ethelings,   Beowulf. 

983.  a.   57.  Hrothgar's   orator,   Unferth. 
b.   II.  Ecglaf's   son,    Unferth. 

37-  Hild,   personification   of   battle. 
41.  master    of    the    Goths     .     .     .     Hrethel's    son, 
Hygelac. 

48.  damasked,  ornamented  with  patterns. 

984.  a.  30.  carline,    old   woman. 

46.  damascened,   ornamented   with  patterns. 

b.  34.  eotenish,   fit  for  an  eoten,  or  giant. 
41.  Fetelhilt,    '  chain-hilt,'    i.e.    the    sword. 

46.  bill,  sword. 

985.  a.  34.  gold-friend,  Hrothgar. 

986.  a.  42.  Scania,  used  as  the  name  of  the  Dan- 
ish kingdom. 

b.   16.  Heremod,  a  Danish  king,  stock  example 
of  a  bad  ruler. 

17.  descendants  of  Ecgivela,  the  Danes.  Noth- 
ing is  known  of   Ecgwela. 

53.  corking,    vexatious. 

987.  a.  43.  eftsoons,    very   soon. 

47.  eld,  old-age. 

b.   12.  settle,   seat. 

988.  a.   22.  whilom,    formerly. 

32.  Hrethric.   elder   son   of  Hrothgar. 
45.  Hrethel.   see   genealogical    table. 

b.   5.  gannet,  a  water  bird. 
31.  gold-bedight,    adorned    with   gold. 
47.  bachelors,   young   knights. 

989.  a.  23.  hithe-warden,   guard   of    the   harbor. 

40.  Consequently,  etc.  The  passage  omitted  from 
the  present  text  contains  as  its  chief  item  Beo- 
wulf's account  to  Hygelac  of  his  encounter  with 
Grendel  and  with  Grendel's  mother.  At  the  end 
of  the  omitted  passage  we  are  informed  of  the  death 
of  Hygelac. 

43.  ethcl-warden,  prince. 

b.   54.  intayled.  engraved,  cut  in. 

990.  b.   19.  fire-gleeds.   fire-flames. 

991.  a.  27.  Beowulf  uttered,  etc.  The  omitted  pas- 
sage contains  an  account  of  certain  of  Beowulf's 
former  achievements. 


b.   14.  burn,  streamlet. 
18.  prince  of  the  Storm-Goths,   Beowulf. 
39-  hoised,   raised. 

992.  a.  33.  Scylfings,  the  reigning  Swedish  dynasty. 
39.   U'a-gmiindings,    the    family    to   which    Beowulf 

and  W'iglaf  belonged. 

b.   15.  mead,    a    strong    fermented    drink,    con 
taining  honey. 

30.  our  liege  lord  behoozes,  is  needful  to  our 
liege  lord. 

37.  Me  thinketh  it,  it  seems  to  me. 

993.  a.   11.  glecds,  flames. 

994.  b.  26.  brook,  use,  wear. 

995.  b.    12.  escheat,    revert    to    former    owners. 
51.  Hugas,   a  r'ame   for   the    Franks. 

53.  Hetware,  the  tribe  against  whom  Hygelac 
made  the  raid  in  which  he  was  killed.  See  p.  967, 
Introduction. 

996.  a.  3.  the  Merwing,  i.e.,   the   Frankish   king. 

8.  Ongcntheow  slew  Hccthcyn,  etc.  '  Onela  and 
Ohthere  are  sons  of  Ongentheow,  and  often  raid 
Geatland  [i.e.  the  land  of  Hygelac  and  Beowulf]; 
.  .  .  Haethcyn  replies  with  a  raid  on  Swedish 
soil.  He  seizes  Ongentheow's  queen.  But  the  old 
king  follows  the  foe,  defeats  him,  and  kills 
Hithcyn,  whose  men  are  in  desperate  case,  sur- 
rounded by  enemies  in  Ravenswood.  But  now 
comes  Hygelac  with  another  Geatish  army  .  .  ., 
defeats  the  Swedes,  whose  queen  again  is  cap- 
tured, and  besieges  Ongentheow  in  his  citadel. 
Ongentheow  is  finally  killed  by  Eofor,  whose 
brother  W'ulf  has  been  disabled  in  fierce  fight  with 
the  desperate  old  hero.  Eofor  is  then  married  to 
Hygelac's  daughter.'  (Gummere.)  See  genealogical 
tables  above. 

10.  Scylfings,    Swedes. 

b.  25.  Hygelac's   valiant   thane,    Eofor. 

53.  bestozced   upon  Eofor  his   only  daughter.     See 
genealogical    table    above. 
998.   a.  29.  ruck,  mess,  clutter. 

SIR   GAWAIN  AND  THE   GREEN   KNIGHT 
The   translation   is   that  of   Miss  Jessie   L.    Weston. 

1000.  a.   12.  Romulus.     According    to    Roman    tradi- 
tion,  Romulus  founded   Rome  in  753   B.  C. 

14.  Ticius.  The  person  intended  cannot  be  iden- 
tified  with  certainty. 

15.  Langobard.  The  Germans  who,  in  568, 
founded  the  kingdom  of  Lombardy  in  Northern 
Italy   were  called   in   Latin,    Langobardi. 

16.  Felix  Brutus,  Brutus,  the  great-grandson  of 
yfneas,  the  fabled  founder  of  the  kingdom  of 
Britain.  The  name  Felix  may  be  the  invention  of 
the  writer. 

31.  Camelot,  a  legendary  spot  in  England  where 
Arthur  is  said  to  have  held  his  court. 

b.  3.  carols,   dances  accompanied   by  song. 
33.   Tars,     a     name     of     uncertain     identification. 
This  place  is  often   mentioned  in  medieval  literature 
as   famous  for  silks  and  tapestries. 

1001.  a.   28.  Agravain   a   la   dure  main,   Agravain   of 
the  hard  hand. 

b.   19.  gauds,   ornaments. 

51.  hauberk,  a  part  of  the  armor  intended  orig- 
inally for  the  protection  of  the  neck  and  shoulders. 

52.  gorget,  a  piece  of  armor  protecting  the  throat. 


1 134 


NOTES 


1002.  a.   20.  mustered,   surveyed. 
38.   doubt,    fear. 

1003.  b.  3.  redest,  understandest  or,  perhaps,  ad- 
visest. 

1004.  b.  6.  dossal,  a  hanging  of  rich,  heavy  cloth, 
against   the    wall. 

1005.  a.  8.  Michaelmas,    Sept.    2g. 
11.  All  Hallows  Day,  Nov.    i. 

57.  cuisscs,   armor   for  the   thighs. 
b.   I.  byrnie,   coat   of   mail. 

7.  surcoat,   an    outer   garment. 

9.   bawdrick,   a   kind   of   belt. 

32.  ventail,  a  movable  piece  of  armor  extending 
downward    from   the    front   of   the   helmet. 

35.   turtle,   turtle-dove. 

43.  pentangle,  a  heraldic  device  with  five  cor- 
ners. 

1006.  a.  54.  Logrcs,  here  used  as  a  name  for  Eng- 
land   in    general. 

b.  3.  Anglesey,    an    island    of    the    northwest 
coast  of   Wales. 

4.  foreland,   headland. 

5.  Holyhead,   a   small   island   west   of   Anglesey. 

6.  ivilderness  of   Wirral,    in    Cheshire. 

1007.  a.  \2.  matins,  the  first  of  the  series  of  eight 
daily  devotional  offices  called  collectively  the  Canon- 
ical   Office. 

31.  Saint  Julian.  This  saint  was  noted  for  hos- 
pitality. 

34.   hostel,   lodging. 

46.  corbels,  ornamental  brackets  for  supporting 
moldings. 

49.  barbican,  an  outwork  of  a  castle  or  fortified 
place. 


1008.  a.  24.  samite,  a  heavy   silk  material. 
39.  sodden,  boiled. 

57.  keep,  a  stronghold. 

b.  22,  evensong,   vespers. 

1009.  a.  45.  in  his  degree,  according  to  his  rank.    . 
b.  3.  Saint  John's  Day,   Dec.    27. 

23.  behest,   command,    request. 
38.   wend,   go. 

1010.  a.   17.  solace,    pleasure. 

27.  waked,   kept  awake,   sat  up. 

1011.  a.  46.   rede,    advise. 

1012.  a.  49.   tale,    number,    sum. 

1014.  b.   52.  prime,    probably    about   9    o'clock. 

1015.  a.  29.  spinney,    a   clump    of   trees   or    shrubs. 

1016.  a.  24.   marks.     A    mark    was    reckoned    at    ap- 
pioxiniately     13     shillings. 

b.  37.  assailed,    absolved,   shrived. 

1017.  b.   11.   deal   the   doom   of   my   weird,   to   suffer 
the  judgment   of   my    fate. 

1018.  a.    13.   did  on,   put  on. 

IS-  cognizance,  the  crest  by   which  a  man   in  com- 
plete  armor   could   be   recognized. 

1019.  a.  26.  let,   detain,  hinder. 
41.  greet,   weep. 

b.  25.   kirk,   church. 

1020.  a.  3.  bent,    field. 

1021.  b.  25-6.   Samson     .     .     .     Delilah.     See  Judpes 


27-8.  David 


Bathshcba.     See    ii    SaiiuicI 


1022.  b.  32.  book  of  Brutus.  Works  treating  the 
early  legendary  history  of  Britain  were  sometimes 
called  Brut.  See,  for  example,  in  English,  Laya- 
mon's  Brut,  written  about  the  year  1200. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS,  TEXT  AND  NOTES 


TEXT 
AUTHORS  p^-^^ 

Addison,  Joseph    335-. 

Akenside,    Mark    385 

Arnold,    Matthew    823.. 

Ascham,   Roger    71 . , 

Bacon,   Francis     187. . 

Ballads,  English  &  Scottish  Pop- 
ular         38. . 

Barnes,  William    667. . 

Beaumont,  Francis   169 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell  667 

Beowulf    967 . . 

Blair,   Robert    380 

Blake,  William  485 

Boswell,  James  423 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas   200 

Browne,  William  170 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 670 

Browning,  Robert   785 

Bunyan,  John    225 

Burke,    Edmund     443 

Burns,   Robert     490 

Byron,     George     Noel     Gordon, 
Lord     586 


Calverley,  Charles  Stuart 

Campbell,   Thomas    

Campion,  Thomas   

Carew,  Thomas   

Carlyle,   Thomas    

Chatterton,  Thomas    


.  678 

•  659. 
.  160. 
.  176. 

•  714. 

•  390. 

Chaucer,   Geoffrey     3. 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh   673 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor    542. 

Collins,    William    386. 

Cowley,    Abraham    183. 

Cowper,  William   470. 

Crabbe,  George    480. 

Crashaw,  Richard   180. 

Daniel,  Samuel  138. 

Davenant,  Sir  William   178 

Defoe,  Daniel  286. 

Denham,   Sir  John    l8l. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas  683. 

Dobell,   Sidney   677. 

Dobson,   Austin    679. 

Donne,   John     165. 

Drayton,    Michael    139. 

Dryden,  John    266. 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward  134. 

Dyer,  John    381 . 


NOTES 

PAGE 

. .1070 

. .1120 
..1039 

•.1053 

..1034 


II3I 


.1075 
.1055 
.1052 
.1098 
.IIII 
.1057 

.1075 
,1076 

.1092 


.1097 
.1052 
.1053 
.1103 
.1073 
.1023 

.1084 
.1072 
■  1053 
.1076 
.1076 
.1053 

,1050 

,1067 
.1053 
,1098 
,1098 
,1098 
,1052 
1050 
1065 
1049 
1049 


AUTHORS 


TEXT 
PAGE 


Fitzgerald,    Edward    669 

Fletcher,  John    168 

Fuller,  Thomas    217 

Gascoigne,  George    133 

Gay,   John    378 

Gibbon,  Edward  453 

Goldsmith,  Oliver   463 

Gray,   Thomas    396 

Greene,  Robert  136 

Hakluyt's  Voyages   91 

Herbert,   George    175 

Herrick,  Robert  172 

Hood,  Thomas   662 

Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey  58 

Hunt,  Leigh    660 

Johnson,  Samuel    405 

Jonson,   Ben    161 

Keats,  John  639 

Keble,  John  661 


Lamb,   Charles    

Landor,  Walter  Savage    . .  . 
Locker-Lampson,  Frederick 

Lovelace,    Richard    

Lyly.  John  


Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas   

Marlowe,   Christopher    

Marvel,   Andrew    

Meredith.  George    

Milton,  John     

Moore,   Thomas     

Alorris,  William 


Newman,  John  Henry,  Cardinal 
Nut-Brown  Maid,  The   


657 

675 

182 

76 

691 
19 

1^ 

949 

236 
659 
877 

"02 

34 


England's   Helicon 


157- ••    1051 


O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur  682 


Pater,  Walter  Horatio   916. 

Patmore,  Coventry    676 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love  660 

Peele,  George   135 

Pope,  Alexander   350. 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth   ..  664. 

Raleigh,   Sir  Walter   134. 

Rossetti.   Christina    677 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel   859. 

Ruskin,   John    7;^^. 


NOTES 
PAGE 

..1098 
. .1052 
..1057 

..1049 
. . 1072 
. . 1075 
. . 1076 
• • 1073 
. .1050 

■1043 
• ■ 1053 
• • 1053 

..1037 


■1074 
.  1052 

.1096 
.1097 

.1088 
.1097 

•1053 
.1040 

.  IIOI 
.1032 
.1050 
.1053 
,1127 
.1058 
1097 
1 123 

1 103 
1034 


.1070 
.1097 


1049 


.1122 
1 107 


1135 


1 136 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


AUTHORS 


TEXT 
PAGE 

Sackville,   Thomas,   Lord   Buck- 
hurst    63 

Scott,  Sir  Walter   579 

Shakespeare,    William    145 

Shelley,    Percy    Bysshe    614 

Shenstone,  William  3^-^ 

Sidney,   Sir   Philip 81 

Sir     Gazvaiii     and     the     Green 

Knight      1000 

Southey,    Robert    656 

Southwell,   Robert     138 

Spenser,   Ednntnd    104 

Steele,  Sir  Richard   324 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 928 

Suckling,  Sir  John   179 

Swift,    Jonathan    299 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles  . .  895 


NOTES 
PAGE 

1037 

1092 
105 1 

1095 

1072 

1040 

T097 
1044 

1069 

1 125 
1053 

1069 
1 124 


Taylor,  Jeremy    221 ....  1057 

Teimyson,  Alfred,  Lord   745.  ...  1 108 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace.  672 

ThouLson,   James    (1700-1748) .  .  369.  ..  .1071 

Thomson,    James    ( 1834-1882) .  .  681 ... .  ioc>v^ 


m,   Henry 


185 


Waller,   Edmund    178. 

Walton,    Isaak    212. 

Warton,  Thomas  389. 

Wither,   George    1C9 

Wolfe,    Charles    661 

Wordsworth,   William    503. 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas  54. 

Young,  Edward   377 


1053 
1057 
.1072 


1079 
1037 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

A  baby's  feet,  like  the  seashells  pink,  .  . .  906 
A    book    was  writ    of    late    called    Tc- 

trachordon,    242 

Adam  scriveyn,  if  ever  it  thee  bifalle...  18 
A    gentle    knight    was    pricking    on    the 

plaine    109 

Ah,   Ben!    174 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 802 

Ah  for  pittie !  wil  rancke  winters  rage.,   104 

Ah  sunflower,  weary  of  time, 489 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race,  ....  657 
Ah,  what  is  love?  It  is  a  pretty  thing,  137 
Alas,    so   all    things   now  do   hold   their 

peace !    59 

Alas,  't  is  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there  154 
All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God :  . .  786 

All  that  I  know 800 

All  ye  that  lovely  lovers  be, 136 

Along  these  low  pleached  lanes,  on  such 

a  day, 907 

Although  I  enter  not, 672 

Amid  my  bale  I  bathe  in  bliss, 133 

A   milk-white   Hind,   immortal   and   un- 
changed,      270 

And   now  't  is  time ;   for  their  officious 

haste  267 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the 

east,    840 

And    welcome    now,    great    monarch,    to 

your  own !   267 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 55 

An  evil  Spirit  (your  Beauty)  haunts  me 

still,    140 

A  povre  widwe  somdel  stope  in  age 12 

Ariel  to  Miranda. —  Take 637 

A  roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star- 
bright  sphere 906 

'  Artemidora  I    Gods  invisible, 657 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  stood  shiv- 
ering in  the  snow,   138 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 157 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows,  . .   176 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ;  521 

A  sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument 873 

As  other  men,  so  I  myself,  do  muse 140 

A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours....  746 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 673 

As  there  I  left  the  road  in  May,   667 

As  this  my  carnal  robe  grows  old, 170 

As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widen- 
ing scope,  875 

At    Flores    in    the    Azores    Sir    Richard 

Grenville  lay, 78 1 

A  trouble  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain,  541 

I 


PAGE 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the 
sleep-time    S22 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints, 
whose  bones    243 

Awake,  ^olian  lyre,  awake,  400 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth,  645 

Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among 

on  women  do  coniplaine 34 

Beauty  clear  and  fair,  169 

Beauty  sat  bathing  in  a  spring 157 

Behind  yon  hills  v.here  Lugar  flows,  ....  491 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 530 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade,   })27 

Blow,  jjlow,  thou  winter  wind !    156 

Borgia,  thou  once  wert  almost  too  august  658 

Brave  infant  of  Saguntum,  clear 163 

Break,  break,  break,  767 

Bright  Star  of  Beauty,  on  whose  eyelids 

sit    139 

Bright  star!    would  I  were  steadfast  as 

thou  art    655 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more,  ....  802 
By  this  the  northerne  wagoner  had  set..   117 


Calme   was   the   day,  and   the  trembling 

ayre    130 

Captain  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  arms,  . .  242 
Care-charmer    Sleep,    son    of    the    sable 

Night,    139 

Charm  me  asleep,  and  melt  me  so 173 

Christ  God  who  savest  man,  save  most, ,  787 

Coldly,  sadly  descends  857 

Come,  cheerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to 

me;     161 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away,  837 

Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 216 

Come,  my  Celia,  let  us  prove, 161 

Come  Sleep!     O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot 

of  peace,  88 

Come,  we  shepherds,  whose  blest  sight,,  180 
Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while 

as  yet  't  is  early  morn :  763 

Cromwell,     our     chief     of     men,     who 

through  a  cloud 243 

Crowned,  girdled,  garbed,  and  shod  with 

light  and  fire,   915 

Cuddie,  for  shame !  hold  up  thy  heavye 

head 107 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played So 

Cyriack.  this  three  years*  day  these  eyes, 

though  clear,  244 


1 138 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only 

leave 806 

Dear  child  of  nature,  let  them  rail! 530 

Dear  love,  for  nothing  less  than  thee...  166 
Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have 

called  tliee   167 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage,  . .  390 
Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale,...  649 
Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows....  757 
Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way?  678 
'  Do    you    remember    me  ?    or    are    you 

proud  ? '     658 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 161 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo,  501 

Earth   has  not   anything  to   show  more 

fair :     538 

Eat    thou    and    drink;    to-morrow    thou 

shalt  die   875 

England,  mother  born  of  seamen,  daugh- 
ter fostered  of  the  sea,  907 

Enter  these  enchanted  woods, 961 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind !  . .  586 
Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust. ...   135 

Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  as  fair;  135 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 173 

Fair    Star  of   evening.   Splendor  of  the 

west, 538 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 141 

False    Hope    prolongs    my    ever    certain 

grief,    138 

Fear  death?  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat,  816 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  th'  sun,  156 

First   I   salute   this    soil   of   the   blessed, 

river  and  rock 820 

Five   years   have   passed ;   five   summers, 

with  the  length 518 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 759 

Foolish  Prater,  what  do'st  thou 183 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 55 

For  God's  sake  hold  your  tongue,  and  let 

me  love ;  166 

For  my  first  twenty  years,  since  yester- 
day    167 

For  those  my  unbaptized  rimes, 175 

Frail  creatures  are   we  all !     To  be  the 

best     566 

From  Sterling  Castle  we  had  seen 530 

From  the  bonny  bells  of  heather 948 

From    Tuscan    came    my    lady's    worthy 

race ;    58 

From    you   have    I    been    absent    in    the 

spring, 153 

Full   many   a   glorious   morning   have   I 

seen    151 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may,  173 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming 

morn    172 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me!  786 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 60 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet 134 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star, 165 


PAGE 

God  Ly;eus,  ever  young 168 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine 497 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the 

hill ;     

Good  and  great  God,  can  I  not  think  of 

thee,   161 

Go,  lovely  Rose ! 179 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O !   491 

Grow  old  along  with  me !   813 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time,  ...  185 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit !   627 

Happy  shepherds,  sit  and  see,  158 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  1 185 

Happy   ye    leaves !    when    as    those    lilly 

hands   123 

Hark,   hark !    the    lark   at   heaven's   gate 

sings,    156 

Hark !  't  is  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yon- 
der   bridge,    471 

Has  summer  come  without  the  rose,  . . .  682 
Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my 

lance    89 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights,   168 

Hence,  loathed   Melancholy,    237 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys,   238 

Here,  a  little  child,  I  stand, 174 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet;   898 

He  rises  and  begins  to  round,  960 

Her  mother  died  when  she  was  young. .  47 

'  Hey  down,  a  down !  '  did  Dian  sing,  . .  159 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been  153 
How  oft,   when   thou,  my  music,  music 

play'st,  155 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest..  386 

How  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  lot !  486 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze,  ....  184 

I  am  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight.  537 

I  am  that  which  began  ; 899 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 626 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting 

flowers,    626 

I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house,  749 

I  can  love  both  fair  and  brown 165 

I  Catherine  am  a  Douglas  born,  864 

I   did   but   prompt  the  age  to   quit  their 

clogs  _ _ • .  243 

I  drew  it  from  its  china  tomb ;   679 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young.  ..  216 
If   from  the  public  way  you  turn  your 

steps;    521 

If  I  could  trust  mine  own  self  with  your 

fate, 678 

'If  I  were  dead,  you  'd  sometimes   say, 

Poor  child !  '   677 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song,  386 

If  poisonous  minerals,  and  if  that  tree.  .  167 

If  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye 177 

If  there  be  any  one  can  take  my  place. .  678 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell,  667 

If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 668 

I    hate   the   dreadful    hollow   behind   the 

little  wood,    "JTi- 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LIXES 


1 139 


PAGE 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions,       567 

I  know  not  of  what  we  pondered 678 

I    long   to    talk    with    some    old    lover's 

ghost    166 

I  looked  and  saw  your  eyes   864 

I  met  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land..  616 
In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland 

and  highland  901 

In  a  drear-nighted  December,  654 

In  Cyprus  springs,  whereas  dame  Venus 

dwelt,     59 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood ;   .  .  539 

In  the  merry  month  of  May,   157 

Into   these    loves,    who   but    for   passion 

looks,    139 

In    vain    to    me    the    smiling    mornings 

shine    397 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan  5G5 

I  read,  before  my  eyelids  dropped  their 

shade,  753 

I  said  —  Then,  dearest,  since  't  is  so,  ...  Soo 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night,   185 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour  658 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool,  496 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty,  502 

I  strove  with  none ;  for  none  was  worth 

my  strife,   659 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried,  '  No  more ; 

I  will  abroad!    175 

It  befell  at  Martynmas   45 

It  does  not  hurt.     She  looked  along  the 

knife    915 

It  happened  once,  some  men  of  Italy...  887 
1  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung  670 

It  is  not  sweet  content,  be  sure,   674 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around....  655 
I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my 

guide, 540 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  538 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner,   553 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood  539 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,   702 

1  traveled  among  unknown  men, 520 

It  was  a  summer  evening,  (356 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud  531 

I   was   thy   neighbor   once,   thou   rugged 

Pile!     432 

I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead !   O29 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 660 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John,   497 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us,  790 

Keen,    fitful    gusts   are    whispering   here 

and  there    639 

Know,  Celia,  since  thou  art  so  proud,   .   177 

Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth  242 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse i6() 

Lot    me    not    to    the    marriage    of    true 

minds     154 

Let  others  sing  of  Knights  and  Paladins  139 


P.\OE 

Let 's  contend  no  more.  Love,  799 

Let  those  who  are  in   favor  with  their 

stars     1 50 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse,  . .  807 
Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words, 

and  yet, 838 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  peb- 
bled shore,  151 

Lo,  here  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest,  145 
Lo !   I  the  man,  whose  muse  whylome  did 

maske log 

Look   in  my   face;   my  name  is   Might- 
have-been  ;    876 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 174 

Love    bade    me    welcome ;    yet    my    soul 

drew  back,   175 

Love  built  a  stately  house,  where   Fur- 
tune  came ;    1 76 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee,  159 

'  Love  seekest  not  itself  to  please, 488 

Love,    that    liveth    and    reigneth    in    my 

thought    58 

Loving  in  truth,  and   fain   in   verse  my 

love  to  show,    87 

Lucasta,  frown,  and  let  me  die ! 183 

Many    a    hearth    upon    our    dark    globe 

sighs  after  many  a  vanished  face, 783 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 61 

Mary!     I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings;  479 

Master  of  the  nmrmuring  courts 862 

Men   say,   Columbia,   we   shall    hear   thy 

guns   677 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint  244 
Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet....  657 
Milton!   thou   shouldst  be  living  at  this 

hour :   539 

Morpheus,  the  lively  son  of  deadly  Sleep,    88 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear !  169 

j\Iost  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes...  541 
Much  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of 

gold,     639 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die,  629 

My  eye,  descending  from  the  hill,  surveys  181 
My  galley  —  charged  with  forgctfulness  54 
My   good    blade    carves    the   casques    of 

men 758 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 

pains    647 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittie, 497 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 527 

My  lov"d,   my  honored,  much  respected 

friend !     492 

My  lute,  awake,  perform  the  last 55 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing   like  the 

sun ;    155 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild.  486 
My  mother's  maids,   when  they  did  sew 

and  spin 56 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 134 

My    sheep    are    thoughts,    which    I    both 

guide  and  serve ;   90 


1 140 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


My  spirit  is  too  weak  —  mortality  . 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart  and  1 

his,    


have 


655 


90 


No   longer    mourn    for    nic    when    1    am 

dead   152 

No  more,  My  Dear,  no  more  these  coun- 
sels try !    89 

No    more   shall   meads   be   decked    with 

flowers,    177 

Nobly,  nobly.  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the 

Northwest  died  away ;  79i 

No,  my  own  love  of  other  years!   658 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist. ..  648 
Not   a  drum  was   heard,  not  a   funeral 

note,     661 

Not  in  the  crises  of  events, 676 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments.  .   151 
Not  mine  own   fears  nor  the  prophetic 

soul    154 

No !  those  days  are  gone  away, 646 

'  Nought  loves  another  as  itself, 489 

Now  the  lusty  spring  is  seen ;   168 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower, 403 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow 
room ;    537 

O  blithe  New-comer !    I  have  heard, 527 

O  cruel  Love !  on  thee  I  lay 80 

Of  a"  the  airts  the  wind  can  blow 497 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to 

sing,   877 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit  244 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 757 

O,    for   my   sake   do  you  with    Fortune 

chide,     154 

O  for  some  honest  lover's  ghost, 179 

Oft  do  I  marvel,  whether  Delia's  eyes. .   138 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night,  659 

O  happy  dames  !  that  may  embrace 59 

O  Heart  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's 

fire,     915 

Oh !  for  a  closer  walk  with  God, 470 

Oh,  Galuppi,  Baldassare,  this  is  very  sad 

to  find !   799 

O,    much    more    doth    beauty    beauteous 

seem     151 

Oh,  that  those  lips  had  language!     Life 

has  passed    477 

Oh,  to  be  in  England,  79i 

Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow,  6(39 

Old  Chaucer,  like  the  morning  star, 182 

'  Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true,'  674 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be,  49° 

O   mighty-mouthed    inventor   of   harmo- 
nies,       779 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roam- 
ing?     .....156 

O  mortal  man,  who  livcst  here  by  toil,  .  .   2i7?> 

Once  a  dream  did  weave  a  shade 487 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in 

fee:    538 

On  either  side  the  river  lie  747 

One  more  Unfortunate 662 


O,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart.  . 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

On     Hellespont,    guilty    of    true    love's 

blood,     .' 

On   the   sea  and   at  the  Hogue,   sixteen 

hundred  ninety-two    

On  these  great  waters  now  I  am, 

O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ?  

Others    abide    our    question.     Thou    art 

free    

O  Thou,  by  nature  taught    '. 

O  thou,  whatever  title  suit  thee,  

O    thou    with   dewy   locks,   who   lookest 

down    

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved  

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms !  . . . 
O  where  hae  ye  been.  Lord  Randal,  my 

son  ?     

O  where  have  you  been,  my  long,  long, 

love,   

O,  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being, 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut 

O  world  !     O  hfe  !     O  time  !  

O  yes,  O  yes !     If  any  maid 


154 
637 

142 

816 
170 

662 

837 
387 
495 

485 
179 

654 

49 


625 

500 

268 

80 


Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and 

streams    134 

Past  ruined  Ilion  Helen  lives, 657 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild,  486 

Pitch    here    the    tent,    while    old    horse 

grazes :    953 

Phyllis !  why  should  we  delay   178 

Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth,  155 
Praise  is  devotion  fit  for  mighty  minds,  178 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away,  .  .  678 
Resteth    here,    that    quick    could    never 

rest;  61 

Restore  thy  treasure  to  the  golden  ore;  138 
Ring  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shows 

be  spread   90 

Roman   Virgil,   thou   that   singest    Ilion's 

lofty  temples  robed  in  fire 783 

Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud 638 

Row    us    out    from   Desenzano,   to   your 

Sirmione  row !   783 

'  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King !   402 

Said    Abner,    '  At    last    thou    art    come ! 

Ere  I  tell,  ere  thou  speak 791 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth.   . .  674 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,  502 

Seamen  three !  what  men  be  ye  ?  660 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness,  649 
See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love,  .  .  162 
Set  me  whereas  the  sun  doth  parch  the 

green, 59 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day?  130 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair,  169 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways..   520 

She  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve :   860 

She  has  dancing  eyes  and  ruby  lips,  ....  676 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 531 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


141 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot,  . . .  497 
Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more!  ...  756 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye 381 

Since    brass    nor    stone,    nor    earth,    nor 

boundless  sea    152 

Since  there  's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss 

and  part!    140 

Sitting  by  a  river's  side,  136 

Sleep !   sleep !  beauty  bright,   487 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled  759 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er,  585 

Some  say  Love,  137 

Som    tynie   this    world   was    so   stedfast 

and   stable    18 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 646 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was !  640 

Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 658 

Stately  the  feast,  and  high  the  cheer :  . .  389 
Stella  since  thou  so  right  a  princess  art  89 
Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God !  .  .  533 
Stop,    Christian    passer-by !     Stop,    child 

of  God,   566 

Strange   fits  of  passion  have   I   known :  520 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses   856 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  ....  769 

Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 818 

Sunset  and  evening  star,   784 

Sweet   Auburn !    loveliest  village   of   the 

plain ;     463 

Sweet    are   the    thoughts    that    savor    of 

content ;    136 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright.  . .  175 
Sweet    dimness    of    her    loosened    hair's 

down-fall    874 

Sweet  dreams,  form  a  shade 487 

Sweet,  serene,  sky-like  flower,  183 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave,  .  .  637 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away, 156 

Tax   not   the   royal   saint   with   vain   ex- 
pense,       540 

Tell  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind,   182 

That  second  time  they  hunted  me 789 

That 's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 

wall, 786 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  mc  be- 
hold    152 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined,  .  178 
Ihe     awful     shadow     of     some    unseen 

Power    615 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 860 

The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different 

mood,     875 

The    curfew   tolls    the   knell    of   parting 

day,    398 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 863 

The  feathered  songster  chaunticleer 390 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide....  153 
The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry,  .  565 
The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls  660 
The    hour   which   might   have   been,   yet 

might   not  be,    874 

The  inhabitants  of  old  Jerusalem 268 

The  king  sits  in  Dumfcrling  tounc  49 


The  lark  now  leaves  his  wat'ry  nest 178 

The  long  love  that  in  my  thought  1  har- 
bor,          54 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day,  ..  876 

The  merry  World  did  on  a  day 175 

The  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 660 

The  nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bring- 

eth    90 

The  pale  stars  are  gone !   616 

The  play  is  done  —  the  curtain  drops,  .  672 
The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born,  . .  746 
The  primrwose  in  the  shcade  do  blow,  .   667 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose 767 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none 

hear    658 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well 47 

'  There ! '  said  a  stripling,  pointing  with 

meet  pride   541 

There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women  <So8 
There    was    a    roaring    in    the    wind    all 

night;    528 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 

and  stream,   534 

There  was  three  ladies  playd  at  the  ba,  .     ^2 

There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr 51 

These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father, 

these     ^72 

The    soote   season   that   bud   and   bloom 

forth  brings     58 

The    sun    hath    twice    brought    forth    his 

tender  green    60 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 616 

The   Village   Life,   and    every  care   that 

reigns 480 

The  wild  winds  weep,  486 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and 

fall,    778 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and 

soon,    540 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew 636 

The     wrathful     Winter,     'proaching     on 

apace,    O3 

Thev    are    all    gone    into    the   world    of 

light!    186 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home.  .  541 

The  year's  at  the  spring 786 

They  whisted  all,  with  fixed  face  attent.  61 
Think    thou    and    act;    to-morrow    thou 

shalt  die   875 

This  little  vault,  this  narrow  room 177 

This  relative  of  mine 675 

Thou  art  not  fair,  for  all  thy  red  and 

white,     160 

Thou    canst    not    die,    whilst    any    zeal 

abound    139 

Though  each  may  feel  increases  and  de- 
cays      356 

Though  I  be  now  a  gray,  gray  friar.  ...  661 
Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray,  .  498 
Thou  lovely  and  belovfd.  thou  my  love:  874 
Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle  I  390 
Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only;  who.  ..  .  674 
Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness.  647 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower.  520 


1 142  INDEX  OF  I 

PAGE 

Through  thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter 

went,    878 

Thyrsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train,  . .    178 

Tiger  !    Tiger !  burning  bright 488 

Tired    Nature's    sweet    restorer,    balmy 

Sleep  !    Zn 

'T  is  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill  350 
'T  is  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle 

clock,   560 

To    draw    no    envy,    Shakspere,    on    thy 

name,   162 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 389 

To   me,    fair    friend,   you   never  can   be 

old,     153 

To  sea,  to  sea !     The  calm  is  o'er ;   668 

Toussaint,    the    most    unhappy    man    of 

men !    538 

To    wear    out    heart,    and    nerves,    and 

brain,   675 

To   you,   n.y  purse,  and   to    none   other 

wight    18 

True  Thomas  lay  oer  yond  grassy  bank,  50 
'T  was  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won  274 

Turn  back,  you  wanton  flyer 160 

Two    souls    diverse   out    of    our   human 

sight     915 

Two  Voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea,  540 
Tyre  of  the  farther  West!  be  thou  too 

warned,     661 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 172 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 156 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 928 

Under   yonder   beech-tree   single   on   the 

greensward,     949 

Unstable  dream,  according  to  the  place,  54 
Upon  the  flowery  forefront  of  the  year,  903 
Up  with  me !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds !  531 

Vanguard  of  Liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent,  .  539 

Watch  thou  and  fear;  to  morrow  thou 

shalt  die   875 

We  are  the  music  makers,  682 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking...  840 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 840 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan,  ....  169 
Weep  not,   my   wanton,   smile   upon  my 

knee   136 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 162 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie,  .  .  492 
Welcome,  old  friend  !     These  many  years  658 

Well  then !     I  now  do  plainly  see 183 

We  look  for  her  that  sunlike  stood 956 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote  4 
What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail?  .  .  80 
What  dire  offense  from  amorous  causes 

springs,    358 

Whate'er  I  be,  old  England  is  my  dam  !  954 
What  if  a  day,  or  a  month,  or  a  year,  . .   160 
What  needs  my  Shakspere  for  his  hon- 
ored bones   236 

What  pleasure  have  great  princes 159 


IRST  LINES 


PAGE 

What    potions    have    I    drunk    of    Siren 

tears,    154 

What  shepherd  can  express  158 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan,  .  670 
Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  lig- 

gin'  'ere  aloan  ?    779 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes,   173 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure,  ...  500 
When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street,  .  498 
When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one?  .  874 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 176 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 677 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 155 

When  I  consider  every  thing  that  grows  150 
When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent.  243 
When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the 

time,     150 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has 

tamed     539 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to 

be    655 

When   I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand 

defaced    152 

When  I  made  answer,  I  began  :  '  Alas  1  861 
When     in    disgrace    with     fortune    and 

men's  eyes    150 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time.  .  .  153 
When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly,    . . .  463 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 182 

When  Music,  heav'nly  maid,  was  young,  387 
When    Nature    made    her    chief    work, 

Stella's  eyes,   87 

When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 41 

When  shawes  beene  sheene,  and  shradds 

full  f ayre   38 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered 638 

When   the  voices  of   children   are   heard 

on  the  green 489 

When    to    the    sessions    of    sweet    silent 

thought    151 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret  876 
When  we  were  girl  and  boy  together,  . .  668 
Where   lies   the   land  to   which   the   ship 

would  go  ? 674 

Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening 

smiles     797 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow,  486 

Whilst   thus   my   pen   strives  to   eternize 

thee,     140 

Whoever   comes   to   shroud   me,   do   not 

harm    167 

Who  is  it  that  this  dark  night 89 

Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 155 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior  ?     Who  is  he  533 
Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride,  152 
Why,  having  won  her.  do  I  woo?  ......  676 

Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride,  152 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?  179 

Wilt  thou   forgive  that  sin   where   I   be- 
gun,        168 

With  blackest  moss,  the  flower-pots,  ....  745 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 663 

With    how    sad    steps,    O    Moon,    thou 
clinib'st  the  skies !     88 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


t43 


PAGE 

Would'st  thou  hear  what  man  can  say.  .   162 
Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  man- 
ifold music  I  build,  811 

Would  you  know  what's  soft?     I  dare  .   177 

Years  —  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams..  664 
Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around  501 
Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers,   ...  397 

Ye  fiowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon 501 

Ye  mariners  of  England 659 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once 

more,    240 

Ye   wearied    sisters,    which    have   often- 
times      125 


PAGE 

You  ask  mc  why,  though  ill  at  ease,  ....  757 

You  brave  heroic  minds,    140 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon ;  788 

Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees,  802 
Your  hands   lie  open  in  the  long   fresh 

grass,   874 

Your  words,   my  friend,  right  healthful 

caustics,  blame  88 

You  tell  me  you  're  promised  a  lover,  . . .  665 
You   that    do    search    for   every   purling 

spring    88 

Yt  felle  abowght  the  Lamasse  tyde 42 


T  -n  91  A-40m-ll.'63 
^fEr602slO)476B 


General  LibrajT 


